The Making of Blackwater Jack

by Roy F. Chandler

  “Not necessary. If asked, I will admit to having loaded other gun powders than I now keep on hand, but not for a long time?”

  Shooter pondered. “Sounds good enough, and I doubt that there will be serious inquiry of either of us anyway.”

  “Agreed, but our local and some distant criminal organizations may get some looking over. Saltz had interests in a lot of semi-legal endeavors—or so I have believed until I discovered that all of the investigations of him had been dropped. I still can’t see how that could have been arranged.”

  “It’s called money and influence, Jack, but let’s forget all of that for now and talk about the shot.

  “I wish the men of the old Blackwater Training Center could know about it. I would love to tell Colonel Rock how his gun did the job, but none of that can ever be mentioned, damn it!”

  Jack sighed, “No it can’t, and it was two shots, not one. I will never know why the first round blew a little off, but … ?”

  “What?” Galloway was scandalized. “That was miracle shooting, Jack. The wind could have changed directions a half dozen times crossing all of those ridges and valleys. I think Saltz turned just a little as you fired. You wouldn’t have seen it because of the recoil, but I think he reached out to re-grip the railing and that put his liver right in line instead of his heart. Man, blood blew out of him like a fire hose. No second shot was needed, but I am glad you took it. We had to be sure. Great shooting, Blackwater, and don’t ever doubt it.”

  “I’m sorry I got you involved in this, Shooter. All our plausible deniability went right out the window, but thank you for joining in.”

  “No charge, pal. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Damn, we are finally rid of that guy. He was a pain in everybody’s butt when I was a Lieutenant. Then he got downright evil.

  “Good riddance, and I think we should forget knowing anything about him. He should be just another bad news figure in our shared pasts.”

  Galloway again picked up Jack’s binoculars. He took a prolonged look before setting them aside.

  “The action has begun. The place is swarming with people. I saw uniforms, and badges flashed in the sun. Something must have happened over at Saltz’s place, but I suggest that we do not be caught looking that way.”

  Jack stood and Galloway followed. “I agree. We won’t mention it for a long time. Hell, Shooter, make that a long, long time.”

  Was it finished? They both thought so, and Jack believed he would suffer no qualms about shooting yet another human to death. Sometimes humans needed shooting. It appeared that both he and Galloway were among the few that accomplished such essential feats.

  Jack said, “I haven’t swallowed anything since breakfast, and I am hungry. It’s time to eat and to be seen around town, Galloway. Let’s go into Bloomfield, get a meal in the restaurant, and listen to the old guys on the square. They will already have all of the details about the death of the war hero Frank Saltz.”

  Jack chuckled, “And as usual, they will have them all wrong.”

  Six Months Later

  Late Fall

  The New Bloomfield Square

  The old men chose the town bench on the corner where the bank was supposed to be. They no longer complained that Bloomfield had gone downhill ever since the bank and the post office had left the town center. They had worn that subject out over the years—as they had almost everything either knew about.

  Sam sat on Ben’s right where, he claimed, his wallet was protected from his friend’s sneaky ways.

  Ben said he preferred that because the wind usually blew from him to Sam, making the close sitting tolerable.

  Weather permitting, the two were usually on the square. They vigorously condemned nearly everything they saw and reminisced about times so long past that neither was sure the incidents had actually happened.

  Sam announced, “I’m dying.”

  His best friend since childhood responded.

  “Of course you’re dying. You’re ancient. Just get on with it, so I can have somebody interesting sitting here to talk to.”

  “I’ll be in heaven before you, and when you come knocking, I won’t let ‘em open the gates.”

  “Sam, you and heaven should never be in the same story. Remember that I know all about you. I should write a book.”

  They mulled personal thoughts for lengthy moments before Sam said, “I just wish I could do something worthwhile now and then. Just living isn’t much. A man should go out in a surge of glory, not just melt away and be forgotten before he’s even gone.”

  Ben nodded agreement. “So, why don’t you just step out in front of the next eighteen wheeler coming around the monument? I’ll applaud your helping clean out the town’s riff raff.”

  Sam said, “I’m talking sort of serious here. Maybe there’s a criminal we could shoot before we escaped over Middle Ridge or something like that.”

  “Humph, we’ve already got someone doin’ that sort of thing. Gabriel Galloway’s been knocking bad people off around here since he was a child.”

  “There’s a few left.”

  They silently weighed possibilities. People passed before Ben said, “Galloway’s gotten old or something. He hasn’t shot anybody we know in years. Maybe he’s retired from that line of work.”

  The old men snickered together before Sam suggested, “Galloway just ran out of the Elder family is all. What’d he get, six of ‘em wasn’t it?”

  “Yep, it was six—assuming it was him that shot Boxer Elder way way back. Nobody knows for sure.”

  “They don’t really know who shot old Sam Elder either.”

  “That’s a crock, Sam. We all know that Shooter nailed him with three .45 slugs in the chest. Nobody can prove it is all. Plus nobody wants to know. Sam Elder was one nasty bastard that raised even meaner sons. Nobody misses them.

  “Say, Sam, having the same first name and all, were you and Elder related?”

  Such crude bait was ignored. Sam said, “Maybe Galloway came out of retirement and did our latest bad-guy shooting. Maybe he was the shooter that took out that damned and blasted crooked Colonel last spring. The one that owned the big place over on the ridge. They haven’t found out who did that shooting, have they?”

  “Nope, and they never will. First off, nobody wants him found, unless they want to pin a medal on him. Just like it was with Sam Elder, way back.”

  “Getting that miserable devil out of the county was a blessing we should all celebrate.”

  “Which bastard are you talking about, Sam Elder or Colonel Saltz?”

  “Saltz, this time. He was a mob kind of guy. He hurt a lot of people. If they picked out someone to take the rap for shooting Frank Saltz, no jury in this county would ever convict him—even if he confessed.” Ben was certain in his sentiments.

  Sam turned smug. “What you mean is that most of you people don’t know who shot Saltz.”

  Ben’s ears perked. “You claiming you know, you old windbag? You don’t know anything that I don’t know more of. Why you …”

  He paused to consider his friend who was displaying his know-it-all smile that Ben had hated for seventy years—and maybe longer.

  “Nobody local knows who shot Saltz, and it’s most likely that if they ever find out it’ll have been some mob shooter brought in from Chicago.” Ben closed strongly. If more were to be said, Sam would have to make good on his claim to have a name. Not a chance in hell, Ben figured.

  Sam waited a reasonable time before he cleared his throat—another habit Ben hated.

  “The difference between you and me, Ben, is that I take note of what’s happening. I see and I remember, unlike most around these parts. Then I put the signs together, and I come up with answers that can’t be denied.”

  “Huh, you must have been keeping those undeniable conclusions real close because I don’t recall any of them.”

  Sam pondered, “I suppose I should share facts with you because otherwise you’ll never work them out for yourself, and I
don’t want you to keep wonderin’ for the rest of our time together.”

  “I’m not wondering!”

  “Of course you are.”

  “You don’t know nothing, anyway!”

  Sam began. “It’s really simple enough to figure out, if you know a lot about guns and shooting, like I do, while you only think you do.”

  “I’ve shot more deer than you’ve hunted, pardner.”

  “That is because I was readin’ and studyin’ while you were dozing in a tree stand. That’s why I know this answer, and you haven’t got a clue.”

  “If you spent so much time studying, why do you still talk like some kind of hillbilly? Old Frank Fry would have thrown you out of our school. And, I don’t sit in trees, I stalk. Sort of like a Iroquois Warrior, you might say.”

  “Stalk? The tribe would have to re-name you Crack and Snap. I hear you approaching before you come into view. You’d scare every animal out of the Township. Stay on the black top like you ought. I’ll do the real hunting for both of us.

  “You want to hear who shot Saltz and how, or not?”

  “All right, I’m listening, as long as you don’t start the story back when you were born or even before, like you usually do.”

  “Fact is you’ve got to drop back a year or more to get it all.”

  “I knew it! Back to the dinosaurs we go.”

  Undeterred, Sam continued. “I expect you recall Tim Carlisle’s chicken house burning about that long ago?”

  “So what? Are you claiming the same mysterious arsonist dropped Saltz in his tracks?”

  “I’m building my evidence chain is all.

  “Anyway, that no one figured out who did it got my attention, and I began thinking about Old Dog’s nephew. I found out that he spent a lot of time down in Carolina learning to shoot and teaching other people to shoot.

  “Next thing that turned up was to learn that Shooter Galloway was in it with him.”

  “In what? Learning to shoot?”

  “No, dang it. Galloway always knew how to shoot. Why one time … “

  “Hold it. Get back onto your story. We both know about Galloway, since he was a kid in fact. Move on.”

  “What I’m trying to explain to you is that Galloway was seein’ to Tim’s shooting education down at a place called Blackwater where all kinds of spies and secret agents get trained.”

  “How’d you learn that, Sam?” Ben did not appreciate learning local things way after they had happened.

  “My granddaughter, Sarah, works at the restaurant. They sit in there talking all the time. She’s a sharp young gal, and she keeps me up on things that others just overlook.

  “So, I ask you, what is Tim Carlisle’s Nickname? And because you never noticed, I’ll tell you, it’s Blackwater Jack. How about that?”

  “Everybody knows that, but so what? Let’s call him Blackwater if that’s his nickname. So he shoots good. Hell, half the men in the county shoot good. Again, you rumor monger, so what? And try to make a worthwhile point, will you?”

  “Listen to this. I was up on top of the ridge just after Blackwater moved into Sorenson’s cement house, and guess what I saw?

  “I saw a rifle range with targets out so far you could barely see them. Bill Smart, you know him, Ben?”

  “I know Bill, Sam.”

  “Well, he and I walked down to look. The targets were all human shapes from the hips up, and one of them, that seemed like it might have been five hundred or so yards down, had three big bullet holes in it. And Ben, them holes were only about three inches apart.

  “Now that’s shooting beyond most abilities, and don’t claim that it ain’t.”

  Sam did not wait. “Next, you know my daughter owns land out there, almost under the Sorenson place. I go out there now and then, and almost every time I’m there, I hear shooting from up top. Also, I spy Shooter Galloway driving in and out more often than seems natural.

  “So, knowing Jack, if he goes by that moniker, is away, I took my old .222 varmint rifle so’s I could claim I was ground hog hunting, and I go up his road to see what I can see. After making sure there’s no cars around, I peered in his windows.”

  “You what? You’re damned lucky you didn’t get shot like you should have been, and you are too damned nosey. God, I’m glad you aren’t my neighbor. What a peeping Tom you are. I’m embarrassed to know you.

  “So what did you see, and don’t drag it out for once?”

  “I saw the biggest damned rifle anyone ever did see. It was on a table, and when I looked in the back window it was pointing right at my nose. Scared me about witless.

  “That isn’t all, Ben, the gun had a huge tube on the front end that I figure was a silencer. Now how many of those have you ever actually seen, beyond TV, I mean?”

  “I knew a guy years ago that had one. He had some kind of German submachine gun from WWII that it came with. I can’t even remember who it was now, but he was scared to take the rig out to shoot because it was against the law to have a silencer, not to mention the automatic gun.”

  “Well, it still is, as far as I know, but our Blackwater Jack has one, and he shoots it.

  “How do I know?” Sam searched a front pocket of his overalls and pulled out a giant size cartridge case. “I carried this today because I figured on raising the subject we’re talking about. It was in a sort of waste box on his back porch. The case is bent more than a little, so I think Jack was planning on tossing it away.

  “Read the printing on the case, Ben, but I’ll tell you right now that it says, 408 Chey Tac and then the name Jamson.

  “Now I can’t work out the Jamson, but I found the rest of the wording in one of my gun magazines. This cartridge runs a huge bullet so fast that it don’t hardly drop till its two or three thousand yards out, and the bullet is so sharp and pointed that it hardly loses speed till it’s more than a mile from the gun.

  “How are you feelin’ now about me not knowing what I’m talking about?”

  Ben was impressed, but he wasn’t about to let Sam know it. He gathered the few facts and examined their logic.

  “Let’s see now, Jack and Galloway have a powerful rifle that can shoot long. Are you suggesting that they just sat out on Jack’s porch and shot Frank Saltz at his house which must be two or three miles away? Is that your plot, Sam? If it is, I don’t need to hear more.”

  “That ain’t exactly my whole idea, but here’s some more that you ought to figure in, like I’ve already done.

  “As the crow flies, it’s only two thousand yards from Blackwater’s house to Saltz’s back deck. I measured it on a map.”

  “Just two thousand yards?”

  “Yep, and that is doable. I can name soldier snipers who made longer shots, so it can be done.”

  Fearing losing his audience, Sam hurried on. “Standing on Saltz’s porch there is nothing high enough between Blackwater Jack’s place and Saltz’s to be able to sight on someone standing where Saltz was.”

  “Really? Well, Sherlock, how about a shooter with an ordinary gun with a silencer standing in the garden just a few yards away from Saltz? How about that guy just leaning over the wall and blasting two big holes in Saltz? Anybody with a gun with a silencer on it could do that.”

  Sam’s shoulders hunched because both of Ben’s suggestions were practical and couldn’t be satisfactorily denied.

  Sam fought back, “Hell, Ben that ground was looked over with magnifying glasses. Nobody had been there, and if they had been, how would they have gotten away? This county got bottled up within minutes of the shooting, but not one stranger was seen.”

  Ben was on firmer ground. “That’s easy to answer, Sam. The shooter took to the woods and probably didn’t come out until he was over Tuscarora Mountain. That’s how either of us would have done it.”

  Sam’s argument had suffered a serious blow, and he didn’t like it. “How would some city gangster or even just a stranger to these parts find their way over the mountain, Ben? Now you’re talking b
ig miles with all kinds of people along the way.”

  Ben savaged his friend’s reasoning and further battered his conclusions. “How about the shooter just went a mile or two through the woods, and hunkered down until a car came for him. He could have buried the rifle, and he would look as innocent as anyone. Hey, with a cell phone he could just call in his ride when he felt the coast was clear.”

  Sam gave up and sat in a silent sulk until suddenly brightening. “Well, well, speak of the devils.”

  “What? Who?” Ben didn’t see anything.

  “The bikes, Ben, coming in from the west. The one on the chrome motorcycle is Blackwater, and that’s Galloway riding the tricycle with the box on the back.”

  Sam nodded as the riders approached the square. “There they are, our own private shooters. They’ll keep it honest around here, Ben. Wave at them and smile when they come by. We ought to be appreciative of their work, pardner.”

  The two Harley-Davidson’s wheeled past, and the old men got their bent-elbowed arms high. Each rider returned the greeting with a left hand wave and a broad smile.

  The old guys watched the bikes disappear down Carlisle Street, and they kept listening to the exhausts after the figures became too small to enjoy.

  Sam said, “I like those guys, Ben. They do the kind of things I wish I had gotten around to trying.”

  “I know what you mean, Sam, and those things need doing sometimes. I’m glad we’ve got them on our side.”

  There was silence before Sam said, “Know what? I hope I’m right about them popping that mobster Saltz, and I’m suggesting we keep it all to ourselves. That OK with you, Ben?”

  “Sure is. All you’ve got is selective evidence and a lot of suppositions that I’d be embarrassed to pass on.

  “My suggestion is to bring ‘em into the courthouse and give them each one of those 007 kind of credentials and turn them loose to do what they do best.”

  Sam chuckled, amused by the foolishness.

  “I like it, pal. You round ‘em up, and I’ll give them their oaths.”