“What in hell are you doin’ out here, boy? You ain’t supposed to be here.” Box’s good feeling fled in a rush, and mean suspicions flared. Before he could say more the boy spoke.
Shooter said, “I’ve been waiting for you, Elder” And he stuck his arms out at Box holding something big and round.
Box’s always-uncertain rage soared. Punk kids did not call grown men by their last names. By God, he’d slap a little courtesy into the brat right now.
Shooter had waited until Box Elder was five steps away. That close, he wouldn’t miss, and it was too far for Elder to grab him before he pulled his trigger.
Against Ferdy’s porch light, Box loomed in black silhouette. Shooter pointed the Coke can above Elder’s breastbone and spoke his few words. Even as his trigger finger squeezed, he heard Elder snarl and saw him start forward.
The explosion was hugely muted, and for an instant, Shooter feared his cartridge had been bad, but the old pistol bucked high in recoil, and Box Elder grunted as if he had taken a terrific blow to his wind.
But Box didn’t collapse. He stopped walking, and his hand went to his chest. He looked down as if to see what he had run into. Then his head came up, and he started walking again.
Shooter Galloway’s courage fell apart, and he began backing away, fumbling in his pocket for his second cartridge, realizing that he would never get reloaded before Elder was on him. He could hardly accept that Elder was not on the ground breathing his last, but Box was coming, unspeaking, leaning forward as if to gain momentum. Shooter got ready to run.
The bullet hit Box Elder worse than the hardest body blow he had ever taken in the ring. The sound of the impact boomed hollowly all through him even as his mind wondered what on earth had happened.
He had heard something loud, and a cloud of acrid sulfur smoke had risen between him and the Galloway kid, but for a lengthy instant, Box could not realize that he had been shot and that he had been struck solid and hard.
Boxer Elder had been hit before. He had been dropped to the canvas by heavy blows, and he had gotten up from all but a few. No punk kid with some kind of a toy was going to stop him. Box leaned forward and went for the little snot.
He made two steps. Then, for some reason, a knee buckled, and he fell onto his hands and knees. He wanted to swear at whatever he had tripped over, but he had no breath, and it seemed that he couldn’t suck in any air.
Elder settled back onto his haunches, looking again at the small boy almost within reach. Now he could see a pistol with a huge lump dangling off it in the kid’s hands, and the brat was trying to reload it. Like hell! Boxer struggled to regain his feet, but he had no strength and belated realization hit him that he was seriously shot.
A huge numbness blossomed in Box Elder’s chest. Even though he finally got a little air into his lungs, his strength had just drained away, and he could hardly move a muscle. He saw the boy come closer, but his vision was starting to fog over, and he tried to shake it away as he had head blows in times past.
With elemental relief, Shooter watched Box go down. For moments he had thought . . . but, Boxer Elder was down, and from the way he was floundering, Shooter judged he was not going to get up again.
It was gratifying how the many things his father had spoken about were coming to him now when he needed them. Bob Galloway had said that you should give a wounded animal fifteen minutes to stiffen up before you went after it, but Shooter did not have that kind of time.
Seeing Elder was still alive, he had words to say, and he had to make certain that Elder died so that he could not announce to anyone who had shot him.
Even down on his haunches, Box Elder looked huge and menacing. His pistol finally reloaded, Shooter glanced toward the bar’s closed door to make sure no one had come to check on the noise.
The silencer had worked extremely well, and Shooter thought the gunshot was unheard. The cola can was blown open and hung from the barrel, held in place by a few stretched and split scraps of duct tape. The silencer was finished, and his next shot would not be quiet. He watched closely and stayed beyond any sudden lunge as he circled the downed Boxer.
From behind, and against the light from Ferdy’s porch, Shooter saw a gaping crater in Box Elder’s back. The wound was off-center and had not smashed Box’s backbone, but the exit hole was tremendous and blood poured onto the gravel. Box Elder was finished, and if words were to be said they would have to be few and fast.
Shooter moved into Box’s vision. He said, “I saw you hit my father with the bottle, Box. I heard all that you Elders said, and I know all that you planned.”
Box’s eyes were unfocused, but he got in another sucking breath, and Shooter believed the man understood.
“I’m going to kill your whole family, Box. It will take a long while, but I’ve got the time. I’ll lure them in, and I’ll watch them die, just like I am watching you. And, Box, I won’t get caught doing it.”
Elder sagged to one side as an arm collapsed, and his head struck the ground hard. Box’s eyes rolled around a little, so Shooter thought he still might hear.
Just as he expected, shooting Box was not enough, so Shooter said, “Think about what I just said on your way to Hell, Elder.” Then he turned away.
Shooter only stepped into the shadows out of Box Elder’s view. The adrenalin rush of action was leaving him, and his strength departed almost as fast as the man’s he had shot. Shooter’s hands shook, and his knees were vibrating and threatening to let him fall. He felt as if he had run for miles at his best speed. Lordy, but he felt weak and puny.
And he was suddenly afraid. What if Box didn’t die right away? With the blood pouring from a giant wound it was hard to believe, but another Elder could appear at any instance.
Could Box speak? Surely, he couldn’t, but Shooter was fearful. He had to get away. He had to get home and into the security of his own bed.
Sweat was pouring off him and smarting his eyes. He was humming the marching song, and again forced himself into silence. For a long instant, Shooter expected that he would throw up, but he held on, and the spasm passed. God, he was a mess.
Box Elder seemed suddenly to shrink, and an instant later, the boy smelled the stench of released bowels. That should be sign enough that Elder was gone. Shooter had to assume that it was. He had to be clear of the place before the rest of the Elders found Box and went crazy mad.
Shooter tried to trot to his bicycle, but he was utterly weary, and could manage little more than a fast walk. He mounted and pumped up the blacktop toward home. He listened, but no alarm was raised. Ahead, lights bloomed, and he recklessly rammed the cycle into roadside brush and ducked behind it. A car swished by, going fast, and certainly unable to see his hidden form.
At the small creek, he propped his cycle and hurried to the swampy pond. He tore the Coke can from the pistol and pressed it out of sight in the mud. He aimed for a deeper spot and hurled the still loaded pistol into the middle of it. The pistol sank with a satisfying kerplop, and the single empty case followed.
Shooter parked the bicycle in its usual place on the back porch. He sat on his windowsill thinking about any shoe tracks or scents for tracking dogs he might have left at Ferdy’s. Had he stepped in the blood blasted through Box’s back? What to do? He could scrub the worn old athletic shoes, but having wet shoes around would also be risky.
His emotional exhaustion was too great. Shooter had never felt as unnerved. Sleep—he had to sleep. He dropped his clothes into a pile, as he usually did, put on his pajamas, as usual, and crawled into his bed.
Then, he laid there, his mind struggling to realize what he had done. His Dad was dead, and he had killed the killer. He had . . . Shooter Galloway’s body began to tremble uncontrollably. Tears welled, and he fought an all-encompassing need to cry.
He tried to reason, but his mind was clogged with images of his father’s body flopping grotesquely as the Elders carried it away, or Box Elder’s glazing eyes and the massive hole in Elder’s back w
ith blood pulsing from it in a thick stream.
He was still awake, but at least the physical shivering had stopped when he heard the first siren coming. It began far down the valley, but swiftly grew closer and, almost immediately, a number of cars or pickups swished past heading toward Ferdy’s.
Had Box Elder lived long enough to finger his killer? Shooter had heard the term on television, but this time the finger would be directed at him. If they came, they came. He had done all he could. When questions were asked, he knew what to say. He had learned that from a friend of his Dad’s who was an important lawyer out of Harrisburg.
Dan Grouse had said, “Never admit anything or know about anything, no matter what evidence they have or claim they are getting. Even if they catch you with your butt still in the vault, admit nothing—make them prove everything.”
Gabriel Galloway recognized the simplicity of that plan. He fell asleep thinking about it.
Chapter 3
Men came during the night. Shooter heard them through a fog of emotional exhaustion and chose not to rouse. Some looked in on him, but they quietly withdrew, and he could hear the rumble of their voices in other rooms.
His sleep was deep, until he awoke to the needs of nature and the delicious scents of brewing coffee and frying bacon. He wondered who would be doing such cooking in their kitchen, but he was more concerned with how he felt.
His watch, the one with military time on it, said 0700, which was about right for a July out-of- school day. He could smell the dried sweat on his skin, but as long as he did not look too deeply, his emotions remained calm, and he believed he was ready to handle the questions that would soon be coming at him.
Not questions about Boxer Elder, he doubted anyone would associate him with Elder’s death, but the memory of the killing-moment made his hands shake and confused his thinking.
Whoever investigated his father’s accident would certainly ask if he knew anything about Bob Galloway’s intentions for the evening. Gabriel Galloway would only know that his Dad had planned on going down to Ferdy’s for a beer or two.
He ignored the drone of voices from the front room and went directly to the bathroom. Relief was luxurious, and he remembered that he had not taken care of such a minor detail before collapsing on his bed.
He stepped into their old tin shower and heard someone knock on the bathroom door.
“Gabriel? Are you alright, Gabriel?” It was a woman’s voice, and Shooter recognized Mrs. Emma Showalter, a neighbor who had baby-sat him in his younger years.
“Yep, I’ll be right out, Mrs. Showalter.” Shooter made his voice alert and normal sounding. As the closest neighbors, he expected that the Showalters would be around a lot.
He would not be allowed to simply live here alone. Where would he go? To his mother? He was becoming used to burying his feelings, but sweat broke out. It just had to be somewhere else.
When Shooter came out, stripped to the waist and still drying his hair, they were waiting for him in the kitchen.
Mrs. Showalter stopped cooking, and the men silenced themselves. Shooter tried to make himself look curious, then worried, then panicky—the way he thought he would have if he had not already known why they were gathered.
Sheriff “Sonny” Brunner did the explaining, and Shooter knew the sheriff well enough to believe that he was taking the accident personally and not just doing his duty.
Brunner said, “There is no way to make this easy, Gabriel, so I’ll just tell you the worst news I can imagine. Your Dad had an accident last night. He went off Bauer Mountain in his truck and . . . well, son, he went over a real steep edge and there was no way he could survive it.”
The sheriff choked a little and hastily added, “It looks like he fell asleep at the wheel, Gabriel, and it’s most likely he never felt a thing.”
It was old news to Shooter Galloway, and he could not summon the necessary tears. He clutched his towel to his face and turned away.
Emma Showalter came to hug him, and he made his shoulders hunch and buck a little as if he were desperately holding back sobbing. After a minute, he broke himself free and escaped to the living room where there were more chairs. The adults dutifully followed, and they all sat, suffering through the awkwardness of insufficient words to express their sorrow.
Sheriff Brunner seemed to be the chosen spokesman, and he labored through most of the essentials that had to be said.
“Your Dad is being taken care of at Boyer’s funeral parlor, and Mrs. Showalter will stay here with you until things get straightened around. We’ve put a call to your dad’s lawyer, and he will likely phone here as soon as he gets to his office.
“Your mother has been notified and will also be calling in.”
The sheriff sighed. “It’s been a hard night here in the county, son, and you are going to have some difficult days ahead. I’ll be going on about my duties, but if you need me for anything, let Mrs. Showalter know, and I’ll come a’ running.” He sighed heavily, rose, patted Shooter’s shoulder, and stepped onto the porch.
Tires ground outside, and a truck door slammed. Sam Elder’s hard voice demanded, “What are you doin’ up here, Brunner? My son’s been murdered, and you’re poking over a road accident?”
Shooter’s hair stood on end, and the hatred returned in a rush. Sam Elder here? The boy considered going for his Dad’s .45. He could march out and shoot old Sam dead in his tracks. He could . . . but no, he couldn’t!
Stay smart, and move careful. Get them all. That was the way to do it. Shooter made himself relax. At least he tried to relax. If he worked at it, maybe he could look relaxed and not spring up and try to choke Sam Elder to death.
Sheriff Brunner said, “The State Police are investigating down at your place, Sam. They do homicides; I deliver warrants. The last thing they want is a local sheriff trampling around the crime scene, and I’m not doing it.”
Shooter knew he had to remember that no one had told him about Boxer being dead, and no matter how he felt about the Elders, his thoughts and his intentions had to remain secret.
Then, like a door opening, Shooter Galloway knew exactly what he would do. The instantly born scheme was so startling and so outrageous that he found his lips turning upward into a smile. A smile that probably looked more like a cobra’s frozen features as it prepared to strike, and Shooter got rid of it.
When the boy stepped through the screen door, Sam Elder experienced a moment’s trepidation. Hell, they had killed the kid’s father only hours before, but his discomfort was only momentary, and he shifted his voice to appropriate words.
“Mighty sorry to hear about your father, boy. Terrible unlucky thing to have happen.”
To his utter astonishment, the boy said, “Thank you, Mister Elder. My Dad always thought a lot of you and your family, and I especially appreciate you coming by.”
The words were gall in Shooter’s mouth, but he registered Sam Elder’s surprise and poorly hidden gratification. Now to ruin the rest of his day.
Shooter cleared his throat to make his words as plain as they could be.
“Just yesterday, my Dad said that he was finally ready to have The Notch logged and that he’d spend the evening making you worry over it so that he would get the best price possible. He said that he would close the deal with you today.”
Shooter sighed in hopeless sounding resignation. “Now, I suppose that’s all gone by.” He turned away, listening to the utter silence behind him.
Sam Elder ached to kill somebody— anybody. That close! The Notch had been that close, and that damned Box had . . . he was suddenly glad someone had shot Boxer dead. But for that fool swinging his bottle they’d be signing for The Notch right now. Words could not help. Elder stood mute as Galloway’s boy went back into the house.
+++
Dan Grouse arrived in time for lunch. The attorney wheeled into the yard in his silver, convertible Mercedes. The lawyer possessed a magnificently lush silver gray head of hair that virtually matched his sta
rtlingly handsome automobile.
Bob Galloway had been an admirer of Mercedes Benz automobiles, and he had never failed to exclaim over Grouse’s latest model. This car was a new one, but Bob would not be there to admire his friend’s choice.
When his mother had gone away, Shooter’s father had driven down to Harrisburg to hire the best lawyer he could find. Dan Grouse had been his choice, and during the drafting of the divorce, the wills, and even the insurances they had become friends.
Grouse was a deer hunter. Each fall, he came to the Galloways and moved in for the time it took to take the best buck in The Notch.
After Dan left for home, Bob Galloway always chuckled that his friend had again gotten a good buck, but the best? Not hardly. There were at least two big-rack bucks that retreated into a tiny meadow area surrounded by laurel thickets just about one day before the shooting started. They never came out until the woods again got quiet. Grouse never set up or still-hunted that high on the edges, and he had never discovered the bucks’ hiding spot. Neither Galloway would betray the secret.
Shooter Galloway Page 4