The opposing force was spread up and down the entire length of Virginia Street, hiding behind vehicles, tucked behind hedges, and peeking out from windows. They weren’t in uniform, though he could see men in military camouflage, police uniforms and even hunting camo.
Two things concerned him. For one thing, the opposing force had made a coordinated stand. It wasn’t dumb luck that they held Virginia Street. Somebody in command had made that decision, and the men involved had enough discipline to hold the line. A fighting force taking orders from someone would be ten times as threatening as a gang of men with guns.
The second thing he noticed sent a chill down his spine. Barely visible down 3rd Avenue was an armored vehicle, one of the kind employed by police. The vehicle itself didn’t concern Francisco so much. He had faced such vehicles before, and they were nothing more than transportation. The men inside eventually had to come out and fight.
What concerned him flapped in the breeze over the vehicle—a blue, square flag. He took his time inspecting the flag: blue square with a yellow figure in the center, blowing a long trumpet.
Whenever asked, Francisco would call himself Catholic, though he had never taken much interest in religion. But he lived in Utah long enough to recognize the emblem on the flag. It was the same gold angel blowing a horn that Mormons placed on top of their temples.
The Mormon Church had fielded its own army, and that army had come together in a matter of two days to block his army. The only force stronger than pride, so far as Francisco knew, was faith. If the Mormon Church requested fighting men from the surrounding neighborhoods, and if the church provided coordination, the thousand men of Los Latigos could be chewed up and spit out by day’s end.
Men fighting for faith and for the protection of their families would be ferocious opponents. The days of mowing through white people, at least in the Avenues, had come to an end.
As he thought through the implications, Francisco pictured the map of the Avenues they had laid out on the picnic bench in Rose Park two days ago. To their east, they had come against this line of Mormon fighters and, so far, any attempt to cross Virginia Street had been met with instant death.
To their north, the mountains rose above them, blocking attack or retreat. One exception might be Tellers Canyon, with its road curving deep into the mountains. That road might become a trail up and over the ridge, but only for men on foot. He didn’t think there was a road going over that ridge.
To their south, downtown Salt Lake City opened before them with twenty or more wide streets that would be difficult for an enemy to blockade unless they had thousands of men. Even so, the streets of downtown didn’t offer him much in the way of pillage. The downtown area had degraded over the years into a series of old tenements, and the forage opportunities wouldn’t be worth the risk.
To the west, they faced the Mormon temple, along with the church’s corporate offices and meeting centers. He guessed the Mormons had fortified their temple and only afterward had sent men to stop his eastward advance. Having a strong force to his rear made Francisco uneasy. His mama, as well as the families of his men, had settled in homes that would be the first to fall if the Mormons pushed his west flank from their temple.
Profound disappointment washed over Francisco. All this progress, all this promise, and it would amount to nothing. There was only one reasonable course: retreat. That meant removing his mama and the families they had already given homes. Leaving them in place put everyone at risk. This Mormon army would only grow in strength if he continued this push, and then everything would be lost.
He had captured an enormous store of food, guns and prescription drugs. They could retreat to the fairgrounds and claim victory. They could feed their people for weeks and attract more fighters with drugs and supplies.
“We retreat,” Francisco finally said out loud.
“Sí. I agree.” Crudo had reached the same conclusion.
“¡Pinche madre!” Francisco swore.
“Before we go, I need to tell you about something from last night.”
“Okay, let’s get out of here first.”
The men crawled out of the room and went out the back door, climbing over the fence to get clear of the battlefront.
As they walked away from Virginia Street, Crudo reported. “Last night, the old man with the radio picked up some gringos talking. He thought they were chatting back and forth at the top of Tellers Canyon, maybe above Oakwood. Francisco, I slept at the radio garage last night and listened to some of their radio talk. It sounded like they were organized, well-supplied.”
Francisco had a lot to think about. He would extract his men from the Avenues. After that… he didn’t know yet. Momentum was important, especially while the gringos reacted slowly to his attacks. He needed to make the most of this opportunity.
But he couldn’t commit a large force in one direction without understanding the risks and the rewards. He needed to know what he would be facing. He didn’t want to lead Los Latigos into another dead end.
He should have known the Mormon Church would respond so quickly to protect its temple. It hadn’t crossed his mind while planning his attack on the Avenues, and the slip-up frightened Francisco. He had started to believe that fate guaranteed their success. That thought first came to him when the prison fell, and the feeling had grown stronger since. Trusting fate wasn’t a plan. It was superstition.
No more fate, he reminded himself. They would either succeed or fail based on his decisions, his intelligence. He needed to think.
“Send ten men up that canyon with radios. Have them take a look and radio back what they see. I want to know what’s happening up in the haciendas there above Oakwood. Send them right now. They are to look only, not fight.”
“Sí, Jefe.” Crudo started to walk away.
“Hold up.” Francisco held up his hand. “Make sure every piece of that old man’s equipment makes it back to the fairgrounds with us, comprende?”
“Sí, Jefe.”
Ross Homestead
Oakwood, Utah
One of Jason’s business mentors was fond of saying, “You can be right or you can get what you want. Pick one.”
As he watched the bishopric walk up the driveway, Jason ached to be right. He wanted to crush Masterson. The man had lied, and he had done it for control, no matter who got hurt in the process. Worse yet, Masterson had been too stupid to know how destructive it would be for him to get his way. And, by the time he figured it out, there would be scores of dead.
Masterson had twisted the words of the stake president in an attempt to gain control of the resources of the Homestead. Jason could embarrass Masterson with that information, make him look like a liar in front of the bishop. Even as his blood boiled, Jason knew he wouldn’t do that, at least not directly.
You can be right or you can get what you want.
Too many lives depended on Jason for him to indulge his need to crush Masterson in front of the bishopric. In any case, the bishop already knew Masterson had twisted the stake president’s words. Soft-pedaling Masterson might increase Jason’s credibility with the bishop and his counselors. Downplaying Masterson’s lie would build bridges instead of burn them.
But Jason hated the game. It exacted a stiff price. Verbal smash-mouth was more his natural groove and, God knew, Masterson had it coming.
“Good morning, brothers.” Go big or go home. Jason smiled to himself, despising every minute of his duplicity. Jeff joined them, exchanged handshakes, then slumping down in his chair like a bag of bowling balls.