Shooter Galloway

by Roy F. Chandler

  The state police agreed.

  Sonny hoped the state police cars would have radios that could patch through to Carlisle hospital, and when they were up on the rim where reception was better, the troopers radioed down to check Mister Galloway’s condition.

  The hospital gave out little, but Hannah York got on and explained how Shooter was doing. Of course, she asked to speak with Sonny Brunner. The investigator groaned and handed the mike to Brunner.

  Hannah said, “Sheriff Brunner, Gabriel is going to be all right. The doctor said that he was hit by a bullet that fragmented on his scapula and blew away some of that bone. His X-rays show that none of the fragments reached vital organs. Gabriel is receiving blood and some other things. I talked to him a few minutes ago, and he is on his way to surgery to temporarily repair the most obvious damage.”

  That was the heart of it. Shooter would recover, but Sonny wondered mightily why a bullet would have broken up on a shoulder bone? When they got to Calvin Elder it became clear.

  Cal Elder had not bled much. The huge bullet from Galloway’s .44 revolver had killed quickly. The investigators’ preliminary examination suggested that Galloway’s bullet had driven through Elder’s spinal cord from the front, and the man had barely fallen before he was dead. Without a heart pumping, blood pressure drops almost instantly, and there is often little bleeding thereafter.

  Elder’s rifle was explanation enough for Sonny Brunner, but the police were not as gun oriented, and the ex-sheriff explained what he thought had happened.

  “Cal Elder’s rifle is a .22/250. That means a .22 caliber bullet, which is very small and light, traveling at a hell of a rate. .22/250 bullets are made for expanding rapidly on small game—like ground hogs or crows. On larger game, they can over-expand and sort of explode near the surface leaving horrendous looking but shallow wounds.

  “Some hunters use those tiny bullets on deer, but no matter how successful they are, that is bad practice, Those kind of hunters get their shooting mixed up with their fishing. It is skillful to take a fish on light tackle, but there is nothing noble or right in shooting an animal with too small a bullet. Those small bullets cause too much wounding and suffering no matter how fast they travel.

  “Elder tried to shoot Galloway with a cartridge made for varmints. He hit off to one side, and Galloway’s shoulder bone exploded the bullet. The pieces likely went in a dozen directions. If Galloway were a game animal, he would walk away but die later in misery. Shooter made it to a hospital, so he will live, and hopefully his wounds won’t prove debilitating.”

  One of the state’s men peered over the rim down onto Galloway’s last stand. “How in the devil did Mister Galloway hit this guy using a pistol from way the hell down there?”

  Brunner made it plain. “You know his nickname, don’t you? It‘s Shooter and, believe me, a shot like this is almost routine for Galloway.”

  Sonny decided to lay it on a bit for the county’s sake. “Hell, a lot of men from up in these parts shoot almost that good. Boys hunt deer and turkeys from the time they are old enough to hold a gun.”

  The investigators were not buying.

  One said, “Give it up, Sonny. Most of the hunters from here or anywhere else couldn’t make that shot with a scoped rifle, and you know it.

  “For Galloway to hit dead-on with one shot from a short-barreled pistol—after being seriously wounded—is amazing, and all of us know it.”

  Brunner grinned his admission, “You’re right, Charlie. I forgot how long you’ve been patrolling up here.

  “The fact is, Galloway is a phenomenon with a rifle or pistol. He shot two outlaws out in Montana years ago, and during the Gulf War he was a Marine and was hit a number of times himself. How many he killed over there is unsure, but it was a bunch. He’s coach of the military school’s rifle team, and he has men from his Army reserve battalion shooting up here all of the time.

  “I haven’t found Gabriel without a firearm on his person for years. If he is in dress uniform, his pistol is probably in an ankle holster.”

  Brunner shook his head in admiration.

  “Galloway says that if you don’t carry all of the time, the one day that you will want a pistol, you won’t be armed. Looks like he was right this time.”

  Sonny smiled. “I’ve never checked, but Shooter probably carries while he is in the shower.”

  An investigator asked, “So, for the record, why are the Elders trying to kill him?”

  “Hell, Charlie, you’ve read the reports. The Elders think Galloway killed their brother and their father.”

  Charlie shrugged off the charge. “We’ve looked into that a dozen times. There isn’t a shred of evidence, and Galloway was just a kid when all of that went down.”

  Brunner said, “You are right. It’s all wild speculation. The Elders just can’t find anyone else to blame.“

  Then he added, “You probably haven’t heard but, some time back, Andrew Elder jumped Gabriel in the Bloomfield restaurant—the one on the square. Shooter broke him up pretty bad. Andrew had to have a new knee among other repairs.”

  Sonny added, “Andrew is dead now.”

  Charlie’s eyes bugged. “Good God, Galloway didn’t shoot him, too, did he?”

  Brunner was contemptuous. “Of course, not, Charlie. Andrew Elder had diabetes bad, and he died from it. Jeez, Charlie, get real will you?”

  +++

  The doctors marched into Gabriel’s room. One was the regular. The other was new and wore a surgical mask.

  The patient appeared to be sleeping, but Hannah was sitting close by. She said, “Good morning, Doctors.”

  The regular examined Shooter’s chart. The other stood close to Galloway’s bed and appeared to ponder, but he spoke clearly.

  “This patient looks dead to me. Why don’t they move him out?” He placed his stethoscope against Shooter’s forehead and announced. “Yep, nothing alive in there.”

  Hannah York appeared dumbfounded, but Shooter recognized the voice.

  He said, “Don’t let him near me, Hannah. He uses commo wire for thread, and he threw my perfectly good toe away so that they couldn’t re-attach it.” Galloway never even opened his eyes.

  The new doctor lowered his mask and stuck out a hand for Hannah’s shaking.

  “Doctor Frank Dyer, Miss York—Shooter’s friend from way back. Emma Showalter called, and I recognize you from Galloway’s lurid and insensitive descriptions.”

  Hannah remembered Dyer from Shooter’s wartime stories.

  Doc Dyer said, “I can’t waste time beating around the bush, Miss York. You are without argument the most beautiful nurse I have ever seen, and if Galloway has not spoken, I ask you now for your hand in Holy Matrimony—till death do us part.”

  Hannah laughed; she had met men like Dyer before. They were often medical doctors, powerfully self-confident, enjoyable, and rarely sincere.

  Galloway opened his eyes and smiled. He said, “You sure you’ve got a legitimate doctoring license Dyer? I don’t want some offshore quack hanging out in my hospital room.”

  Doc’s smile was bland. “Of course, it’s a good license, Galloway. My friend, Jimmy ‘slick fingers’ Pontello from Newark, had his pal, ‘Inky’ Buffano from Jersey City, print it off special for me. Inky is one of the best, you know.”

  Galloway could control his own pain medication, and he had used enough to feel halfway decent. It was gratifying to have Dyer rushing in from his New York practice. Doc looked good and sounded good. He lightened the moods, and he clarified the medical ends.

  When they finished remembering and got to the medical part, Dyer leaned close in his chair and described to the patient how it would go.

  “What they did the other day, Shooter, was to clean everything up, determine exactly what procedures would be best, and clear the operating field so that a lot of shot-up muscle and bone chips would not delay the repairs. Right now, they’re getting your blood count up and letting your systems smooth out.

 
; “Next, and I gather it will be late tomorrow sometime, they will glue, sew, and staple all the salvageable pieces of your shoulder blade together. They will fit some nylon plastic in here and there so that your scapula will be one solid piece.”

  “I think they will lipo some fat off your broad butt and lay it over the new shoulder blade.” Dyer grinned. “I told them you have extra fat deposits between your ears, but they said ex-Marines needed that blubber left alone as there was nothing else in there.”

  Shooter groaned, and Dyer looked pleased.

  “After that they will apply some artificial skin to help your real hide grow back across the blown up area.” Dyer grinned evilly. “Why, Shooter, in four or five years you will hardly remember this happening.”

  Hannah York leaned over Dyer’s shoulder. “I admire your bedside manner, Doctor, but Shooter needs to rest. Let’s go down to the snack bar and you can buy me a gourmet lunch.”

  Gabriel punched his medication button and went to sleep.

  +++

  Sometimes Galloway thought those first few days had been the easiest. He slept and got waited on. There was pain, but medication made it minor.

  He worried some about Roy Elder’s location and intentions, but the law found him in Oregon, working as a long-haul trucker without knowledge of his brothers’ actions. Roy announced his determination to never return to Pennsylvania—not even for his brothers’ funerals. If investigators wanted to talk to him, they could use the phone or come out to Oregon.

  Shooter Galloway heard those details from Dan Grouse. He did not believe any of it, but for now, with the law looking on, Roy Elder was most likely to stay away. Later? Shooter planned to think about that.

  By the third day following his second surgery, everyone had gone—except Dan Grouse and law enforcement. Investigators quizzed him as if he had been the villain in the matter. The first time through had been interesting. The second time, on a following day, a bit nerve wracking as he struggled to tell the story exactly the same. Thereafter, he was asked details, but never did Grouse allow him to speak to the investigators until he and Gabriel had settled on a carefully worded answer.

  Grouse said, “Look Shooter, I know both of these guys, and they are decent men with a tough job to do, and that is the last I will say good about them.

  “They want to know everything, and they will dig and twist. They will deliberately misquote you and attempt to rile you so that you slip or remember differently because, once something is on the record, you can’t ever get it off.

  “With these guys, do not speculate about anything. If they want to know why the Elders are after you, simply say that you do not know. If they ask why John Elder chose the spot he did to hide out, don’t answer. Guess about nothing.”

  Grouse smiled a bit grimly. “I remember us having this same conversation a long time ago, Gabriel. Was it when you shot those guys out in Montana?” The attorney shook his head. “The same rules hold now, Shooter. Tell them nothing except what you are one hundred percent sure about, and only when I am here to make certain the answers are right.”

  Grouse frowned at his client. “Life would be a lot simpler, Gabriel, if you would quit shooting people.”

  School began with Lieutenant Galloway still holding his arm a bit awkwardly. Word of the ambush and his deadly shooting swept through the Cadet Corps, and Galloway gained stature among the impressionable young men. Shooter expected that half the Corps would be out for the rifle team this year.

  He worked at rehabilitating his wounded body. Careful stretching became serious exercise. Galloway bought a Bowflex machine and installed it in his campus apartment. He built strength and endurance slowly, but by Thanksgiving, he felt mostly recovered, and he had developed muscle and muscle tone that he had never expected. Galloway bought new uniform jackets to fit his larger and better-shaped frame.

  He became Captain Galloway in early November, and his new Battalion Commander came to pin on his railroad tracks before the entire school. It was a nice gesture, and Shooter tried to take advantage of the moment.

  Galloway suggested, “You know, I have always wanted my own company, Colonel.”

  The CO nodded. “Every Captain wants his own company, Shooter, but you aren’t getting one, at least not right now. I discovered how good a job you had been doing while you were out convalescing. I need a strong S3 a lot more than I need another new Company Commander, and you are it.”

  The Colonel spoke more softly. “Look, Captain, you know we’re re-equipping and speeding up training as hard as we can go. Our president isn’t going to sit on his thumbs like Clinton did. We are already kicking the snot out of the Taliban in Afghanistan, and it looks as if Iraq will be next.

  “There is no reason to believe that we will be called up, but if the Iraqis are tougher than expected, it could happen. I need you in Plans and Training.”

  The Colonel grinned. “We’ll talk about it a year or so from now, when things quiet down. You’ll get your company, Shooter, it just won’t be quite yet.”

  Chapter 25

  It was hard to cross the campus without being repeatedly stopped by cadets hungry to talk. Some faculty officers took short cuts, avoided eye contact, muttered excuses and hurried away. Captain Galloway did not. If he had to move on, he said so, but he tried mightily to give the youths the opportunities they needed to speak with a grownup and with someone they considered a genuine authority.

  Before the Thanksgiving holiday he began to notice the unexpected presence of a new cadet. The sixth grader was almost tiny and his uniform fit like a used tent, but when Shooter appeared so did the boy. When Shooter stopped, the cadet stood as close as he could get and listened avidly to discussions that were certainly beyond his comprehension. He often accompanied Galloway almost to his apartment door before trotting away to join other cadets his age. Obviously, Captain Galloway—the one with medals and heroic wounds—had an acolyte. The child’s nametag read, Shawn McMillin. Gabriel asked the Junior School Director about him.

  “New kid. I don’t know much about him yet. Seems like a decent young boy.” The director thought about it. “His father brought him and left. I’ve never heard what the father did for a living.”

  The Director grinned. “It’s clear that you’ve got an admirer, Shooter. If you announced that rain kept you dry, McMillin would consider it gospel and probably not get wet.”

  They laughed together, and Galloway sighed.

  “There he is waiting outside.” Shooter shook his head. “I didn’t get here until I was in the seventh grade, but even then, it could get mighty lonesome, and I hooked onto Colonel Butler just about like McMillin is doing to me.”

  The director said, “Be gentle with him, Shooter. They are tender at that age, and Lord knows what some of them have gone through before coming here.”

  Captain Galloway became accustomed to having McMillin at his elbow. The attention was flattering, and Galloway included the junior cadet when he could.

  He addressed the cadet by his last name or his first—as the formality of a situation demanded. When the boy did not go home for Christmas, Shooter took the young cadet around with him.

  Gabriel first marched the boy to a local lady who tailored uniforms for the cadets. Properly fitted, McMillin looked soldierly, and Captain Galloway told him that he no longer disgraced the Corps.

  Over the vacation, Galloway put in many hours with his reserve unit, mostly paperwork, but McMillin became a familiar and a favorite among the reserve troops who were intrigued by the idea of such young boys attending military school and mastering and enjoying so many of the drills and disciplines that they detested.

  McMillin’s father—greatly admired by his son—worked for a corporation. Shawn never said more. Galloway hoped McMillin senior was not really a mafia Don or a rather ordinary dad, because Shawn McMillin believed his father was important—very important. More than once the boy suggested that after he, Shawn McMillin, graduated as Cadet Battalion Commander, Captain Gal
loway should work for his father because Captain Galloway was exactly the kind of officer that Dad McMillin needed.

  Shooter realized that he was being honored, but Shawn was always evasive about his father’s occupation, and Galloway did not pry lest answers become false or contrived. The small boy profited from his Captain’s attention, and Shooter left it at that.

  Hannah was published in a prestigious New York magazine. Hers was a humorous piece about using duct tape in dire medical emergencies. Shooter recognized the inspiration. He liked the writing, and the magazine wished to meet with the author. That was highly unusual, and Hannah was off to the big city for interviews.

  Galloway wondered if he should slide on out to Oregon and end the Elder problem once and for all, but he could not see a way to get it done and himself safely away.