Shooting Range

A novel excerpt

Author’s note: I post a lot of fiction on this platform, which probably explains why I’m not too popular. But no matter, because that’s what I do — write novels and short fiction. My aim is to entertain; not instruct, give advice, opinionate/pontificate, and, apparently, rake in the moolah I keep hearing about. I’ll leave that to those more qualified.

The following is from my newest, soon to be released novel Sooner be Dead. It’s the long-overdue second book in my Legends of Tsalagee series. This book completes a trilogy that takes place in the small Oklahoma town of Tsalagee (pronounced “Cha-la-gey” and is a derisive Choctaw word for Cherokee). Genre-wise, the last two books are murder mysteries with a generous dollop of colloquial humor. This is novel #2’s opening scene. Call it a short character study on two of the main characters.

Static. “Cal, Sunny called in to report another murder.” Static.

The lawman keyed the mike. “Another one? Why’s she keep calling these murders,” he asked the dispatcher.

Static. “Guess she determined whoever she found dead looked to be killed with malice aforethought.” Static.

“Helluva lot of killings going on out there,” the deputy came back. “That’s, what… fourth one this month?”

“Third. The other’n was for attempted murder. Better go see your uncle, Cal.”

“Ten-four, Pete. I’ll check it out.”

Deputy Calvin Bluehorse turned the white SUV — a Chevy Tahoe officially called Unit Two — onto County Road 17, but he didn’t switch on the emergency lights or hit the accelerator. The first time Cal slid behind the wheel of the old war wagon, the spring of ’14 his rookie year, he named it Sherman, after the iconic World War II tank. Seemed appropriate, the old Tahoe drove like a tank and had seen a few battles. Ten years old, worn seats, the dash faded and cracked in a few places. Despite a couple shop stays for bodywork, the veteran vehicle still showed a few scars, the gold stars on the doors a little faded. The deputy thought of Sherman, sometimes Sherm, like he would a trusted old horse.

He’d been down this road before, both literally and figuratively; not only as a deputy to the sheriff of Unega county but also as a beseeching nephew. The whole thing seemed kind of silly. The truth be told, he would never arrest his Uncle White for what he’d done; everybody knew that, even the complainant. But because they got the call, he had to drive out and talk to him. No need to go to Sunny’s place just yet. He’d get his uncle’s side of the story first.

Cal wheeled Sherm through the cattle guard entrance and drove up the hundred yards of gravel drive to his uncle’s house. An hour had passed since Miz Griggs — Sunny — phoned in her murder complaint, so the deputy didn’t know White’s exact whereabouts. He figured he might’ve come to the house for lunch by now, so he’d check there first.

Stepping out of the truck, he heard the distant pop of gunfire. Couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the .357. Back in the unit, he drove around to the back of the house, past the barn and chicken coop, stopping at the closed aluminum gate in the barbwire fence that closed off the back pasture. Two more shots popped through the mid-morning air.

Past the gate, Cal proceeded along the two-track trail wandering across the fallow pasture to the woods a quarter of a mile away. He lowered his window just as two more shots rang out. His uncle’s camo-painted ATV sat at the wood’s edge. White stood off twenty yards behind a weather-worn wooden picnic table, loading a big revolver.

His right cheek pooched out with a wad of Red Man. The tobacco pouch stuck out of the old cowboy’s jeans hip pocket. He wore his usual western-cut shirt with pearl-snap pocket flaps, today’s a green plaid. One of his ball caps covered his balding head, this one a sweat-stained, plain O.D. with the gold and black 1st Cav shield on the crown.

He interchanged his ball cap collection with a couple of cowboy hats, depending on his mood and the weather. This was a ranch cap. His town caps were nicer, cleaner. His best was a black cap with the National Defense, Vietnam Veteran, and Vietnam Campaign ribbons embroidered horizontally across the crown. Gold words above and below the ribbons announced the bearer as a “Vietnam Veteran.” “Vietnam Vet” curved along one side of the bill, in case you didn’t notice the other.

He usually reserved that one to wear to football games, parades, Memorial Day ceremonies, and such. But today he was shooting out back, so all he needed was the slightly sweat stained 1st Cav O.D.

Several other firearms lay across the tabletop — two rifles and another pistol. Down a shallow tree-spotted valley and back up the opposing slope targets stood at varied distances: two-liter plastic bottles filled with blue water sat on a log, metal silhouettes of various game animals. Out about a hundred yards, a man-sized metal silhouette painted to look like a stereotypical Middle Eastern terrorist pointed an AK back up range towards the shooter.

Stopping next to the four-wheeler, Deputy Bluehorse shoved the gear lever into Park and shut off the engine. The old rancher glanced up at the deputy’s approach, continuing to load the pistol. “Mornin, Cal,” he said. “Seen ya comin.”

“Mornin, Uncle White. Guess you know why I’m here.”

“Wantin to sharpen up some on your shootin skill, I expect. Hear you could use it.”

True enough. Cal had never been a great shot, just enough to qualify for the job. Took a lot of guff in the department, had to suffer a lot of smart-ass comments from his colleagues. But in his six years behind the badge, he never had to fire his sidearm on duty. So, there you go. The deputy looked at the targets down range. “Naw. We got another complaint.”

White spat. He preferred the Silver Blend of the chewing tobacco. Being sugar free, he figured it’d be healthier. “Sunny again, I reckon. Damned old hippie.”

“She said you shot another one of her gnomes.”

“Is that one uh them little statues she keeps plantin ever’where? Talkin to her, you’d think they’s alive. Says they got spirits.”

Cal knew the stories, but reserved judgement on his uncle’s long-time neighbor. “They’re garden gnomes, Uncle White. This is the second or third one you’ve destroyed. She’s still looking for you to pay for those you already shot off the heads. Which you told me you would do.”

His uncle grunted, slapped the cylinder shut on the six-shooter.

“That’s willful and malicious destruction of private property. I could cite you. It’s a misdemeanor for every instance unless they’re valued at over two hundred and fifty bucks, then it’d be a felony.”

White put a brown stream of spit two feet in front of the deputy’s right boot.

“Your shooting out here upsets her, says it upsets her animals, too. She’s afraid a stray bullet may hit one, or her.” Cal knew there was no law against White’s shooting out there, it was his property and his gun range. He also knew nobody in the county knew about or handled guns in a safer manner than White Oxley. But Sunny had complained, so he passed it along to his uncle.

“Aw, hell, Cal. I’m just out here shootin at targets. You know that, and you know I don’t shoot reckless… she does, too. As for them concrete dwarfs, she deliberate put ’em at the fence line lookin towards my house like some kind of voodoo or sumpin.” He spat. “Damn things’s creepy, so I sent ’em on to concrete dwarf hell. She’s just wantin to be her usual pain-in-the-ass self, that’s all. What she’s best at.”

The deputy looked at the fence line and headless gnomes. Couldn’t disagree. “I know, Uncle White, but you can’t keep doing that. Besides, you’re shooting into her property. Now, if you don’t pay her for the ones you beheaded, I’m gonna have to haul you in.”

The uncle cold-stared at his nephew for some seconds, sent a spit sideways. Cal slapped a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Why don’t you call it a day out here. C’mon, I’ll take you to Arlene’s and buy you lunch.”

Following the ATV across the pasture, dispatcher Pete’s voice broke over the deputy’s radio. “Unit Two, Headquarters.”

Cal keyed the mike, “Go ahead, Pete.”

“Cal, you need to go over to Tubbeeland; looks like we’ve got a real one this time. Dove hunter over there discovered a body.”

Thanks for taking the time to read this piece. You are more than welcome to critique pos or neg. It is, after all, part of a first draft. And as Ernest Hemingway once said, “All first drafts are sh**.”

Please visit my website to read previews from all my novels. When you join my readers group, I’ll send you a free copy of my short stories collection, Skins Game.

© 2020 by Phil Truman. All rights reserved.

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