Shooter Galloway

by Roy F. Chandler

  Beyond the county, he would dump the shotgun, drive to Pittsburgh and wait for his airplane. Elder planned to discard his disguise before the airport, because he might look suspicious or weird. It might, in fact, be better to immediately look different—or it might not. It was a minor detail that Roy Elder did not worry about.

  While Hannah and Emma Showalter visited, Gabriel, Mop, and Doc Dyer spent the morning shooting. Dyer used most of his time complaining and criticizing—as he did about almost everything.

  Dyer said, “You two look like hicks or failed bikers wearing those vests. Only skinny guys, like me, look good in vests, anyway, and carrying guns in the pockets must be about as comfortable as lugging around lead weights—about as sensible, too.”

  Mop said, “We can’t help it, Doc. We’re fighting men. Real hombres like us hold off the bad guys while important people like you curl up in balls and hunt for places to hide.”

  Dyer removed his hearing protectors and said, “I’ve done enough of this Wild West stuff. Let’s go back to the house.”

  The Galloways were willing and began pulling their targets. Shooter said, “When I finish this range I’m going to include a room where we can paste-up targets and store things conveniently.”

  Mop nodded understanding. Targets were a pain in the butt. Shooter had a stock of cardboard military silhouette targets that he had acquired, but new paper shapes had to be pasted over the shot-out centers almost every time they were used.

  As S3—Plans and Training, Captain Galloway had been close to the S4—Supply and Procurement. Galloway had obviously worked the system for all the shooting materials he could get.

  Shooter had rolls of pasters to place over bullet holes, adding life to shot-up targets. There were full-size paper covers for two different shaped silhouette targets and sealed buckets of the necessary paste. He even had Government Issue swabs to apply the paste.

  Shooter’s stacks of common bull's-eye targets was impressive, and he had a half-dozen spongy human head models that allowed a lot of bullets through before losing shape and becoming useless. Snipers liked to shoot those realistic targets. All of the plunder was stored in a rickety woodshed, and Mop could see the need for something better.

  On their way to the house, Mop took a closer look at the stacked Elder house logs. The piles were covered with layers of old-looking plastic sheeting.

  Mop observed, “I’ll bet you have to replace that plastic pretty often, Shooter.”

  “Real often Uncle Mop. I just keep adding new layers as needed. Those are great logs and they’re worth saving.”

  Dyer said, “Hell, they are already rotting. The ends are all green and ugly.”

  Mop groaned aloud at such ignorance.

  “Doc, when you store logs or planks, you wax the ends. That keeps moisture out. The wax is green, and it is swabbed all over the ends of each of these logs. That is what you are seeing. God, you city people should never be allowed off pavement.”

  Shooter explained. “These logs came from a house up on the cliff top, Doc. I’ll use them when I build my new house and my shooting building”

  “When you build? You’ll live in that falling down house until you die, Galloway. It’s just the way you country folk are.”

  Shooter and Mop exchanged smiles. Dyer knew nothing about the money gained from the tree sale. Shooter said, “Well, a humble teacher like myself can only take on so much at a time, Doc.”

  Dyer was immediately remorseful. “Ah hell, Shooter, I didn’t mean anything like that. Damn it, I was just . . .”

  Gabriel grinned at him. “Being a snotty New York elitist, Doc?”

  Dyer laughed aloud. “You’ve got me, Galloway. Being both a physician and a New Yorker makes it impossible to be anything but a self-anointed snob.”

  Shooter promised, “When we get a moment or two I’ll explain why I can build what I want anytime I care to, Doc, and your upper-crust jaw will drop to your knees, and you will be humbly apologetic—as well as glaringly envious.”

  Dyer said, “That will be the day,” but Mop knew that Shooter had him, and Doctor Frank Dyer would at least be amazed.

  Mop said, “We’ve got to clean our pistols. Then, we ought to load some ammo, Shooter. I’m leaving on the sixth, and I don’t want you down to nothing.”

  Dyer said, “I would like to see that. Not the gun cleaning, for God’s sake; I saw enough of that in the early nineties. I mean the making ammunition part. I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never seen it done.”

  Bob Galloway’s loaders were old Pacific “C“ tools, but with help, the loading went swiftly, and they talked as they worked. Shooter resized, fit primers, and dropped in powder charges. Mop seated bullets and handed the finished cartridge to Dyer who put them in boxes.

  Shooter could hear the women talking and clattering in the kitchen, and the thought came to him that this kind of life was mighty fine. Did he really want to go on the road with the Robinson team? The logical answer was no. He had some money. He loved teaching at Carson Long, and there were local girls that caught his eye.

  A wise man would say, “This is enough,” but he had an itch that he had not been really aware of until Bob Robinson’s offer. Now he found his mind testing possibilities far from these friendly hills.

  What might he see and experience? Each time he reached that point, Shooter enjoyed a euphoric inner-thrill that made him want to pack his duffel bag and leave today.

  Emma Showalter, Dyer and Hannah, Mop and Shooter started for the carnival about supper time. They eased into the Dyers’ magnificent Mercedes with appropriate put downs.

  Mop said, “God, I should have worn a suit.”

  Shooter added, “I hope that gang of hoodlums that goes around scratching keys up and down fancy cars doesn’t see this machine.”

  Emma said, “Now you boys stop pestering Doctor Dyer.” She stroked the leather upholstery. “This is a beautiful car, Doctor.”

  Dyer responded, “Thank you, Emma. If I did not already have my lovely Hannah, I would carry you off to the million lights of magnificent of New York City.”

  The Galloways groaned in pretended anguish.

  Shooter suggested that they park well out where they wouldn’t get trapped. He saw empty spots in the Latter Day Saint lot and waved Dyer in.

  As they walked the two hundred yards to the brightly lit carnival, Shooter asked, “How late do we want to stay?”

  Mop was carrying a folding chair for Emma who would sit among friends listening to the bands play. Mop said, “Let’s shove out at dark, that should be about twenty-one hundred, wouldn’t it, Shooter?”

  Dyer asked, “What time is that, anyway? Americans don’t speak like that.”

  That is 9:00 p.m., Doc, as you well know. Does that sound all right to everyone?”

  Hannah said, “That will be fine, Shooter. Frank and I will bring Emma to the car at nine. We can meet there.”

  They separated at the circle of vendors, Doc and Hannah going off, and Mop and Shooter talking hunting, shooting, and what-in-hell-had-they-been-doing to people who knew them.

  Occasionally the parties met, and each time, Doc Dyer was eating something. He devoured a candy apple and at least two hamburgers. Once he had an immense bag of Ickesburg Fire Company fries. Finally, he had a funnel cake.

  Mop said, “I can see that you hate this farmers’ get-together, Doc, but try to hang on.”

  “I’m trying, Mop. Man, no wonder everybody in this county is overweight. These good folks are the heartbeat of America, they are the iron-clad backbone of our society, they are the heroes of every war, and boy-oh-boy do they know how to eat!”

  +++

  Roy Elder did not come to enjoy the carnival. He had positioned his car early where he could watch almost everyone arriving by motor vehicle. He had brought food and soft drinks. The fewer people who saw him the better. He wanted no one to remember a scruffy looking stranger roaming about.

  He almost missed Shooter’s arrival. He had not s
een Galloway in years and, until he recognized Emma Showalter, he had only glanced at the people exiting a handsome foreign car.

  Once he got to looking closely, Elder recognized Mop Galloway. He had not changed much. There were two other men, but Roy Elder knew which one was Gabriel Galloway. For one thing, the younger Galloway dressed like his Uncle Mop, and he walked like Mop with his hands stuffed into his vest pockets. The other man escorted a woman that Roy did not know.

  Elder swore. Shooting within the carnival was not feasible. A thousand eyes would see and remember, and in this county there would be other guns handy. It had to be on the way out, and Roy knew he would need a little luck there. If they all came back to the car together, he might not dare the shot.

  Through his binoculars, Elder studied the Galloways carefully. He could have a long wait, and he would have to keep track of his enemies amid the milling carnival crowd.

  Before nine, Mop had seen it all. The carnival was reaching its height with about everyone coming already there, and they had made one too many laps around the circle of vendors to find any game or activity still interesting.

  Mop said, “I’m ready to blow out of here. My feet are killing me. Next year I’ll bring a chair and sit with the old duffers.”

  Shooter said, “That’s why I wore my combat boots, Uncle Mop. Running or walking shoes aren’t made for standing. My feet feel perfect.”

  “Then why are you shifting your weight from one foot to the other every thirty seconds? I know tired feet when I see them.”

  Shooter said, “You want to go down to the car and wait for the others?”

  “Might as well. Doc left it unlocked, didn’t he?”

  “It’s open; we don’t lock much here in the county, Uncle Mop.”

  “A lot more than we used to, Gabriel. Years ago everybody you met was trustworthy, but there is a criminal element moving in. Have you noticed that most of the people in the paper who are arrested are not old-time county names? They come in here and commit heinous crimes, and most of them are from the cities.”

  It was quite dark away from the carnival lights, and Shooter led their way through the clutter of casually parked automobiles.

  “What’s all this ‘We’ stuff, Uncle Mop? You haven’t lived here for thirty years.”

  “Once a countian, always a countian, Gabriel. You notice that we never say we’re from a town? We claim we’re from this county.”

  The carnival parking ended and they had space to walk side-by-side heading toward the Mormon parking lot.

  Roy Elder had to move fast. All of a sudden, the Galloways were leaving the carnival and heading for their car. Elder’s route was longer, and he almost jogged getting ahead of them.

  If no one else appeared, he could take them both without difficulty. Mop Galloway was a bonus, and Elder enjoyed awareness that they were the last of their clan. He wished he could expect a headline that said, “Elders wipe out Galloways.” All he could really hope for was, “Galloways killed by unknown party.” Good enough, he would know who had ended it.

  Elder carried the sawed off shotgun under his jacket, holding it in place with one hand, but it was awkward and uncomfortable. In the encroaching dark, no one would have noticed, anyway, he supposed, but he was being as careful as he knew how.

  Only moments to go now. Elder could feel his heart pumping, and he wondered if his hands would shake. With the scattergun it wouldn’t matter. That’s what shotguns were for—hitting anything they were pointed at. One barrel into the younger Galloway and the second into Mop.

  Should he reload and blast them again? Elder considered the possibility. People were shooting firecrackers off now and then, and he doubted his shots would attract attention.

  What he would do was take a good look, and decide if he wanted to bother. Damn, what would he be able to see with them on the ground in the dark?

  A car bumped past, and Elder turned his face away from the light. The Galloways would be silhouetted against the carnival lights and he would not be able to see the shock and realization that they were about to die.

  They would see him more clearly, and they would see the muzzles of the shotgun pointing at their chests. He would have time to say who he was, so that they would know who had won. They would hate that, and it would be the Galloways’ final thought.

  Roy Elder reached the Mormon parking lot and moved quickly to a perfect spot between two cars with the Galloway vehicle only a step away. There was a floodlight in the parking lot that lit up the area surprisingly well. Elder crouched so that he would not be seen by the approaching figures.

  He would wait until they were trapped between cars and only a little more than a car length from him. Elder flicked off the safety and gripped his shortened gun in both hands. He could hear them talking, and he could hear their feet striking the dirt. When they stepped onto the pavement would be perfect. Roy Elder waited.

  Shooter said, “Watch the curb, Uncle Mop,” and stepped onto the parking lot pavement.

  Mop kept his eyes down to clearly see the step. He said, “I’m watching,” and made it onto the black top.

  Roy Elder heard the words and the solid strike of shoes on the pavement. Smothering his excitement, he took his two steps and swung to face the Galloways. He held the shotgun almost chest high and shifted it to point directly at Gabriel Galloway.

  This was his moment of triumph, and exultation surged in the breast of Roy Elder. His voice caught for an instant as he began his words. He cleared his throat and said, “I’m Roy Elder, and you are dead.”

  The last word was clearing his throat when his body was slammed by blows beyond believing. Elder’s mind sought to understand, and his finger fought to pull a trigger, but something awful was happening, and his strength fled almost before he could realize it, and as he fell the body-crushing blows continued.

  He was on the ground. His thoughts had turned vague, and he could not muster strength to understand what he heard or felt.

  A voice spoke and another answered. Elder believed he was rolled onto his back, and he heard his shotgun being kicked aside. His eyes almost focused, and he saw two men that he ought to know looking at him from a great height. Roy Elder felt no pain, but he died mystified, vaguely wondering what had happened.

  Shooter had stepped onto the smoother firmness of the paved parking lot, and his eyes rose from the black top to a dimly seen figure that seemed to leap from concealment behind a nearby car. Instinctively, Galloway’s fingers closed around the grips of the .44 caliber hammerless revolver in his right hand vest pocket.

  He saw what looked like a gun swinging toward him—but it could have been anything. There was not time to wonder who was hidden beneath the hat shadow, but Shooter’s instincts told him this was no joke going wrong, and his finger was instantly tightening on the trigger.

  Then the figure spoke in a clearly heard snarl, and its first words were “I’m Roy Elder.” There were more, but those were enough. Shooter Galloway finished his trigger squeeze.

  There was no time to draw or aim. Shooter fired directly through his vest pocket. His bullet was en route before he recognized the weapon pointed at him was a shotgun.

  Shooter’s first bullet went high into Roy Elder’s chest. The heavy .44 caliber punched through Elder’s sternum and smashed his backbone. The bullet, flattened to half an inch diameter, lodged within the skin of Elder’s back.

  As he squeezed on his second round, Shooter heard firing coming from beside him. Mop Galloway had gotten into the battle with his .357 magnum.

  The shotgun muzzle had instantly dropped, and as Elder went down, the unfired piece bounced from Elder’s unresponsive grip and landed close by.

  If Mop Galloway had been a split-instant slower than Shooter, he kept at it a bit longer, but neither Galloway took chances with this one. Shooter fired three shots into Roy Elder, and Mop got off four—the last one into Elder’s prone body.

  Shooter drew his pistol from his well-holed vest and kept it on the f
allen Elder. Mop stepped forward and kicked the shotgun aside.

  Protected by Shooter’s pistol, Mop rolled the body over as uncaring as if it were a dead animal and tried to look closely.

  “He’s dead, Shooter, but I can’t tell if it is really Roy Elder or not.” Mop sounded annoyed.

  Shooter hoped his voice was as calm, but his nerves were jumping, and he felt tremors starting in his legs. It had been so fast, so God-awful fast, with a background fear that maybe he shouldn’t be shooting at all—that maybe he was killing an innocent man. Shooter’s guts knotted, but he ignored the discomfort, and the pain quickly passed.

  Shooter asked, “What did he say, Uncle Mop? I got the Elder part, but I couldn’t hear the rest.”