by Edson, J. T.
There was no time for self-congratulation. Not with the third target rapidly approaching the end of the building from which it had appeared. Once there, it would turn and pass beyond his range of vision.
Rotating his torso, Brad aimed and fired. His shooter’s instincts told him that he had missed, even without the need to observe that the target was continuing to move.
An alteration of aim, another crash from the Colt, and splinters erupted from the wall just behind the target. It was drawing very close to the corner.
Grimly Brad tried again, cutting loose with three shots in rapid succession and angling them like the spokes spreading from the hub of a wheel. On the third detonation, less than six inches from the corner, the target lurched to a stop.
Brad let out a low, hissing breath of relief. Changing the magazines had been the right thing to do. His eighth bullet had been a miss and, if he had not, the target would have gone before he could have reloaded.
Whoever had laid out the order of the targets’ appearances was one tricky son-of-a-bitch, the big blond concluded. He wondered how many of his predecessors had gone out completely, or lost points, on the triple-exposure. Although all of them whom he had spoken with mentioned their difficulties at the long range shot, understandably they had not warned him of the trio.
There was no need to consider what the next action must be. Showing the same deft skill and speed as before, Brad changed magazines and again had immediate access to eight rounds. Holstering the Colt, he set off once more. In a real gun fight, a man would not bother collecting the depleted magazines. So he was not expected to do it in the competition.
Five more targets to go!
Four of them would be taken literally on the run, including one which was moving diagonally away from him.
Eight bullets might not be too many to ensure that he hit them all, even though he did not need to put away his gun between targets once he had crossed the ‘run’ line.
Maybe they would send the moving target next. That would leave Brad with a shot of close to eighty yards. If so, making a hit—even with one of the double-handed braced holds, standing, kneeling, sitting or prone—would be anything but a sinecure.
Hell’s fire!
A slight movement from ahead and to the right slammed Brad’s full attention that way. At the rear end of the gap between two buildings, barely visible beyond the corner of the one which had housed the ‘going straight away’ target, the figure of a Mexican bandido peered through the window of the next building.
How long had the target been there?
Would it ‘act’ in a normal manner and start to withdraw on ‘finding itself observed’ by the deputy?
If so, could Brad chance advancing for a clearer shot?
That was unlikely. Clearly the range master was making the course as difficult as possible.
Refusing to be flustered, Brad produced the big automatic. He assumed the ‘Weaver Stance’, aimed and sent a bullet into the leering, mustached features. Not a moment too soon at that. Already the target was starting to retreat into the building.
Striding onward, with his right hand’s fingers working open and closed but staying near to the Colt’s butt, Brad measured the distance to the ‘run’ line and looked along the alley between the two shacks at his left. He saw the fence at the back and nothing else.
There would be, though!
But where and when?
Even as Brad’s right foot was passing over the line, the next target slid out from behind the building which he had just passed. Hearing it, he swiveled around to draw and fire.
Although Brad scored another hit, he was pleased that he did not need to make any further draws. What might look like a simple and effortless motion when performed by a man of his caliber, demanded intense concentration and coordination if it was to be carried out safely at high speed.
Turning back on his original course, the big blond started to run along the street. As he came within thirty feet of the next to last building on the right, the moving target came into view. It was heading towards the open door of the last shack on the left. Neither instinctive alignment nor double-handed shooting was feasible while running. So he thrust out his right hand at shoulder level, sighting with all the care he could muster. As the Colt roared and bucked, he heard the whack of the bullet striking—but the target did not stop.
Continuing to run and aim, Brad fired again. This time, the target’s onwards motion ended.
There was something in the doorway of the shack from which the target had emerged, Brad noticed as he was going by.
Hell’s teeth!
It was the next to the last target!
That tricky son-of-a-bitch of a range master had pulled another slick move!
There was only a brief opportunity to swing the Colt around, peer quickly along the cocking slide rather than through the sights, then throw lead, before Brad had passed. He could barely remember what the target had looked like and did not know whether he had hit it or not.
Ahead of him, the final target popped into sight from beyond the last shack on the right. It was only twenty feet away, but Brad did not allow himself to become complacent. Such an attitude could be fatal in real life. Bucking the kind of opposition he was matched against in the Leatherslap, a miss could cost him enough points to ruin any hope of winning.
Brad wanted to win badly. Not only for the prestige doing so would bring. It would help him towards his goal of gaining complete acceptance by the other members of the Sheriff’s Office.
So the big blond ran even closer, then fired at almost point blank range as the target began to move back into its place of concealment. A hole sprang into being in the center of the head, providing indisputable proof that he had held true. Half a dozen more strides carried him over the finish line and he was aware of the immense physical and mental strain which he had been enduring.
~*~
Pascual Cervera, Lorenzo Herrera, Antonio Ulloa and Juan Montojo had finally made Mexico too hot to hold them. Left-wing activists of the worst, most vicious kind, they had led an organization which had kidnapped, tortured, maimed and murdered people as well as burning and destroying property for the past three years. At last, finding that the forces of law and order were closing in, they had betrayed their companions and had contrived to slip away before the police had arrived at the hide-out in Guadalajara and a gun battle—which was still raging after thirty-six hours—had commenced. As yet, their absence had not been discovered by the attackers. So nobody was looking for them, particularly in the area of Northern Chihuahua through which they were passing.
The quartet had not fled empty-handed, but had carried off most of the money which their terrorist activities had accrued and nearly thirty pounds of pure, uncut heroin. Originally supplied—by the embassy of a Communist bloc country—to be passed out among their supporters, they were intending to use the latter as a means of ensuring their escape. They planned to cross the Rio Grande into the United States and make their way from commune to commune until reaching New York, where Herrera had a connection who would be only too willing to purchase the narcotics. Believing them to be idealistic fighters against the so-called Establishment, the hippies and dropouts of the communes would give them shelter and assistance; particularly if they paid for it with small fixes of the heroin.
As the four men made their way towards the San Pedro Bridge, which would take them over the river into Rockabye County, Texas, they were riding in a dark green and white radio patrol car belonging to the Policia Estatal de Caminos. [xxx] Its crew lay dead in a gully some five miles away. They had been murdered in cold blood when they had stopped in the belief that the quartet’s previous vehicle had met with an accident and had meant to render assistance.
While discussing the future, during the earlier stages of their flight, the four men had appreciated the problems which would face them at the border. Events had moved too swiftly for them to have made extensive plans in advance. They had been com
pelled to improvise as they went along. One thing had been obvious. Apart from going on foot, which they had refused to contemplate, there was no way in which they could slip into the United States unnoticed. Even at the small, little-used San Pedro Bridge, the Customs’ officials would insist upon searching them. So they had planned to shoot their way across. Approaching in the police car would greatly improve the chances of taking their victims by surprise. The officials were less likely to be alert than they would have been if the quartet had arrived in a private vehicle, particularly in view of the way they looked and dressed. Apart from Herrera, they could have been taken for a bunch of hippies.
Middle-aged, thick-set and short in stature, Herrera’s grizzled black hair was cropped close to his skull. He wore a cheap gray suit and dirty, white shirt with its neck open. Sitting at the right side of the rear seat, he was nursing a Schmeisser MP 40 Parachute Model submachine gun with its butt folded. Between his feet, on the floor, was a haversack holding filled magazines, ammunition, a couple of hand grenades and four smoke grenades.
Next to Herrera and armed in a similar fashion, Ulloa was the youngest of the party. Tall, almost painfully thin in his hippy attire, he had his mass of black hair in the frizzed-out Afro fashion which had become popular among Negroes.
Sitting on the front passenger seat, with an Obregon 11-43mm automatic pistol resting cocked and ready on his lap, Cervera was tall, better developed than Ulloa and fairly handsome in a lean, sullen fashion. He had donned the khaki uniform shirt and black tie taken from one of the dead officers and had managed to tuck his shoulder-long hair under the man’s peaked cap.
Behind the steering wheel, Montojo had adopted a similar disguise. Big, burly, he filled the stolen shirt well, but his mass of heavy black beard rendered his appearance less than credible. However, in addition to the second officer’s garments having been far too large for the other two, Herrera—who would otherwise have been the most suitable candidate—could not drive.
Before driving into sight of the San Pedro Bridge, Cervera and Herrera had studied it from the rim down which they were now travelling. From all appearances, luck had favored them. They had selected it because it was a minor crossing point and little used under normal circumstances. Only one Customs’ official from each country had been in sight and they were both sitting on a bench outside the control cabin on the Texas bank of the river.
‘There should be at least two on each side,’ Montojo mumbled. ‘I wonder where they are?’
‘Why worry?’ Cervera answered. ‘We can take them before they realize what’s happening.’
‘I’m betting there aren’t any more of them,’ Herrera commented as they went by the Mexican control cabin without seeing another official. ‘Could be they’ve gone for a meal or something.’
Although the quartet did not know the reason, the other officials who would normally have been present were attending the Annual Leatherslap. Nor did Cervera and his companions realize that the two officers were in contact with the dispatcher of the G.C.P.D.’s Central Control and learning the latest news of the event.
At first, neither official took any notice of the approaching Police car. They assumed that it was either coming so that its crew could find out what was happening at Heveren’s Gulch, or were going to watch the last of the contestants in action.
Glancing around as the Oldsmobile Super 88 started to cross the bridge, the Mexican official identified it as the regular radio patrol car. So he rose and walked forward. Then, looking at the men on the front seat, he realized that they were not the usual crew.
‘What happened to—’ the official began, addressing Cervera. The words died away as he noticed Montojo’s beard and knew that it would not be permissible in the Policia Estatal de Caminos’ uniformed branch. Dropping his right hand in the direction of his holster, he went on, ‘Who are—?’
‘Get them!’ Cervera snapped, raising the Obregon and sending the equivalent of a .45 automatic bullet between the official’s eyes.
Never the quickest of thinkers, Montojo forgot the orders he had been given. On previous occasions when he had driven a car in assassinations, he had been expected to send it forward as fast as possible once the shots had been fired. So, instead of stopping and allowing his companions to make sure that they had killed all of the officials, he gunned the motor and allowed the Oldsmobile to pick up speed.
Becoming aware that something was terribly wrong, the American officer started to rise and clawed at his holstered revolver. Herrera already held his Schmeisser ready for use. As the car swept by, he fired through the window which he had opened on the way to the bridge. Hurled backwards, with half a dozen 9mm bullets raking through his torso, the man crashed into the wall and fell with his weapon still in leather.
‘What the hell—?’ Cervera began heatedly, as Montojo continued to drive away from the river.
‘We might as well keep going,’ Herrera put in, staring back through the rear window. ‘There was only the two of them and they’re both down.’
‘But are they dead?’ Cervera demanded.
‘From the way the lead went into his chest, the gringo is,’ Herrera replied.
‘Are you sure?’ Cervera challenged.
‘Are you sure that you killed yours?’ Herrera countered, turning to glower at his interrogator.
There was little love lost between any of the four. Greed and necessity had been the guiding force which had held them together. Not only that, but considerable rivalry existed between the college-educated Cervera and the semi-illiterate Herrera. The latter had always disliked the former’s assumption of leadership and resented having Cervera casting doubts as to his ability with the submachine gun.
‘I hit him in the head,’ Cervera pointed out, scowling.
‘And I damned nearly cut the gringo in two,’ Herrera declared angrily. ‘Didn’t I, Antonio?’
‘I saw the bullets hitting him,’ Ulloa admitted in his high-pitched tones and, having continued to watch their victims, went on, ‘I’m sure they’re both dead. Neither of them is moving. It could be hours before anybody finds them. So why waste time going back there?’
‘I suppose you’re right, Antonio,’ Cervera conceded, removing the hat and shaking his black hair so that it dangled to the shoulders of the shirt. Knowing that Herrera was trying to win Ulloa’s support, he had no wish to antagonize the slender man by going against his wishes. ‘Keep going, Juan.’
‘Sure, Pascual,’ Montojo replied, relieved that his error was apparently being overlooked. He too removed his hat, dropping it on to the wooden combined holster and butt-stock which held a Russian-made Stechkin automatic pistol and lay on the floor in front of his seat. ‘We got through with no sweat.’
What the quartet were failing to take into consideration, knowing nothing about it, was that a warning of their activities had already reached the authorities. Having heard the shots over the radio and having failed to renew contact with the officials to whom he had been talking, the dispatcher at Central Control had ordered the nearest Sheriff’s Sub-Office to investigate. However, by the time the deputy team arrived, the Oldsmobile was no longer in sight.
‘The first thing we’ve got to do,’ Cervera stated, being all too willing to let the matter of the shooting drop, ‘is get some different wheels. The farther we get from the border, the more attention this heap will attract. We’ll grab the first car, or truck, we see and ditch this one.’
For once, Herrera accepted a decision without argument. Like the others, he was aware that they were travelling in a most conspicuous type of vehicle and one which had ended its usefulness. The sooner they were in something else, the happier he would feel. However, they had covered about two miles, through rolling and fairly open woodland before anything presented itself.
‘Here’s something,’ Cervera commented, pointing to where a car was topping a rim about three-quarters of a mile ahead.
‘Huh!’ Herrera sniffed. ‘It’s only a two-seater.’
> The vehicle in question was a small, dark red convertible. Its driver, a big, blond haired man wearing a tight-rolled bandana, red and white calfskin vest and gray shirt, was seated at the right, indicating it was imported.
‘It’ll be less conspicuous than this one,’ Cervera answered, having noticed the small size of the vehicle but provoked by the older man’s response. ‘We’ll grab it, split up and meet at the commune near Sanderson. Two of us can use it and the other two take whatever comes along next.’
‘Which two’ll be taking the money and H?’ Herrera challenged.
‘Huh?’ Cervera grunted, although he ought to have anticipated the question.
‘Where it goes, I go!’
Even as Herrera delivered his cold and uncompromising statement, the subject of the discussion turned to the right and went along a narrow side road.
‘What do we do now, Pascual?’ Montojo inquired, ignoring Herrera’s comment and phrasing the words so that they would show where his loyalties lay.
‘Go after him,’ Cervera answered. ‘He looks like a cowhand. So we’ll follow him to his ranch. We’ll be able to get something we can use there.’
‘Sure we will,’ Montojo enthused and turned the Oldsmobile so that it was following the convertible. ‘You’re a smart hombre, Pascual.’
~*~
Competing successfully in any kind of major sporting event, whether as an amateur or a professional, calls for great mental concentration in addition to physical effort. That applied very much to a combat shooting competition of the Annual Leatherslap’s quality.
So, after having completed what was nearly a record breaking ‘run’ through ‘Heveren’s Gulch’, Deputy Sheriff Bradford Counter had felt completely drained of energy. Such were the terrific pressures which he had been under that, although he had instinctively collected the two discarded magazines and his holster’s ‘fly-off’ safety strap in passing, he was practically incoherent by the time he had emerged from the draw. He had managed to acknowledge the applause of the spectators, but was in no condition to face up to another result of his efforts. There had been a number of journalists present who were wanting to interview him.
