Page 8 of The Texas Murders

“Shooter on the line,” the announcer says, and when Ryan’s ready, he adds, “Shooter set.”

In a flash, Ryan drops his coin and draws his gun. Thecrackof the shot is so much louder than the wax loads we used before.

He reaches down and picks up his quarter.

“Damn,” he mutters. “I missed it completely.”

The crowd groans with disappointment, and the announcer explains that it’s my turn and if I hit the quarter, I’ll win the contest. Ryan hands me the quarter and wishes me good luck, winking to say that he really hopes I miss.

I face the fence in front of the barricade of rubber tires. I hold the quarter out at shoulder height and place my other hand on the grip of my SIG Sauer, which feels much more familiar to me than the handle of the Vaquero.

Thisis my gun.

I try to tune everything else out, focused only on the task at hand. Like before, with my incredible 0.284 shot, I am in an almost meditative state. Nothing exists but me and the shot I need to make.

I let go of the quarter.

My hand yanks the pistol.

Somewhere in front of me, I spot a slight blur of movement—a fistful of straw.

My brain registers that it’s the child who was squirming in his mother’s arms. He’s wriggled free and darted into my shooting lane.

But my reflexes are on automatic pilot.

The gun is already in my hand, swinging up.

My finger is inside the trigger guard, squeezing.

CHAPTER 5

SOMEHOW THE SYNAPSES in my brain send the message to my hand in time. I let the coin fall and thrust my gun high up in the air, stretching my finger outside the trigger guard. The silence—when we were all expecting abang—has a strange, sobering effect on the crowd. I hear gasps of terror and then exhalations of relief.

The mother runs past me and scoops up her little boy, who seems oblivious to the danger he was in. Crying, the woman clutches him in her arms, thanking me profusely and apologizing at the same time.

My heart pounds as fast as I ever remember it pounding, even in the most heated of battles. My legs are wobbly. My whole face feels numb, and I blink back tears.

The organizers are looking at each other with expressions that say,What should we do?

“Do you want to try again?” one of them asks. “We’ll do a better job of keeping the crowd back.”

I holster my gun.

“Gentlemen,” I say, “I’m calling it a day.”

The crowd gives me the biggest round of applause of the afternoon.

“Rory,” Ryan says, putting a hand on my back. His voice is full of genuine respect. “That was the finest gunmanship I’ve ever seen. You’re the winner in my book.”

I tell him that I’m happy with a draw.

“We all had fun and nobody got hurt,” I say. “That’s all I care about.”

Ryan takes my hand and holds it up, and the two of us stand for a moment with our arms raised in joint victory, letting the audience give us another round of applause. I have to spend a few minutes shaking hands and talking to folks, but I’m eager to get out of there. It’s late in the afternoon, and I’ve got a three-hour drive ahead of me to get home to Redbud. More important, I feel a little sick to my stomach and just want to sit in my truck and decompress.

As I’m heading toward the exit, however, I spot Ava Cruz. She’s buying a lemonade from a stand, with her bow and arrow slung over her shoulder across her body. I break my stride and approach her.

“That was some nice shooting I saw you do earlier,” I say to her.

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