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

by Edson, J. T.

  Having taken that basic precaution, Tom moved cautiously in the Bronco’s direction. He was too wise to go straight up to it, but advanced along the opposite side of the street until he could see into the cab. There was no longer a figure behind the steering wheel. Having slipped across the standard, full-width front seat, the driver had opened the right-hand door and dropped to the ground. If the way he was crouching so as to keep the mass of the engine and forward wheels between them meant anything, he was not a law-abiding citizen. His actions were those of a criminal who knew the score.

  Without looking to find out what Brad was doing, Tom kept advancing at a tangent until he could see the barrel of the Luger which the man behind the vehicle was holding. Then, suddenly, he remembered that he was no longer working with Harry Bidlow; who would have known what he was intending to do and acted accordingly.

  ‘Throw it away and hit the wall!’

  Even as the disturbing recollection hit Tom, but before he could call instructions, he heard his new partner’s voice. Throwing a quick glance, he found that Brad had done exactly the same as Harry Bidlow would have and without having required advice.

  Having crossed the street, the big blond was standing on the sidewalk in the kind of double-handed shooting posture which had been developed and perfected by Sheriff Jack Weaver of Lancaster, California. It was a stance which lent itself to considerable accuracy, as Brad had already demonstrated when puncturing the Bronco’s tire. What was more, he had a clear shot at the driver.

  Darting swiftly to a point from which he too could cover the man behind the vehicle, Tom lined his Smith & Wesson and said, ‘You’re caught in the middle, so do it!’

  The driver, a stocky Mexican, swiveled his head to stare from one to the other of the deputies. While there was no sign of the vehicles which he could hear approaching from what appeared to be every direction, he saw little hope of escaping. Certainly trying to shoot his way clear was out of the question. No matter which of them he turned his Luger on, the other would shoot before he could pull the trigger. The bodies of the Boyer brothers, a pair of noted pistoleros, were mute testimony to the two peace officers’ ability with their weapons. Giving a shrug, he tossed the Luger aside and stepped to lean with his feet apart and palms flat on the wall of the hotel.

  Applying the safety-catch, Brad returned the Colt to its holster and advanced to join his partner. He reached under his coat, drawing the handcuffs from their pouch on the back of his waist belt. In passing, he glanced at the revolver which had been discarded by Hughie Boyer. What he saw explained how the killer had come so close to putting lead into him on the second and third occasions. The weapon was a snub-nosed Colt Cobra, but there was a metal hood attached to the frame covering the hammer. Known as a ‘hammer-shroud’, the device had made it possible for Boyer to continue shooting without the spur catching in the lining of his pocket.

  There was an expression of disapproval on Tom’s face which caused Brad to put aside his thoughts on the hammer-shroud. He could not understand what was causing it, for he felt that he had acquitted himself very well.

  ‘That was a damned stupid mistake you made, boy,’ Tom declared, watching Brad deftly handcuffing the Mexican’s wrists.

  ‘Sure,’ the big blond admitted, thinking that he knew what his partner meant. ‘I’ve read about hammer-shrouds and should have figured on Boyer using one.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Tom corrected, looking to where the first of the cars had made its appearance along the street and deciding that there would be time for him to make his point before it arrived. ‘No matter what they taught you at Quantico, when you’re working with me, you have your gun in your hand when you go after a fugitive. Just what do you think you are, some damned television cowboy giving the bad hombre an even break?’

  Brad’s cheeks reddened under their tan at the angry words, which he felt were not entirely justified. While at Quantico, he had been taught that the gun should only be drawn when there was a need to use it. That was why he had perfected his speed on the draw. However, by following the rule, he had come very close to getting killed. He felt sure that it was a situation a more experienced peace officer would have avoided.

  ‘He didn’t hit me,’ Brad protested, knowing as he spoke that he was making a hell of a feeble excuse.

  ‘You were luckier than you’ve any right to be,’ Tom replied and wondered if he was being too rough on the big blond. ‘Damn it, you were going up against a known killer—’

  The arrival of the first of the back-up teams prevented the stocky deputy from saying any more.

  ~*~

  ‘It looks like everything went off all right, Tom,’ Sheriff Jack Tragg remarked, leaving the black and white deputy car as it came to a halt.

  Several other vehicles were already on the scene and the situation was well in hand. The sheriff had been with the back-up unit furthest from the hotel, which accounted for his late arrival. It was his policy to allow the team who had been in charge of the operation to do their work instead of rushing up when it was all over and assuming command. However, in view of the men concerned, he had come to find out how they had fared.

  ‘Sure,’ Deputy Tom Cord agreed. ‘We had to kill both of the Boyers.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d take them alive,’ the sheriff admitted. ‘And I don’t reckon anybody will mourn over them.’ Then he glanced to where Bradford Counter was escorting the handcuffed Mexican to one of the back-up cars. ‘Brad looks a mite put out. How did he do?’

  ‘Damned well, all things considered,’ Tom declared and told his superior everything that had happened. After praising the big blond for his handling of the Bronco and the way he had acted after it had halted, he finished, ‘Maybe I was a little rough on him. After all, he was trained at Quantico and they teach their men—’

  ‘It worked out all right this time,’ Jack interrupted. ‘And I’m betting that he never makes the same mistake.’

  ‘If I thought he would, I’d be asking for another partner,’ Tom answered. ‘As it is, I’ll keep him. Don’t let on that I said so, but he’s a natural-born peace officer.’

  ‘How’re you feeling, Brad?’ First Deputy McCall asked, noticing the strained and worried expression on the big blond’s face as he was loading the prisoner into the car.

  ‘I’m all right, sir,’ Brad replied, aware that Tom and the sheriff were talking and guessing that he was the topic of their conversation. He wondered whether Tom was complaining about his folly in chasing Boyer with empty hands and demanding a new partner. ‘We haven’t told this hombre his rights.’

  ‘I’ll have Ric Alvarez do it in Spanish when we get him back to the Office,’ McCall promised. ‘Which joke’s Tom been telling you instead of doing it?’

  ‘Huh?’ Brad grunted, startled by the comment.

  ‘For as long as I’ve known him, he’s always told his partner jokes when everything’s gone right,’ McCall explained, with a dour smile. ‘That’s his way of showing approval. Me, I’d rather have a cash award, but I’m a Scot.’

  Remembering how Tom had told him a joke on the previous occasions when he had acted in a correct fashion, Brad doubted whether he would do so after what had happened with Hughie Boyer. However, before he could comment, McCall climbed into the vehicle after the prisoner and it drew away.

  Half an hour later, no wiser about his partner’s feelings on the matter, Brad drove their Oldsmobile—which they had left parked on the street behind the shop— towards the Department of Public Safety Building. The bodies had been removed, the Ford Bronco towed away and the rest of the on-the-spot formalities completed. That had left no time for conversation, except about the work in hand. However, the sheriff had congratulated Brad before taking his departure. While that had made the big blond feel a trifle better, it was Tom’s approbation which mattered most and there had been no evidence of it.

  ‘Hey, Brad,’ Tom drawled, studying his partner’s face in the rear view mirror and deciding that he
had been kept in suspense for long enough. ‘Did I tell you about the time I was working on the ranch?’

  ‘No,’ Brad admitted, feeling his tension start to ooze away as he recalled the First Deputy’s comment. ‘I can’t say you did.’

  ‘This Englishman arrived one day and went up to the oldest hand,’ Tom continued, grinned as he noted the blond’s changing expression. ‘He said, “I want to see your master.” and the old timer replied, “You can’t, the son-of-a-bitch hasn’t been born yet”.’

  ‘Huh!’ Brad grunted, guessing that he was beaming with delight but unable to stop himself. ‘I agree with Mac McCall. I’d rather have a cash award too.’

  It was worth all the worry and uncertainty for Brad to know that Tom had forgiven him. The look of puzzlement directed his way by the stocky deputy more than made up for the anxiety which he had suffered.

  Part Two – Cop Killer

  Thrusting open the front passenger door of the black and white Oldsmobile Super 88 Sheriff’s Office patrol car, Deputy Bradford Counter sprang out. He quit the vehicle with commendable speed considering his six foot three inch, two hundred and thirty pound ‘muscle-man’ frame and the fact that he was carrying a Winchester Model 12 riot gun.

  There was, the big blond knew, considerable need for haste; but he must not allow himself to become flustered. Twenty-five yards away, spaced about ten feet from each other, were four menacing figures lining revolvers in his direction.

  Almost as soon as the Rockabye County Sheriff’s Office’s newest deputy alighted, he began to adopt his shooting posture. In a single, swift and smoothly coordinated motion, he set his left foot about eighteen inches ahead of the right. Taking his weight on the slightly bent forward leg, he leaned his torso as if to meet the weapon which he was already raising. Elevating his right elbow until the arm was parallel to the ground, he drew the butt firmly against his shoulder and his left hand gave support at the slide-handle. With his cheek resting lightly against the stock, his right thumb manipulated the safety catch into the ‘Fire’ position. Unlike a sportsman handling a shotgun, he closed his left eye and used the right to take aim along the barrel as if he was shooting with a rifle.

  Realizing just how little time he had, Brad aligned the groove along the Winchester’s receiver and the bead foresight with the center of the right hand figure’s chest. The big blond’s behavior was still more suited to using a rifle than firing a shotgun, for he concentrated on his breath control and making a smooth, steady pressure rather than a rapid snap on the trigger which would be necessary against a moving target. The weapon roared, but his stance and firm grip minimized the kick of the recoil. Without taking the butt from his shoulder, he worked the slide-handle with his left hand much in the manner of a musician playing a trombone. As the empty case was flung through the ejection slot and the barrel began to swing to the left, he saw the first figure jerk and knew that at least a portion of the load’s nine buckshot balls had reached their target.

  Propelling the slide-handle forward, to feed the next shell from the tubular magazine into the chamber, Brad continued to pivot until the next figure was centered in his sight picture. Then he tightened his right forefinger on the trigger. Only a dry click rewarded his efforts.

  For some reason, the shell had failed to go off!

  Such was the extreme urgency of the situation that Brad’s left hand was already starting to work the slide and his torso swiveling to carry the barrel into alignment on the third figure before he realized what had happened. However, he did not hesitate or try to halt his rapid, smoothly-flowing movements. To have turned the weapon back would have ruined his concentration and taken time which he could not spare under the circumstances. Ejecting the unfired shell, he recharged the chamber so as to be ready when he was satisfied with his aim. Once again, he squeezed the trigger and the twelve gauge riot gun gave a coughing bellow as it vomited more buckshot balls. Back and forward flashed the slide-handle, while Brad continued to swing with the weapon. It roared and he saw that he had scored another set of hits.

  Although Brad’s loads had struck three of the figures, the second at which he had aimed remained untouched.

  Aware that time was running out for him, the big blond pivoted from the waist, reversing the barrel of the Winchester along the arc which it had made while firing at the third and fourth figures.

  Could he make it?

  Refusing to attempt a greater speed, which might lead to him overshooting his mark, Brad saw the side of the second figure appear in front of the riot gun’s barrel. Waiting the extra split-second until the bead of the foresight was pointing at the center of the chest, he cut loose with the fifth—and last—shell that the weapon held.

  It was, Brad realized, a case of what golfers referred to as, ‘There’s no tomorrow.’ If he missed his mark, he was finished.

  Even as the recoil jolted at Brad’s shoulder, relief flooded through him. The spray of .32 caliber balls had flown as he intended. However, he was not quite finished.

  Operating the slide-handle, the blond saw the empty case flick away. A whistle shrilled from somewhere behind him, followed by the sound of voices. Without lowering the riot gun, or turning, he worked the action two more times. Then, having proved that his weapon no longer held ammunition—a precaution which he took automatically and despite knowing that it was empty—he took it from his shoulder. Keeping the barrel pointing into the air, he swung around.

  Several men, wearing khaki uniforms of the Rockabye County Sheriff’s Office or the blue attire of the Gusher City Police Department, were advancing. They were looking at him with admiration, or grinning at each other in the manner of men who had seen a joke back-fire. The latter group were directing their glances at the Range Master. Among their number was Brad’s partner, Tom Cord.

  ‘Nice going, Brad,’ the stocky, middle-aged deputy praised, throwing another derisive grin at the Range Master. ‘I thought you’d be—were in trouble when that second shell misfired.’

  Something in his partner’s tone and attitude aroused Brad’s suspicions. Instead of going with the others to examine the four specially designed Police Silhouette targets, the big blond tucked the riot gun under his right arm and picked up the unfired shell. He turned it over between his left thumb and forefinger, making a careful examination of the head of the base of the tube. Then he walked to where Tom was watching the Range Master and three men counting the holes which the buckshot had punctured in the targets.

  ‘All right,’ Brad said, holding out the shell. ‘Who’s the wise guy?’

  ‘What’s up, boy?’ the stocky deputy inquired, with such an air of surprise that the big blond was almost taken in by it.

  ‘No matter how real it looks and feels, this’s a dummy shell,’ Brad elaborated, studying his companion’s face. ‘It’s got a dead primer and is packed with paper, or something, so that it weighs right and will feed properly into the chamber. But there’s no way to make it go “bang”.’

  ‘Well I’ll swan!’ Tom ejaculated, sounding even more innocent and guileless despite the twinkle in his eyes. ‘I’ve never known such a thing to happen before!’

  ‘I’ll just bet you haven’t,’ Brad sniffed, but he was smiling as he remembered the Range Master directing a knowing look at his partner while handing him the shells one at a time so that he could load the Winchester ready to fire the last and most difficult stage of the Combat Shotgun Qualification Course. ‘Was I a suspicious man, I’d smell a rat.’

  ‘Now that hurts me,’ Tom declared in a heart-rending voice. ‘That really hurts me. As if lil ole us’d try to spoil your score for shame.’

  ~*~

  ‘Three Hundred and Thirty Nine!’ Deputy Tom Cord said almost ecstatically, as he rode shotgun [xxi] in the Oldsmobile while Bradford Counter drove it out of the entrance to the Rockabye County Department of Public Safety’s open air range. ‘I’ll never forget some of their faces when Whit Childers totaled up your score. Even with that misfire, you pulled down “
Distinguished Expert”.’

  ‘It’s all part of the F.B.I.’s training,’ the big blond replied cheerfully. ‘Only at Quantico, we’d have done it blindfolded.’

  Along with the other peace officers, Tom had come to the range to fire his monthly handgun qualification course. Brad had already qualified as a sixteen dollar shooter—receiving that sum each week in addition to his salary by virtue of his expertise with all classes of official firearms—the previous Friday, but had accompanied his partner so that he could familiarize himself with the Winchester Model 12 riot gun which was to be his personal assault weapon. The fact that he had not fired it was one of the reasons he had not taken it along when going to help Tom deal with the Boyer brothers on Monday night.

  After watching Brad shooting from the waist and at the shoulder, Range Master Childers had suggested that he ran through the Combat Shotgun Qualification Course for the benefit of several rookies from the Gusher City Police Department who were present.

  Even with the comparatively unfamiliar weapon, the big blond had done exceptionally well on the first and second stages of the Course. For these, respectively at the twenty-five and thirty yards firing points, he had had to take the Winchester—loaded with four shells, but uncocked and with the safety applied—from a vertical gun rack which was a facsimile of a patrol car’s shotgun holder. With that done, he had to cock the weapon, change the safety catch’s setting, fire one shot at each of two targets, recharge the chamber after the second and finally reload; the time allowed being twenty seconds.

  Taking notice of the ease with which Brad had completed the first two, taking only fifteen seconds on both occasions, Childers had suggested to Tom that they should make the third stage even more difficult than usual. Instead of starting on the firing line, the deputy had to jump out of the car with the fully loaded weapon and the ten seconds he was allowed would start on his feet touching the ground. After which, he had to fire once at each of the four targets, eject the fifth shell and make the gun safe before the ‘Cease Fire’ whistle.