The Sixteen Dollar Shooter (A Rockabye County Western Book 1)

by Edson, J. T.

  Taking everything into consideration, the sheriff had ruled that Brad and Tom alone would be in the immediate vicinity, with other teams on the alert at points around the Evans Hill Division ready to throw a cordon into place if it should be needed.

  While the planning had been going on, Alice Fayde had visited the hotel. She had gone in her Ford Mustang, leaving her Pete Ludwig shoulder bag—which had been designed with the needs of female peace officers in mind—in it instead of carrying it with her. She had been told that there were no vacancies, nor likely to be until the end of the week, which had implied that the brothers did not intend to check out in the usual way. However, her trip was not wasted, for she had brought back one important detail. After midnight, the only way of leaving the building was by the front door. All other exits were left locked until morning.

  Driving his imported M.G. MGB sports car, Brad had visited the Hoffner’s Man’s Shop. As he had expected, he had found the manager very cooperative. Even without needing an explanation, he had put his premises at the deputies’ disposal and had agreed to the arrangements which the big blond had suggested. Having purchased a sports jacket and a couple of shirts, in case the brothers were watching, Brad had left carrying them in one of the establishment’s bags. Without displaying the slightest interest in the hotel, although he had longed to look in the hope of seeing something to suggest that English Herb’s information was correct, he had entered the car and returned to the Department of Public Safety Building.

  On hearing of the arrangements which Brad had made with the manager, Jack Tragg had given his approval. The big blond had been delighted by the approbation which had come from First Deputy McCall and Tom. What was more, not one of them had even hinted that the work ahead might be beyond his capabilities. They had not even attempted to give him advice on how to react in the event of shooting. Instead, they had treated him as if he was an old, established member of the Office and had been through such affairs so often that he knew the drill.

  Once the details had been settled, Jack Tragg had told Brad and Tom that they could log off watch. Knowing that his new partner lived in an apartment at the Beverly Arms, an apartment building in the high rent Upton Heights district, Tom had felt that it was inadvisable for him to spend the afternoon and evening alone in it. So he had suggested that they went to the gym and played handball, after which his wife would expect them both for dinner. While Brad had guessed what had been behind the invitation, he had accepted.

  To tell the truth, Brad had not been looking forward to going home. While he knew some of his neighbors, none were the kind of friends to whom he could turn in a time of stress such as he was facing. Thinking of what lay ahead, he had been perturbed and uneasy. He had known from the first day he had decided to become a peace officer, instead of going into the family’s business interests, that he might have to face such a situation. What he had not expected was for it to have come up so quickly.

  Brad was not afraid for himself. Aware of his exceptional ability with a gun, he felt sure that he could use it against another human being if the need arose. That resolve had been strengthened by an examination of the Boyer brothers’ records, which had been relayed from I.C.R. Professional killers, they were known to have murdered five people on contracts. Two peace officers had died before their guns and four more were badly injured. Against such violent criminals, Brad was certain he would feel no compunction about using his big Colt.

  What worried the big blond was that, in his inexperience, he might make a mistake which would endanger his partner’s life or allow the Boyers to escape. If either happened, he would be finished as a peace officer.

  Meeting Tom’s wife had been a mixed blessing. While she had been hospitable and almost motherly, she had clearly realized that her husband would be handling a dangerous assignment that night. However, she had neither said nor done anything to imply that she lacked faith in his young partner. All in all, Brad had come from the Cords’ home feeling more relaxed and at ease than when he had arrived.

  Calling at the rear entrance to the shop, the deputies had been admitted by the manager. All his staff had gone home, but he had assured Brad and Tom that he was always the last to go and never went earlier than he would be doing that evening. Taking them upstairs to his office, he had given them a key to the front doors and left them to their work.

  While the window of the office had afforded the deputies a clear view of the hotel’s main entrance and parking lot, they had not been able to turn on the light after the sun had gone down. Instead, they had taken turns to sit in the toilet while the other kept watch.

  At last, after the shop’s interior, window and cabinet lights had gone out, Brad and Tom had gone downstairs. Finding their way to the front entrance, they had gone out and taken up their positions.

  For the next two and a half hours, Brad was being introduced to the most boring task any peace officer ever faced. The watch they had maintained from the upstairs window was easy in comparison. At least up there, while not actually carrying out the observation, it was possible to walk about and stretch one’s legs. In addition, the man who was at liberty could sit on the John and read; Tom had advised Brad to fetch some reading material along, in case there was the opportunity to use it as a means of passing the time. That was not possible while standing on the stakeout.

  ‘It could be worse,’ Tom remarked. ‘I’ve done stakeouts where you couldn’t even talk, or get out of the rain if it started. Anyways, we’re luckier than most.’

  ‘How come?’ Brad inquired, speaking no louder and shoving back his hat a little.

  ‘Neither of us smoke,’ Tom replied. ‘There’s one thing I hate and that’s doing a stake-out with a feller who smokes.’

  ‘Get touchy, huh?’ Brad inquired, more for something to say than through a desire for information.

  While speaking, Brad moved his feet restlessly and wondered how his partner was managing to remain so still. Superbly fit as he was, the blond’s legs were feeling the strain of the vigil. Earlier, soon after they had emerged from the shop, Tom had suggested that Brad might like to sit with his back against the cabinet. Refusing, he had remained on his feet. To take his mind off what lay ahead, he had asked Tom a number of questions about the kind of work he could expect in the future. When he had run out of ideas, the stocky deputy had tested his knowledge of first local radio procedures, then about the Texas Penal Code. Tom’s comment had come after they had exhausted the two subjects and he was satisfied that the blond was fully conversant with both.

  ‘Touchy’s putting it mildly,’ Tom admitted. ‘I’ve known—’

  Whatever the stocky deputy had meant to say went uncompleted.

  With a surge of excitement and anticipation, Brad saw that the previously closed front door of the hotel was starting to open.

  Two vague figures emerged from the dimly lit lobby. Although there were no streetlights in the immediate vicinity, the area was sufficiently illuminated for the deputies to make out details. The shapes were male; a pair of tallish, well-built men in their middle thirties. Each wore a slouch hat decorated with trout flies, a fishing jacket. Levi’s and calf-high hunting boots. They had fishing poles in their left hands and were carrying bulky haversacks dangling across their shoulders on to their near hips.

  For all their apparently harmless appearances, there was a suggestion of wary alertness about them which did not seem to be warranted when indulging in the harmless past-time of going fishing. More significantly, under the circumstances, each man had his right hand thrust into the pocket of his jacket. Halting on the sidewalk’s edge, they looked to the left along the street and the man at the right glanced at his wristwatch.

  ‘What do you think, Tom?’ Brad breathed, studying the two men.

  Although there had been no photographs of the brothers on record, I.C.R. had had Indenti-Kit pictures of them. The two men bore a very close resemblance to the illustrations which had been passed to the Rockabye County Sheriff’s Office
over the Texas Department of Public Safety’s Speed-Photo service.

  ‘English was right,’ the stocky deputy answered, bringing the Smith & Wesson from its holster without looking at his partner. ‘Let’s go get them.’

  ‘Yo!’ Brad answered, his left hand going up to touch the deputy’s badge which was hooked in the lapel buttonhole of his sports coat—but he did not duplicate his companion’s action by arming himself.

  ‘Peace officers here!’ Tom barked, leaving his place of concealment and starting to run across the street holding his weapon concealed behind his back. ‘Stand still, please!’

  Incongruous as the final word might have seemed under the circumstances, Tom had added it for a definite purpose. The challenge which he had given was the one adopted by Jack Tragg and the G.C.P.D.’s Chief of Police, Phineas Hagen, as being the best for such occasions. It stated the official status and wishes of the speaker in a way which removed any doubt as to either.

  Keeping the Smith & Wesson concealed and saying ‘please’ were further precautions Tom was taking in case the men should not be the Boyer brothers. They might be a pair of law abiding citizens, really going fishing, with no more than an unfortunate resemblance to the killers. In which case, they could resent being confronted by armed peace officers. The chances of that were slight, but long experience had taught the deputy not to take chances.

  If there had been any real doubt in Tom’s mind regarding the pair’s identity, it was removed almost before his final word had been spoken.

  The brothers stared at the two figures, each with a peace officer’s badge displayed on his jacket, which were emerging from the alcove. Then they let the fishing poles slip from their left hands.

  About an inch taller and two years older than his brother, Paul Boyer was the brains of the duo. Swiftly he took in details of the approaching pair’s appearances and drew his conclusions. In his opinion, the smaller man at the left was the more dangerous. Everything about him warned that he was an old hand at such work, particularly the way in which he was keeping his right fist out of sight. Unlike the big feller, he was already holding a gun. So he was the one to take out first, but a distraction would be needed.

  ‘Split, Hughie!’ Paul snapped.

  Knowing what was expected of him, the younger brother swung to the left. Even as he started to run to his left, he saw a vehicle approaching. From its shape, it was a Ford Bronco Sports Wagon; which suggested that it was driven by the man who was coming to guide them across the Rio Grande into Mexico.

  Instead of either following his brother, or turning to run in the opposite direction, Paul thrust forward the right side of his jacket. There was a stab of flame from the region of his pocket.

  Having observed what Paul was doing and guessed at the meaning of his action, Tom had started to swerve. Rapid though his change of direction had been, he only made it just in time. He felt the wind of a bullet as it hissed by his cheek and realized that he had had a very narrow escape. Either the man in front of him was lucky, or he had practiced sufficiently to have developed a fair degree of accuracy in what was a very awkward style of gun play. Whichever it might be, Tom felt disinclined to allow him an opportunity to improve his aim.

  Skidding to a halt, the stocky deputy went instantly and automatically into the extended arm, shoulder high, point-directed fire position which he had used to such good effect on the basement range the previous morning. Squeezing the trigger, he sent a .357 Magnum bullet into the center of Paul Boyer’s chest.

  With the man knocked staggering, Tom darted a glance to find out how his partner was faring. What he saw caused him to forget about the man he had shot.

  ‘Get your gun out!’ Tom bellowed and hoped that the big blond would be able to benefit from his warning.

  Having left their hiding place from the other end of the cabinet and an instant after the older deputy had taken his departure, Brad was running to cut off Hughie Boyer’s escape. He too had noticed the Ford Bronco approaching, but he had attached no special significance to it as his attention was centered upon the fleeing man.

  Brad heard the shots from his rear, followed by Tom’s yell. There was no time for him to consider his partner’s advice. Hughie Boyer was turning, lips drawn back in a snarl of hatred and with his right hand still thrust into the pocket of the fishing jacket. Like his elder brother, the killer did not attempt to draw the weapon. Instead, he also fired from inside the garment and came very close to making a hit.

  While the big blond’s right hand was flashing across towards the Hardy-Cooper spring-shoulder holster, his left was snatching open the side of his sports jacket. Then the hat was torn from his head by Hughie’s bullet. The near miss was disconcerting, but Brad saw little cause for concern. According to various books he had read, a man could not fire a revolver more than once while it was in his pocket as the hammer tended to become entangled with the lining and jam. So it came as a hell of a shock to him when the killer shot again and for a third time.

  It was fortunate for Brad that Hughie lacked his brother’s skill in handling a revolver, his specialty being long distance work with a rifle. In spite of that, he almost achieved his intentions.

  The big blond was equally lucky in that his reflexes, trained and conditioned by many hours of practice and work on the range, were guiding his movements without the need for any further thought. While the bullets went winging by on either side of his head, his right hand enfolded the butt and began to pivot the Colt automatic free from the grip of the holster’s retaining spring. Even in the excitement, tension and urgency of the situation, his forefinger stayed outside the trigger guard and his thumb did not begin to press down the manual safety catch until the weapon’s barrel had started to turn towards his assailant.

  Aiming on the move, with his right arm extended at shoulder level—as he had frequently done when running the Mexican Defense Course in combat shooting competitions—Brad inserted his forefinger and fired. His ears were still ringing from the angry ‘splat!’ sounds of Boyer’s bullets going by, but that did not affect his accuracy. As the Colt’s cocking slide slammed back, flinging the spent cartridge case into the air through the ejector slot, he saw a hole appear between the killer’s eyes. Boyer’s head was snapped back as if it had been struck by an invisible pole-axe and he was hurled bodily to the rear across the sidewalk. In a spasmodic gesture, he snatched the revolver from his pocket and flung it aside.

  At that moment, before a full realization of what he had done could strike Brad, he heard the sound of a vehicle’s engine being revved up. Twisting his head to the right, he saw that the Ford Bronco was rushing closer at an ever-increasing speed.

  Even as Boyer’s lifeless body crashed to the ground, Brad swung to face the approaching vehicle. Although his Colt, its chamber replenished by the mechanism, was lining on the Ford, the deputy’s badge clipped to his lapel was in plain sight.

  Instead of slowing down, the vehicle continued to move onwards. What was more, it appeared to be turning in Brad’s direction. Rising to cup under his right hand, the left’s grasp helped to steady the weapon as he took aim at the man behind the steering wheel.

  With his forefinger tightening on the trigger, Brad refrained from completing the pressure. He saw a major objection to shooting. While the man was in all probability the guide who had been expected by the Boyer brothers, there was a chance that he might be no more than an innocent passer-by. Seeing a gun fight in progress, such a person might panic and attempt to rush through the danger area. Under the circumstances, he could not be expected to notice that Brad was wearing a badge and, finding a gun had been turned towards him, was trying to run down its user.

  Having no wish to gun down what might be a law-abiding—if frightened—citizen, Brad changed his point of aim. With the sights laid to his satisfaction, he began to throw lead. Flying downwards, the first heavy caliber bullet entered the front of the right side tire. Passing through at an angle, it burst out of the wall. Two more followed in ra
pid succession, inflicting similar damage as the wheel continued to turn. There was a hiss of escaping compressed air and the Bronco swerved as the ruined tire deflated. With the Colt’s cocking slide still in motion after the third shot, Brad sprang to his right. Even so, he only just avoided being struck by the vehicle as it rushed by.

  Along the street, Tom had duplicated his partner’s actions in starting to draw a bead on the Bronco and had also matched his line of thought. Forgetting his annoyance over Brad’s mistake in not having drawn the Colt before giving chase to Boyer, he was on the point of advising him not to shoot the driver. Then he saw that the words would not be necessary. The big blond had already made that deduction and had come up with a satisfactory answer; If the man in the Bronco was innocent, the Sheriff’s Office would make good the damage to his tire.

  For a moment, Tom thought that the vehicle had hit his partner. However, Brad alighted on his feet and showed no sign of injury. Having satisfied himself on that aspect, the stocky deputy watched the Bronco approaching him. With its driver struggling to regain control, it passed him and skidded at angle to bounce over the edge of the sidewalk. It halted just beyond the end of the hotel.

  Sirens began to whoop from various points, none of them too close, as the back-up units, attracted by the sound of shooting, started to converge ‘Code Three’ on the hotel. Ignoring them and the lights which were coming on in several of the building’s rooms, Tom glanced at Paul Boyer. The deputy was ready to continue shooting if there was need for him to do so, but found no cause for alarm; the killer was sprawled supine and motionless, with both hands in view and empty.