Shooter Galloway Read online

  Fred said, “I’ll tell you what, Shooter. We’ll strike a deal. You can shoot on Dynamite whenever you want, except during hunting seasons. We don’t want the game nervous right then, and some of the people that hunt around here don’t look too close at what they are blasting at.

  “If no one is around, you can shoot bottles and cans that are in the garbage trenches. Bullets won’t come out of there. If you see any, you can shoot rats in the garbage pits, and you can shoot crows in the fields, if you can hit them.”

  Thebes saw the boy’s eyes light up. “But, you don’t shoot game animals; you be damned careful where you are aiming, and—this was the clincher and his profit from the deal—if you see anyone else shooting up there, you get down here quick and tell me and, if you know them, you tell me who they are. Now, that includes Carson Long cadets, even if they are your buddies.”

  Thebes pondered a minute. “Well, I’ll make that a little easier on you. If they are cadets and you can run them off, you don’t have to give me their names—the first time, but if they come back, then you let me know.”

  Gabriel nodded enthusiastically. “That would be swell, Mister Thebes. I’ll be careful, and I will keep a sharp eye out.”

  Then, with his color high, he asked, “Will you give me a note that says I can shoot up there, Mister Thebes? I‘m afraid my Building Officer won’t believe I have permission.”

  Fred could see how that might be, and he liked young Galloway. He found a pad with a letterhead and scratched out a note.

  He handed it across, and the boy tucked the note away with repeated thanks, but sat down again.

  Shooter cleared the nervousness from his throat and said, “I would also like to hire one of your men to teach me how to run a bulldozer.”

  Fred felt his eyebrows rise, but Shooter went on. “Seeing your landfill is close by, I am going to write a paper on how garbage and trash collecting works—for class, of course.”

  Thebes thought such a paper was a little advanced for what, the seventh or eighth grade? But maybe Carson Long was that far ahead of public schools.

  “Why would you have to know about bulldozers to write the paper?” Something a little funny there, Fred thought.

  Shooter had an answer.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t, Mister Thebes, but I saw one of your sons driving one, and he isn’t much older than I am, and I thought that putting in that I had learned at least a little bit about how the pits were dug and all could give me extra credit.”

  Fred could see that. He decided to go along, at least a little. “How much could you pay?”

  “Well, not much, I guess, but all I need to know is how to start and stop a machine and maybe how to push a little dirt around. I don’t expect to really know how to be an operator.”

  Thebes chose to sound suspicious. “If you knew how to operate, how do I know you wouldn’t be sneaking up onto my landfill and running my machines around?”

  Shooter appeared scandalized. “I wouldn’t do a thing like that, Mister Thebes.”

  Thebes appeared to ponder, and the boy went on. “I would like to learn just a little about operating the old machine you have up by the landfill. I wouldn’t need to learn on a new one.”

  “The old Case? That was my Dad’s favorite. We don’t use it much anymore.”

  “I expect I would only need an hour or so, Mister Thebes.”

  “Where are you getting the money? An hour of dozing plus teaching will cost.”

  “Mister Grouse will get it for me. My Dad left money for things that I need.”

  “Dan Grouse is your lawyer? I’ve used him in a couple of lawsuits. Smart man, earns his money.”

  “He was Dad’s lawyer.”

  Thebes said, “Here’s what I’ll do, Galloway. I’ll tell my boys, that’s Chris and Harvey, that you want to learn how to push dirt. I’ll tell ‘em to keep an eye out for you, and if you happen by when they have the time, up at the dump I’m talking about, one of them can teach you.”

  Thebes concluded. “After you learn, come by, and I’ll give you a bill.”

  They shook hands on it, and Fred thought the boy had a strong and manly shake.

  Thebes asked, “Do you own The Notch now?”

  Instantly alert, Shooter said, “Yes, I do, but Mister Grouse takes care of my business.”

  Thebes said, “I was in there with your father when I graded your drive, do you remember that?”

  “Yes, sir, I remember you from back then, and that is why I thought I could ask you for permission to shoot.”

  Fred nodded. “Everybody knows everybody in this county.” His eyes got distant. “That Notch is about the prettiest place I’ve ever seen. You should cut some of the timber, though. Too much is too old in there. Some of those oldest trees should be cut out so that the young stuff can grow.”

  Shooter had heard that before, but Thebes continued. “If you ever do thin the timber, be really careful. The Notch is a special place, and it’s worth a lot more than just the logs you would get.”

  Outside, Thebes opened his pickup door and lifted a scoped varmint rifle from where it hung across the cab’s back window.

  “You’re called Shooter. Let’s see you shoot.” He pointed at cans about one hundred yards uphill from the office. “We shoot those.”

  Shooter took the rifle. It felt about like his Dad’s .308 but he read .22/250 along the barrel. He saw the scope was set on four power, which would be good for this distance. The stock on his own rifle had been shortened, but the .22/250 was full size, and with a scope, the rifle was a lot heavier.

  Sensing the problem, Thebes said, “You can shoot across the truck, if you want.”

  Shooter picked a can. “See the one sort of leaned against the old coffee can?” He jacked a round from the rifle’s magazine into the chamber.

  Thebes judged the target to be an old Campbell’s soup can. The boy shouldered the rifle with the sling laid in his forward hand so that it would not swing and bore down on the target.

  Shooter had to stock-crawl to gain decent eye relief. The trick would be to shoot fast before the rifle’s weight got to him.

  Thebes started to again recommend using the truck hood as a support when the varminter went off and the can jumped into the air.

  Fred said, “Nice shot. Guess I’ll use your nickname.” He took back the rifle, hopped in and left the boy standing in the parking lot.

  As he drove, Fred thought some about young Galloway. A nice kid, open-faced, a ready smile, unseasoned and probably a bit naïve. Those were proper boyish attributes.

  The Carson Long boys were always a little mysterious, and many thought them to be rich and spoiled, or maybe juvenile delinquents shipped to military school to avoid going to jail.

  There was an occasional bad apple, but most of the CLMA cadets were decent boys, some wanted to be soldiers, others had been stuck in difficult homes, and more than a few were sent because public schools were absolutely lousy and getting worse. Thebes decided he would keep track of Gabriel Galloway as the years moved past.

  Shooter got back on the campus without anyone knowing he had been gone. You did not leave the school without permission, but Gabriel placed getting shooting permission far above the risk of stumbling across a faculty officer off-campus.

  The trip could not have worked out better. He could shoot on the hill, and when the chance came, he would learn to drive a bulldozer.

  His thoughts turned to the shot he had made on the tin can. His father had preached that anyone could shoot off his belly. A real rifleman learned to shoot standing and without leaning against something.

  The .22/250 was a nice rifle, and using a scope had brought the soup can right into his lap. One person could not often shoot another individual’s iron-sight zero, but using scopes was different, and within reasonable limits shooters saw targets the same.

  Gabriel had expected to hit the can exactly as he had. Of course, he had not really been shooting at a soup can. His mind had seen Sam Elder i
n the cross hairs, and on an Elder, no matter what the rifle, Shooter Galloway never wavered.

  Chapter 8

  The Elders had fallen on hard times. Timber could no longer provide a living for four men. Their chopped-out mountain land was worth little more than the annual taxes, and the Elders’ only other asset was the logging machinery.

  Of course, everything was in old Sam’s name. The sons were partners more in spirit and effort than in shared holdings.

  A week after Gabriel Galloway left for the military school, old Sam Elder chose to secure his personal livelihood for at least the next year. He gathered his sons and explained his plan.

  “What we’ll do is take down that big walnut just under the cliff. We’ll do it on Sunday when Gus and Emma Showalter are in church. You boys will drop over the cliff and take the tree down real fast. I’ll use a dozer with a cable, and when you’re ready, I’ll just haul the logs up here.

  “You boys can ride up with the last logs. We’ll load onto all three log trucks and you can head for that buyer out in Missouri. Don’t hit no toll roads on the way, and pay everything in cash.”

  Sam thought for a while, “Hell, you’ll be back by the middle of the week, and Gus probably won’t know the tree is gone for a month or more—if he ever does.

  “While you’re gone, I’ll clean up around here so there won’t be even a scrap of walnut bark to show we were involved.”

  Sam snorted, “Hell, everybody will know we got the tree, but they won’t be able to prove anything.” His boys liked that part.

  To examine their prize, the men walked onto the porch that overhung The Notch. John Elder said, “That’s the biggest and straightest walnut I ever saw, Pa.”

  “Yep, they’ll turn those trunk logs into a few miles of veneer, and the bigger limbs will give enough lumber to make a pair of houses. That money will keep us until we figure out some new ways of making a living.”

  Andrew was peering closer. “What are those orange spots painted on the tree, Pa? I don’t remember them being there.”

  Old Sam tried to see, but couldn’t make out until he was passed a pair of binoculars. Sam looked, his face turned pale, and he threw the binoculars aside. When he spoke his voice sounded defeated.

  “The orange is painted-on rings, boys, and that damned Galloway drove spikes all through the tree. He must have done it almost the day he died.” Sam cursed with feeling. “Nobody would buy that timber. There isn’t a saw made that could stand hitting steel spikes like that.”

  Calvin hazarded, “Maybe we could pull ‘em out, Pa. We could get a grip on the head and maybe jerk ‘em out with a front loader. Or maybe we could . . .”

  Roy had been using the discarded binoculars. “There’s dozens of spikes driven in deep. A few of ‘em bent, but I’d guess they’re eighteen inches long or more. Your scheme won’t work, Cal. The heads would tear off. Those spikes are in to stay.”

  Sam Elder announced himself retired and sold out, keeping only one old truck, a front loader, and one bulldozer—which were used to keep their winding dirt road in passable condition. The boys went to truck driving with all but Cal Elder working for Pennsy Supply. Calvin drove for a local outfit that hauled mulch around the state.

  When they were home, the sons lived in the big log house, but the three Pennsy drivers also rented a shack in Perdix to shorten their daily commute to work.

  Saturday was still Elder night at Ferdy’s. The Elder men drank, cursed their fates, and grumbled about The Notch sitting right there going to waste. After the first few weeks, Box Elder did not often appear in their conversations. When he did, the subject was the failure of the law to find Box’s killer.

  That no one, themselves included, could find a clue to the shooting failed to salve the Elder’s feelings. Somebody was sitting out there laughing at them. The father and brothers knew it, and awareness that they might be passing the killer every day of every week galled their souls. By midnight business dropped off, and Ferdy would make closing motions. The Elders soon drank-up and went home.

  Sheriff Sonny Brunner stopped by occasionally, but his visits were during the day. He drank a coke to help Ferdy stay open, listened to any gossip the old man might offer, and went on his way.

  Usually, Brunner paused in the parking lot to look about and ponder Box Elder being killed right there, almost in front of his family. The killer had to have been waiting, which meant that he knew his target’s habits. A hundred people might fit that pattern—make that a thousand.

  Sometimes, Brunner wondered if Box in particular or just any Elder had been the target. A lot of people disliked the Elders. Maybe Boxer just happened to be the first one out.

  The investigators had the Box Elder file in a back drawer, but Sonny Brunner held the shooting in his mind. He expected that sooner or later the killer would talk to someone who wouldn’t be able to keep the secret. Brunner planned to keep listening.

  +++

  It was February, the weather was unseasonably warm, and there was no snow cover. In fact, the ground was as soft as if it were August. This Saturday, the moon would be almost full, and night vision would be good. Gabriel Galloway had been waiting for those conditions. He had not expected such weather before April, but he was as ready as he could be.

  A local boy had reached sixteen and gotten both a driver’s license and an old muscle car that he drove at obscene speeds about the county. The huge Pontiac drank fuel in gulps, and the youth was hard put to keep his pride and joy running. Shooter had always known the new driver, and since coming to Carson Long, he had cultivated the relationship.

  The Building Officer was off duty on Saturday night, and his substitute never checked the building after taps. The muscle car driver had agreed to pick up Gabriel at nine-thirty just off the campus.

  They would fill up the car’s giant gas tank—at Gabriel’s expense. For an additional twenty dollars, the sixteen year old potential race car driver, would speed the cadet to near his home in the county’s west end. He would drop Gabriel off along the road—Cadet Galloway explained that he did not want his local guardians to know he was there—and pick him up at the same spot an hour and a half later. They would race back to Bloomfield, and neither would mention the secret trip lest Gabriel’s guardians or Carson Long faculty find out.

  The drive to the west end was accomplished at a normal rate of speed. Shooter had stressed that the school would have his hide if he were found out after taps, but he just had to pick up some stuff at home. Shooter carried a small canvas overnight bag and wore his normal fatigue uniform under an old pea coat he had found hanging in the baggage room.

  The driver let him off at a slight turn in the road a quarter mile below Ferdy’s. Shooter explained that he would bypass the saloon and slip into his house from the woods. Teen-age boys were known to sneak around now and then, and the driver bought the story. He drove off, too fast for Shooter’s liking, and disappeared up the road. He would return in an hour and a half.

  Shooter opened his bag and withdrew a pair of very large combat boots. They, too, had come from the accumulation of old clothing abandoned in the baggage room. Gabriel pulled them on over his shoes and laced them securely. He donned a pair of cotton gloves carried for this occasion, and was ready.

  The hike up the mountain to the Elders’ log house took longer and was harder than he had expected. The heavy boots made him slow, and he tried his best to take long strides that should look like a normally tall man.

  Luck turned his way when he found the road repair equipment parked in a cleared spot well before reaching the house.

  The old Case bulldozer was identical to the machine he had learned on, and Shooter knew how to start it. He knew because he had gotten it running during both Thanksgiving and Christmas vacations. He had not moved the tractor around, he knew how to do that part, but starting old machinery could be tricky, and he would have no discovery time to spare.

  The Case rumbled to life, and Shooter let it warm for a few minutes. Th
e last thing he needed was a stalled-out dozer that might need special tickling to get running again.

  When the engine was ticking as smoothly as it could, Shooter drove up hill to just beyond a hump in the road that would throw headlights high in the air. He got his machine crosswise in the road and began cutting a ditch. He let the old dozer work at its own pace concentrating on making the uphill side of the ditch as perpendicular as he could. When a three-foot deep ditch blocked the road, Gabriel again turned up hill and lined up the Case for its real work.