Page 6 of The Texas Murders

The crowd has grown large—and raucous—but when the announcer says, “Shooters set,” everyone quiets down.

The light flashes, and our hands fly to our guns.

Ryan’s bullet splats against the edge of the target for a time of 0.310.

My time—dead center—is 0.322.

The announcer shouts the scores and the crowd erupts, no one able to believe what they’re witnessing. I can’t believe it myself. I’d told myself not to worry too much about winning, just to have fun. But I’m caught up in the fervor of the crowd.

I want to win.

We have two more shots remaining. Ryan gets set on the line, the picture of concentration. His body is tensed, his eyes focused. I do the same. When the light flashes, I snatch my gun as fast as possible.

I nail the target’s center for an unbelievable time of 0.309.

I look over and see Ryan’s time: 0.306.

Ryan has a grin on his face as he glances over at me.

“It’s still anyone’s ball game,” the announcer states. “Well, I mean, between Yates and Logan, that is.”

I’m behind, but we’re talking about fractions of seconds here. All I need is an excellent draw—and for Ryan to have one of his worst.

The other three shooters confer and all decide to bow out, letting the two of us face each other head-to-head.

“It’s been fun, Rory,” Ryan says to me.

“You’re the fastest I’ve ever seen, Ryan. You’ve made me faster than I thought I could be.”

“Same,” he says.

He looks confident that he’s got this in the bag. I tell myself to forget he’s there. I’m not shooting against him. If I do my best and still lose, then Ryan earned it and I have nothing to be ashamed of. I’m shooting formybest time.

“Shooters on the line,” the announcer says, but we’re already there, digging our feet in, getting our bodies set, our minds focused.

I slow my breathing.

I can feel my heartbeat calming down.

“Shooters set.”

I empty my brain and concentrate only on the light bulb. When it flashes, my reflexes take over. The wax bullet explodes in the center of the target.

I relax and holster the gun, knowing I’ve shot my best.

I look at Ryan’s time, an extraordinary 0.299.

My heart sinks for an instant, knowing he beat me. But then it swells with respect. If I’m going to lose, then at least I lost to a member of the 0.3 Club.

Ryan takes off his hat and scratches his head, looking back and forth between his time and mine, as if he’s trying to do math in his head. I look at the digital readout above my target and can’t believe what I’m seeing.

0.284.

I assume I’ve still lost—he was too far ahead—but damn it if I’m not proud of that shot.

“You’re not going to believe this, folks,” the announcer declares. “We’ve got a tie.”

The crowd is abuzz. There’s nothing in the rule book about what happens in a draw. We overhear the organizers weighing their choice—letting the tie stand or disappointing an edgy crowd.

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