Chapter 6
At Carson Long Military Institute, anyone could try out for the rifle team—including the Junior School cadets. Of course, no one below a high school sophomore made the team. The rifles were too heavy, and the competition too demanding.
Captain Gold, the team’s faculty advisor and coach, allowed younger cadets to have their chance with the school’s air rifles. Distinguished Cadet Gabriel Galloway, seventh grade, was no exception—until he began to shoot.
Gold did not know Cadet Galloway. He was a first year boy who had been promoted to Distinguished Cadet at the Christmas vacation, which meant that he was a decent youth with prospects for success.
Everyone trying out fired from the prone position, except Galloway. The cadet coach, a team member said, “You won’t hit anything from standing, Galloway.”
Gold agreed, but Cadet Galloway adjusted his sling as if he had done it many times, leaned into his rifle a bit aggressively—more like a hunter than a marksman, Gold concluded—and squeezed his trigger. The cadet coach looking through his spotting scope called an eight at eleven o’clock. With surprise in his voice, he added, “Nice shot,”
Galloway did not adjust his sight, but he obviously held different because nines and clean bulls began striking the target. From a Junior School cadet, with an air rifle, shooting offhand? Gold could barely believe it.
Distinguished Cadet Galloway was the first junior school cadet to make a varsity team in Carson Long’s history. The boy could shoot, and if his four-position match shooting was not exactly by the book, his coach found it difficult to recommend changes.
Actually, Coach Gold‘s shooting experience was minimal, and most of what he knew came from reading about how it was done. He did not drop behind a rifle and demonstrate. The best he could offer was guidance in directions he thought best and allowing lots of practice on the range. Serious shooting over many hours made Gold’s teams good, and Carson Long won most of their rifle matches.
Young Galloway intrigued Captain Gold. Galloway, he discovered, was local, and that was unusual in a boarding school. Gabriel was also an earnest shooter who did not hack around and waste ammunition. In fact, Galloway’s intensity was special. He came to the range to improve himself, to punch a dead-on bull’s-eye every shot from every position.
It was immediately clear that Galloway’s nickname of Shooter was well deserved. The cadet’s Building Officer reported that almost every weekend, Gabriel Galloway checked out his personal .22 rifle and went shooting on a nearby farm.
Gold examined Shooter’s rifle and found it to be an old Remington target gun. A bit heavy for plinking at cans, the rifle had a proper sling and good target sights, although Galloway had removed the rear aperture and used the ghost ring as a peep sight. Gold knew that technique was preferred for field shooting and small varmint hunting.
Remington 521 TL
Cadet Galloway brought his rifle to the indoor range and fired for record. The ghost ring did almost as well as the small-ringed target insert. Galloway could shoot.
Although he marveled at the junior school cadet’s accurate shooting, Gold was at least as interested in Galloway’s ability to concentrate, to stay centered on the shot he was attempting without being rattled by previous shots or possible high scores—if he just got this one in.
Shooter Galloway was ice cold behind a rifle, and if the boy could explain how he accomplished such laser-like focus, Coach Gold would add the information to his too-limited marksmanship knowledge. Unfortunately, an enlightening explanation was not forthcoming.
The small town’s social life offered little to entertain Carson Long faculty, and a few of the military school’s officer instructors gravitated to the local VFW, where they could lean on the bar and talk military with veterans, or deer hunting with almost every male customer, or grumble to each other about the unavailability of local maidens attracted to their uniformed figures.
Unlike Captain Gold, whose commission was awarded by the military school, Lt. Colonel Sam Butler was a West Point graduate who had served his twenty active military years and, in retirement, now led the school’s Junior Reserve Officer’s Training program. Gold and Butler liked each other and often loafed together at the VFW. They were irregularly joined by locals who enjoyed their kind of small talk. Among them was Sheriff Sonny Brunner.
Perhaps inevitably, the local youth now attending Carson Long came into their conversation. Shooter Galloway, it turned out, was of interest to Lt. Col. Butler and to Sheriff Brunner.
Gold said, “Do you happen to know the Galloways, sheriff? They are local and Gabriel is in the junior school and trying out for my rifle team.”
“Yep, I’ve known the Galloways all of my life, but Shooter is the only one left around here. He has an uncle living out west, but his father died in a road accident last summer. That’s how come Gabriel is in military school.”
Colonel Butler chuckled, as if in on a secret. “Galloway hangs around our military science classes, and even listens outside the door or under a window when we are in session.”
He explained to Brunner. “Junior school cadets are not part of the JROTC program, and most of them could not care less, but young Galloway is hungry to soldier and wants to know everything about everything.”
Gold said, “Well, for his age, he can really shoot. He’ll earn a varsity letter this year whether I like it or not.”
Brunner wondered, “Why wouldn’t you like it?”
“Only because junior school students are not supposed to be on varsity teams. They shouldn’t even make JV teams. Galloway is only twelve years old for God’s sake.”
Butler said, “So he can shoot—use him and be grateful. There is no actual rule against him shooting varsity that I know about.”
The sheriff said, “Bob Galloway, Gabriel’s father, was a hell of a competitive shooter, went to Camp Perry and all. I think he was some kind of a sniper in the army. Anyway, Bob taught his boy for years, and took him small game hunting every season, and probably more than a few times out of season.” The table enjoyed a chuckle at the local reputation for hunting just about whenever they chose.
The sheriff went on, “Bob said his son was a natural and shot moving targets about as easily as the rest of us shoot bulls eyes.”
Coach Gold said, “Galloway has a ream or two of tiny human head silhouettes, ten to a page, that he got run off on a copier. When I let him, that’s what he shoots at.”
“What?” The colonel was distressed.
Gold held up a placating palm. “Relax, he’s not sick. Gabriel says he wants to be a Marine Corps sniper, and he is practicing for it. The boy is dead serious, and I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him miss a shot on one of those targets.”
Colonel Butler pondered, “He’s awful young to be aiming for that kind of a career.”
“He’s colder than ice when it comes to shooting. He doesn’t play at it; he trains. He’ll be one hell of a competitive shooter when he gets a little older.”
Butler said, “Gunnery Sergeant Carlos Hathcock, probably the Corps’ finest scout sniper, used to encourage shooting at head targets. He believed it helped snipers get used to seeing that kind of target. Helped prevent choking at the moment of truth, I suppose.”
“You know much about sniping, Colonel?” Brunner was interested. “We had a case that might be called a sniper shooting last summer that never got solved. That was out by the Galloway’s place, by the way. We think the ambusher had a silenced gun, and it was a big one. Black powder rifle, we figure, but there isn’t even a suspect.”
Colonel Butler made no special claims.
“The army never used snipers the way they could have. In fact, they still don’t. The Marine Corps does it better. There are some good books out about Marine sniping, and I’ve read them.”
He pointed out to Captain Gold, “The school library has most of them, and they are interesting reading.”
Brunner was still pondering the local shooting. “Most of our murders get
solved when the killer talks too much to a girl friend or over a bar to the wrong person, but there hasn’t been a whisper about who shot Box Elder.”
Gold was questioning. “Man was named after a tree?”
“No, Elder had been a fighter, and not a bad one, so he got called Boxer and more commonly just Box Elder. Elder liked to street-fight too much, and he could be a mean bastard, but as far as we can figure, nobody hated him enough to shoot him.”
“Somebody did.”
“Yeah, right out in a parking lot, but at night—which means the shooter was probably in pretty close, and powder residue on him supports that. No clues, though. Just nothing.”
When he thought of it, Captain Gold checked the school library’s books on sniping. There were five volumes in the Death From Afar series, Carlos Hathcock’s biography, White Feather, another on Hathcock called 93 Confirmed Kills, and a huge volume titled The One Shot Brotherhood. There was also a fictional sniping tale titled Sniper One. Gold chose that book for himself, but on a hunch he checked the take-out list on all of the sniper volumes.
During his four months at Carson Long, Gabriel Galloway had read them all.
Chapter 7
Gabriel Galloway did not shoot at silhouettes of heads. Galloway shot at Elders. Each squeeze of the trigger was accompanied by a silently formed name. Calvin, John, Roy, and Andrew Elder made their appearances, but mostly Galloway shot at Sam Elder.
Old Sam Elder had been the driver that herded and encouraged his short-fused sons until Box Elder struck his coward’s blow. Boxer Elder was not a target, of course, Box was out of it, and Gabriel only occasionally thought of him.
Sam Elder would be next, but how he would do it, or how it would go, Shooter Galloway had not decided.
Until he had registered at Carson Long and entered the rigors of military school life, Gabriel had thought of little beyond how he could reach all of the Elders.
Common sense demanded caution. Great caution, because a series of Elder deaths—even if he could manage such feats—would send hounds of the law baying in all directions. Sooner or later, perhaps for lack of even peripheral suspects, they would focus on the innocent youth who had slept through his father’s terrible accident and who had no apparent reason to shoot at Box Elder.
There were two particular worries that nagged at the boy. The worst would be that someone was arrested and tried for the murder of Box Elder. If that happened, and he expected that in their anxious fumblings the law could manage such a blunder, Gabriel knew he would have to come forward and admit his guilt.
Guilt? He felt no guilt, but allowing someone else to suffer for his deed could not be his way.
Then there was Ferdy, poor hapless Ferdy who had lacked the courage to defy the Elders. If the police placed serious pressure on the shaky old man, Ferdy might fold and tell what he knew. Ferdy’s relief would be massive, but the Elders would deny everything, and it would be five against one. The law would then, of course, look closer at young Shooter Galloway—who would suddenly have a powerful motive for dropping Boxer Elder in his tracks.
Cadet Gabriel Galloway could do nothing about either possibility, so he kept them far back in his mind. What he could do was prepare. He would have to plan long. The very best result that his still forming scheme could conceive would be to damage the Elders in every way possible—without any hint that a Galloway was involved. Then, far down the road, perhaps, he would strike and strike again until he had finished them all.
Of course, Shooter marveled at the coldness of his reasoning. From movies and reading he knew that he should be tortured by nightmares with shakes, sweats, and violent flashbacks to Box Elder’s death. Everything said that was the way it was after taking a life.
Gabriel Galloway experienced only marginal satisfaction. He was gratified to have dropped Boxer Elder, but Box had been only a tool. Shooter expected that Sam Elder would provide greater fulfillment and the other Elder brothers a sort of icing for his deadly cake.
A cadet was allowed to have a rifle at Carson Long but, except when in use, the weapon was kept in the hands of a Building Officer.
Building Officers were God-like. They controlled everything. BOs, the boys snickered at that one, gave out weekly allowance money, they administered discipline, they inspected rooms and equipment, they taught daily academic classes, and they held evening study halls. At nine-fifteen (2115 hours), every night of the week, the BO checked every junior cadet into bed, and if the officer was smart and dedicated, he rechecked his wriggly pack with unscheduled appearances until he was certain that all were asleep and nothing was likely to happen before reveille the next morning.
Gabriel Galloway was the only junior school cadet to own a rifle, and there was hesitation about allowing a twelve year old to roam the woods enjoying target practice. Using his personal gun on the school’s indoor range was one thing, but shooting at will, out on his own was questionable.
Young Galloway’s lawyer and his guardian both agreed to his shooting, and Gabriel capped the doubts when he presented a signed authorization slip for him to shoot as he wished on any of Fred Thebes’s hundreds of acres that more or less surrounded the school and the community. The Building Officer, who was a friend of Mister Thebes, gave in, and on many weekends, Gabriel Galloway—always alone—went shooting.
After the Saturday parade on his fourth weekend at Carson Long, Gabriel had walked across the parade field and made his way through the development before angling into the woods and reappearing near the Thebes and Sons Construction building. The office was closed but unlocked. The Thebes men worked every day of the week, so it would not be long before Fred Thebes or one of his boys appeared. It happened that Fred was first to arrive.
Piling from his pickup up, Thebes said, “You’re Bob Galloway’s boy, aren’t you?”
Gabriel was being taught to address all grownups as sir. “Yes, sir, Mister Thebes. I’m Gabriel. Bob was my father.”
“We heard you were going to Carson Long. You like it up there? Not many go for the military stuff these days.”
“I like it so far, Mister Thebes, and I like the military part most of all.”
Fred opened the office door and waved the boy inside. He pointed to a chair and sank into his own behind a littered desk.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Gabriel, Mister Thebes, but I’m called Shooter by almost everyone.”
The man grinned. “That is about as good a nickname as any I’ve heard—providing you can live up to it. You a good shot, Shooter?”
“I’m working at it, Mister Thebes, and that is what I’ve come to talk to you about.”
Fred rolled his eyes. “Now, you haven’t shot up my bulldozer or killed one of my steers, have you? CLI boys never come around with anything good to hear.”
Shooter’s smile was engaging. “Nothing like that, Mister Thebes, and I am very careful where I shoot.”
“I’m glad it isn’t something awful. Of course, everything bad around Bloomfield gets blamed on cadets, but too often one of you boys is behind whatever happened.
“So, what can I do for you?”
Gabriel appeared suddenly uncertain, but he sat straight and looked the landowner squarely in the eye. Fred guessed it must be important for a boy this young to hunt up an almost stranger and ask for serious talk.
Shooter said, “I want to practice with my .22 rifle as often as I can, and I would like your permission to shoot on your land up on Dynamite.”
Dynamite was the hill behind the military Academy, and the Thebes landfill was up there.
The boy hurried on. “I would always be alone, and I would be really careful where my bullets went, Mister Thebes. I would make sure there was solid ground behind my targets, and I wouldn’t leave any trash except empty .22 cases behind.”
Fred tested the youth. “What about living trees?”
Young Galloway appeared horrified. “I wouldn’t shoot into your trees, Mister Thebes. I will bring my own targ
ets, and I will shoot only into them.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And I will take my targets with me when I leave.”
As a rifleman who shot into anything he found a good target, Thebes doubted the youth’s perfection in plinking only at his own paper or tin cans, but the boy’s intentions sounded good. Fred stalled while he thought about the request.
“What do you shoot?”
“I’ve got an old Remington target rifle.”
“That’s all you shoot, a .22?”
“Yes, sir, and I will only shoot at paper targets if you prefer.”
Fred could not have cared less about the type of targets. He was partial to boys who acted sincere and who were interested in manly things like shooting. He again admired young Galloway’s straightforward request. People shot on Thebes land all of the time and almost none asked for permission. Sometimes the miserable bastards shot out a windshield or plunked a round or two into one of his earth-moving machines. Carson Long boys probably.
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