Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (29 page)

“He’s unrecognizable now. Being an imposter has two sides.”

Terri got it, but still had to shake her head over the morbid act. “Ewwww,” she groaned, turning away from the gore. “Let’s hope they don’t have a good CSI team. You’d never get away with that on those old television shows.”

As Bishop hefted the last man, Terri watched as he managed to drape the corpse over a horse’s back and then secured the poor fellow with rope. After double checking the animals were properly tethered together, the Texan mounted the last unoccupied saddle.

“Wait a second,” Terri protested, realizing all of the horses were occupied. “Where are Hunter and I supposed to ride?”

“Squaws walk,” Bishop said, sticking out his chest. “Especially when they’re the spoils of war. Don’t you know anything about Indians?”

“I got yer spoils of war… right here, buddy,” she growled, pointing at her butt. “And you can just kiss it.”

“We’ll get around to that once we’re back at the teepee,” he said, trying to maintain a straight face. “For now, get your spoils of war walking out of this canyon before I decide to ravage my conquest right here and now.”

With a defiant tilt of her chin, Terri began walking, grumbling something about paybacks being a bitch.

It was a safe bet that Loggerhead Canyon had never witnessed such a convoy passing through its rocky bastions. Terri and Hunter, the captured prisoners, were followed by Bishop in full Native regalia, the proud warrior returning home, eager to show all that he was still upright in the saddle. Behind the conquering hero plodded the fallen, draped over the remaining two pack animals, along with the prisoner’s possessions. It was a procession that seemed to belong to another time and place.

Bishop let Terri pretend to steam, knowing full well that she was aware of how critical appearances were going to be if they had any hope of pulling off the deception.

The Texan-turned-warrior pulled a map from the saddle bag, already having a good idea of their route. Nick and he had studied the area thoroughly before leaving Fort Bliss, including the exact location of the mountain cabin that the big man said was most certainly the locals HQ.

“That’s where the white-haired dude lives,” Nick had briefed. “That’s their primary command and control.”

Bishop was also well aware of the ring of booby-traps. Like always, the smallest piece of information was proving critical. He recalled Nick’s warning, the former Special Forces operative’s voice still fresh in his mind. “The trees are notched about head high with a sideways cross. Stay between the notches, and you’ll be fine.”

They followed the meandering trail, Bishop’s confidence in their route bolstered by a set of fresh hoof prints when the path crossed the stream.

They came to a fork, one branch leading off into the forest. “Go left,” Bishop said.

As soon as they entered into the cover of the thick woods, Bishop stopped the caravan. “Okay, we’re out of the open. Come on back.”

After setting Hunter down, he lifted Terri onto the horse and then handed her the child. A moment later he was behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and spurring the animal to continue. “Your ass looked so hot, baby, I just had to have you in my arms,” he breathed in her ear.

“You smell so bad, I’m thinking it might be better to walk,” she teased, knowing Bishop’s snarky remarks helped him release stress in situations like this.

They continued, the trail gradually climbing into the mountains, passing through forests that in any other circumstances would have inspired awe with their natural beauty.

And then it began to rain.

It was just a spit of moisture at first, Bishop cocking his ear as the drops struck the canopy of green above them. What little light was penetrating to the forest floor dimmed, and then the clouds opened up.

“Shit, my makeup… err… war paint is going to run,” Bishop complained, looking around for any type of shelter.

“To hell with your costume, Bishop. This rain is icy. Hunter and I will catch our death of cold in this crap.”

Dismounting, Bishop rushed back to his pack, digging out two of the ever-handy leaf bags. With a flash of his knife and a section of paracord, he fashioned a quick poncho for his wife and child. A few moments later, he was covered in black plastic as well. The horses and the dead were on their own.

“I don’t know if this hurts or helps,” he said to Terri, climbing back up to sit behind her. “Do the Natives use trash bags for shelter?”

“Hell if I know,” she said, obviously disgusted with the rain and cold. “You’re the one who watched all those Old Western horse operas. How did the Indians keep dry in the movies?”

“I don’t know. It never rained.”

“Well, at least these hoods cover our faces. That should help... a little.” she added, checking to make sure Hunter could breathe and was staying dry.

Onward they plodded, the horses splashing through the puddles while Terri continued to fuss with her raincoat, unable to keep all parts of her body dry at the same time.

Bishop was about to increase her misery. “You’re going to have to walk again here in a minute. Sorry.”

“Why?”

“We’re getting close to the location where Nick said their security perimeter begins. If I was really a warrior with a captive, you’d be walking. You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. You can keep the poncho though.”

“Thanks.”

The thunder and wind began to intensify as she dismounted, the blowing rain seeming to find every nook and cranny of her makeshift cover. “This sucks,” she announced with little fanfare. “You’re going to pay later when you have to massage my poor, little toes and wait on me hand and foot for a week.”

“Keep your pistol handy,” Bishop warned. “I’m not sure how thoroughly they will check us out.”

“Gotcha.”

“And try to look like a miserable wretch who just lost her husband and is sure she’s about to be raped and plundered.”

“That’s not going to be difficult,” Terri replied. “At least the miserable part.”

“Which part?” Bishop shouted over the raging storm, unable to hear his wife’s words. “The rape and plunder, or the losing your husband?”

Terri half turned and announced, “Undecided at this point.”

On they plodded, fighting the elements, the uphill trail making it all the worse on Terri. Bishop’s heart went out to her, the Texan occupying his mind with how he would make it up to his bride when all this was over. If they survived.

And then, in the middle of a pine thicket, there was a man standing in the trail, a battle rifle across his chest.

Bishop heard the others coming in from each side, four men surrounding them in less than a second.

The man in charge of the guard post walked up and looked at Terri, but only for a second. Without a word, he continued past her, making to inspect the bodies hanging over the pack animals.

“What happened,” he said, looking up at Bishop’s hooded face.

“The man put up a fight,” came the Texan’s reply.

The guard’s attention went back to the dead, his hand grabbing a handful of hair to lift the head of the body adorned with Bishop’s clothes.

Right as the hollowed, grotesque, half-face came into view, a bolt of lightning flashed, the effect causing the guard to jump back in horror.

Shaking his head in disgust and a little embarrassed at his reaction, the man then turned back to Bishop and questioned, “Are you hurt, brother?”

“Not too bad,” Bishop replied. “I was lucky.”

“Take them on up,” came the reply. “Grandfather will want to interview the woman and see their possessions. There’s hot tea at the camp.”

And then they were past, relief flooding through Bishop’s bones.

After they were well past the sentries, Terri chanced a quick glance back at her husband, a sly twinkle in her eye. “Love you,” she mouthed, and they turned back to continue up the trail.

They came to a compound, three outbuildings appearing through the mist and rain. Just like Nick had described, Bishop made out the main cabin, garage, and what the big man assumed was a workshop or barn. The Texan’s eye went immediately to the garage, looking for any sign of Kevin or the other prisoner.

“You there,” he barked at Terri over the wind. “Go to the main house. Grandfather will speak to you there.”

As they approached the home, another Native American appeared on the porch, his eye skeptical of the newly arriving rider and captive.

Rather than challenge Bishop, he asked, “How many did we lose?”

“Two,” the Texan replied, keeping his head low so the rain would run off of his hood. “But her man is dead, and their goods are on my horse.”

“And her?”

“She and the child didn’t resist.”

“Bring her and their possessions inside; leave his body out here on the horse. Grandfather will want to know what you learned from the stranger before he died.”

Then he walked to the end of the porch, shouting orders to another group of men huddled under the workshop’s awning where they were trying to stay dry.

Bishop tensed as three of the onlookers ducked into the rain and then scurried toward him. But they were only after the horses… and their dead comrades.

One of them handed Bishop his own pack, for Grandfather to inspect, and then they were off, leading the animals and their ghoulish cargo away.

The porch-guard turned, meaning to walk inside. Bishop stepped up behind Terri and gave her a shove with his rifle barrel. “Go!” he commanded, hoping she wouldn’t turn around and smack him.

They entered the log home, the room warm and inviting, a wood burning stove roaring away in the corner. Bishop reached up and roughly tore away Terri’s poncho, and shoved her again, indicating she should stand by the stove.

He had to admit, she looked the part. With purple lips quivering from the cold, her hair was in complete disarray, a mess of wet, matted strands. Covering the captive with his rifle, Bishop set his pack down in the middle of the floor and stepped back to a carefully chosen position in the darkest corner.

The guard appeared again, this time followed by the now-infamous white wizard.

Hack ignored what he thought was one of the Apache warriors, moving instead to get a better look at Terri. The protective, shivering mother flinched when he reached for the blanket covering Hunter’s face. “What is his name?” Hack inquired in a mellow tone.

“Hun… Hunter,” Terri managed, her voice croaking in apparent fear.

“And how old is Mr. Hunter?” came the next question.

Before Terri could respond, Bishop moved, the flash suppressor on his carbine pressing against the guard’s right ear. “That’s enough,” the Texan growled. “Now it’s my turn to start asking questions.”

Bishop took the stunned guard’s weapon, and then pulled back his hood. “Allow me to make the introductions. My name is Bishop, and this is my wife Terri,” he said. “We want to talk.”

Hack was initially confused, his eyes darting back and forth between Bishop and the guard. Terri’s voice came from the stove, “Actually,” she said, pulling her pistol from under Hunter’s blanket, “I’m going to do the talking, and you’re going to listen.”

“What is it you want?” came the old man’s shaky voice, finally realizing what was going down.

“First things first,” Bishop replied. “Where are the two men you are holding captive?”

Hack started to answer, but the bodyguard cut him off. “You’ll never get out of here. Drop your weapons, and I’ll give you my word you won’t be harmed.”

Pressing the sharp metal of the flash suppressor further into the guard’s ear, Bishop said, “That’s not what’s going to happen, Chief. We are going to retrieve my colleagues, and then we can all sit around and have a nice, friendly, little chat. After walking through the rain and cold, I think my wife deserves to be heard. If you, or the men outside, decide to get clever, Grandfather gets it first. Understood?”

The Apache nodded, the motion causing Bishop’s steel to dig deeper into his ear.

Bishop then turned to Hack and declared, “My friend and I are going to go retrieve the captives. If he tries any shit, my wife will kill you. She is a crack shot, and completely without inhibition. She’s already sent two men to the happy hunting grounds this morning, and the day is still young. Do you understand?”

“Yes. But you people don’t have to do.…”

Terri moved forward, her pistol pointblank on the bridge of Hack’s nose. “My husband, as usual, is being so politically correct. I actually
enjoy
shooting assholes.”

With Apache Jack to his front, Bishop pulled up his hood and said, “Let’s go. Get clever, and I’ll give you a haircut with 5.56mm lead. And just so you know, I’m a horrible barber.”

While Terri covered Hack in the main house, the duo went out the front door, Bishop’s carbine ready to cut down the guard. They splashed through the rain, walking quickly to a side door of the garage where the Indian produced a key.

The on-duty sentry seemed surprised to see his boss entering at such an hour, his confusion increasing as Bishop followed Jack through the door. “What’s going on?” he asked.