Shooter Galloway

by Roy F. Chandler

  Her sigh was dramatic. “At least I am through with this place once and for all.”

  She smiled brightly, “Let’s find a nice restaurant and make this a happy trip, Leroy. We won’t ever be back this way.”

  Chapter 5

  Sheriff Sonny Brunner stood near the foot of Bob Galloway’s open grave. From there he could see everybody and, if he wished, he could study all of the mourners.

  As an elected official, Brunner often attended solemn burials of loved ones. Many he genuinely cared about; others were a matter of preparing for the next election. The living remembered his attendance at Dad or Mom’s funeral and voted accordingly.

  Unlike southern states where sheriffs wielded great power and influence, Pennsylvania’s form of government relegated sheriffs to lesser duties, and few commanded fleets of swift pursuit cars, controlled heavily armed and armored SWAT teams, or directed complex criminal investigations.

  Brunner wished it were otherwise. He believed that local law enforcement could know a lot more than temporarily assigned state patrolmen, and understanding the people and their ways could greatly aid detecting and concluding. Instead of professional cooperation, most state cops were arrogant and barely tolerated the presence of the local guys.

  This time, Sonny rocked on his toes in more than a little satisfaction. Even the lead detective in the Boxer Elder murder investigation had acknowledged Brunner’s particular contributions to the inquiry.

  The Box Elder shooting had stalled almost as it started. There were no clues and no witnesses. Motives did not appear, and names did not surface for even improbable speculation.

  An ancient resident who rocked on his porch most of each night had seen only a few cars on the hard road below Ferdy’s near the time of the murder, and he recognized the vehicles, and—there was nothing there.

  At the other end, a dozen witnesses gathered at Bob Galloway’s accident scene were certain that no unaccounted-for vehicles came over the mountain before the Staties arrived to ask their questions. A murderer could have taken to the woods or driven the dirt roads, but on those sparsely traveled routes, passing vehicles were also peered at and remembered. No one had seen or heard unusual traffic. In daylight, dogs were brought in, but they discovered nothing.

  The probability of finding the killing bullet was miniscule, but the sides of Ferdy’s building were examined, and all tree trunks were peered at. Strings were aimed along probable bullet routes, and bullets turned up. Over decades past, bullets had been fired into everything. Rural men once shot a lot, and many still did, but everything found was old and small caliber. The hole in Box Elder had been made by something large—and something very silent. The Elder men sitting just inside had heard nothing unusual, nor had Ferdy himself. There was speculation among the state police about the use of a Barrett or a McMillan fifty caliber rifle firing at long range, perhaps with a silencer attached. No one was sure that either rifle had a night firing device that could let a shooter see from hundreds of yards out. Looking around, Brunner doubted that there was an open lane for such dramatic sniping, anyway.

  A better suggestion was a rifled slug or even a punkin’ ball from a shotgun, but how did you silence a shotgun?

  Sheriff Brunner suggested that it might have been a muzzle loading hunting rifle. Those weapons came in large calibers and, if used at close range, black powder residue should be on the body—or maybe inside, Sonny was not too sure how that part might work.

  A simple chemical check showed black powder residue all over the front of the late Box Elder’s clothing, and that discovery ended the long-range speculations. Brunner knew he had contributed, but his greatest satisfaction came the following day.

  Sonny suspected that if a silencer had been used, the bullet would have been slow-moving to remain silently below the sound barrier—avoiding a “crack” that could not have been quieted. A muzzle-loader could have been lightly charged, and after plowing through and leaving Elder’s body the bullet might not have gone very far. While the others studied walls and trees, Sonny examined the parking lot. He found the misshapen lead blob about twenty feet behind where Box had collapsed.

  In his excitement, Sheriff Brunner almost picked up the bullet, but he restrained himself, dropped his hat nearby to mark the spot and informed the lead investigator.

  The hot-shot detective said, “Well, I’ll be damned,” and leaned to look closer. When he straightened there was respect in his eyes, and he shook Sonny’s hand with sincerity.

  “Damned fine, sheriff. We never would have found it.” The detective called his people in and made a point of letting them know that Sheriff Brunner had found the slug. Sonny suspected that he grew an inch on the spot, and his presence had not been scowled at since.

  So far, the bullet had told interesting things, but it had not pointed out a killer. They had been able to see some rifling marks near the base of the flattened bullet, so it had been fired from a rifle, and one of the investigators said that he thought the bullet was very old with a thick age patina on it, but the slug, probably a .50 caliber, had been forwarded to the state’s forensic lab, and it could be a month before a complete report came back.

  Bob Galloway’s funeral was being blessed by fine August weather, but the gathering was small with Gabriel and Mop Galloway the only family. A few folks came to view the final resting of a local war hero. The rest were friends from earliest days.

  Gabriel seemed to be holding up well, and the only time he had seemed shaken was during his mother’s visit. Brunner remembered that he had been speaking to Gloria, whatever-her-name-was, about Box Elder’s death when he saw Shooter with the beer. He had glowered at the boy, and that had scared Gabriel half to death. Brunner smiled at the memory. He guessed he had glared a little hard.

  Mop Galloway arrived in a rental from the mighty Harrisburg International Airport almost before Gloria’s fancy car cleared the property. Brunner suspected that it was just as well the mother and uncle had not met. Nothing courteous could have come from such an encounter.

  Mop looked about the same. He was lean, his hair was too long, and he dressed western with a sort of Indiana Jones hat, jeans, and a wide belt. Mop wore boots, but hard-toed work boots, not a cowboy’s high-heeled, pointy things. The uncle was tanned, as if he stayed out of doors most of the time.

  Brunner wondered what Mop did for a living and hoped he was as well suited to take care of Shooter as Attorney Grouse believed.

  If Mop had been around, Sonny thought maybe he would make a reasonable suspect for shooting Box Elder. The Elders had leaned on Bob Galloway pretty hard over selling The Notch. The whole valley knew that and, unlike his brother, Mop Galloway would have gotten physical with the Elders years before. Hell, if the Elders started on him or Gabriel, Mop might still shoot one of them. Brunner grinned at the thought.

  That would never happen because the Elders would not challenge the erratic Mop even a little. Bullying-people, like the Elders were, picked their targets, and Mop would be very hard to intimidate. Consideration of those ideas made Sheriff Brunner wonder which Galloway, father or uncle, young Gabriel would be most like, and that alignment planted a seed that went nearly unnoted as the minister began his eulogy of the recently departed father, brother, and friend.

  Mop and Gabriel Galloway sat together on the Galloway front porch. They faced each other, leaned back against porch posts at the head of the yard steps.

  Gabriel worried Mop a little. The boy’s outwardly calm acceptance of his dad’s death was belied by a coldness of eye that only occasionally crept through. Mop Galloway had traveled hard roads, and he knew men. At odd moments, young Shooter’s expression became flat and deadly, a look that in a grown man would have chilled and raised hackles. Brutal, killing hardness surfacing in an otherwise bright and cheerful youth did not fit, so Mop wondered. Perhaps he misjudged. Mop sidelined his thoughts, but he would remember.

  Mop was always direct, and he said, “Well, Shooter, your Dad is put away right and prope
r, so it’s time to think on exactly what you want to do and see if we can manage that to everybody’s content.”

  He cleared his throat and spit into the dirt.

  “Bob had a plan for you that make a lot of sense, but if you’ve got big objections we ought to talk it over and come to our own reasonable decisions.”

  Gabriel said, “I like Dad’s plan, Uncle Mop. I’ve wanted to go to a military school since I first heard about them, but we didn’t have any money, and I never thought it would happen.”

  “You figure Carson Long is the right one, Shooter? There are a lot of others, you know, and your Dad’s insurance will allow for any of them.”

  Shooter sounded very certain. “Carson Long is where I want to go, Uncle Mop. I know some about it, and it is the school where I always pictured myself.”

  “Fair enough, assuming we can get you in.”

  “Mister Grouse said he would get it all arranged.”

  “Then, you would start in about a month?”

  “Yep.”

  “That brings us to my part.” Mop chose to spit again. “What you’ve got to understand about me is that I don’t live like most people, and I don’t think much like them either.

  “I don’t care about owning a lot of stuff, I don’t see working at one job as satisfying, and I don’t give one damn in hell for what most people think about me or what I do or don’t do.”

  Mop chuckled a bit grimly. “I suppose I’ve got a chip on my shoulder in that regard, Shooter. I don’t exactly look for trouble, but I know that I’m pretty quick to recognize any, and I’m not a lot slower getting into problems I think concern me.”

  Mop laughed again. “It can make for an interesting life, Gabriel, but,” Mop pointed out a bunch of scars on his arms and a couple on his face, “that kind of living leaves marks here and there.”

  Shooter Galloway was already entranced.

  “What do you do, Uncle Mop? I don’t even know where you live, exactly.”

  “Well, I live in Montana. I’ve got a handful of acres and a stout cabin. I’ve got a sort of barn and shop combined where I can store vehicles and work at projects that interest me.

  “What I do takes more explaining.” Mop chose to chuckle again. “It takes more talk because I’m not exactly sure myself what it is I do.

  “Seems I’ve got a reputation as being a good guide for people who want to photograph wild animals and untamed places. So, I do some of that when I feel interested. In the hunting seasons, I work for a guide who pays pretty well and, come to think on it, I’ve been guiding quite a few climbing parties up some of the easier nearby mountains.”

  Mop hastened to add, “Not real mountain climbing with ropes and pitons, you understand, more hard hiking up to high country where the climbers like to believe not many people have ever been.”

  He finished, and Gabriel asked, “Do you do much shooting, Uncle Mop? You looked awfully good with that pistol you carry.” From where he sat, Shooter could see the shape of the revolver on his uncle’s ankle.

  Mop seemed to think about his answer.

  “Some years back I did some work as a deputy sheriff. My job was undercover with a bad—a really bad—biker gang. I spent more than a year at it.” Mop shoved up a sleeve so that the tattoos on his forearms could be seen. “That was when I picked up this artwork. I needed tattoos to get accepted by the mean guys, but to tell the truth, I like having them.

  “Well, to make a hard year swift, I was pretty successful, and when I appeared in court testifying against the worst of them they warned me, right there in open court, that someday they would get out, and when they did they would come and get me.

  “Now, Shooter, I did not take their threats lightly, and I do not now. I do not go to their state, and I keep my eyes open with a weapon or two ready all the time.

  “So, the answer to your question about whether I shoot much is, yes. I shoot a lot. I practice with rifles and pistols, and I make it a point to get out with my shotguns more than a few times a year. I hunt when seasons are open and sometimes when they are not.

  “I expect one or more of those bad-assed people will try for me sooner or later. Most are still in prison, and as far as I know none of them know my real name or where I live.

  “The world gets smaller, though, Gabriel, and I take no chances. If any come, I want them to believe that I will be surprised—that might be the only edge I get. Then, I will show them what my shooting practice was for.”

  The guns and shooting talk sealed it for Gabriel Galloway. He had plans for shooting, and he needed to know all that there was to learn. He figured that the military school’s training plus his uncle Mop could get him started.

  It was clear to Gabriel that Mop was a wild one, just as his Dad had explained, but Bob Galloway also claimed that his brother was smart, honest, and braver than almost anyone. If the father had not believed all of that he would never have left his son to Mop.

  Mop said, “So, that’s about it, Shooter. If you come out with me, you’ll be alone a lot of the time or up in the woods with me living hard and lean. You will see some country other people won’t, and you will have to travel behind me on the Harley pretty often.” Mop grinned, “I expect you will like that part, though, won’t you, Shooter?”

  They settled it that Gabriel would remain at home until school began. He would probably remain at home for vacations, but in the spring, he would fly to Great Falls, Montana where Mop would meet him. From there, as best his uncle could describe it, they would drive to Mop’s place somewhere not too far from Teton Peak area.

  Shooter studied his atlas and found Teton Peak, but there seemed to be nothing nearby except mountains and that pleased the boy mightily.

  Before Mop left, they teamed up on a task that Bob Galloway had left unfinished.

  Armed with Bob’s longest extension ladder and a short handled sledgehammer they hiked deep into The Notch and then climbed a steepening side that ended at a vertical cliff.

  Mop studied their route from a distance, and asked, “What is that structure sort of hanging over the cliff edge?”

  Shooter kept going as he answered. “That is Sam Elder’s porch. It’s attached to his house. Dad said it was in our airspace, but it wasn’t worth arguing over.”

  Mop felt differently. “Man did that to my space I’d saw it off and drop it into the valley. Then, I’d dare him to come in and get it.”

  Shooter liked the way Mop looked at things.

  A tremendously large walnut tree grew high on the slanting bank below the cliff. The tree trunk was as straight as an arrow and as thick as any walnut was likely to get.

  Shooter said, “That’s our favorite tree. Up here it gets a lot of sun and there is a seep of water that feeds the roots year-round. Dad said that the ground stays rich with minerals that flow down from above. No telling how long it will live, but it is sure old enough right now.”

  They extended the ladder to its fullest, and prepared their equipment. Mop said, “You keep an eye out for Elders looking off their porch. We don’t want them to see this happening.” Then he climbed as high as he could reach.

  Mop carried tools. There were three eighteen-inch long stainless steel pikes. He drove each spike in part way then bent it as if it had stuck and could go no further. Next he painted a circle in international orange around each spike and moved on.

  Mop’s last decorations took longer because there were so many of them. He drove in twenty-five spikes that looked just like the long and bent ones, but these spikes were only two inches long and barely pierced the tree bark. When he painted his circles around them, the tree seemed to be spiked through and through—which even the dullest logger would know eliminated the tree’s value as lumber. No one would dare to push such a log into an expensive saw blade. The walnut tree would appear useless.

  To complete the job, they repositioned the ladder three times, and Shooter drove the last of the lower spike heads and one extra-long spike which he deliberately bent wh
en only a few inches in.

  Mop said, “You really think the Elders would have tried for this tree?”

  “Dad said they would already have stolen it if that wouldn’t have ruined their hopes for buying the whole notch. They would have cut it down when we were away and hauled the logs up using one of their tractors. With all of them working, Dad figured they would be done and gone in two hours.”

  “Well, they won’t bother now. That tree looks really ruined, but we could get those heads and the bent spikes out in an hour.” Mop laughed aloud. “I didn’t know my brother was so devious.”

  Shooter thought about the word on the way back to the house. Devious would describe all that he was planning about as well as any word he could imagine, but thwarting the Elders was barely a scratch on what he planned doing to them.