Shooter Galloway

by Roy F. Chandler

  Tiny would be interested to examine the battered piece. He would want to discover what had held up and if anything had not done as well as expected. The entire armory would want to handle the rifle that had nailed so many enemies.

  Shooter gripped the familiar shape of the Gallagher composite stock. He shouldered the rifle, pointing it at various objects. The crosshair looked clear in the dented Leupold scope. He worked the bolt and squeezed the trigger on the empty chamber. Smooth, virtually without movement, just like it always had been.

  There was a little daylight left. Galloway dug out an old box of Federal Match Ammunition and headed for his range. Hell, he wouldn’t be able to do much shooting in failing light with an unzeroed rifle, but—damn—it felt good to handle the rifle that had kept dropping Iraqis as long as he kept shooting at them.

  Galloway felt an unexpected contentment, as if things had come full circle—sort of. Was it the recovery of his rifle, or maybe the possible change in his circumstances?

  Whatever the reason for the small euphoria, Galloway felt that life had unexpectedly acquired a tingle, as if he might be moving from the sidelines and back into the battle.

  Was that where he wanted to be? Gabriel judged he had better think a lot about where he would land before he made that jump.

  Chapter 31

  Shooter was showing Mop the hollow beneath the ledge he had discovered after the loggers had cleared the forest.

  “I haven’t gotten around to cleaning it out, Uncle Mop, but with more humus out of the way, this cave could give fairly decent shelter. It looks like this guy Robishikee crawled in there back in the seventeen hundreds, and while he was waiting for the rain to pass he scratched his name and the date into the rock.”

  Mop said, “Let me have that flashlight,” and crawled inside where he could see more closely. After a moment he called out.

  “Slide on in here, Shooter. There’s room, and I think this scratching is actually two words.” Shooter wedged himself close and Mop held the light so that it highlighted the deeply gouged printing.

  Mop said, ”This first letter I is not like the second one. It’s longer and it slants a little. I think the line is just a slash to separate words. See it that way, and it reads ‘Rob and Shikee,’ then the date of 1752.”

  Shooter could see it, and he felt goose bumps jump all over him.

  He said, “Geez, Uncle Mop, you don’t suppose that could be real, do you?”

  “Darned if I could tell, Shooter, and I doubt whether anyone could, but my guess is that it’s legitimate. Who would crawl into this hollow and write names and a fake date? What would that amount to?”

  They crawled out and sat on top of the half-cave. Shooter said, “I guess those names don’t mean anything to you, Uncle Mop?”

  “Nope, you know anybody with those names?” Mop grinned. “1752 was little before my time, anyway.”

  Shooter almost feared to hazard what he suspected.

  “Almost no white men got into this country before 1754, but there was a boy who escaped from going to a poor house or being indentured who came over the mountain and lived with the Indians. His name was Rob Shatto.”

  Mop’s exclamation was rewarding. “Wow, Gabriel, do you think that could be the same Rob?”

  Shooter said, “I think it could be because Rob Shatto’s closest companion in those days was a Delaware boy about his own age whose name was Shikee. That’s in the historical records, but not many read that stuff, and I doubt the names have ever been common knowledge.”

  Mop whistled, awed by the find and its meaning.

  “It would seem likely then that Rob and Shikee took cover from bad weather in this crack in the earth. Rob would have done the scratching because a Delaware Indian boy of those days would not have had writing.

  They thought about their find for some minutes before Gabriel sighed and hopped off the ledge.

  “You and I can believe it, Uncle Mop, but darn few others will. Most will claim one of our earlier relatives did it hoping to have a joke on everybody.”

  Mop snorted, “I wouldn’t put that possibility completely out of mind, Shooter. We’ve got forbearers that were said to be real pistols who would do about anything.”

  Shooter said, “I’ll tell you why that isn’t likely, Uncle Mop. If someone wanted to leave fake messages or markings like that, he would make sure they could not be mistaken. What he would have done was scratch in Rob Shatto’s whole name. Then discoverers would be more certain to arrive at the conclusions he wanted—and believe them.”

  Mop said, “So, we’ll get somebody who might be able to tell how ancient that rock scratching might be. Someone from up at the University, most likely.”

  Shooter made his way to a huge flat-topped stump that was a favorite seat. Mop sat down beside him.

  Gabriel spoke seriously.

  “Uncle Mop, are you familiar with plausible deniability?”

  “Of course. I’m educated, Shooter. I’ve driven by a big number of universities.”

  Mop went on more seriously. “Plausible deniability means that you’ve got distance enough from something so that you can claim to know nothing about it.”

  Shooter said, “That is how I understand it, too. So, I am going to speak in terms that will allow you to state that you really don’t know anything about what I am going to tell you, and you will be telling the truth.”

  Mop said, “That’s about as clear as a city sewer, but go ahead.”

  Shooter began carefully, keeping everything suggestive and impersonal. Few names, fewer details, just unconnected, generalized information

  “Do you remember that Pap had an old Civil War sort of pistol that shot a huge cartridge, .50 caliber to be exact?”

  Mop tried to remember. “Yeah, I sort of recall a gun like that, had a hammer as big as your thumb, single-shot wasn’t it?”

  Shooter seemed to change the subject. “Did you know that Fred Thebes’s boys began driving bulldozers and trucks when they were ten years old? Mostly they drove them up at the old Thebes dump that was up there behind Carson Long.”

  Mop had not known that, and Shooter again turned the subject.

  “Remember the summer we shot pistols and worked like mad on developing fast draws? We did a lot of long range shooting back then, and thereafter, as well.”

  Mop grinned in pleasant memory. “Yeah, Shooter. That was a great summer. I was afraid I might go broke buying all of that ammunition. Mostly we shot GI hardball because it was cheap and you could get it anywhere back then.”

  “You taught me to rappel that year, Uncle Mop. I learned more from watching the Carson Long Rangers, but they thought I was too young to be in their Company.”

  Mop was interested in the talk, but he did not see any need for plausible deniability. What was Gabriel getting at?

  Shooter turned his eyes upward taking in the remains of the Elders’ platform. “Down that cliff would be an interesting rappel, don’t you think?”

  Mop nodded, but he saw nothing special about the drop.

  Gabriel rambled on. “You know, Uncle Mop, I have often wondered if someone who commits a serious crime or two worries about someone else being blamed for them. As long as the perpetrator is alive, he could go in and admit he had done it, but suppose he died in an accident, or a war, or moved away. An innocent man could be convicted and jailed.

  Mop tried to get in the game. “Well, he could put it all down on paper and give it to his lawyer or someone to open on his death.”

  “He might not want anyone to ever know, unless someone else was accused.”

  Mop had nothing more to offer, so he waited.

  Shooter seemed to shrug as if deciding to go ahead. He said, “You know, they have never found out who shot Box and Sam Elder. In fact, they have never had a suspect, that I heard about.”

  Mop nodded and thought some about that.

  Shooter said, ”The shooter is probably right under our noses. He was probably the one who pushed the Eld
er house over the cliff.” Gabriel looked at Mop as if expecting something.

  Shooter said, “You know, when Pap was alive I used to crawl under Ferdy’s old saloon. I had a hiding place where I could see and hear about everything that went on in there. I’ve never mentioned that until now, Uncle Mop.”

  Mop still didn’t get it, so Gabriel kept going.

  “Remember that Pap taught me to hold for center of mass if I ever had to shoot anybody? He said that is the way combat soldiers shot.

  “Boxer and old Sam Elder both got shot center of mass, did you know that?”

  Mop was nodding when he got it. His head jerked around, and he stared at his nephew. Words failed as he put the pieces together. He saw Shooter watching him almost patiently, Mop thought.

  Before he could speak, Gabriel said, “I’m thinking of taking that job with Mister McMillin, Uncle Mop. If I do, I will be gone most of the time, and I am told there is some danger associated with the security end of their business.

  “Some subjects need mentioning, like my Last Will and Testament dividing everything between you and the school—not that I am expecting to depart this mud ball—but it is best to know some things. Other details just don’t get told straight-out, I guess, but someone should still know.”

  Mop was jolted to the core. Unsure of what he was hearing, he stumbled a bit.

  “Are you telling me what I think you are telling me, Gabriel?”

  Shooter said, “Remember plausible denial, Uncle Mop? I haven’t told you anything. We’ve just been talking.”

  Mop got himself together and asked one question of the one hundred that were flooding his mind. “I wonder if Fred Thebes would teach a very young boy how to drive a bulldozer?”

  Shooter answered, “I doubt if he would bother, but one of his sons might, if the teaching was for a school theme paper or something like that. I wouldn’t ask unless I really-really wanted to find out.”

  They walked back to the old house, Mop struggling with what he had been told and what he surmised from it.

  Shooter moved on to other things.

  “I’m going to put the new house I have planned on hold, Uncle Mop. If I go with Mister McMillin, it will just sit here. This old place will hold Emma for as long as she wants to stay. After that it won’t matter if it falls down.”

  They went inside and Shooter said, “There’s something you ought to know about.”

  He opened the bunker, and Mop said, “Holy hell, I never knew about this.”

  Shooter said, “Only Sonny Brunner and I know about Pap’s bunker. Most of Pap’s old stuff is still here.” He paused and added, “That old Civil War pistol and its ammunition disappeared a long time ago. Nobody knows where it went, and as far as I know, only you and I remember that it ever existed.”

  Shooter pondered for a long moment. “If I take Mister McMillin’s job, this stuff really ought to be moved out. The place could burn or be vandalized if Emma moves into assisted living or something like that. I think I’ll box up whatever is worth saving, and ship it out to you. I’ll sell the junk to whoever buys that kind of stuff.”

  Mop Galloway was a long time getting to sleep. As sure as he lay there, Gabriel was telling him that he had shot both Boxer and Sam Elder. My God, Gabriel had only been . . . how old? Maybe eleven?

  Mop worked at unraveling and reorganizing the clues Shooter had laid out. He guessed Gabriel had seen or heard the Elders kill his father. He had come home gotten the big pistol and shot Box dead in the parking lot. Then he had gone back to bed, and nobody had even thought about him. Mop sure hadn’t.

  Later, when was it? Mop could not remember, but Shooter had shot Sam Elder dead in a gun fight on Elder’s own ratty porch using a .45 caliber pistol and then—Mop whistled through his teeth—then, Shooter had rappelled down the cliff and gone home.

  Way to go, Gabriel! Mop wished he had known what Shooter had known. He would have killed the Elders without waiting so long.

  But the surviving Elders had worked it out. Because of Ferdy’s letter, they had been blamed but never charged in Bob Galloway’s death, and Mop had never seen evidence to justify personally going after them.

  The Elders had decided that Gabriel had done the shootings, and they did not care about evidence. Mop wondered if they had discovered anything, but he would never find out now—nor would anyone else. There was satisfaction in that.

  So, two of the Elder boys had come at Gabriel, and Shooter had killed them both. Whew, Gabriel Galloway was even harder than Mop had thought he was.

  How many was that? Mop counted them. Four Elders—Good Lord! The two hit men out in Montana made it six. How many in the Gulf Wars? Dozens, from what Mop could determine.

  Other disconnected thoughts flew through Mop Galloway’s mind. He would bet the .45 pistol he had seen in the bunker was the one Gabriel had used on Sam Elder, and he would bet everything he had that the barrel had been changed. He remembered that no empty brass had been left at the Sam Elder murder site. Well done, Gabriel. The gun could not be tied in.

  Mop worried some about Gabriel’s wounds. His back had a huge scarring behind the shoulder where the Elders had left their mark, and his right side still looked sand blasted, but some of that would disappear. The bullet wounds in his arms and the slashes across his legs from the first Gulf War were barely detectable. The head wound was a greater worry, but the best of medicine (except for Walter Reed) claimed he was healed.

  Gabriel Galloway was not getting off scot-free in these many battles.

  Mop Galloway went to sleep with a sense of satisfaction. He wished he could have taken the burden off his nephew years before. Then he realized that he probably just had. Carrying the memories of those shootings without the chance of even whispering them to another must have been hard.

  Mop smiled to himself. Best of all, Shooter had admitted nothing. Mop really did have plausible deniability.

  Chapter 32

  Hannah and Doc Dyer came in for the fourth of July. Everybody did. Jim and Shohba Long came from California. Retired folks long gone to Florida appeared, and Roy Elder slipped in from Oregon.

  Everyone except Roy sought to be recognized by old acquaintances and strived mightily to remember folks they had once been close to.

  Elder intended exactly the opposite. No one could be allowed to recognize him or he would have to walk away, and Roy Elder was tired of waiting.

  He wore an old hat that shaded features disguised by a large mustache and short cut beard. His hair hung over his ears and reached down the back of his neck. He had purchased thick safety glasses with prominent rims, and he wore blue contact lenses that really altered his looks.

  Elder’s clothing was nondescript jeans, cheap black athletic shoes, and a dark-colored jacket over a black polo-style shirt.

  He had flown into Pittsburgh, rented a car, and would return to Oregon the same way.

  Roy Elder’s gun had been shipped within baggage on his airplane. Roy worried little about his weapon being discovered because, within the United States, only hand baggage was closely examined, and if X-rayed, his cut-down shotgun was field stripped into three parts and little resembled a gun. It was unlikely to be recognized.

  Roy had chosen an old double barrel shotgun. He had sawed the barrels to ten inches. He cut the fore stock to match. The extreme shortening destroyed the catch holding the barrels to the stock, but Elder included a roll of duct tape that he would use to simply wrap the pieces together—which would last for the firing of each barrel a few times before he discarded the shotgun in a pond or stream.

  He had also sawed the stock off at the grip. The result was a murder weapon that would need both hands to hold but would deliver a tremendous wallop at point blank range. Roy disguised the action by including it within a set of lightweight tools and their box—in case the improbable happened and his baggage was examined. Elder bought his ammunition, a single pack of five double-ought shells, in a sporting goods store en route to the county.

 
; Elder’s plan was simple. He would shoot Galloway squarely in the chest, just as his brother Boxer had been killed.

  Everyone came to the carnival. Most arrived in daylight and left in the dark. If Galloway followed that custom, Elder would simply be waiting. He would step out from among the cars in the parking lot. If Galloway was alone, he would announce his name, and drop Galloway in his tracks. If Galloway were accompanied, he would simply shoot. Then he would fade away among the automobiles and pickup trucks and reach his rental parked at a safe distance with an unobstructed route of escape. By the time anyone reacted, he would be on his way to the mountain pass north of Ickesburg.