Shooter Galloway

by Roy F. Chandler

  As Mop had foretold, they shot a lot. Mop’s range was an often-replaced horizontal plank behind the cabin from which they hung paper targets. The shooters drilled countless cans placed on top of the plank, but they did not shoot at bottles. Mop wanted no broken glass scattered around. The bullets went into the rising woods behind the targets, and if they missed trees, they plunged into the beginning rise of a ridge that went halfway to the sky.

  Ranges were kept short, but the shooting was made challenging by firing from unsupported positions as rapidly as practical.

  Mop was serious about his practice. He was not interested in creating small groups. He was concerned with making every shot a solid hit and in getting his bullets into the target at a rapid rate. It was clear to Gabriel that his uncle’s shooting was protection against someone shooting at him.

  Occasionally, Mop spoke about his months undercover with the biker gang.

  Once he said, “If I had known how bad it would be, I might not have signed on, but it was hard to find anyone who could handle that kind of living and was willing to try it. One mistake and your body would disappear into a hole out in the woods, or it might get dumped on the city hall steps as an object lesson.

  “I set those people up time after time. They got caught and they got charged with all sorts of felonies, but the courts work so slowly that they were almost all still out on the street still doing robberies and muggings, running drugs, and stuff I don’t want to talk about.

  “There I was right in the middle of it, gathering evidence, making tapes, writing out lists of names and places, tipping the department off to crimes about to happen, and all the time fearing one of them would make a connection to all of the bad luck they were having.

  “I saw one of them kill a friend, I saw terrible drunken carousing and beatings, and . . . well, bad stuff, Shooter. When we had enough to convict a bunch of them they were brought in for arraignment. When I testified, all dressed out in my deputy’s uniform, twenty or so of them went crazy. If they hadn’t already been shackled and cuffed they would have swarmed me despite the court officers. That was when some of them swore they would find me no matter how long it took.

  “Well, Shooter, most of those people are no-account bums who will do their time and crawl off into some distant city to commit more crimes, but there are at least two in that garbage pile that I have to worry about as long as they live. Those boys are real haters. If they had any money they would hire somebody to come after me, and they won’t forget. They are in for long sentences, but I need to stay ready in case they discover a cousin or some idiot who will try to do their work for them.”

  Shooter had asked, “Where was all of this, Uncle Mop?” He imagined Los Angeles or maybe Chicago where gangs were huge and vicious.

  “Tampa, Florida, Shooter. I went through the police academy down there and served four years in the department.

  “After the undercover duty, I became a motor cop, and I liked riding a cycle in that fine climate, but I couldn’t stay at it. Too much exposure, and too many criminals willing to make a try at me.”

  “I never heard about any of this stuff, Uncle Mop.”

  “Well, your Dad and I kept in touch, so he knew most of it, but I kept the home folks at arms’ length. Too many youthful indiscretions are remembered back there.

  “Anyway, like most jobs, law enforcement lost its edge, and I moved on.”

  Mop shook his head in recognition of poor planning. “I have to tell you straight out, Shooter, that living like I am now is not all that smart. Most of the money I make is under the table, which beats paying a lot of taxes but doesn’t lay on a retirement. I miss all of the valuable benefits—which doesn’t matter too much until I get real sick or injured.” He grinned in self-amusement, “Riding a Harley day in and day out without medical insurance sure isn’t the brightest move a man can make.”

  Mop shrugged and again enjoyed another self-deprecating smile. “The fact is, I am working hard to correct some of that.”

  There was no more talk of Mop Galloway’s future, but Shooter failed to see any plans taking shape that could make his uncle’s financial situation more secure.

  Shooter spent most of his free time off in the woods wandering and shooting his old Remington.

  Gabriel was astonishingly deadly with his aged target rifle. If he saw something within practical range, Shooter could hit it, and if there was a target out there, the youth would see it, even if he chose not to shoot.

  Only a few have genuine hunter’s eyes. Mop lacked the ability to see a sitting rabbit’s eye. He could not detect the movement of a long ear, and he was hard put to locate squirrels on the wrong side of their trees. Gabriel saw them all, but it was his crow shooting that flat-out astonished Mop Galloway.

  They had gone out on a crisp morning to roam and explore an old logging camp that dated back to the first timbering of the mountains. They were resting against a collapsed building’s remains when a large crow dropped onto a distant limb and began his careful search for hidden dangers.

  Shooter said, “Don’t move a hair, Uncle Mop. That crow is a scout, and if he doesn’t see us, more will come in. Maybe I can get a shot at one of them.”

  Sure enough, a pair of crows dropped into the overgrown field and began feeding. Mop said, “They aren’t going to stand still, and that lookout crow is still up there.”

  Shooter agreed. “The trick is to come up and fire as the sights bear.” Then he added, and Mop almost laughed at the impossibility of it, “It is tough shooting because I only shoot at their heads.”

  Mop said, “A crow’s head is never still, and it’s got to be eighty yards to them.”

  The boy was undismayed. “Yep, I do better when I am in a supported prone and can take the time to hold extra close, but I like the hard shots best.”

  When Gabriel moved, the rifle slid into his shoulder as if on tracks, but from his eye corner Mop saw the scout crow’s wings spread in alarm.

  The crack of the twenty-two was just as quick, and Mop judged that the youth had just pointed and let go. With utter astonishment he saw a crow’s head explode, and the bird dropped with barely a quiver. His companion was almost instantly airborne and headed away.

  “Good God, Gabriel, that was one hell of a shot!”

  Shooter was clearly pleased with the result. “I had a little luck there, Uncle Mop. You have to hold where the crow’s head will be when the bullet arrives. If you aim right at the head, you will miss every time. Crows are tough targets.”

  Mop was at a loss for words. No wonder his brother had nicknamed his son Shooter.

  Gabriel said, “Someday, I am going to get a repeater so that I can get in a second shot. Wow, wouldn’t it be something to nail two before they could get away?”

  The youth thought about it some, clearly imagining how he would handle such shooting.

  “You’d have to shoot almost by instinct, and you would have to guess exactly right how the second crow would move because he would not be sitting there waiting for you.”

  No he would not, and Mop Galloway knew that not one rifleman in a thousand could hit a live crow in the head under any conditions. Two crows? Beyond belief, Mop accepted, but he bought Shooter a new rifle on their next trip into town.

  The new gun was a semi-automatic Ruger 10-22 equipped with a four power Leupold scope.

  Actually, the rifle was not new—which was why Mop picked it out. The Ruger had been rebarreled, and it had a trigger job and a leather sling. The rotary magazine held ten long rifle cartridges, and a five hundred round brick of match grade ammunition was included. It is almost impossible to wear out a twenty-two rifle and although expensively modified for serious target work, the new Ruger was hardly broken in.

  Ruger 10/22

  Shooter disappeared into the woods and was hard to find for some days thereafter. Of course, the better ammunition made a great difference in Gabriel’s shooting. Off the shelf, long rifle cartridges were no longer good enough, but
Mop paid with grace. His nephew could really shoot, and he was worthy of the best.

  When his nephew returned one evening, Mop asked, “Why are you so intense about shooting, Gabriel? What about baseball or hanging out with the other kids at the mall? Except for going to the movies, you shoot and read about shooting. You are good, no question about that, but maybe you should be looking at other things.”

  For a long moment, Gabriel appeared flustered, and Mop thought he was going to reveal some important secret, and maybe he did.

  Shooter’s voice was determined. “I am going to be a Marine Corps sniper, Uncle Mop, and I am going to try to be the best one that there ever was.”

  Once loose on the subject, Gabriel opened up. “I’m going to practice until I am as good as Carlos Hathcock or Chuck Mawhinney. I want to go to the Camp Lejeune School because that is the best there is. Then I want to be a Gunnery Sergeant in the Second Marine Infantry Division.”

  Mop was stunned. Where had that come from? Gabriel had read about the great Marine Corps snipers, of course, but to be one—for a career?

  Mop Galloway decided to step gently. Boys wanted to be firemen one day and professional surfers the next. Barely a teenager, Shooter would probably change his mind a dozen times.

  Mop said, “Well, The Corps can be a good life for some. Maybe you’ll be one of them, Shooter.” He paused to consider.

  “A sniper, huh? Well, there is a lot more than shooting involved in that business. In fact, from what I have read, field craft like scouting and patrolling, artillery fire control, and all sorts of survival stuff is as important as the actual shooting.”

  Gabriel’s enthusiasm grew.

  “That’s what I read, too, Uncle Mop, but I haven’t ever shot at long range or even much with a center-fire rifle. I’ve only read about judging wind and mirage. I’ve got an awful lot to learn about shooting that I can’t get to right now, so I shoot at hard targets close in and practice stalking and moving quiet and smooth. That’s why I practice creeping up on crows and rabbits and squirrels. Wild animals and birds are hard to fool, and I figure if I can get close to them, I will do better on most enemies.”

  Enemies? Mop did not know what to do about that sort of mind-set at Gabriel’s few years. Just play along, he supposed, but he guessed he would make an effort to interest his nephew in other activities.

  It was almost a month before Gabriel came in carrying two headshot crows. He held them aloft and said, “Got ‘em both at one sitting, Uncle Mop.”

  Mop thought, Good God, what next? Three crows at one sitting?

  Chapter 10

  On his way back to their cabin, Shooter circled the ridge. He carried the Ruger slung, but he had not been hunting. Wild things had become scarce within a mile or more of the cabin, and the rifle was simply part of living with Mop in the mountains. If Gabriel went, the rifle was usually along. Not that Shooter had killed off the game; wild animals did not like being repeatedly slipped up on, and most had moved to other less disturbed areas.

  At seventeen, Gabriel Galloway had grown lean and hard-muscled. At school he had taken to track, and in his junior year he had run the new 1500-meter races. Although he played most intramural sports, the rifle team was Gabriel’s focus, and he occasionally set new school and sometimes league records. This year would be his senior year, Galloway would be team captain, and he had hopes of leading his shooters to important wins while personally chewing up individual competitions.

  In military affairs Cadet Galloway had been a disappointment. Galloway had been busted twice—both times for fighting. Instead of holding commissioned cadet rank and being in line for Battalion Commander, Galloway was “A” Company First Sergeant.

  The problem was not boyish fisticuffs. Those standing-up-to-be-counted combats were expected and mostly went unremarked. The difficulty was that when Shooter Galloway fought, his opponent ended up in the infirmary.

  Galloway’s first reduction to cadet came as a freshman. A senior cadet with some rank had taken a personal dislike to the sharp and very military ninth grader and physically shoved him around once too often. Gabriel Galloway had kicked the much larger youth in the crotch, broken his nose with a vicious head butt, and when the senior went down, Galloway stomped on his extended fingers.

  The injuries were so severe and the parents so enraged that action had to be taken. Among other punishments, Gabriel Galloway became the lowest ranking member of the Carson Long cadet corps.

  The next year, as a rapidly rising cadet sergeant, Galloway was assigned as a cadet leader for the Junior School. This time, Shooter observed an older cadet terrorizing one of his sixth grade charges. The larger and more mature youth had not learned from Galloway’s earlier demolition of a bully and swung at Shooter’s head.

  The blow was clumsy, but it was powerful. Shooter partially ducked, but the fist skidded along his head and badly tore an ear.

  Where most would have grabbed their injury and ducked away, Shooter Galloway charged—foot first. He stabbed a boot sole into his enemy’s knee, and the leg bent in the wrong direction. As the victim twisted away in anguish, the seemingly relentless and merciless Galloway repeatedly slugged the bigger boy until the bully lay unresisting on the concrete in front of the Willard Building.

  The knee required surgery, and the facial battering was disturbing to look upon. The loser had initiated the fight, but the administration wondered if Cadet Sergeant Galloway was not overly vigorous in defending his young students and himself. What to do?

  Parents of Junior School cadets had their say in the matter, and enough of them announced their intention to withdraw their boys from school if Shooter Galloway (one of the younger boys’ favorites) was expelled. Expulsion was deferred with dire warnings of what would happen if Gabriel hospitalized any more fellow cadets—no matter what the reasons. Cadet Galloway, again the lowest man in the cadet corps, resumed a long climb back up the ladder of responsibility.

  Gabriel was asked many times by admiring students just how he had learned to fight so ferociously? Galloway always said that his uncle had taught him and explained that if you fought, you fought to win with no holds barred.

  Lieutenant Colonel Butler was on Gabriel’s side in both fighting incidents, and most of the rest of the time. Shooter Galloway had the potential, the grit, and the skills to be a warrior soldier. The problem, as Butler saw it, and as he told anyone who would listen, was that Galloway meant business while the other guys had thought they were in a fairly safe game.

  Of course, Butler spoke to Cadet Galloway about the advantages of attending West Point Military Academy and becoming a commissioned officer where his abilities and interests could have broad horizons. To Butler’s chagrin, Galloway spoke only of the United States Marine Corps and only of enlisted rank.

  Honorable enough, Butler recognized, but as a noncommissioned officer, Gabriel could only . . . the reasoning fell on rocky soil.

  Shooter Galloway was for the Corps. He hungered to be “One of the few, the proud, and the brave.” Discouraging, but Butler recognized that the Army’s loss would be the Corps’ gain—Semper Fi, damn it.

  Shooter Galloway again moved swiftly up in rank, but Gabriel would not command the cadet battalion during his senior year.

  Gabriel had not exaggerated the street fighting education he had absorbed from his uncle. For years, Mop Galloway had lived on the rougher side of town. He had learned techniques in police academies, and he had absorbed hard lessons from neighborhoods that had convinced him that Marquis of Queensbury rules belonged only within a boxing ring. In the rest of the world, it was wiser to know mean, nasty, and unexpected moves, and it was just as important to use them. Mop taught hard lessons from harder experience, and although Mop could not know it, Shooter Galloway already believed in doing what was needed. Unknowingly, Mop was teaching a youth who had already killed and planned on doing so again—more than once.

  Shooter was fertile soil. Mop’s seeds flourished and Gabriel Galloway was correctly
recognized by most Carson Long cadets as someone not to trifle with.

  +++

  Part way around the nose of the mountain overlooking Mop’s cabin, a glitter of paint and chrome caught Shooter’s eye. It appeared that a motor vehicle had been pulled off the road and into the shelter of the trees. Shooter immediately thought of it as concealment because there were better pullouts nearby, but they were exposed to passing traffic.

  Because he treated almost every condition as practice scouting, Gabriel slipped behind a large tree and listened to the woods. Nothing. The birds sang and the leaves rustled.

  He eased closer and saw that the vehicle was a pickup truck. A darned nice one, in fact. Florida plates, Sarasota County. A long way from home, but where was the driver?

  Sarasota. On the west coast, Gabriel thought, and not too far from Tampa. Tampa? Mop’s undercover stomping ground? Gabriel felt his feet moving.

  The idea was silly, but if not enemies, who would be hiding a Florida truck in Montana where no one lived except Mop Galloway? Gabriel’s feet moved faster, and then into a full-bore run, heading straight for their cabin as hard as he could manage.