the wall, and scanned the area where the makeshift fight ring stood ghostly and empty. I pivoted the shotgun to my left, keeping it level to the bar and looking into the area where there were the few tables and mismatched chairs.
Still nothing.
I was sure I hadn’t heard the front door open and equally sure that the other man must still be inside when the big Dodge chirped and the interior lights came on in the truck. I started around the bar, quickly moving toward the front, when something moved to my left, raised up, and fired.
I staggered back, tripped over a loose chair, fell to the floor, and scrambled to put the bar between us. His aim had been high. He stood and continued forward, around the bar and toward me with what sounded like a 9 mm. The rounds from the semiautomatic blew through the beer poster on the wall and tore into the ceiling as I found the baseboard and turned the 20-gauge back toward the shooter. I decided to shoot high as well, since all I really wanted to do was back him off long enough to get a look at him.
I pulled the trigger and listened to the loud crash as the front window of the bar exploded onto the walkway out front, immediately followed by the roar of the Dodge as its engine dieseled to life.
I abandoned the thought of a remote starter and figured he’d just been throwing down cover fire long enough to get himself out the door to his avenue of retreat.
I struggled up from the floor and grabbed the corner of the bar as I ran toward the jagged glass shards of the now-shattered front window; I slid to a stop in the full illumination of the truck’s high beams.
I brought the Winchester up in a half-extension, the barrel pointed directly at the darkened driver’s side. Old habits die hard, and the words were out of my mouth before I could reassess. “Sheriff, freeze!”
There was a brief second when absolutely nothing happened, except the second, third, fourth, and fifth helping of guessing; you don’t know who they are, you don’t know if they’re going to comply, you don’t know if they’re still armed, you don’t know if they’re still aiming at you, you don’t know if they’re involved with the case, and you don’t want to shoot even after being shot at, unless you absolutely must.
Then the big full-ton shifted, and the reverse lights illuminated the rear of the truck. I lowered the barrel of the shotgun, aimed at the radiator, and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp click.
Nothing.
I jacked the pump-action as the Dodge flew into reverse, sprayed gravel in a murdersome arc, and was jammed into a forward gear. I took aim at the rear tires and pulled the trigger again.
Click.
Nothing.
The truck disappeared over the hill at the edge of town and then reappeared on the next hill, hell-bent for diesel leather as it continued down the Powder River Road, the smoldering running lights like tracers in the darkness.
I turned back and heard noises from the rooms in the motel—people shouting, people running, and probably now people dialing 911. I rested the shotgun on the particleboard surface, jacked the pump-action back but not forward, and looked into the empty chamber of the Winchester.
I raised my head and could still see the unconscious owner of The AR propped against the mudroom wall in the pooled moonlight. I spoke quietly to the two of us as I lay the scattergun on the bar and watched my hands shake. “Who the hell puts only one round in a shotgun?”
6
October 28, 6:11 A.M.
I waited quietly in the back of the Campbell County sheriff’s cruiser, tried not to concentrate on the multitude of stains on the seat, and watched as the former and now retired Absaroka County sheriff and the current and very active Campbell County one explained to a deputy why it was he couldn’t arrest me. The deputy didn’t seem happy with the turn of events but, with less than a year on the job and facing close to a half-century of experience, he didn’t have much
Still nothing.
I was sure I hadn’t heard the front door open and equally sure that the other man must still be inside when the big Dodge chirped and the interior lights came on in the truck. I started around the bar, quickly moving toward the front, when something moved to my left, raised up, and fired.
I staggered back, tripped over a loose chair, fell to the floor, and scrambled to put the bar between us. His aim had been high. He stood and continued forward, around the bar and toward me with what sounded like a 9 mm. The rounds from the semiautomatic blew through the beer poster on the wall and tore into the ceiling as I found the baseboard and turned the 20-gauge back toward the shooter. I decided to shoot high as well, since all I really wanted to do was back him off long enough to get a look at him.
I pulled the trigger and listened to the loud crash as the front window of the bar exploded onto the walkway out front, immediately followed by the roar of the Dodge as its engine dieseled to life.
I abandoned the thought of a remote starter and figured he’d just been throwing down cover fire long enough to get himself out the door to his avenue of retreat.
I struggled up from the floor and grabbed the corner of the bar as I ran toward the jagged glass shards of the now-shattered front window; I slid to a stop in the full illumination of the truck’s high beams.
I brought the Winchester up in a half-extension, the barrel pointed directly at the darkened driver’s side. Old habits die hard, and the words were out of my mouth before I could reassess. “Sheriff, freeze!”
There was a brief second when absolutely nothing happened, except the second, third, fourth, and fifth helping of guessing; you don’t know who they are, you don’t know if they’re going to comply, you don’t know if they’re still armed, you don’t know if they’re still aiming at you, you don’t know if they’re involved with the case, and you don’t want to shoot even after being shot at, unless you absolutely must.
Then the big full-ton shifted, and the reverse lights illuminated the rear of the truck. I lowered the barrel of the shotgun, aimed at the radiator, and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp click.
Nothing.
I jacked the pump-action as the Dodge flew into reverse, sprayed gravel in a murdersome arc, and was jammed into a forward gear. I took aim at the rear tires and pulled the trigger again.
Click.
Nothing.
The truck disappeared over the hill at the edge of town and then reappeared on the next hill, hell-bent for diesel leather as it continued down the Powder River Road, the smoldering running lights like tracers in the darkness.
I turned back and heard noises from the rooms in the motel—people shouting, people running, and probably now people dialing 911. I rested the shotgun on the particleboard surface, jacked the pump-action back but not forward, and looked into the empty chamber of the Winchester.
I raised my head and could still see the unconscious owner of The AR propped against the mudroom wall in the pooled moonlight. I spoke quietly to the two of us as I lay the scattergun on the bar and watched my hands shake. “Who the hell puts only one round in a shotgun?”
6
October 28, 6:11 A.M.
I waited quietly in the back of the Campbell County sheriff’s cruiser, tried not to concentrate on the multitude of stains on the seat, and watched as the former and now retired Absaroka County sheriff and the current and very active Campbell County one explained to a deputy why it was he couldn’t arrest me. The deputy didn’t seem happy with the turn of events but, with less than a year on the job and facing close to a half-century of experience, he didn’t have much
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