SHADOW SOLDIER PAGE
( THE GUNSMITH SERIES BOOK II )
C.K. CRIGGER
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
A Look at Crossroad (Gunsmith Series Book III) by C.K. Crigger
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About the Author
Shadow Soldier
(The Gunsmith Series Book II)
by
C.K. Crigger
City Lights Press
An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing
P.O. Box 620427
Las Vegas, NV 89162
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© Copyright 2016 C.K. Crigger (as revised)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-62918-619-1
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CHAPTER 1
I admit to being drowsy after lunch, in the zone, and a little bored. I was trying to interest myself in the routine task of cleaning rust from the barrel of an 1861 .52-caliber Spencer for one of my regular customers, a museum director with an eye to adding to his Western history collection. My brother Scott, the other half of the Irons family gunsmithing team, calls them “cowboy” guns. He prefers Sig Sauers and Glocks. I like the cowboys.
When the shop door crashed open, I woke up fast. My head snapped erect with neck-popping haste and I saw a boy standing there, looking as if he couldn’t figure out how that had happened. I felt an emanation of power even then, although I blamed the ice cube chill on the violent April wind—a wind that had snatched the unlatched door right out of the kid’s hand.
He should’ve counted himself fortunate the heavy plate glass didn’t rebound back in his face, a very real possibility had not the doorstop caught in the security bars at the bottom.
Luckily for him, the door has all the newest safety features— meaning it was expensive—since it’s specially made with a slide-over steel back up for when we’re closed. That’s an important consideration when the shop in question belongs to a gunsmith.
Of course, it might have helped if there hadn’t been two of the young buggers wrestling each other to see who could enter the building first.
I know I winced. Oh, not because of the door, but because I’ll swear I felt the circa 1912 brick structure vibrate all the way to the second story roof, as if it too, sensed . . . something . . . upon the boys’ entrance.
Apparently blind to the world around them, the boys were in hyper-drive, excited enough to be poking each other in the ribs, and making back and forth eye contact that hinted at important doings. They looked no more than twelve or thirteen, of an age and upbringing where cynicism had yet to make an indelible mark, yet still plenty young enough to build everyday incidents into great adventures.
One of the boys, an undersized blond with angelic blue eyes, swaggered over to the counter where I was working. The pungent, acid sting of the chemicals in use made him sniff, then wrinkle his nose.
“Are you Bethany Irons, the gunsmith?” His voice cracked, a loud and very surprising bass in such a young body.
“Boothenay, dummy,” the other boy said, snorting his disdain. “Boothenay Irons. Jeez, Austin, I thought you could read.”
“I can!” The blond, Austin, turned a vivid shade of red. “I just got mixed up for a minute. Boothenay—Bethany. They kind of sound the same to me.”
“My name often confuses people,” I said. The mistake wasn’t new to me. “It is a little unusual.”
Feigning not to notice the boy’s scarlet face and hiding a grin, I lifted the safety goggles I wore to prevent chemicals from splashing in my eyes and asked, “Anyhow, who wants to know? And why?”
The blond, taking me literally, jerked an introductory thumb at his dark-haired friend. “That’s Jase. I’m Austin.”
“Jase.” I smiled at the boy.
Thus encouraged, he said, “Sorry about the door,” and made sure it would stay closed before coming forward to stand by the blond.
“Well, Austin, what can I do for you?” These were local boys. I had a vague recollection of seeing them riding their bikes around the neighborhood and skateboarding up and down Millwood’s sidewalks. Since Dad and I live above the shop I know a lot of residents by sight, though I may not always be familiar with their names.
In my father’s opinion, one I have adopted, a person should never be rude to neighbors—children or adults. A business owner should also keep in mind that every acquaintance, young or old, is a potential customer worthy of respect; something too many businessmen forget. These particular potential customers were rendered temporarily wordless by the fact I didn’t throw them out of the store, let alone that I greeted them as if I were glad to see them.
Then Austin burst into speech, talking at rapid-fire speed. “Well, see, we were down by the bridge and we saw this old dude throw something in the river. We saw the water twirl it around a bunch of times, then pop the thing right back out of the water a little ways farther on. Weird, man.”
“Uh-huh?” I said on a note of encouragement. Given the stirrings of power, a glimmer of what that something might be had already occurred to me. “And you went to see what the thing was. So, what did he throw?”
“This, “ Jase said, and reaching beneath his coat, pulled out a gun. “He threw this.”
They were lucky I didn’t scream, faint or press the red panic button under the counter. I didn’t even flinch much, to tell you the truth. Maybe I’m naive, but I’ve found my customers generally to be a more honest clientele than you’d find walking the aisles of the average grocery store. I didn’t expect any trouble. Not here, not now.
Besides, I wouldn’t be in business very long if I had a tizzy every time someone exhibited a gun within inches of my not inconsiderable nose. Keeping a distance, I squinted at the pistol and said, “My, my. He threw it in the river, you say? I wonder why?”
I asked the question, though I could guess at the answer.
The gun Jase showed me was an automatic pistol. At a guess, and since they’d mentioned “old dude” in the same breath, it was probably an ex-military weapon the man didn’t know how to dispose of and didn’t want anyone to know he’d kept after his term of service. Nothing very unique in this. People do it all the time.
Water dribbled slowly out of the gun’s barrel onto the shop’s uneven wooden floor. A limp, bedraggled weed dangled from the trigger guard. The boy held the pistol like he had a snake by the head.
“He didn’t happen to throw himself in the river, too, did he?” I asked, smiling to show I wasn’t serious, although I confess the gun had that effect on me.
“Naw.” Austin, evidently the talker of the pair, answered. “He stood there for a second, watching the water, then did an about-face and marched back up the hill toward the old folks home. He didn’t see it wash back up. Hey,” he added with dawning wonder. “The place he went is called the Bethany Home. Bethany—get it? Like your name. No wonder I got mixed up. Anyway, a bunch of old geezers live there.”
“Yes, no wonder. Looks like a misspelling of my name, doesn’t it? But I can assure you I am not an old geezer.”
“I guess not.” Austin eyed me with some doubt. “You don’t look anywhere near that old. I didn’t think you were more than thirty.”
I must confess my feelings were hurt, even if he was only twelve. I happen to be twenty-seven.
“She’s kidding, Austin, Jeez!” Jase sighed with the put-upon air of one who is forever having to explain the obvious to someone who is a little thick. “The sign in front of the home says, ‘established in 1920.’ That’s almost a hundred years.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Austin, not impressed. I could tell antiquity didn’t much interest him. Their math wasn’t entirely accurate either.
Enough chitchat, I decided. If I expected to finish with the Spencer this morning, I’d better get on with it. “So what can I do for you?” I asked again.
“Well, the old guy didn’t want the gun. He threw it away, right? So we thought, finders keepers. It looks old, and your sign says you deal in antiques, so we thought you might want to buy it from us. You buy guns, don’t you?” Austin’s sales pitch may have been phrased wrong way around, but this time Jase didn’t find fault.
“Sometimes I buy guns,” I said cautiously. “Depends on whether it’s any good, or whether it’s hot, or whether I think I can make a profit.” Or not. Sometimes I buy guns for the simple reason of taking a firearm out of the hands of a person who has no business with a weapon. Like, for instance, your run-of-the-mill twelve-year-old boy.
“That guy was really old,” Jase said. “An old fart like that wouldn’t have a hot gun.”
Hmm. And I thought I was naive.
The boys wiggled with an excess of anticipation, though I could see they were trying to be cool, while I found a reasonably clean towel to lay over the top of the scarred, chemical stained counter. It’s easier to evaluate a weapon so displayed, especially when you want to avoid actually putting your hands on it. I motioned for Jase to place the pistol there.
“I always check with the authorities, boys, to be sure a gun isn’t on any of their lists. Okay with you?” They’d find they didn’t have much choice as this step was mandatory.
They looked at each other and shrugged. “Yeah, sure, I guess,” Austin answered.
I bent to examine the pistol just as my brother Scott, who’d been working over in the retail section and ignoring us, was drawn over to my side of the shop by the fact I had customers and he didn’t. He, too, may have sensed a wrongness in the gun, though he’d never in this lifetime acknowledge it.
“Hey,” he said to the boys.
Put immediately at their ease by this greeting, they replied, “Hey,” but kept watching me. I moved a high wattage lamp directly overhead, letting the glow fall onto the pistol. The boys moved closer, too, trying to see what I saw.
In immediate reaction, my ears began buzzing and my eyes went slightly out of focus. My dark hair floated in ghost curls. Heart pounding, I concentrated on hiding this reaction. I don’t believe Jase or Austin noticed a thing.
“Whatcha got?” Scott asked. Oh, he noticed. And he didn’t mean make and model. He could see that much for himself.
“Don’t know yet,” I said, adding for the boy’s benefit, “Aside from a 1911 Model.45 caliber Colt Automatic. Looks pretty fair, at first sight, if it’s legit. Want to read the numbers off to me?” I pulled a sticky note over, taking down the serial numbers as Scott read them. He flipped the pistol over, using only one finger, so I could inspect the other side.
I try never to put my hands on a gun when it first comes into the shop—or while anyone else is around. Too dangerous, by far. Scott and my dad, and now there’s Caleb, too, all try their best to protect me. I guess protect me. Sometimes I’m not sure if it’s me, or them, or John Q. Public they’re watching out for.
Since Scott was in the shop, guard duty had fallen to him on this particular day.
I straightened, forcing a grin at the boys. “Looking good, guys. We’ve got a possible. Hang on while I make a call.” If there’s anything in this world bound to frighten would be con-men, or con-boys, announcing I was going to call the authorities is it; a surefire way to discourage them from hanging about. These boys didn’t budge, a convincing testimony to the truth of their story about the old man throwing the gun away. Somehow I’d never really doubted them.
Scott kept the kids entertained, asking them if they’d signed up for a court at Hoopfest, if they’d been down to the skateboard track under the freeway, and a bunch of other boy stuff, while I did my checking.
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks,” I said, when I’d finished the call to the officer in charge of records down at the courthouse. As I’d suspected, the county computer showed nothing on file.
Austin brightened, on the verge of eager agreement, when Jase stopped him. “Three hundred,” he said. “A hundred fifty each for Austin and me.”
This boy had been studying the prices on the guns in my case while his partner talked.
Behind their backs, Scott made a face and winked.
“A hundred-fifty each! No way. We don’t even know if this thing will shoot. What do you think you have here? A one of a kind, silver-mounted artifact?” Listen to me! I sounded like a bargain hunter in an exotic bazaar. I already felt a little guilty because I might be taking advantage of the kids. On the other hand, what I’d said was true. Maybe the gun wouldn’t shoot. Maybe that was why the old man had tossed it in the river, although I suspected a stronger reason. But if that were the case, then I’d be the one on the short end of the stick.
The boys’ faces fell, making me feel like I’d just kicked the dog. I said, “Considering that all you had to do was pick the gun up, a couple hundred sounds like easy money to me.”
Jase’s dark eyes measured my reaction. “I had to get pretty wet going after it. Cold, too. You know how high the river is now. What if I’d fallen in and pulled Austin with me? What if we’d drowned? Wouldn’t be easy money then.”
I had to smile. The twerp. He sure knew how to work me. “Okay, okay,” I said, relenting. The bid did seem reasonably fair. “A hundred and a half each. Blood suckers!”
Jase laughed. I am such a pushover. Ten seconds later, I knew from the brilliance of the kid’s grin that I should have stuck by my first price. If the Colt wasn’t as good as I hoped, I’d be lucky to make my money back. Of course, I also stood to make a tidy profit if my hunch turned out right. Everything depended on whether the pistol would be safe to sell.
One of the things I already knew was that what looked like the original clip was secured in the butt. The numbers were right for a WWI model, not the later WWII or Korean conflict sidearm, and with my hunch quotient standing up and yelling at me, I felt fairly confident of my judgment.
I took down the boys’ names and addresses for my records, wondering how they’d explain their sudden affluence to their parents. Or would they bother to explain anything? Would their parents even notice—or care?
I thought about how they’d acquired the pistol, no mean feat with spring run off causing the river to run high. An incidental fluke caused the river to suck the pistol down, then as soon as the old man turned away, puke it back up, within Jase’s reach. Incidental fluke, my foot! Did I mention I don’t believe in coincidences? Not when it comes to guns.
Jase and Austin left after our transaction, pushing side by side through the d
oor. The metal-reinforced glass latched closed behind them, once more shutting out the wind, which oddly, didn’t seem as strong now. The boys stopped outside the shop where, through the window, I saw them standing on the sidewalk beside their bicycles, counting their money and grinning like maniacs. Rain pelted down, splotching their jackets dark.
“So,” Scott said again. “Whatcha got?” From the wary look in his eyes, I knew I’d have to answer his question this time.
“Don’t know,” I replied, the same as I had five minutes ago, but added, “Something.”
“Oh, hell.” His disgust was palpable. “I knew it. You go all wild-haired like you’re about to fly into pieces every time you get near one of those damn things.”
“Sorry.” An understatement. “I can’t help it.”
Those damn things, as my brother called them, were guns, nearly always old, whose history called out to me in some way. Called out, then drew me, heart, soul and body—oh, yes, I said body—into their story. Under a compulsion, I guess, to ensure any drama surrounding their usage be revealed.
Impossible? Well, no, but don’t ask me to rationalize how an inanimate object can make itself understood, or how I’m able to understand it. I don’t know.
Shadow Soldier (The Gunsmith Book 2) Page 1