“I don’t think so. He wants a small town practice, somewhere near the border.”
“Well, that’s us. You’ve met Alan Perrone yet?”
“I have.”
“Maybe he can link up with Alan. Who knows what lies ahead.” I turned the county car off the pavement, following a dirt road pounded to brick by heavy trucks. The sign for McInerny Sand and Gravel Products had been painted sometime in the past decade, and served as well as a sporting target for shooters too lazy to get out of their cars.
Another mile, and the chain-link fence with razor wire on top hove into view. The gate was closed but unlocked, and before I had a chance to unbuckle, Ms. Reyes had bounded out of the car and done the honors. Just as she slid back into the car, the gate closed behind us, a loud gunshot peeled out.
“Genius at work,” I said. “There’s a set of ear plugs in the center console under all my shit. Dig ’em out.” Around a massive pile of gravel and a fleet of decrepit ore trailers, I saw Bob Torrez’s Bronco in one of the alcoves, the quarry banks towering twenty feet over his head. No bullets were going to escape from this place.
Deputy Torrez hefted a single-bit axe and aligned the blade with the top of a large chunk of pine about a foot long and as much in diameter. He then picked up a three pound hammer. He didn’t glance up at us, but concentrated on the task at hand-a most methodical, craftsman-like way of splitting firewood.
The yule log resisted a few blows, but then crackled and yawned, and the deputy pried it open.
“Ah,” he said with satisfaction.
“We have a regular bullet trap back at the office,” I said.
“Didn’t want to wait,” Torrez said, and stood up. He held half of the twelve inch diameter log in one hand, and offered it to me. “This is just an experiment, anyways.” The splitting process had been dead-on accurate, and I reached out and took the rifle bullet that had been jarred loose from the wood fibers. The nose was mushroomed nicely, the jacket and lead core deforming all the way back to the cannalure. That wasn’t what I found interesting.
I adjusted my bifocals and peered more closely. The brass jacket toward the rear of the slug was bright and shiny. Not a trace of rifling marked the slug.
Chapter Fifteen
“So how did you do this?” I asked, and passed the bullet to Estelle Reyes. It seemed a natural enough thing to do. The deputy beckoned toward the back of his Bronco. The tail gate was open, and the mess inside was typical Bob Torrez. No doubt-well, maybe-he knew where everything was, but his organization was a private affair.
Two rifle cases rested close at hand, and he opened the nearest one and retrieved what anyone who had watched television westerns or had even a faint interest in firearms would instantly recognize as a Winchester lever action carbine. He jacked the lever open and handed the weapon to me. It appeared to be pristine, without a scratch on the wood or the bluing.
“All right,” I said, and peered at the legend on the barrel. “A.32 Winchester Special.” I nodded at the bullet that Estelle still held. “And that?”
Torrez opened a tool box full of gun stuff-patches, oil, screw drivers, rods and hammers, even a stopwatch. He opened an ammo box and held the cartridge out to me.
“Thirty-thirty,” I read off the headstamp, and then made the connection. “You’re telling me that you fired this in…that?” I looked with suspicion at the.32 Winchester, warm in my hands. “You’re telling me that the.30–30 will chamber just fine in the.32?”
“Sure enough.”
“And that’s what you shot into the log.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Huh.” I rolled the cartridge between my fingers. “From how far away?”
“A yard, maybe.”
“Okay.”
“You want to follow with me on this?” His tone said that I didn’t have much choice. Excited in his own quiet way, Torrez was sniffing hard on a trail.
“Sure.”
He retrieved a roll of qualifying targets and peeled one off. I’d probably shot half a thousand of the B-27 human silhouette qualifying targets in my career. Featuring a full-sized human head and torso on a 24 x 45 inch sheet of paper, it was an absurdly easy target to hit, mainly because it didn’t shoot back.
“I have a stand,” Torrez said.
“I hope so, ‘cause I ain’t going to hold the target for you,” I quipped. We watched him staple the target on the light frame, supported by a pair of steel feet. Satisfied, he walked the target stand out perhaps fifty feet, in front of the sloping back wall of the gravel pit.
“Ears?” he asked.
I nodded at Estelle, and she dug out the set of ear plugs. The deputy handed me a set of the department’s fancy schmancy ear muffs.
“I just get one?” I said as Torrez rummaged and then handed me a single cartridge. I glanced at the head stamp and saw that it was a.32 Winchester Special, the right ammo for the right gun.
“Go ahead, sir,” he said.
“Range is hot,” I mumbled and stepped forward, glancing at my two companions to make sure ears were covered. A quick glance along the rim of the quarry assured me that no youngsters had sneaked up to watch. The cartridge slipped into the chamber effortlessly and I closed the lever. Fifty feet isn’t much of a challenge with a rifle, so I aimed for the head. What the hell. Why not grandstand when given the chance. The light rifle’s sights were clear, the stock comfortable.
The report was a muted bark, the recoil a good stout punch. With the sun as it was, even my sorry eyes could see the light streaming through the hole right in the center of the felon’s forehead.
“Nice rifle,” I said. “I should own this.”
“George Payton can make that happen, sir.” Torrez referred to one of my oldest friends, owner of the Posadas Gunnery.
“He let you walk out with this?”
“Sure.” He handed me another cartridge. “Try it again.”
Not the dullest tool in the box, I saw that the cartridge had come from another box, a.30–30. From neck down, it looked exactly like a.32 Winchester Special. The only difference was from the neck up-a slightly smaller bullet at.308 rather than.323.
“Well, this is going to be fun,” I said, and suddenly the rifle felt awkward. A lifetime of gun handling, without a single incident of jamming the wrong cartridge into a weapon, made the whole process just feel wrong.
I glanced back at Torrez and Estelle Reyes, both of whom waited expectantly.
Loaded and locked, a thoughtful exhale, just the right sight picture, my index finger so smoothly increasing pressure on the heavy trigger. The rifle bellowed again, bucked against my shoulder, and I saw dust fly.
The felon stood in the sun, a single hole in his forehead. I lowered the rifle and peered more closely.
“Must have gone through the same hole,” I laughed. “The old Robin Hood splitting the arrow trick.”
“Do it again,” Torrez said, and this time he handed me five rounds. “Just shoot until you have a group.”
One after another, I fed the five rounds into the carbine’s magazine. And one after another I let fly at the target. With the first shot, a hole appeared near the bottom edge of the human figure, right under the belt buckle. The second and third kicked dust, no where near the damn paper. Round four blew off the felon’s right ear, and the fifth and final shot exploded a chunk of target frame just above the steel feet. “Oops,” I said, and lowered the carbine, its barrel warm. “Well, that’s impressive shooting,” I said. “Did you do any better?”
He beckoned and I took the opportunity to stow the rifle in the case. The target he unrolled showed a tight group of five rounds, slightly above and to the right of the X in the center chest. Torrez came as close to a laugh as he ever did. “This five shot group is with the correct ammo, sir. The other group is with the.30–30 stuff.”
“I see no other group.”