Shooter Galloway Read online

  Anywhere, except of course, in Bob Galloway’s narrow gut of a canyon that he called The Notch.

  The Elders made repetitive offers to purchase the timber in Galloway’s Notch, but they had as much chance of buying as they did of flying from the deck of their big log house on the mountain crest. The Notch was to be young Shooter Galloway’s heritage, and the father made it plain and unarguable that there would be no wood harvesting on his land—period.

  It was natural to hunger for Galloway’s holdings. The Notch had never been logged. Never in known history had trees, living or dead, been taken from the almost nine hundred acres that had been in the Galloway family for generations.

  In the horse days, The Notch had been too difficult and costly to log, and there was other, easier to reach, timber available. Shooter’s great-grandfather had been the first Galloway to realize that the virgin, timber-clad Notch had become unique.

  Only a few national or state parks had trees in any way comparable. In The Notch there were hemlocks five feet through and oaks that were hundreds of years old. Once, there had been chestnuts, but the blights of the nineteen hundreds had killed off every chestnut tree in eastern America. Since the demise of the chestnuts, other mighty trees had grown, but giant, dead but un-rotted, chestnut tree trunks, still stood in the never-timbered Notch. Merely the thought of the value of that rare wood in thousands of board feet nourished the Elders’ avarice.

  Bob Galloway liked to stroll among the great trees and point out to his son walnuts three and four feet in diameter. Because of The Notch’s steep sides, most trees stretched for sunlight, and the trunks were as straight as trees could be. Those kinds of logs no longer existed on other private land within the entire length of the Pennsylvania Allegheny Mountains, but there they stood, a fortune in timber, just beyond the reach of the Elders’ hungry chain saws, as untouchable as if they were in Canada.

  Occasionally, legitimate home or barn restorers came to Galloway to ask, in the name of important preservations, for permission to take just one tree to replace a giant beam or ridgepole that had finally weakened. Galloway wished them well, but no one cut trees in The Notch—ever.

  The Notch was widely known, and radical environmentalists doted on Bob Galloway’s implacable refusals, but Galloway did not share the extremists’ views of trees possessing special attributes or being somehow beyond harvesting like any other crop.

  Galloway loved the woods. He had grown up in them, after all, but The Notch was his son’s heritage and legacy. When he inherited, Shooter could chop as he wished, and, if the younger Galloway took down everything standing, his father, wherever he might be, would understand.

  Within his secret hideaway, Shooter Galloway heard the Elders’ rage and often threaten his outwardly unconcerned father over his mule-headedness and refusal to take more than fair offers for his damnable trees. They warned that Galloway might be taking his life in his hands by coming openly to Ferdy’s Bar.

  Galloway asked, “How so?” And the Elders had always backed off.

  The Elders once speculated that The Notch just might catch fire, maybe from lightning. The arson threat was serious, but Bob Galloway replied that if Mother Nature burned The Notch, he would sell all that remained to Nevin White down in Duncannon who would be pleased to come in and salvage the giant logs, which surely would not interest discriminating lumbermen like the Elders.

  Galloway and the Elders knew that The Notch would not burn well. Most trees were giants with no low branchings or dead brush piled about. It was damp in The Notch, and fires would not spread the way they could in drier forests. The Elders’ raging was fruitless, but Shooter Galloway heard and found them scary.

  If Sergeant First Class Bob Galloway, US Army (retired on full disability) had not been missing a lung and recognized as a wounded war hero, the Elders would certainly have physically fought him. Most expected that if Galloway had not lost the lung, he would have already pounded at least five of the Elders into the ground years before.

  The sixth and youngest Elder, called Boxer, had been a decent club fighter for a few years. Box was a little crazy, and his ring experience made him too hard a nut for an ordinary man to crack.

  Some wondered that Galloway did not carry a gun and promise to shoot the first Elder that touched him. Bob Galloway was a careful man who recognized that, except in the most obvious cases of self-defense and fear for life, men went to prison for shooting anyone, and Bob had a son to raise.

  Galloway accepted that even the loose- mouthed Elders were smart enough not to let their emotions send one or more of the family into lengthy incarceration. The Elders were little-welcomed neighbors who came to Ferdy’s as often as did Bob Galloway. They groused, insulted and threatened, but nothing had ever come of any of it.

  The Elders drank more than a little, but they never became stumbling drunk. This night old Sam Elder and all five of his sons crowded Bob Galloway’s table. They passed their open bottle, urging their neighbor to join them and drink to friendship, allow old wounds to heal, to start fresh and clean without hard feelings among them.

  Ferdy delivered Galloway’s second beer, and Bob decided to again clear the air.

  He said in his usual calm and reasonable tone, “Look Sam, we’ve known each other as long as I have been alive. In the old days, you asked my father for timbering rights in The Notch. He always told you that The Notch was my heritage, and after he was gone, whatever I chose to do would suit him. Now I am telling you again that nothing has changed. Shooter will own The Notch on my death. He will inherit the timber, just as I did in my turn.”

  Galloway grinned. “I’m not going to live that many years, Sam, and Shooter is already eleven years old. Hey, maybe in another seven years I’ll be underground; Shooter will be old enough, and he will need money. Until then, nothing will change. We would all be a sight happier around here if you’d get those facts in the front of your mind and forget The Notch for now.”

  Boxer Elder slammed his chair aside and hunched his back like an angry grizzly. “I’ve a mind to punch your face flat, Galloway. I’m sick to death of you claiming you ain’t selling. You’ll sell, and you’ll sell soon, or I’ll sure as hell pound you into mush like I ought to ’ve done years ago.”

  Sam Elder’s raised hand halted his son’s harangue, and he again took over the argument.

  “You see how it is, Galloway. There’s six of us Elders sitting here at table. Box has already said his piece, but Cal, John, Roy, and Andrew are of the same mind. They’re just quieter about it.”

  Boxer swore and walked away, but Sam leaned closer, as if to give his words more meaning.

  “You’ve likely heard that we Elders are in a bit of a money tight. There’s no denying the truth of it, we’ve got to have timber, and we’ve got to get it quick.”

  He studied the other four at the table and seemed to sense their approval of what he was about to say.

  “The fact is, Galloway, that we get to wondering how it would go if something happened to Shooter so he wasn’t around to inherit.” Galloway began to rise from his chair, but Sam Elder’s raised hand made him pause, and Elder backed away.

  “Now, don’t get me wrong, Galloway. Nobody’s threatening harm to the boy. We’re just a family that’s backed into a corner and has to fight any way it can. You could say that we’ve got to look at every possibility, even those we hope will never happen.”

  Sam Elder’s broken-toothed smile was cold as he added, “It’s still wild out in this end of the county, Bob. Tree limbs fall on people. Men get lost in the mountains, and during deer season hunters get shot dead every year.” His lips thinned. “We Elders don’t hold with violence, but if it comes to drastic actions, we’ll take ‘em.” His eyes held solid on Bob Galloway’s.

  Although safely hidden, Shooter Galloway felt himself grow cold. He and his father were being threatened, and he had no way to judge how serious the threat was.

  Bob Galloway took Elder’s words very seriously. “You�
�ve gone too far, Elder, so I’m laying a few facts out for you to suck in.

  “I intend reporting your threats to the sheriff in writing so they will be on record ahead of time. I’ll do that first thing in the morning, and a copy will go to my lawyer in Harrisburg. I’m going to make it a long statement, Elder, that will list every bad word you’ve laid on me for the last two years.

  “From here on out, I’m carrying a gun. It’ll be my old .45, Sam. I load with Black Talon ammunition because it opens up and leaves a real crater of a hole. I’m telling you right now that if I have to use it, I’ll take down every Elder in sight, and I’ll keep shooting till nobody is left alive.”

  The room’s silence was tomb-like. Ferdy stood frozen behind his bar, and Box Elder watched unmoving.

  Bob Galloway was not finished. “One last thing, Elder, our polite talking is finished. You and your boys stay far away from Shooter and me, or it won’t be you that starts the violence. I figure that’s put clear enough for you to understand and act on, isn’t it?”

  Sam Elder seemed to swell in his chair. His massive head turned red and his shoulders hunched in rage. He said, “Damn you, Galloway,” but he got no further.

  Box Elder seemed almost to glide across the floor. He came in from the side, unseen by Galloway and almost unnoted by the rest of the Elders. The full whiskey bottle in his fist swung in a vicious arc with all of Box’s ring-developed strength behind it.

  Whiskey bottles are built to resist breakage, and Box’s held together, but the thunk of the blow sickened the souls of those who saw, and Bob Galloway’s head was driven sideward as if slugged by a 2 x 4.

  From his secret place, Shooter saw the blow crush the side of his father’s head. He saw his father’s almost instant descent into death. Bob Galloway’s head struck the table with a second thud and his lax body slid from the chair dropping him to the ancient oak flooring for a third deadening thump. The others might still be in doubt, but Shooter Galloway knew that he had just seen his father murdered. Shooter’s body and mind locked in place, stunned beyond reasoning or acting. Barely able to continue breathing, his eyes saw with ultra-clarity in a slowed motion that burned each terrible detail into his memory.

  As if Galloway’s dead body was about to attack them, the Elders scrambled from their seats.

  Sam Elder was the first to speak. “Damn it, Box, what in hell did you do that for?” Sam’s voice held confusion, as if disbelieving what had just happened.

  Box was not confused or hesitant. “Well, I hope I killed the son-of-a-bitch, Pap. That’s what I tried for, anyhow. I’ve had enough of Galloway’s crap, and I figure with one lick I ended it for good.”

  Elder voices rose in a clamor, but Sam shouted them down. “Quiet, all of you. We’ve no time for this.”

  From his hiding, the stunned Shooter Galloway watched Sam Elder take hold. As if to clear his mind, Elder shook his head twice. He pumped air through his lungs while he got his thoughts in line; then he was ready to give orders.

  One of the boys was ahead of him. “We’ve got to get out of here, Pa. Someone will come by anytime, and here Galloway will be laying.”

  There was immediate argument until Sam Elder again quieted them.

  “Now you all listen close because we’ve got to act fast but smart.”

  Grateful that there were no other customers, Sam looked to make sure that everyone was listening. Ferdy still hovered behind his bar twitching about and looking as if he wished he were far away.

  Elder said, “You, too, Ferdy, get over here where you can hear. You’re in this as deep as any of us, and don’t think for a second that you aren’t.”

  Ferdy began vigorous protest but he came. “I ain’t in this at all, Sam. I don’t have nothing to do with any of this squabbling, an’ don’t you try dragging me in.”

  Ferdy’s legs trembled, and his arms shook when he leaned across the table to look down on Bob Galloway.

  “He’s dead, ain’t he, Sam? Bob’s dead ain’t he? Oh, God, what are we going to do?”

  Box said, “Of course he’s dead, you damned fool. Hell, his brains are leaking out of his skull.”

  Ferdy’s groan was loud. “Oh God, Bob’s dead.”

  Sam Elder had had enough time to chart his course. His voice was as cold and emotionless as Box’s.

  “Here’s how it stands. I sure didn’t intend it happening just now, but Galloway is dead. The big thing is that nobody knows it other than us standing here.

  “Box, you and Calvin will load him into his pickup and drive him up Bower Mountain. Box, you do the driving; Cal, you follow in your Ford. Choose a good spot, get him behind the wheel and seat-belted in, then push him and the truck off the mountain. Leave the engine running, of course, and the headlights on. You’ll have to be in neutral, but investigators will figure the transmission got knocked out on the way down. Pick a real steep and long fall.”

  Ferdy’s hollow groan interrupted Sam’s thoughts, so Elder turned to the bar owner.

  “Here’s how it is with you, Ferdy. Us Elders are going to swear that Galloway came in, drank his two beers and left. That will be all we know. You’ll agree with exactly that, no differences or additions at all.”

  Sam Elder looked at his watch. “It’s a little past ten o’clock now. A little before ten will be the time we recall Galloway leaving. Now don’t everybody say ‘A little before ten.’ We don’t all want to sound alike. Choose other words, but stick close to that time.”

  He turned again to the quaking Ferdy. “We know you’re scared and fearful Ferdy, but we’ve got no choice in this thing.” He paused to watch his sons drag Bob Galloway’s limp body from along the table and, amid much cursing, hoist it and stagger from the bar.

  Ferdy hazarded, “Maybe he isn’t dead, Sam.”

  Elder was impatient. “He’s dead, Ferdy. Likely never felt anything. I doubt he even saw Boxer coming.”

  Sam cursed again, “Damn that Boxer, he’s getting worse by the day.” Then he shrugged in resignation. “No help for it now. If anyone figures out what really happened we’ll all go to jail.”

  He fixed the bar owner with a stare as cold as a grave. “That means you, too, Ferdy. If you were to talk, even mention, anything about this to anyone, even a priest, we’d find out and one of us would kill you, or if it came to the law, we’d claim you did it, and we were just trying to help you. It’d be six of us against just you, Ferdy. Who do you think would win?”

  Sam Elder drove his point home. “I expect we’d each get three to five years and do about one before we got out on good behavior. You might get the chair, if we claimed you had planned to kill Galloway, or you might only do life—it’s hard to tell about juries.”

  Elder handed the visibly shaking Ferdy the unbroken whiskey bottle. “Now, you just wipe that bottle down so it looks as if it was new and put it behind the bar. I’ll straighten the chairs a little, and scuff up the floor just in case.”

  Sam Elder looked around, satisfaction showing on his features. “Now, that looks just like it ought to.

  “What will happen next is that you, me, and John, Roy, and Andrew will just sit here like we usually do. Here’s where we’ve been all evening, and here is where we will be until about midnight. Boxer and Cal will be back long before then, and we will begin filtering out to our place a half hour or so later than usual, but nothing to get excited about.”

  Elder thought for a moment or two. “Tell you what, Ferdy, you add a half- dozen whiskeys to our tab, so it will look as if we really did sit here drinking like usual. Do that now, so we don’t forget later on.”

  For the first time in an hour or so, Sam Elder smiled to himself. It looked like they would carry it off without a hitch—as long as Box got that pickup over a cliff the way he was supposed to.

  Chapter 2

  Shooter Galloway’s mind snapped into focus. Not the confused and time-warped intensity of shock and disbelief, but the concentrated clarity of a marksman’s bubble. He saw and he understo
od. If behind a rifle, he would have begun his trigger squeeze. Instead, he began to move.

  An internal cold had blossomed within his chest, and Shooter wondered if it might be his emotions or perhaps his soul forever freezing into a demand for savage and personal vengeance. The boy hoped it was so.

  The remaining Elders slumped at their table, and old Sam again spoke warning words to Ferdy, who muttered unintelligible replies that brought new threats from all of the Elders.

  Shooter heard only peripherally. His attention was concentrated on silently withdrawing beneath the floor of the old saloon.

  How long had he sat transfixed, disbelievingly numbed? Surely it had been long. Sam Elder had threatened and intimidated the traumatized bar owner for a seeming eternity, and Box and Cal Elder were long gone and might soon return.

  Beneath the floor, every twist and handhold necessary to avoid the snags of protruding nails or lumps of ancient dirt were familiar. The going was slow, and halfway along, truck doors slammed in the parking lot and a moment later boots thumped on the planking above. Shooter froze in place.