Dan Grouse preferred a man’s rough and pragmatic kind of sympathy, and Shooter was grateful for it. They sat at the kitchen table with Emma Showalter rattling among the food preparations. Her husband, Gus, held forth in the living room, greeting mourners and allowing the lawyer and the heir to work at what they needed to do.
Dan Grouse was impressed by the boy perched close beside him. Bob Galloway had been exacting in what he wanted done. His friend, the attorney, intended following his wishes exactly, but they had not expected the need to develop so suddenly or as quickly.
Grouse had gotten his act together on the one-hour run from Harrisburg, and was ready to go, but the boy? Dan had expected collapse, tears, weepings, and certainly a certain benumbed slowness in understanding and responding.
None were appearing. Shooter Galloway was dry-eyed and listening. His attention wandered at odd moments, and his eyes turned chillingly flat and expressionless, as if he were thinking about something unsaid, but he snapped back each time, and they continued.
Bob Galloway, Grouse revealed, had developed cancer in his one good lung, the lung not blown open and removed by US Army field surgeons.
When discovered, the cancer was in remission, and it had stayed that way, but with only a single lung, there was too much cancer, too widely spread to attempt removing the diseased portions. Chemotherapy and radiation were weighed, but the facts were that Bob Galloway’s cancer was incurable and irremovable. Sooner or later, it would grow again, and Galloway would die.
That information had been privileged, and Shooter had not heard it before. It did not help to discover that his Dad might not have lived very long anyway, but there was more. A great deal more.
Sheriff Brunner had come back to meet with Bob Galloway’s lawyer. There were agencies set up to take care of situations like Gabriel’s, but Bob had been a war hero, and he had made friends. When Gloria Galloway had run off and left Bob and their boy, the news had swept across the west end of the county and created a lot of sympathy.
Sheriff Sonny Brunner cared, and he also ran for public office. It was always good to be seen doing his duty. He also wished to know how Gabriel Galloway’s stick was floating, and being busy at Galloway’s kept the Elders from bellowing in his ears.
Dan Grouse had an undated letter from Bob Galloway to his son. He suggested that Gabriel read it later on. Then he got into the meat of what needed to be worked on.
Gloria Galloway was good looking and knew it, and being married to a war hero who had a fortune in timber sitting behind his ratty old house had appeared to be a winning hand.
They would build a fine home, and Gloria would be recognized as one of the valley girls who had made it, or so she had planned.
Bob Galloway did not see it that way. He planned on gradually fixing up the old house while he worked as a clerk in a local store to supplement his military disability pension.
Gabriel’s birth nailed that plan even more solidly, as Bob made it abundantly clear that The Notch was in trust to their son, and there it would stay.
When his wife was told that bad news, she began looking around. A flashy sort of man came through selling pharmaceuticals, and Gloria saw a chance to better herself. She divorced without request for anything because Bob had nothing, and if pressed, his pushy lawyer might even have requested that she pay Bob some sort of support or alimony.
Since the divorce, they had heard from Gabriel’s mother only twice, at Christmas. She had been gone for four years now, and memories of her were growing dim. Shooter would be pleased to leave them distant, but who could tell what the law might have in mind.
Dan Grouse knew, and he laid it out in sensible order.
Bob Galloway had taken out a huge insurance plan. He had paid for it by taking down the Mrs. tree, and Shooter remembered that time.
In generations past, young marrieds often planted his and her trees in front of their houses. An earlier generation of Galloways had planted a pair of walnuts in their front yard, one tree to the left and one to the right of the entrance. The trees had grown to enormous size.
As everyone who had walnuts knew, wood buyers traveled country roads making offers for large walnut trees. The money offered was serious, but Bob Galloway had sold to young Joe Darlington from New Bloomfield who made his living from fine hard woods. Joe gave a better price and kept his profit in the county. Country people thought like that, although the Elders seethed and rumbled that Galloway should have sold to them because they lived closer.
Shooter had supposed his dad had taken down the walnut because of his mother’s departure, but the Mrs. tree paid for insurance, and Bob’s will explained how the insurance money was to be used.
Gabriel Galloway was not to go to his mother. Gabriel was to attend Carson Long Military Academy in New Bloomfield.
Chills coursed Shooter’s spine. So that was why his Dad had kept talking about the school and how interesting the military training could be. His father had probably been thinking about a year or two of high school, but he was only entering the seventh grade. Did the school have a Junior High School? Shooter hoped so.
Bob had planned that Gabriel would go to camp during the summers, or he could go to his uncle Mop, assuming Mop was willing.
Mop Galloway’s name widened Sheriff Brunner’s eyes. Lordy, he had almost forgotten about Bob’s wayward brother. Mop had been too wild for the old county, and he had gone elsewhere. Sonny Brunner supposed Attorney Grouse knew where Mop was living and, at least in Bob Galloway’s opinion, the brother must have straightened out, or he would not have wanted Gabriel to go there—wherever there was.
A suitable family was to be allowed to live in the old Galloway house in exchange for guarding The Notch with all of their abilities, and there Galloway had wasted no words.
His will said, “If The Notch is not guarded day and night with utmost vigilance, the Elders will steal timber. If the house is not lived in, they will use the road in and out while stealing the lumber. If the house burns, another is to be built to protect the trees. If rebuilding is necessary, the Mister tree in the front yard will pay for the new house.” Bob Galloway had put his mistrust of the Elders in writing.
The announcement brought shifting and throat clearing from the Showalters, and both Grouse and Gabriel noticed it. Gus Showalter started to speak, but his wife shushed him saying, “This is not the time, Gus.”
The attorney looked at Shooter who smiled slightly and nodded. Grouse found himself again wondering at the quickness of the boy. Maybe this was the right time, and that part could then be put behind them.
Dan Grouse knew about the Showalters. They lived on little in a home more battered than the Galloway place. Old Gus had worked like a beaver from dawn till dark, but his kind of work was all muscle, and there was not much heavy hauling and pulling these days. Since he had gotten old, his abilities if not his will had crashed, and money had gotten short.
When Bob Galloway had worked, babysitting Gabriel had paid Emma a little, and the Showalters got by, but their place was rented.
Living rent free at the Galloway home, with work to be done patrolling The Notch would give them a needed boost. Grouse liked the idea, and he gathered from his smile, that Gabriel did as well.
There was another point. People like the Showalters were salt of the earth. Honesty was a basic principle never doubted and never ignored.
Yep, the Showalters would be exactly what Bob had had in mind. It was a wonder he had not simply named them. Grouse supposed Bob had expected the old folks to have passed before his turn came. Well, from wherever he was watching, Bob Galloway would be pleased. Grouse would make the offer to the Showalters before he went back to Harrisburg.
Inwardly, Grouse, the deer hunter grinned. He had no doubt that the Showalters would be pleased to put him up during the hunting season, just as Bob Galloway had.
The professional in Dan Grouse had to marvel at the rapid pace they were setting. His friend Bob was barely gone, much less buried and
prayed over, and they were already settling details that often required months of wrangling.
Of course, the former Gloria Galloway had not yet been heard from, but he and Bob had carefully prepared, and attorney Grouse was ready for her.
Shooter had only met his Dad’s brother twice, but the meetings had been burned into his memory. Mop lived somewhere out west. The uncle had been a little vague about details, but he had a cabin in some high country, and he earned at least part of his living as a hunting guide. As if that were not interesting enough, Mop Galloway was tattooed on both arms, and he rode a Harley-Davidson motorcycle.
Best of all, Mop packed heat. Shooter had heard the term on TV. Mop’s pistol rode in a nylon ankle holster held in place by Velcro straps. The gun was a tiny, stainless steel revolver that held five .22 caliber magnum cartridges.
They had seen the revolver while sitting on the porch when Mop had raised a boot to the porch railing. Mop’s cuff had ridden up, and there was the gun with the walnut butt showing just above the ankle.
North American 22 Magnum
Bob had said, “What in hell is that for?”
Mop answered, “We’ve got rogue elephants out my way. You’ve got to be prepared.”
Shooter had snickered, and Mop had nudged him in the ribs.
Bob said, “You couldn’t hit a barn from the inside with that piece of toy junk.”
Mop had drawn his piece with a smoothness that Shooter figured took a lot of practice.
Mop said, “Bob, a pistol like this is not for target practice or dropping something at long range. A gun like this you press into an enemy’s gut and let go. If he stays up, you do it again.”
Bob sighed, “Mop, you’ve been getting ready for a big gun battle since you were able to walk, but you will never get close enough to . . .”
Mop’s pistol cracked, and cracked a second time quicker than Shooter would have expected. Mop paused, then shot twice more deliberately, and this pair, Shooter was able to see hit—right smack through the back of their mailbox.
The bullets had flopped the door of the mailbox open, and Shooter could see light shining through four bullet holes in the end of the mailbox.
Shooter said, “Wow!”
His father groaned. “Now you’ve done it, Mop. My boy will be wearing a wooden gun just like that around his leg for the next week.”
The uncle said, “You ought to get him a real one. He’s old enough.”
Shooter thrilled at the words, but his Dad said, “Too soon, brother, but why on earth do you carry that thing? Somebody after you?”
“Nope, Bob. Nobody is after me because I do carry a gun. Hell, everybody out where I live carries something—except those damned pinko-progressive Californians that keep moving in, of course.”
“Well, you aren’t out there now, Mop.”
“It’s worse here. Not right here in the county, but here in the east. All kinds of communists, pacifists, liberal pukes, and people I won’t mention in front of Gabriel mill around back here.”
“You’re breaking the law carrying it back here, Mop.”
“So what? As long as I don’t show it, nobody will know, and if anything happens, I’d rather be arrested for illegal carrying and maybe shooting some worthless bonehead than I would finding myself being examined on a slab down at the funeral parlor.”
Bob Galloway said, “You’ve got a powerful point, brother and by the way, that is damned good shooting with that pipsqueak of a gun.”
Shooter and uncle Mop had chewed Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum to fill the bullet holes in the mailbox.
Even Mop’s name was interesting. Shooter’s Dad explained that Harry, Mop’s real name, got lost because, if one of the boys was bad, their mother had made him mop the floor. Harry was always in trouble and did most of the mopping. They got to joking about him being the Mopper and that led to Mop, which stuck and became his nickname.
Shooter knew without question that he would rather go with his uncle Mop than with his mother. Anywhere, but with his mother.
Chapter 4
Gloria (Galloway) Cuthbert arrived at Dan Grouse’s Harrisburg office on the third day. Grouse had suggested meeting at the Galloway home, but Shooter’s mother had vetoed the idea with vehemence. Dan added her reluctance to return to the county to his carefully calculated defense of the father’s plans for his son’s future.
Gloria’s interest would be The Notch and Bob’s insurance. Bob Galloway had not informed his ex-wife of his preparations to ensure that she would get nothing more. Gloria would bring her lawyer, who would, of course, peruse all of the documentation concerning the son.
Gloria still looked good, but she had slimmed down to the New York society woman’s bony figure. Dan thought a few good meals and a little more rest would improve her looks.
Gloria’s makeup leaned to the heavy side, and Dan supposed it helped conceal tension lines around her mouth and eyes. The more pleasant, relaxed look of a country girl was long gone, and her eyes were sharply alert and calculating. Grouse expected that Gloria had become a hard-to-please and difficult-to-live-with kind of woman.
Dan Grouse decided he did not like what Gloria had become, and as he had never appreciated what she had done, he needed to cut no deals or allow gracious accommodations.
Gloria’s attorney was named Bowman, and to Grouse’s eye he fit the description of a “Lounge Lizard.” Bowman dressed on the cutting edge of Mod. A term that Dan supposed was long out of date, but to Harrisburg eyes, the lawyer looked like the kind of guy you would find leaning over the bar of a pick-up kind night spot. Bowman, Grouse expected, would be a terrific dancer. Lean and snaky with over-cultured hair, he would likely appeal to Gloria’s perception of a real New Yorker.
With all of that noted, Grouse watched for signs of a more than lawyer-client relationship, and immediately found them in extra touches and knowing eye contacts. Dan guessed that Mister Cuthbert was still traveling the country, peddling his wares, trusting the wife he had stolen to remain faithful during his absences. What a world.
The courtesies were perfunctory. Gloria wanted to know how much she would get. Grouse began convincing her and her attorney that the answer was, nothing.
Dan Grouse and Bob Galloway had labored to close any probable loophole in their plan for Shooter’s future. They had managed all but one. If Gloria insisted on having Gabriel living with her, she would win in any court in the country. She was the mother, and she could provide. Compared to going off to the western mountains with a tattooed and curiously funded Uncle Mop, Gloria’s desertion of the father would be as nothing.
All of the details and the realizations of exactly how things stood came quickly. Lawyer Bowman worked hard, but the bases had all been covered, and there was no way Gabriel’s mother could touch the property or the money. Only the threat of moving the boy to New York to live with his mother and stepfather remained viable.
Dan Grouse preempted the demand. Grouse said, “I must be plain in explaining why Mister Galloway decided to place Gabriel in a military school.”
Grouse contorted his features in imaginative concern, but he saw Gloria’s frown, and he guilelessly added, “Bob was so concerned that he intended to allow limited lumbering of The Notch to pay Gabriel’s tuition.” Grouse clarified, “Mister Galloway had only his disability income, you know.”
“The fact is that Gabriel has become a severe disciplinary problem. He is defiant, he listens to no one, and he has already begun to travel with the wrong crowd.”
Grouse kept his lips thinned and hoped his voice demonstrated reluctance to mention the many negative characteristics of the recalcitrant Shooter Galloway.
“Of course, Mister Galloway had not expected an accident, and he had hoped that Gabriel was still malleable at age eleven, but I must add,” and Grouse voiced a heartfelt sorrow that would be hard to doubt, “Gabriel stole from his father’s wallet, he smokes, swears, and only recently, Bob reported to me that his son and one of the worst of our l
ocal, young thugs had been caught shoplifting chewing tobacco, and . . . well, some items I would prefer not to mention in this company.”
Grouse did not miss the frowns and lowered eyebrows of his client’s ex-wife and lawyer. Surely, Gloria would not want such a lout as her responsibility. To live with she and her husband, to be seen by her city friends, to . . . Grouse suspected that he had succeeded.
Unfortunately, the ex-wife was made of greedier stuff.
Gloria said, “Well, I cannot have such a person visiting with us, but Gabriel is my son, and we want the best for him.”
Shooter Galloway Page 5