Sheriff Richie walked into the former administration office, and Brent Fisher looked up. Richie asked, “Got anything new, Brent?”
The grizzled old man shoved one earphone off and waggled his hand. “Shrimp says Bogle got the cows moved down to the feedlot by the highway as bait. HF is sucking hind tit today, so we’re doing everything on CW, taking a bit longer, but these PRC 150s are working.”
The sheriff’s radio went off. “Sheriff, Ranger Garber says there’s movement. Two armed cartel convoys are coming north, ten miles apart. One is… ten stock trucks, looks like they are after cattle, and one is ten box trucks going after a train, just like we thought. Trooper Eckert is a mile ahead of them and says they’ve shot at him.”
Richie keyed his radio and responded, “Get the alert out. I think this is the real deal.” He started to tell Fisher to pass the word, but saw that Fisher was already on his headset and furiously tapping the butterfly key. The sheriff ran by dispatch, yelling, “I’m on my way to Alvord.” Not waiting for a response, he banged out the back door and jumped in his Tahoe. As soon as he started it, he heard Rangers Garber and Daniels discussing the situation on the radio and listened patiently as he drove north, calculating how to react. He finally broke in. “What I’m hearing is we should let the first convoy through, since it’s portable barnyards, right? And we’ll try to take the second convoy?”
Daniels replied, “Yes, that’s what I’d recommend.”
Garber said, “Concur. The second convoy is just now getting to Rhome. I’ll drop in behind them and call the locations to y’all.”
Daniels replied, “I’m coming into Bowie now. Ortega is mobilizing his folks, and Bogle is prepping their explosives to blow the road into the ranch if necessary.”
Richie exited 287 and pulled in behind the Valero station at FM 1655, sliding to a halt as a big Chevrolet pickup pulled a boat up to the diesel pumps. A string of cars and trucks and a couple of horses continued to trickle in as three men worked over the boat. The fire chief pulled into the lot with a pumper, backing carefully into a corner of the lot away from the pumps.
***
Sheriff Ortega rocketed down the highway, heading for Bowie and the Bogle ranch, cursing the beautiful weather as Shrimp hung on for dear life. “Dammit, Sheriff, I’d prefer not to die until we get there. I don’t have any damn legs to brace with over here!”
Ortega slowed down and glanced over at the little wizened man in the passenger’s seat. “Sorry, Shrimp. But I need to… Shit!” He swerved wildly, barely missing the big Black Angus steer standing in the right lane. He grabbed the mic and keyed the radio, barking, “Daisy, call Bergstrom and tell him his damn cows are out again. If they’re still out when I come back, I’m gonna shoot the sumbitches.”
“Dispatch copied, Sheriff. Be advised, Bogle is activating their folks now.”
“Roger. I’m headed for the hotel on 59. I’ll meet our folks there.”
Ranger Daniels added, “I’m ten away, coming south. Meet you at the hotel parking lot.”
At the feedlot, the cowboys and veterans were finishing the preparations they had been working on for almost a week. Pruitt, the Segundo, was passing out Type 56 AKs and the Norinco clones, along with bandoleers of magazines for each, to the cowboys who were spreading out down the side road. Becky, Pruitt’s seventeen-year-old blonde-haired, blue-eyed granddaughter, her AR slung over her back, was handing out canteens full of water and getting teased by various cowboys. Joe Littlebear, Victor, his son, and Little Joe, his grandson, rode up, and Joe bowed graciously to her. “Thank you, Miss Becky. I will treasure this water prepared with your own hands.” He smiled wolfishly at her, and she laughed.
“Why the paint on your face, Uncle Joe?”
Joe thumped his chest, then chuckled. “I am Comanche; it is appropriate to wear war paint when one goes to war!”
Becky sighed. “It just looks like you got black paint on your hands and smeared your face.”
“The paint is a sign that I have triumphed in hand to hand combat.” He pointed to his forehead, saying, “This is for power and speed.”
Victor Littlebear shook his head. “That was a long time ago, Dad. Come on, Little Joe.” The three of them rode out of the yard and across the road, then cut across the field to a copse of trees near the frontage road. “Are you sure about this, Dad? You think you can do something with those Molotov cocktails?”
Joe grinned, his bright white teeth contrasting with the black war-paint on his wrinkled face. “You shoot, I ride. I’ve seen what these can do. Comanche warriors were once feared; now they will be again.”
Lisa Boone came trotting up to them, an AR slung over her back, a personal radio in her hand. “Uncle Joe, I’m your communications link.”
He nodded as he rode into the trees, then got down, loosened the girth on his horse’s saddle, and lay down, pulling his hat down over his face. “Wake me when they get here. Us old folks need our naps.”
Lisa looked at Victor, who just shook his head. Little Joe checked his rifle yet again. Then she threw up her hands and laughed softly as she rode up beside Little Joe. “He is something else, isn’t he?”
Little Joe nodded, twirling his finger at his temple. “That he is. But I’ve never seen a better horseman.”
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