The Sixteen Dollar Shooter (A Rockabye County Western Book 1)

by Edson, J. T.

  Although Brad made the draw at his greatest speed, he did not complete it by pushing down the safety catch and squeezing the trigger. Instead, as the man’s revolver was coming into view, he thrust the Colt forward. Driven as hard as Brad could manage, the muzzle stabbed with considerable force into the man’s solar plexus.

  Letting out a strangled gasp, instead of the warning yell which he had been on the point of uttering, the stricken man doubled over. The revolver dropped from his grasp as his hands went to the point of impact. Bringing up the Colt, Brad swung it so that the bottom of the magazine caught the back of the man’s skull and he collapsed like he had been pole-axed.

  Listening for any suggestion that the gang had seen or heard the attack on their look-out, Brad drew out his handcuffs with his left hand. He snapped one link on to the unconscious man’s right wrist and coupled the other around the ambulance’s rear bumper. Even as he finished taking that precaution, the sound of footsteps and voices came to his ears. Kicking the revolver under the vehicle, he swung around and darted to the gate. He did not go through into the yard. Instead, he prepared to make use of another combat shooting technique.

  Standing at the left side of the gate, Brad placed his left foot so that it almost touched the wall. He laid his left palm flat against the edge of the gate and supported the right wrist on the ‘V created by the wood and his extended left thumb. By bringing his right foot around behind the left, he caused his body to twist so that all anybody in the yard would be able to see was his automatic-filled right fist, the left thumb and a small portion of the side of his head. He would present a difficult target for the crooks, especially as he would have a practically unrestricted field of fire at them. What was more, using the ‘barricade stance’ allowed for greater accuracy than was possible at the end of a ‘speed rock’.

  Brad had barely adopted his position before he saw the first of the gang emerging. Dressed in a similar manner to the look-out, he was walking backwards and helping a second white-clad man to carry a large and obviously heavy wooden crate. They were closely followed by two more criminals wearing ordinary street clothes and carrying a second crate between them. The last of the quartet had on the fedora hat which had betrayed their presence.

  On coming out of the door, the leading man moved to his left so that he would be walking sideways instead of backwards. However, good fortune continued to favor Brad. Apparently the incident in which he had participated on Yancy Boulevard was the cause of controversy among the gang. Instead of looking across the yard and becoming aware of their danger while their companions were still inside the building, the white-dressed pair’s attention was directed towards them.

  ‘I don’t see what you’re so uptight about,’ the man in the fedora was complaining. ‘If he’d seen us, he wouldn’t have used his right hand to try the door. He’d’ve kept it ready to draw.’

  ‘All right, already, so he didn’t see you,’ the taller of the first pair answered. ‘But that doesn’t mean we should stick around.’

  ‘Hell, we’ve not got a bad haul,’ the second white-dressed man went on. ‘Don’t let’s push our luck—!’

  At that moment, tires squealed and there was a rapidly-growing sound of engines. A car swung into each end of the street, rushing along it with the beams of their headlights lancing ahead to illuminate the scene. Startled exclamations burst from the men and they dropped their burdens.

  ‘Peace officer here!’ Brad shouted. ‘Stand still!’

  On the point of turning to run back inside, the men stared at the gate. Then, hearing more cars on Yancy Boulevard, they realized that there was no hope for them in that direction.

  ‘Don’t try it!’ Brad warned, when the man with the fedora made a movement as if meaning to reach into his jacket. ‘Get your hands into the air.’

  ‘Do like he says!’ yelled the first man to have come out and obeyed. ‘He’s got us cold!’

  ‘Didn’t see us, huh?’ the second to appear snorted, glaring at the man in the fedora as he raised his hands.

  Accepting that there was no other course open to them, the other two followed their companions’ examples.

  Although satisfied that he had the situation under control, Brad did not move from his position. However, he could not resist taking a quick glance in each direction. One of the back-up units was an R.P. car. As the other did not have a red light attached to its roof, Brad assumed that it was carrying detectives. On it coming to a halt, he was delighted to see Sergeant Shayne jump out. Drawing their guns as they left the vehicles, the officers converged on the gate. Only then did Brad take his Colt out of alignment and relax.

  ‘Nice going, Terry,’ Patrolman Tocino praised as he and his partner went by to secure the prisoners.

  ‘Is this all of them?’ Shayne inquired sourly.

  ‘I reckon so,’ Brad replied and could not resist continuing. ‘Do you reckon we should put the arm on that cat?’

  ‘Huh?’ Shayne grunted.

  ‘For all we know,’ Brad explained, ‘he might be the brains behind the gang.’

  Part Four – The Lessons Learned from Combat Shooting

  Conscious of being watched by several pairs of eyes, Deputy Sheriff Bradford Counter walked around the left hand curve of the dirt surfaced track. Ahead of him were the first of the dilapidated wooden shacks which lined the streets at the bottom of the blind draw.

  Having completed the special assignment successfully, Brad’s eyebrows and hair had been returned to their normal color and the false mustache was a thing of the past. A low crowned, wide brimmed J.B. Stetson hat, with its band decorated by silver conchas, rode at the traditional Texas ‘jack-deuce’ angle over his right eye. There was a tightly rolled, multi-colored silk bandana knotted about his throat, its ends trailing over his gray shirt and red and white calfskin vest. He had on Levi’s pants, the cuffs turned back and hanging outside a pair of calf-high hunting boots.

  The Sam Browne belt about Brad’s waist had lost most of the items which it had carried when he was posing as a patrolman. Only the Bianchi Cooper-Combat holster, key and handcuff cases remained. His ammunition carrier had been exchanged for one which bore two seven-capacity magazines and a third that held twenty bullets.

  With each stride, the big blond felt the sensation of anticipation growing and sought to keep in check his surge of tension. There was too much at stake for him to get all tightened up. Considering the kind of men he was up against, he was going to need every bit of speed and accuracy he could muster. Let there be just one small error and it would be all over for him.

  ‘Come on, you bastard!’ Brad thought. ‘Make a move, damn you!’

  Almost as if in answer to the unspoken request, a figure dressed as a cowhand and carrying a rifle loomed through the doorway of the second building on the right of the street.

  Coming to a halt on spread-apart feet, the deputy immediately set his right hand into motion. As its thumb and three fingers folded around the Colt’s combat stocks, which were shaped so as to ensure that he always gripped them in an identical manner, his forefinger slipped under the long tang of the Elden Carl ‘Fly-off’ safety strap. A flick separated the male and female portions of the retaining press-stud and the strap lived up to its name by leaping away from the holster and gun. Liberated, the automatic slid out of the ‘bikini’ rig so swiftly that the eye could barely follow the movement. With the muzzle pointing away from him, he inserted his forefinger to rest on the enlarged trigger-shoe which had the effect of spreading and so reducing the pressure required to operate it. At the same moment, his thumb found and pushed down the oversized protuberance of the manual safety catch.

  While Brad’s superbly tuned reflexes guided his hand, his brain was assessing the situation with lightning speed. With the menacing figure appearing at an angle which barely left it visible beyond the corner of the first building on the left, and with more than the width of the street between them, he knew that shooting from the waist would avail him nothing. So he c
ontinued to elevate his weapon. Rising in conjunction with the right, his left hand cupped under it at shoulder level. Extended at arms’ length, the pistol was conveniently positioned for him look along the cocking slide, aligning the blade of the foresight with the notch of the adjustable rear-sight.

  Then, three-quarters of a second after the first movement of Brad’s right hand, the automatic cracked. Back flew the cocking slide, forcing the hammer rearwards to the fully cocked position and pitching the empty case into the air. On its return, the slide thrust the magazine’s uppermost round forward into the chamber so that all was ready to fire again. To do so did not prove necessary.

  Struck in the center of the chest, the figure retreated rapidly through the door and out of Brad’s sight. Applying the safety catch without the need for conscious thought, he returned the Colt to its holster and walked on. He left the ‘Fly-off’ strap where it had fallen, which proved fortunate.

  On reaching the end of the building, Brad turned left and looked along the street The next shack on that side extended farther than the one he was passing and had a window in it. When he was about fifteen feet away, a figure that looked like a Mississippi riverboat gambler holding a Remington Double Derringer rose upwards as if meaning to fire through it at him.

  Again the deputy halted on slightly bent legs. Inclining his torso to the rear, he scooped the automatic from its holster with his right hand in an incredibly swift ‘speed rock’ draw. With the right elbow tight against his side and the pistol barely higher than the lip of the holster, he squeezed the trigger. In a quarter of a second, he had fetched out his weapon and planted a .45 bullet between the figure’s eyes. It disappeared, sinking below the bottom edge of the window.

  Again the Colt returned to its compact holster and Brad walked on. He had only taken three strides when, a good one hundred and fifty yards away, the shape of an Indian with a rifle at his shoulder appeared at the foot of the draw’s sheer end.

  Showing the same speed and precision, the big blond once more produced his automatic. Sinking into a kneeling position, he rested his left elbow on the bent left leg and supported his right hand. Taking about twice as long as on his first shot, he aimed and fired. An instant later, to his relief, the Indian turned sideways and disappeared.

  ‘He hit it!’ Sheriff Jack Tragg ejaculated, coming close to showing the pleasure and excitement he was feeling.

  Tall, lean, ruggedly good looking, the senior law enforcement officer of Rockabye County wore his khaki uniform and carried a Colt Python .357 Magnum revolver in the open topped holster of his Sam Browne belt. In some way, he contrived to look as if he was dressed for galloping across the open range at the head of a posse which was hunting for outlaws.

  Standing at the edge of the draw which overlooked the ‘town’ of Heveren’s Gulch, the sheriff held a pair of powerful field glasses to his eyes. He had watched as the big blond deputy dealt with the first two targets and he was now studying the end of the draw.

  When the target shaped like an Indian had turned parallel to the wall, it had already carried several patches of paper. They had been pasted on to cover the bullet holes made by the previous contestants in the Rockabye County Department of Public Safety’s Annual Leatherslap.

  However, none of them had succeeded in hitting the long range target with the first shot. Just so long as the newest member of the Sheriff’s Office did not commit any serious blunder, he had the trophy in the bag. No mean achievement that, for he was competing against the best handgun experts in Texas, the adjoining States and Mexico.

  Unlike the game of ‘fast draw’, which had come into being during the upsurge of action-escapism-entertainment Western television series in the mid-1950’s, combat shooting was very serious gun work; even more so, in fact, than conventional target competitions. Although ‘fast draw’ and combat shooting both entailed working with a holstered firearm and reacting as one would in a gun fight, there was a vast and vital difference between them. In ‘fast draw’ the sole idea was to pull and fire off a blank cartridge without trying to hit a target. Combat shooting called for the competitor to use a revolver, or automatic pistol, of at least .38 Special caliber. He was expected to draw on and hit, at a variety of distances, life-sized human figure targets; working against a time limit and under as near natural conditions as could be arranged.

  The targets being used for the Annual Leatherslap might be dramatic in appearance, to give them more appeal for the large number of spectators—the contest being held to raise money for local charities—but that did not make them any less difficult to hit. They were meant to be a severe test of the contestants’ practical gun knowledge.

  Brad’s thoughts were running parallel to the sheriff’s as he saw the target pivoting away, informing him that he had hit it in the vital ‘kill’ zone.

  The Indian had already been the cause of difficulties for Brad’s two most serious rivals. Captain Eugenio Machados, head of the Mexican Police in Southern Chihuahua, had scored a hit with his first shot; but had only nicked the side of the arm. That had caused the target to turn slightly instead of going all the way and he could not move on until it had resumed an edge-on position. Two more shots had been required before he had hit the ‘kill’ zone and made it swing the full distance. Later, Deputy Sheriff Sam Allardyce—representing the Presidio County Sheriff’s Office—had missed clean with his first shot, although his second bullet had caught the head of the target for a definite ‘killing’ hit.

  In a way, the long range target had seen the removal of another very capable opponent. First Deputy Ricardo Alvarez—who commanded the second Watch at the Sheriff’s office in Gusher City—had suffered a misfire while aiming at it. Such an event would probably have cost him his life in a real gun fight and was equally fatal— if not so permanently—in a combat shooting competition.

  With Alvarez eliminated, it had fallen upon Brad to uphold the honor of their department. In the opinion of the sheriff and watching deputies, the big blond was highly competent to do so. He was considered one of the best all-round gun handlers in the Sheriff’s Office; which could be an asset in the jet-age, just as it had been back in the decades immediately following the end of the War Between the States when a peace officer’s speed on the draw was frequently the only means of maintaining law and order. Certainly there had been no arguments, despite the earlier misgivings regarding his appointment which had been expressed by some of his colleagues, when First Deputy McCall had asked him to represent their Watch.

  The situation-reaction course that Brad was firing had been modeled on the lines of Camp Perry’s famous ‘Hogan’s Alley’. It had been donated to the Department of Public Safety by the Bonanza Oil Corporation, which operated an extensive field in Rockabye County and was called ‘Heveren’s Gulch’ in honor of the company’s president. To ‘run’—the actual running would be commenced further along—the course called for more than a fast draw and accurate shooting. It demanded that the contestant assessed various combat situations and came up with the correct answers in a hurry.

  Under the rules of the competition, partly for safety reasons, the contestant had to holster his weapon—after applying the manual safety in the case of an automatic—before advancing in search of the next target. On the rim, judges using telescopes watched for infringements which would cost the transgressor valuable points.

  Thrusting himself erect, the big blond did not return the Colt to the ‘bikini’ immediately. There were, he knew, eight more targets to come and he had only five bullets in the automatic.

  Should he advance and reload after dealing with the next target?

  Or ought he to make the exchange straight away?

  The decision must be made swiftly and it had better be the right one. Although he could not run until he had crossed the marker on the street, that did not mean he might dawdle or stand debating the subject with himself. Up on the rim, a stopwatch’s mechanism had been set into motion as he had passed the starting post on the slope and
would continue to measure the seconds until he had completed the course.

  Already Brad’s left hand had descended to the flap of the ammunition carrier and thumbed it open. Then he extracted one of the seven-round magazines. At the same time, his right thumb pressed the magazine catch to the rear of the Colt’s trigger guard. Set free, the depleted magazine slid from its housing in the butt. Almost as soon as it had gone, Brad was replacing it. Without wasting a motion, he had regained the advantage of having eight bullets instantly available. While the long magazine would have given him twenty-one shots, counting the round already in the chamber, drawing the pistol with it in position could not be done at the highest speed.

  Holstering his automatic, Brad strode forward once more. Then things began to happen—and happen fast!

  About ten feet away, a target patterned to look like an armed, masked outlaw flicked out from behind the corner of the right hand building. At the same time, a second ‘owlhoot’ emerged from an alley twenty feet along the left side of the street. Travelling at what would have been a fast sprint, it moved straight across Brad’s front. As if that was not enough, yet a third target pivoted out of a door halfway along the next building on the right and went away from the deputy at a fair speed.

  All of which presented Brad with a tricky problem. While the first target was within a distance at which he could hit at by instinctive alignment at the end of a ‘speed rock’, the nearer of the moving ‘outlaws’ was just too far away for the same method to be sure of success. The third target was well beyond the range where ‘hip-shooting’ would be productive, even if it had been stationary.

  Training and experience provided Brad with the solution. Speed rocking the Colt from the bikini, he slammed a bullet into the head of the closest target. Instead of fighting down the recoil, he allowed it to help him elevate the automatic to shoulder level. His left hand rose to join the right as he went into the ‘Weaver Stance’. Swinging at the hips, he turned the gun towards the nearer moving target. Timing the move perfectly, he squeezed off a shot so that it converged with and punctured the ‘outlaw’s’ chest. That brought the target to a halt.