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

by Edson, J. T.

  Being aware of how Brad was feeling, Sheriff Jack Tragg had intervened and helped him to fend off the requests. Jack had suggested that those making them waited until the end of the competition. While the big blond had made a very high score, there were several more contestants to take their turns. So there was still a chance that he could be beaten. Accepting the sheriff’s point, the journalists—most of whom worked for firearms and sporting magazines—had left Brad in peace.

  To avoid further contact with people while he was in his tightened-up state and to help him unwind, Brad had taken his imported M.G. MGB sports car and driven away from the Heveren’s Gulch area. Realizing that his normally lightning fast reactions and reflexes were working at below their peak efficiency, he had selected a minor road on which he could expect to find little or no traffic.

  Once the big blond had recovered, he had pulled off the road. Checking his bearings, he had found that he was near to a ranch owned by a popular retired deputy sheriff. Having broken his leg in a riding accident, Heck Somerville had not been able to attend the Leatherslap. While all his employees had been there and he and his wife were probably following the contest on the local radio and television networks, the old timer would appreciate first hand information.

  Before setting off, however, Brad attended to something which he had not been in any shape to deal with earlier. Cleaning and recharging the two depleted magazines, with bullets from a box which he had carried in the car’s glove compartment, he had returned them to the ammunition-carrier on his belt. He had also removed, replenished and replaced the one in the butt of the Colt.

  Coming into sight of the Mexican quartet’s car, Brad had seen that it was an official vehicle. However, the sun had been striking it at such an angle that he could not make out the dark green in its color scheme. Believing that it belonged to either the Sheriff’s Office, or the State Police, and having no desire to be delayed by answering questions about the Leatherslap if he should be recognized by its crew, he had turned without stopping onto the narrow road which led to Somerville’s ranch.

  When the Oldsmobile followed the big blond, he paid greater attention to it. At first, he wondered if the crew were also going to visit their retired colleague. As it drew closer, he realized that it bore Mexican number plates and was painted in the fashion of the Policia Estatal de Caminos. Although puzzled, he was not perturbed by his discovery. Jack Tragg had built up a state of friendly co-operation with the law enforcement agencies below the border. So there was nothing exceptionally unusual about a Mexican police car being in Rockabye County. However, they mostly used the Juarez Bridge which offered the most direct route to Gusher City.

  Brad could not help wondering why the car had turned on to the side road. That it might be following him for some reason struck him as being unlikely. If its occupants had recognized him and wanted to talk, they would have signaled in some manner on seeing that he was turning away. Of course, he had conceded, it was possible that they too were going to visit Somerville. The old timer had many friends in the Mexican law enforcement agencies.

  Curious, but still not alarmed, the big blond continued to keep the Oldsmobile under observation via the M.G.’s rear-view mirror. As it came nearer, he could make out that it was carrying four men instead of the usual crew of driver and shotgun. However, there was nothing unusual about that.

  Then, as had happened with the Mexican customs’ official, Brad’s suspicions were aroused as he noticed the appearance of the men on the front seat. No uniformed officer of the Policia Estatal de Caminos would be allowed to let his hair grow to shoulder length, nor to sport such a beard as that of the driver.

  While Brad was unaware, of whom the men in the Oldsmobile might be, he was inclined to believe that they were not its original crew and doubted whether they had even any legal right to be using it. He had heard of the gun-battle in Guadalajara on newscasts and Captain Machados, discussing it before the contest, had said that it could be a prelude to a big round up of left-wing terrorists. The quartet could be a party who had guessed what was coming and had fled the country.

  Having drawn that conclusion, Brad had other points to consider.

  Why had they turned on to the side road?

  Was it purely coincidence, or did they have a sinister motive?

  To be following the big blond in such a vehicle, no matter how they had obtained it, the quartet must have brought it from the other side of the Rio Grande. Probably over the San Pedro Bridge, which was the nearest crossing point. They must have bluffed, or—in view of their appearances—shot, their way past the Customs’ officials to enter Texas. In either case, they would be wanting to obtain some less conspicuous means of travelling. So they might be hoping to capture his M.G. Although technically a two-seater, it could carry the four of them in an emergency.

  Studying the Mexicans’ vehicle, Brad was satisfied that his theory had a sound basis. However, as he was all too aware, there was a danger that he might be allowing his imagination to run away with him. Perhaps the pair who had aroused his suspicions really were peace officers. They could have been on some special assignment which had called for them to grow their hair in such a fashion, but had donned their uniforms when they had decided to attend the Leatherslap. Of course, that did not explain why the Oldsmobile was following him along the narrow road. They could not reach Heveren’s Gulch by using it.

  The more Brad thought about the subject, the greater grew his conviction that there was something very wrong about the occupants of the Oldsmobile. In fact, he felt sure that he had been correct in his assumption that they were up to no good. He also wondered what their plans were.

  Although Brad did not know it, there was a heated debate on just that matter taking place in the other car. None of the quartet could agree on whether they should start to pass and force the blond giant to halt, or to follow him to wherever he was going.

  Brad was equally uncertain as to what his line of action should be.

  The Somerville ranch was about two miles away and equipped with a two-way radio. However, if the Mexicans were what Brad suspected them to be, he did not want to arrive with them close on his heels. Only Somerville and his wife would be present. While they would not hesitate to give the big blond shelter and support, he had no wish to endanger their lives. There was another point for Brad to take into consideration. If his theory should prove correct, the Mexicans would find a vehicle at the ranch which would be even better for their purpose than his convertible.

  So, as far as Brad could envisage, the only answer was for him to stop and deal with the situation before they came into sight of the ranch. He wanted to do so at a distance over which Somerville could hear the shooting if it came to gunplay. Doing so, the old timer would use his radio to contact Central Control and assistance would be dispatched immediately. Of course, it would be some time before the first of the investigating units could arrive. Unfortunately, remote as the contingency might be, Brad also realized that he must base whatever action he took on the premise that the quartet had every legal right to be riding in the Oldsmobile. There could be some harmless and legitimate reason for the two on the front seat’s appearances.

  One thing was equally certain. The most obvious and direct way for Brad to satisfy his curiosity would not serve his purpose on this occasion. If he stopped the quartet to question them and his suspicions were justified, he would find himself at a serious disadvantage despite his ability at combat shooting. Even if he was outside the M.G. and holding his Colt, the odds would still be in the opposition’s favor. For one thing, he would have to let them make the first hostile gesture. While he would probably get one of them and possibly two, the remainder were sure to kill him.

  Quickly studying the terrain on either side of the road, the big blond began to consider how he might best carry out his intentions. Sloping upwards at a gentle angle on the right and down just a shade more steeply to the left, the terrain was becoming coated with fairly thick woodland. There were
post oaks, other trees and thick clumps of bushes which could be put to good use in what he was contemplating. However, before he could reach and take cover among them, he would have to traverse a strip of uneven, rock-strewn and completely open ground varying from almost twenty to over a hundred yards in width.

  There was, Brad concluded, adequate shelter and protection available and it would offer him a far greater chance of survival than crouching behind the convertible. Always assuming, of course, that he could reach it. What was more to the point, having attained his goal, he could ascertain the correct status of the men in the Oldsmobile with comparative safety. If they should be bona fide police officers, they would understand why he had taken the precautions and not be offended.

  Although a plan began to formulate in Brad’s head, he knew that he could not carry it out with the men so close behind him. With that in mind, he shifted into top gear and applied pressure on the accelerator. On purchasing the M.G., he had had its engine tuned up to an even higher degree than when it had left the factory. Responding instantly, the little convertible went forward as if it was jet propelled. Such were its powers of acceleration that he had gained close to a three hundred yards lead before the Oldsmobile could build up a matching speed.

  Flashing along the far from smooth road at eighty miles an hour, Brad watched for the best location from which to handle the situation. He wanted somewhere close enough to the ranch house to be sure that Somerville would hear the shooting, but not so near that the Mexicans could see the buildings. If they did, they might ignore his car when he stopped and go there in the hope of finding a vehicle more suited to their needs. So he must make his stand somewhere within the next mile. The woodland ended beyond that point and the ranch’s buildings would be in view.

  Starting to go around a sweeping right hand curve, Brad noticed that the other vehicle—which had been unable to reduce his lead—was passing out of his range of vision. Preferring to be above rather than below his opposition’s guns, he examined the right side of the road. The woodland was fairly thick, but not sufficiently dense to be impenetrable and would offer him an abundance of concealment. Against that, there was at least fifty yards of bare and rock strewn ground to be covered before he could reach and disappear among the bushes. He could not chance driving the M.G., particularly at speed, across such rugged terrain. Even if the attempt was made and succeeded, there would be nothing to stop the Oldsmobile going straight by.

  Throwing a quick glance in the rear view mirror, the big blond satisfied himself that he was hidden from his pursuers. Guiding the car to the extreme left of the road, he did not forget that its surface had been worn by much use until there was a hard, foot high, verge. With the wheels’ hub caps almost scraping the edge, he began to decelerate and his foot pressed on the brake. Instantly the little vehicle’s bucking and bouncing increased. Thrust forward, but held in check by the seat-belt, he eased off the pressure on the brake slightly to work it up and down with quick jabs of his boot. Doing so reduced the speed sufficiently to let his hands twist the steering wheel and cause a hard right lock. On went the foot and hand brakes, the latter stopping the rear wheels from turning immediately. There was a stink of burning rubber and a screaming sound that seemed to be the tires protesting against such abuse and the convertible slid to a halt broadside across the road.

  Ignoring the cloud of dust which had been stirred up by the convertible’s sudden stop, Brad began to move with lightning fast actions that were still coordinated and did not fumble. First hitting the quick-release switch of the seat belt, so that its male and female segments parted, his left hand stabbed forward to the ignition key. While it was switching off the engine and removing the key, its mate unfastened the door and pushed it open. Shrugging off the seat-belt, Brad grasped the top of the windshield. With a surging thrust, he heaved himself from the vehicle. A quick glance told him that he was still concealed from the men in the Oldsmobile. Then he started to sprint across the open ground. Ahead of him, on the fringe of the woodland, stood a large and bulky post oak tree. Brad made it his objective.

  Striding out as swiftly as possible across such uneven terrain, Brad had to rely upon his ears for information about the Oldsmobile’s progress. His eyes were fully occupied in watching where he was placing his feet. To trip and fall would put him at the mercy of the men in the green and white car. If they should be criminals or left-wing terrorists, they would be unlikely to show him any.

  With three-quarters of the distance covered, Brad’s ears told him that the Mexicans were negotiating the bend somewhat more circumspectly than he had. That was, he considered, all to the good. He was satisfied that he had blocked the road as well as could be accomplished under the circumstances. While the Oldsmobile was heavy and powerful enough to have rammed the front or rear ends of the convertible and knocked it out of the way, the hard verge and rugged nature of the ground would render it a hazardous undertaking. In fact, it could only be done at a risk of seriously damaging their own vehicle. So, although they were travelling sufficiently slowly to see the danger and avert a collision, they could not crash through. If it came to a point, the only way they could go by safely would be at a snail’s pace.

  Putting on a spurt, as the sounds from the Oldsmobile signified that its engine was reducing power and the brakes were being brought into operation, Brad expected to be challenged if not fired upon. Neither happened and the vehicle came to a stop without any noises which would suggest that it had struck the M.G. Restraining his impulse to look behind him, he plunged through the gap between the post oak and a clump of bushes. Twisting behind the trunk, he leaned with his back against it and fought to recover his breath.

  There was no time for the big blond to spare for self-congratulations. He heard the doors of the Oldsmobile being opened. While his left hand pocketed the ignition key, the right closed on the Colt’s butt and freed the ‘fly-off’ safety strap. Taking out the big automatic, he listened in case the men should be coming after him. However, he did not merely stand and wait. Instead, he replaced the magazine in the butt with the one which held twenty rounds. Having done so, he decided he was ready to continue with his plan.

  ~*~

  Tempers were running high in the stolen Policia Estatal de Caminos car as it rounded the bend. There had been a sharp division of opinion even before the M.G. had accelerated, stemming from the animosity which had always festered between Pascual Cervera and Lorenzo Herrera. Because the latter had wanted to make sure of obtaining at least one vehicle by taking possession of the big Texan’s car immediately, the former had opposed the suggestion. So Juan Montojo, who was Cervera’s supporter, had waited for instructions when the M.G. had sped away. Before any decision could be reached, they had fallen well behind and the Oldsmobile could not reduce the gap.

  The recriminations had continued unabated during the chase. Taking the view that the big gringo had become suspicious and was rushing ahead to send a message to the authorities, Herrera had said that they should go back. Although Cervera had been on the point of making the same suggestion, the fact that it had been uttered by his rival had caused him to argue against it. Backing his leader loyally, Montojo had declared that turning the big car on such a narrow road would be difficult.

  Trying to act as peacemaker, Antonio Ulloa had suggested that the man in the M.G. might be a criminal and had responded instinctively by fleeing when he had discovered there was an official vehicle so close behind him. Realizing that they were rapidly approaching a position from which neither could retreat and being mutually desirous of avoiding a confrontation at that time, Cervera and Herrera had pretended to accept the explanation.

  Before the quartet could start to formulate a line of action, Montojo had been decelerating to go around the bend. While the Oldsmobile was not going slowly, he had had sufficient warning to apply the brakes and bring it to a stop without a collision. However finding themselves confronted by the vehicle which they had believed to be speeding onwards, all four of th
em had been staring ahead. So none of them had noticed Brad as he completed his dash for cover.

  Although none of the four were injured by the sudden halt, the passengers had been compelled to thrust out their hands against the dashboard in Cervera’s case and the rear of the front seat on the part of the other two, to prevent them from being precipitated forward. There was a storm of profanity as they were dumped back into their seats on the cessation of momentum.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’ Montojo demanded, his grasp on the steering wheel having rendered him less susceptible to the effects of the emergency stop, glaring at the empty seats of the M.G.

  ‘We’d better find him and fast,’ Herrera declared, staring quickly left and right at the woodland as he thrust open his door. ‘Come on.’

  For once, Cervera did not argue. Snatching the Obregon automatic from his waist belt, he waited for Herrera to leave before offering to get out. Bouncing across the seat, Ulloa followed the older man through the right rear door. Montojo did not quit the vehicle as quickly as the others. Darting glances to the left, he picked up the wooden holster and extracted the Stechkin automatic. Closing the lid, he connected the holster to the pistol so that it assumed its second function of a butt-stock. After working the cocking slide, to send a bullet into the chamber, he lurched out of the vehicle. His companions were searching for some sign of the big Texan by scanning the woodland, so he went to the M.G.

  ‘Hey!’ Montojo ejaculated, drawing the other three’s attention to him as he stared indignantly at the dashboard. ‘He’s taken the ignition-key.’

  ‘Let the brake off and push it out of the way,’ Herrera ordered. ‘We’d better—’