Jessie stopped and stared into his eyes, as if searching for something.
“What?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing. I just haven’t met anyone quite like you before.”
“Is that good or bad?”
She hooked an arm through his and resumed walking.
“Ask me tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Because it will mean that you lived through today.”
It took closer to three hours for the betting to be sorted out. The crowd was none too happy with the sudden change in plans, but there was also a palpable excitement growing in the air. Who was this stranger? Why did he believe he could stand against the camp’s most notorious and skilled gunslingers? Was he brave, or simply stupid? Skilled, or a buffoon with a death wish? He had managed to defeat Bones, but only by skirting the intent of the challenge. Did he even know how to shoot a gun? Most bet that he would be out in the first round, but a few were willing to accept longer odds on what they now saw as the competition’s dark horse.
Leroy, Ramsey, and Mason stood in the center of the field as they prepared for the upcoming match. Mason studied the trusses. They were perhaps fifteen feet tall and set about fifty feet apart, with ropes hanging beneath them.
Ramsey turned to Leroy. “Ready when you are.”
Leroy brought the bullhorn to his mouth and announced that Ringo would be the first gunfighter to face the man they were now calling “The Marshal.”
Ringo strolled out onto the field, waving to the crowd. Despite his outwardly confident demeanor, there was a twitchiness to his smile. The tournament had clearly changed, and what had been billed as little more than target practice had turned into something arguably more dangerous.
Leroy motioned for Ringo and Mason to face each other while he explained the rules.
“Every skilled gunfighter needs to be able to fight from unconventional positions. For that reason, you will be hung by your feet and sent swinging through the air. The first one to kill or incapacitate the other wins the challenge.”
Ramsey stepped closer and handed each man a Cimarron Model P. The single-action revolver was a recreation of the ones carried by gunfighters in the late 1800s. Ringo smiled from ear to ear as he twirled the pistol around his finger to the delight of the crowd. The Model P was perhaps the perfect weapon for a man so accustomed to playing cowboy.
Mason showed no such flair. Instead, he carefully dropped the cylinder to inspect the ammunition. All six of the .45 Colt cartridges remained unfired. He clicked the cylinder closed and weighed the weapon in his hands. Two and a half pounds, give or take a few ounces. The revolver sported a five-and-a-half-inch barrel, smooth walnut grips, and a simple fixed front sight blade. Compared to modern semi-automatic firearms, it was lacking in nearly every respect but one: it could still kill with the squeeze of a trigger.
“The pistol goes in the front of your waistband,” Ramsey said, waiting until both men had stowed it accordingly. “If either of you draws before the round starts, I’ll shoot you myself.” He turned to Mason. “You, I’ll shoot twice.”
Mason said nothing.
“Ringo, you’re with me,” Leroy said, leading him toward the far truss.
Ramsey turned to Mason. “That means I get the pleasure of stringing you up.”
Not liking the way that sounded, Mason reluctantly followed Ramsey to stand beneath the other truss.
“On your back with your feet together.”
Mason did as instructed.
As Ramsey snugged the rope around his ankles, he leaned close and said, “If Ringo should happen to kill you, I want you to know that I’m planning to take care of that little sweetheart of yours. I wouldn’t want her going without.”
Again, Mason said nothing. Trading barbs with a man hoisting you up by a rope was a good way to get a boot in the face.
Once he was in the air, Mason was sent swinging from side to side, like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. Worse yet, with each movement, he began to rotate ever so slightly. Between the lateral movement and the slow rotation, Mason realized it would be difficult enough to see his opponent, let alone hit him with an antique revolver.
The crowd began to cheer and stomp their feet. Things were about to begin.
Leroy waited until everyone was clear of the trusses before turning to the shooters with the bullhorn pressed to his mouth.
“Shooters ready?”
Mason and Ringo each stuck a hand out to one side.
Leroy lifted his pistol into the air and fired a single shot.
The round was underway.
To hit a man-sized target at fifty feet was trivial, but to do so while hanging upside down, swinging from side to side, would be far more challenging. There were two possible approaches. The first was to try to track the opponent by following his movement with the muzzle of the firearm. And the second was to attempt to trap him, basically holding the gun out straight and waiting for the enemy to come into the line of fire.
Ringo opted for tracking, sweeping the gun from side to side as he tried to line up a shot. He was the first to fire, but his bullet missed by more than a yard, thudding into the heavy truss.
Mason took an entirely different tactic, drawing the pistol with his right hand while extending his left palm toward the ground. The drag of his hand quickly stopped his swinging, but he was still twisted at an odd angle, making a clear shot difficult.
Instead of trying to square his body with Ringo’s, he looked up at his feet, took aim, and shot the rope. Shooting a rope is not as hard as some might believe, especially not at a range of only a couple of yards. The trick was to ensure that the rope was taut and the bullet of a large enough caliber to sever most of the strands. The 250-grain, .45 Colt slug was up to the task, snapping the rope and sending Mason tumbling to the ground.
Ringo saw what he was doing and frantically squeezed off three more shots. One hit the dirt in front of Mason. The other two never came close, whizzing past him to smash into a truck full of wood that had been parked behind the truss. Unfortunately for Ringo, firing in such rapid succession increased his rate of spin, making it nearly impossible for him to regain his bearings.
Mason took aim and squeezed the trigger. The bullet hammered into Ringo’s right shoulder, and he screamed in pain. To his credit, he managed to pass the pistol to his other hand before his injured arm gave way and flopped uselessly over his head.
Mason fired again, this time striking his left shoulder blade.
The gun fell from Ringo’s grip as he momentarily lost consciousness. When he came too, both hands were brushing the ground, blood dripping over his leather gloves.
Mason untied the rope and walked toward Ringo with the Model P raised.
Ringo flopped his sagging right hand in the direction of his weapon, the desperate act of a desperate man.
“If you touch it, I’ll put one in your chest,” Mason said, cocking the hammer back.
Ringo went limp, every ounce of fight now gone.
Mason moved closer and kicked the weapon away.
Leroy hurried onto the field and declared Mason the winner. Surprisingly, the crowd didn’t jeer or boo. While many had lost money or property, there was no questioning that they had witnessed a true test of skill and nerves.
One man stepped forward and held up several bills.
“Fifty credits on The Marshal!”
Another man quickly took his bet. Before long, dozens of people were shouting, some placing bets for Mason, others against. With Ringo’s defeat, things had suddenly become more interesting.
Mason said nothing as he followed Leroy off the field.
“Pretty clever,” Leroy said with an approving nod.
“Never fight by another man’s rules. You know that.”
“Even so, knowing’s one thing, doing’s another. I had often heard it said that you were a hard man to kill. I’m beginning to see why.”
Despite it being offered as a complim
ent, Mason felt his temper rising. A man was being carried off the field, bleeding from two bullet wounds inflicted by his hand. The whole event reeked of glorified violence. To shoot a man was one thing, but to do so for a crowd’s pleasure was something else.
“How long until the next challenge?”
“They’ll need to set it up. I’d say be back in an hour.”
Mason turned and began walking toward the RV. When he was halfway across the field, he saw Liberty approaching. The big man’s gait was not one of someone looking for a fight. Even so, Mason stopped and placed a hand on his Supergrade.
Liberty came to within a few yards and stopped. He stood nearly a head taller than Mason and easily outweighed him by a hundred pounds or more.
“Can I help you with something?” Mason said, watching the man’s hands.
“That was some fine shooting you did there. Merciful too.”
“You came out here to compliment me on my compassion?”
“No,” he said with a quick shake of his head. “I came out here to ask you something.”
“All right,” Mason said, taking his hand from his weapon. “Ask away.”
“Why are you standing against us? Against the side of law and order? It seems contrary to the badge you’re wearing.”
“There’s nothing lawful about what’s happening here.”
“But the Fallen are all violent criminals. If we don’t deal with them, others will surely suffer at their hands.”
“Some are criminals. Others may not be.”
Liberty cocked his head. “Explain yourself.”
“I met a man who helped to frame some of the prisoners. Truth is, there’s no way to know how many are innocent.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“I wouldn’t be putting my life on the line if I didn’t.”
“Does Leroy know?”
Mason shrugged. “He’s operating under plausible deniability.”
Liberty turned and studied the Fallen. Even though they were no longer having to compete, Ramsey had made sure they were present to witness what their future might hold.
“Tell me one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“How does a man know if he’s standing on the right side of things?”
There was a sincerity to his question that surprised Mason.
“Every man has to make that decision for himself. But the fact that you’re asking the question should be answer enough.”
Liberty nodded and extended a gloved hand.
“You’re not a man I’m willing to kill.”
Mason shook his enormous hand, thinking that it reminded him of his father’s oversized mitts.
“Good to hear that.”
“Stay frosty, Marshal. The world needs men with a conscience, now more than ever.”
The third round looked to be more subdued than the previous ones. White circles had been spray-painted on the dirt about fifty yards apart for the shooters to stand inside. Two of the men who had set up the trusses were huddled behind a thick makeshift barrier to one side of the field. Both were wearing reflective yellow vests, no doubt hoping that the bright colors might reduce their chances of being accidentally shot.
Leroy stood between Muchado and Mason like a referee at a prizefight. Ramsey was off to one side, holding two matching long-barrel shotguns. Belted ammo pouches hung over each shoulder.
Leroy looked to Mason and then to Muchado, ensuring he had their undivided attention.
“This challenge will resemble classical skeet shooting, with targets being lobbed toward both men simultaneously.”
Mason leaned around, trying to get a better view of the setup.
“Are they using catapults?”
“That’s right.”
“And must we hit every target?”
“No. A miss won’t disqualify you. As with all the matches, it ends only when one of the competitors is either unwilling or unable to continue. In effect, you will be competing side by side in this round.”
“We’re not shooting at each other?” Muchado said in his thick Hispanic accent.
Leroy held up a finger. “Coming to that. The circles are your personal zones of protection. If you stay inside, your competitor may not fire upon you. If he does, he will have violated the rules.” Leroy nodded toward Ramsey. “I think you know what happens at that point.”
“And if we should step outside the circle?” asked Mason.
“If you do that, your competitor is free to shoot you, but you are not free to return fire. My advice,” he said with a smile, “is don’t step outside the circle.”
“What exactly will they be throwing at us?” Muchado said, scratching his belly.
Leroy looked over at Ramsey, who said only, “Not knowing’s part of the fun.”
“You white devil, you,” Muchado said with a laugh.
Leroy continued, “The weapon for this round will be a Winchester Super X3.”
Ramsey stepped forward and handed a shotgun and shell bag to each competitor.
As Mason secured the canvas pouch around his waist, he counted at least twenty bright red number-9 shot shells inside. Birdshot of that type made it easier to hit targets, but it also did less damage.
“All right then,” Muchado said, slapping Mason on the shoulder. “Let’s see what kind of trouble they have in store for us, eh, amigo?”
Before Mason could remind him that they were anything but amigos, the big Mexican turned and marched onto the field, waving his sombrero like a bullfighter entering the Plaza de Toros.
Mason took his time getting into position, feeding shells into the weapon until there were three in the magazine tube and one in the pipe. This particular model of X3 was chambered in twelve-gauge, had a twenty-six-inch barrel, and was finished in a natural green camouflage color. Mason was by no means an expert with a shotgun, but he had shot clay pigeons numerous times and had even carried a pump-action M590A1 into combat on a few occasions.
Once safely inside the white circle, Mason spread his feet to a comfortable width, pointing them toward the men preparing to throw targets. He practiced swinging the gun up a few times. The weapon felt long and unwieldy. He reminded himself to focus on the targets, not the front bead. Shooting moving targets with a shotgun tended to be a point and squeeze operation. The fact that the targets would be coming directly toward him would make things that much more interesting.
Leroy stood to the side of the field, bullhorn in hand.
“Shooters ready?”
Both Mason and Muchado signaled that they were.
Another loud gunshot, and the match was officially underway.
Mason waited, his heart pounding. A metallic kertwang sounded, and objects sailed through the air. He swung the shotgun up, tracking the one coming toward him. Muchado’s shotgun sounded first, and in Mason’s peripheral vision, he saw the man’s target explode into small wet chunks. Despite the temptation to fire, Mason waited to squeeze the trigger until he could identify the target.
It was nothing more than a rotten cantaloupe.
He relaxed, letting the fruit fall harmlessly to one side. No need to waste a shell.
The crowd offered a quick clap at Muchado’s excellent shooting.
Mason began a silent count, anticipating that each target might be equally spaced in time. When he got to five, another target appeared. It was a glass bottle, a small strip of flaming cloth dangling from one end. Mason tracked the Molotov cocktail until it was at the apex of its flight before firing. The bottle exploded, sending shards of glass and fiery liquid raining down onto the field.
Muchado hit his target as well, and the crowd clapped with greater enthusiasm as two small fires now burned in the grass.
Mason began his count again. When he got to five, the familiar kertwang sounded. The cloud of residual black smoke from the Molotov cocktail made it hard to see the target. When he could finally make it out, he saw that the object was long and thin, and there was a brigh
t spark at one end.
Dynamite!
He immediately swung the muzzle up and fired three quick shots, peppering the sky with a sea of metal pellets. Thunderous booms shook the air as Muchado followed suit. Unlike C4, dynamite was more likely than not to explode when shot, and both sticks did just that, rocking the air with two deafening blasts.
This time the crowd cheered and waved their hands. Everyone loved a good explosion.
Mason’s ears rang as he quickly retrieved shells from the bag and loaded them into the shotgun. As he was inserting the last shell, the catapult sounded again. Perhaps fearing another stick of dynamite, Muchado fired almost immediately. His target vanished, turning into nothing but a pink mist. Resisting the urge to fire, Mason rested his finger on the trigger, waiting until he could be certain of his target.
“God, no,” he muttered, his stomach knotting.
A fuzzy grey kitten sailed through the air, its tiny legs outstretched in pure terror. Mason lowered the shotgun and leaned out, hoping to catch the animal. He managed to break its fall, but it bounced off his hand and landed on the ground near his feet. He couldn’t afford to check on it, instead turning his attention back to the sky.
Seeing what had happened, the crowd cringed and shrank back as an uneasy murmur spread throughout. Muchado, however, seemed merely amused, laughing loudly at their squeamish reaction.
Mason’s face tightened. This was Ramsey’s doing, and he would be held accountable. Now, however, was not the time to become angry or distracted, as that could very well have been Ramsey’s intention from the beginning.
Mason returned to his slow count, skipping one and two because of his brief interaction with the kitten. Three… four… five. Another object sailed through the sky. It was small and olive drab in color, with a distinctive yellow band circling the top.
An M67 grenade.
Muchado’s gun sounded, winging the grenade. Unlike the dynamite, it didn’t explode. Instead, it tumbled from the sky to land about ten yards away from him.
Mason probably knew as much about M67s as any man alive, having carried them into combat on countless missions. He knew, for example, that they were filled with 6.5 ounces of composition B explosive, and equipped with an M213 pyrotechnic delay fuze. Detonation typically occurred four to five seconds after the spoon was released, allowing them to hit the ground prior to exploding. Fatality radius was five meters, and injury radius was three times that, with some fragments capable of traveling a hundred meters or more.
The Survivalist (Freedom Lost) Page 26