Shooter Galloway Read online

  A voice spoke, and Shooter was glad to hear it. Boxer Elder had returned and plans for the murderer were already firming within the boy’s head.

  Sam said, “You were quick, Boxer.”

  Boxer sounded pleased, “It’s done. Went just right. We had the lights out on our truck, so cars coming up would only see Galloway’s wreck rolling down the south side of the mountain. Once he was over, we just trotted to my pickup and coasted dark and quiet a half-mile or so down our side of the mountain.”

  Sam asked, “Nobody saw you going up or down?”

  “Nope, the road was empty, but there were two cars coming up on the Carlisle side, and they likely saw Galloway pin-wheeling down.”

  Boxer added, “Man, that truck fell like a boulder. Went end-over-end halfway down, then hit a big old tree that tore pieces off afore it went on rolling out of our sight.”

  “Did the cars coming up see it go?”

  “Almost had to, and that’d be good, wouldn’t it, Pap?”

  “That would be perfect. If people saw it happen it would pin down the exact time and, of course, we were all here right then, weren’t we, Ferdy?”

  The bar man’s voice was reluctant, but Sam Elder’s tone brooked no disagreement.

  “You was all here, Sam.”

  Sam Elder said, “Alright then, we’ll speak of it no more.” He chuckled heavily. “We couldn’t talk about something we don’t even know happened, now could we boys?”

  The sons agreed, and glasses clinked in salute. Shooter Galloway resumed crawling.

  Clear of the open ground around the old house, Shooter broke into a trot along the woods trail leading to their notch. Their house was less than half a mile, and that distance would give him time to organize the thoughts racing through his mind.

  He would kill Box Elder, and he would do it immediately. Shooter Galloway had no doubts about that part. After Box, he would plan long and carefully. He expected to savor his preparations and the killing of each of the Elders.

  A corner of his mind wondered at the coldness and certainty that allowed no moments to dwell on his father’s death or to doubt even the slightest what he would do to the Elders. That he was only eleven years old had no importance. Shooter decided exactly how he would kill Box Elder.

  +++

  His legal name was Gabriel Galloway, and the boy liked the ring of it, but everyone called him Shooter, and he liked that, too. Shooter meant that he knew how to handle a weapon, and tonight, he would earn his nickname. He would step into Box Elder’s path, level his gun and shoot Elder squarely in the chest. As he hurried through the darkness of the woods, the boy worked out just how he would accomplish that formidable task.

  The Galloway home was only a short step better than Ferdy’s old place, and it was not kept up a great deal better. Bob Galloway often explained that men living alone had to work at being neat because, unlike women, men were lazy about their housekeeping.

  The father’s primary rule had been that they make their beds every morning without exception. They each slept on an army cot, and they made the beds in what Bob called Fort Hood style. Everything was pulled as tight as a drumhead, and a folded and tucked blanket covered the pillow. Shoes and boots were aligned toes out in a military manner beneath the bed. No dirty dishes were allowed to remain in the sink.

  Beyond those rules, Bob Galloway did not care very much. He or his son swept the place occasionally, and they tried to keep their used clothing in an out-of-sight pile until they went to town to use the coin laundry. On occasion, Bob would grumble that they ought to have a woman around the place, but he sought out none.

  Shooter entered his house via his bedroom window, just as he had gone out. He was sweating lightly, but his hands were steady. He would remember to keep his pulse down and his lungs calmed, just like he did on the range. When he shot, he intended to hit exactly where he aimed.

  Shooter crossed his room without pause and turned on a single bulb that lit a short hallway. A pull on an edge of an old wooden cabinet swiveled the furniture exposing a three-foot deep hollow comprising Bob Galloway’s “bunker” where he stashed most guns and ammunition and all of the reloading equipment.

  Boxes beneath the loading bench would hold what Shooter needed, but he had not looked through the collection for a long time, and it took a moment’s pawing to locate what he needed.

  The pistol had been his grandfather’s, and Shooter believed grandpa had inherited the piece from his father or another older relative. The pistol was a Remington single-shot, rolling block that dated to the 1870s. The pistol fired a black powder .50 caliber center-fire cartridge that had not been manufactured for a hundred years. A partial box of the ancient cartridges with their corroded lead bullets lay with the old gun, and out of curiosity, Bob Galloway had fired a dozen to see what would happen.

  Shooter remembered the powerful blast of the .50s and the very large holes the soft lead bullets left in their pine board targets. This would be the gun he would use to shoot Boxer Elder. He would immediately dump the pistol, but even if found, no one could trace the ancient piece to the Galloways.

  The pistol’s huge bore looked clean, and as a test, Shooter dry-fired the action a few times. The trigger was heavy but broke reasonably clean. The immense hammer seemed to fall for an eternity before the piece fired. The sights were crude and hard to see, but poor sights would make no difference. The shot would be close in, where Shooter could be sure and from where he could clearly see the results. Actually, the sights would be covered anyway, and Shooter began to work on that part.

  Remington .50

  Bob Galloway had liked guns. As a Private First Class he had attended the US Army’s sniper school at Fort Benning. Competition shooting had honed his skills, but Galloway went far beyond the military training. He handloaded his own cartridges and read the shooting books and magazines. Of course, Bob Galloway hunted. Most men he knew took to the woods during deer season. Some of what he learned Bob passed on to his son, who hungrily sucked up the bits and pieces.

  Somewhere within the passed-along knowledge, the father had explained how a simple silencer could be made. Good for one shot, the sound suppressor took only moments to assemble and could be discarded almost without notice.

  Within their trash, Shooter found an empty Coke can. Wearing old work gloves, He carefully wiped the can and the pistol clean of any incriminating fingerprints. He punched the muzzle of the pistol through the opened end of the can and forced it more or less in line with the barrel. He taped the can securely in place with duct tape. Nothing more was needed.

  Now, he had to begin thinking most clearly. He could not be caught shooting Box Elder. If caught, he would be jailed, and it could be long before he got out to work on the other Elders.

  Shooter gathered the rest of the tape roll and all of the cartridges for the old gun. He thought about the targets they had fired through and the bullets buried in the dirt of their side yard. The shattered boards had been burned long before, and only the Lord would ever find the ancient bullets among the hundreds from other guns fired into every bank and stump on the place by other Galloways over a half-dozen generations.

  Shooter carefully wiped his chosen cartridge and one extra so that no prints could be found on the cases. He again swiped his gloves over the pistol for the same reason and was ready to go.

  The loaded pistol, the roll of tape, and the extra cartridges went into the wire basket on his old bicycle. The last round was placed in his left pocket where he could get it most swiftly. If Elder did not die from the first shot, he would put one more into him, and to hell with how loud it sounded.

  Shooter had to go back into the house. A thirst beyond tolerating had dried his throat, and he wondered if he had been panting through his mouth for the last half hour or so. He realized that he had been humming a familiar old Civil War marching song that his Dad had favored. He made himself stop.

  It was funny how cold and reasoned he was about all of this, and a part of hi
s mind knew he was probably not thinking as clearly as he believed he was. He refocused his mind. Now was not the time for what his Dad would call sappy vaporings. A man, Shooter knew, did what he should no matter how hard it might seem.

  Shooter stepped onto a bike pedal and shoved off, his leg swung across the frame, and he settled onto his saddle. He coasted his bicycle down their short gravel drive and pumped his way onto the black top. Going to Ferdy’s, the road was nearly flat, and Shooter did not rise from the seat. He watched for the lights of approaching traffic. If headlights appeared, he would hide in the brush until the vehicle passed, but the road remained empty.

  He stopped where the stream from The Notch ran under the road and trotted downstream along the bank for twenty yards to a small, boggy pond about a quarter-acre in size. He sunk the duct tape into the muck and tossed the extra cartridges well out into the water. Moments later he was back on his bike and pedaling away.

  Short of Ferdy’s gravel and dirt parking area, he pulled the bicycle off into a brush tangle. Box’s F-350 diesel loomed among smaller trucks, and Shooter saw that another vehicle had arrived since his departure.

  Another customer would make no difference unless he came out with Box. That would make getting away more difficult, but the night was warm and Elder’s truck windows were down. If he had to, he would wait until Elder was in his truck and just lean in and let him have it. Shooter rested against Elder’s tailgate and waited.

  He felt in his heart that shooting Box one time would not be satisfying enough. He would like to drag Elder to death behind his own truck or even worse punishments that came easily to mind, but not everything was possible. He was again humming “Marching Through Georgia,” but he was alone, and the sound was comforting so he kept at it.

  Not for the first time, Shooter weighed simply reporting his father’s murder to the sheriff or the state police. This time, he allowed himself to consider the option.

  He guessed that almost anyone else would report and stand back to let the law deliver justice, but that would not work. He knew it as surely as he knew what he had seen.

  When accused, the Elders would snort in derision, the terrorized Ferdy would back them up, and they would all claim that poor Gabriel Galloway had gone a little crazy over his father’s death. Some might harbor suspicions, but there would be no supporting evidence and in the end, he would lose.

  There was more. If he accused the Elders, he would be the primary suspect when they began dying, and he might not stay free to get them all.

  Only all would do. Box had swung the bottle, but they were all in it. Cold, like ice, was the heart of Gabriel Galloway.

  Shooter thought of his father’s belief in the importance of one-shot kills on game animals. It should be just as important on an enemy. Bob Galloway had also pointed out that when only one shot was fired, the direction it came from could be hard for an animal to determine. With luck and the Coke can silencer, no one would even hear Shooter’s single shot

  His Dad had often talked about war and the combat that infantrymen faced. More than once, Bob Galloway had noted that a combat plan should be simple or mistakes would surely appear. Shooter guessed that his plan was about the simplest there could be, and he figured he had better stick to it.

  Shooter had chosen the parking lot as the best spot because Box was usually the first to leave Ferdy’s place. In fact, Shooter had often used Box’s departure as his signal to get on home before his Dad said goodnight and went to his own truck. It was important to be back in bed before his Dad got home because Bob Galloway often peeked into Shooter’s bedroom to make sure that his sleeping son was comfortable and had not thrown aside his blanket.

  Thoughts of his father teared Shooter’s eyes, and a lump began forming deep in his throat, but he fought it down. Now, really was not the time. The task was to concentrate on what he had to do, just like he did on a difficult target. The sight picture became everything, and Shooter directed his mind to visualize just how Box Elder would look coming straight to him.

  He aimed the heavy pistol straight-armed using both hands, his elbows locked, and he sighted across the bulge of the cola can silencer. He would have to allow for the thickness of the can and hold higher. Box Elder would be a large target, but Shooter had learned from a hundred hunting yarns that exact bullet placement was what made the difference between killing and merely wounding. Dead center, just under Boxer’s wishbone would be perfect.

  What if the ancient cartridge misfired? Shooter felt his arms shake, and the pistol wobbled wildly. He lowered his weapon and breathed deeply. When his Dad had shot the pistol, every round had fired. All were powerful with none just going plop and barely pushing out the bullet.

  But, what if this one failed? Maybe he could dive under the truck and slide to the other side while he loaded his second cartridge. In the dark, with the Coke can disguising the pistol’s shape, Elder might not even recognize what had been pointing at him, but if Box looked under the truck to see, he would get it straight in the face. If he didn’t take a look, Shooter figured he could crawl out and try again.

  Shooter again aimed the Remington and tried to picture Boxer Elder coming toward him. Gabriel’s skinny arms looked barely able to hold the pistol, and Elder was two hundred pounds of rock-hard bone and muscle. The image was intimidating, but the boy looked straight at it and pretended to squeeze the heavy trigger.

  Just like that, he would do it.

  +++

  Boxer Elder was suddenly weary of the phony posing with all the affable grinning and joshing. Old Tom Snell had come in to suck down a few beers, and the familiar figure would make a perfect witness—if anyone ever asked about the Elders. It was past midnight, a new day. Why should he hang around?

  For the life of him, Box could not imagine why anyone would wonder about Galloway’s death. He had gone over the edge and got smashed all to hell. No one would even look close. They would take a blood test, of course, but, unfortunately, Bob never drank enough to hardly register. Nope, it would be just one of those dumb accidents. Probably fell asleep, most would figure.

  His father was right, though. Sam knew how to cover his tracks, and he made his boys pay attention to not leaving their mark on questionable activities.

  Three huge walnuts had grown in another man’s hollow not too far away, and all six of the Elders had snuck in one dark night, taken down the trees, sawed them into logs, and hauled them out without leaving a track or a wheel mark that could be traced to them.

  Boxer and Cal had driven their loaded log trucks all the way to Greene County to sell the massive walnut logs to a trustworthy buyer who lived in Missouri. By mid-morning they were back with the trucks washed down and reloaded with local pine.

  The other brothers had spent the night running four-wheel ATVs all over the tree stealing area. They left no recognizable truck or tractor marks. Box grinned to himself just thinking about it. Those trees had brought in a small fortune. Only The Notch held trees like that anymore. Big-plank walnut was getting as rare as hens’ teeth—which was some of the reason they wanted The Notch so bad. The Notch was so steep-sided that logs would have to go out the open end, and Galloway was sitting smack in the way. Box figured that would likely change after tonight.

  Box rose and kicked his chair back into place. He shrugged his heavy shoulders and announced his intent to call it a night. A brother nodded, but the rest of the Elders remained deep in their own thoughts.

  Ferdy mopped at his bar, and Box shot him the coldest glare he could manage. He fired a pointed finger-pistol at him as warning.

  Ferdy was not steady, and he worried Box more than a little. Maybe one of them would have to reason more strongly with the old man—just to make sure.

  The night was warm, and the sky clear. Box executed a fighter’s bob-and-weave shuffle and hooked a left hand at an imaginary opponent. He snorted through his nose and sucked in the small bulge of a belly beginning to lose its athletic fitness.

  Hell, he was to
uching thirty-five years old. No wonder he had gotten a little soft around the middle. Most men his age were already wearing suspenders, trying to hold their pants against their fat guts.

  Box danced across the porch and down Ferdy’s creaky wooden steps. The whiskey he had absorbed lay in comfortable warmth and seemed, for the moment, to sharpen his wits. Bob Galloway’s truck hurtling down the mountainside returned to his mind, and he smiled at the memory. Too bad old Bob hadn’t been conscious to enjoy the ride.

  Elder kicked at the gravel as he walked to his truck. He wished Ferdy could afford blacktop. A customer shouldn’t have to stomp across rocks to get to a business. This was 1985, for God’s sake.

  Almost across the lot a dark figure stepped out in front of him. The unexpectedness of meeting anyone in the parking area startled Box, and he said, “What in hell?” Then he recognized Bob Galloway’s boy, the one they called Shooter.