Fire Eye (27 page)

Decker lies just below the skyline on the small rocky outcrop with Jesse at his side, watching them approach through the binoculars. They spotted them from the ridge a long way out and stalked carefully to close the range. He deliberately picked a spot that is not an obvious hiding place. An overhanging tree provides a patch of shade to keep them cool, but also helps shield them from view. He is pleased with the fire point he has selected with his keen eye. It provides good shooting angles covering likely lines of approach. From their hide they can sneak away undercover in three different directions to stalk anyone who comes into their line of sight if they were too far away.

This is going to be easy,
Decker decides, as he catches movement on a ridgeline to the northwest. He has paced out the ranges to various places and worked the numbers, knowing he can command the land to a radius of four hundred meters or more. There is barely any wind and the faint breeze comes from a consistent direction. Next to him, Jesse cradles the rifle, tracking the bitch and the ponce as they come into sight. Decker can sense the tension of Jesse’s eagerness to caress the trigger and send off the bullet that will eviscerate her. His own desire takes over and he can’t resist it any longer.

“Give me the rifle!” he commands.

“Ah, for fuck’s sake, I want to do her!” Jesse pleads.

Decker feels for his son but his own emotions are too strong. “Too bad Jess, I want this!” he snaps without explanation, his emotional outburst surprising himself.

Grunting in frustration, Jesse passes him the rifle. Decker cradles it, resting the fore end on the binoculars he has covered with his folded jacket. He cradles his left hand back under the rear of the stock, letting the binoculars hold the fore end securely with the jacket as padding to eliminate any vibration that could throw the shot out. The rifle rests securely in the improvised rest. He centres the cross hairs on the bitch’s head, right between her eyes, lifts them slightly to compensate for the range as she comes up fully exposed over the ridgeline. He savours the thought of seeing her head explode then swings the cross hairs across to Joe, standing there in his deceit.
He has already taken little brother and expects the deal to stand. He’s a game fucker,
Decker recognises, but still can’t forgive.

The anger eats away at Decker as he savours the sight of the cross hairs on Joe’s head, the feel of the trigger as he caresses it with his finger and takes up the first stage of the pull. The bastard will pay big time. He feels his whole body stimulated by the sensation of the trigger under his finger. He lifts the cross hairs again as he compensates for the range, concentrating on his breathing to let the rifle become part of him.

As he focuses on the target he considers the ponce headmaster. He is a bloody nuisance and has disrupted his plans. The prick is good though. Better than he expected! Best put him down now while he has the chance. He wants to gloat on his superiority and stand over him as the better man as he writhes in pain. He shifts the cross hairs onto Jed’s stomach, gently breathes out and squeezes the trigger.

Jed isn’t happy but sees nothing to cause concern as the nausea gnaws at his guts. He wants to bend over and throw up onto the rock but holds himself together. What is he doing? Maybe they should swim a river and take their chances through the swamps, but he still rejects the idea. Fear of the swamps is stronger than his fear of Decker. He can’t think of anything better in the circumstances.
This is the best option,
he tries to convince himself. Doubts nag at him as he fights an ongoing battle, losing confidence in his judgement. He keeps scanning the landscape, looking for anything to give him the slightest warning. If Decker is out there, he will be part of the country with no tell-tale sign.

They are getting close to the place where all this started. Joe is in front of him and slightly below. Jed sees him sweating, drops of perspiration running down his forehead and dripping from his nose.
Unusual
, Jed thinks. He has shown no sign of exertion up until now. Joe turns toward him and looks into his eyes to vent his feelings. He suddenly steps toward him and opens his mouth to speak the truth. Just as the bullet strikes!

A forty grain .223 WSSM projectile leaves the barrel at four thousand three hundred feet per second, a hollow point with a thin, frangible jacket enclosing its core. It is a superb varmint cartridge and perfect for taking rabbits and foxes cleanly out at a long range. Jed expected words to follow the opening of Joe’s mouth. Instead, he sees an eruption of red stuff from Joe’s head, blasted back by the impact of the bullet that disintegrates as it hits the bone of his skull. The energy of the bullet is converted into hydraulic shock that is transferred into Joe’s brain and the blood vessels that keep it functioning. Blood and brain matter spray over the front of Jed’s shirt and Alex’s jacket. It splatters onto the rock surface around them in a random pattern of droplets. Joe is dead, but his body still stands in surprise before his legs give way. He collapses into a heap in front of them.

The human reaction time used in road accident investigation is one point five seconds. Some people react faster and others take longer, depending on age, experience and fitness. Jed has been a hunter for thirty years and is an aerobatic pilot. He reacts in under a second.

“Run!” he yells to Alex.

Joe has been shot in the head and he guesses Alex will be next. The human brain works incredibly fast under pressure. His improvised armour only offers a modicum of stomach protection. His instant reaction is that he has second-guessed Decker wrongly. He will go for the kill shot into the head and his stupid stomach protection is a waste of time. He has led Alex to her death.

He senses unconsciously where Decker is from the angle of the shot. There is no time to do anything apart from yell a useless command. He will never know that Decker worked the bolt of the rifle, shifted the cross hairs onto his own chest and caressed the trigger just as Jed threw himself sideways. Jed is vaguely aware of something plucking at his sleeve under the armpit before he hits the rock, rolling over and over down the slope. As he tumbles downward, a fleeting thought flashes through his mind,
Fuck the bastard’s good!

Decker works the bolt smoothly once again and lines up the cross hairs on Alex’s head as she stands frozen in shock. At the last moment he drops the cross hairs onto the side of her stomach, just as she starts to turn in response to Jed’s yell and the sight of Joe’s exploding head.

The next bullet grazes across the front of her body, protected by the thin piece of aluminium and a layer of sixty year old leather. The bullet disintegrates and fragments lacerate her stomach. The remainder splatter against the rock surface around her or disappear into the landscape. The impact hits her just as she is starting to turn and she loses her balance. In almost slow motion, Alex tries to regain her balance but slips on a pebble. She loses the battle and tumbles over sideways, hitting the rock surface with a thump and rolling down into a cleft.

Silence descends quickly after the sound of the last shot dissipates across the vastness of the country. Jed keeps rolling, shielding his head with his arms and then stops the downward movement by slamming a boot into the ground. Pain starts in his arm, mild at first but rapidly becoming a savage, burning sensation tempting him to cry out in pain. He fights it down with brutal determination.
That was a long shot,
he decides unconsciously. He guesses he has a few minutes before the shooter covers the distance to inspect his kills. Forcing himself onto his knees, Jed re-establishes his bearings and works out where Alex should be. He pulls the Colt from where it sat against the small of his back, impacting his spine every time he rolled. The knife on his belt has done the same to his hip. The inevitable bruises are the least of his current worries. He crawls between and around the rocks to where Alex lies. She is a jumbled assortment of arms and legs, crumpled untidily against a rock that is stopping her rolling further down the slope. A rivulet of blood runs down her face from a head wound where she impacted a rock.

He crawls next to her and touches her neck with his fingers, searching for a pulse. It is there, irregular but still strong, fairly normal for a trauma situation. He knows he doesn’t have long but hesitates for valuable seconds, deciding on a course of action. He makes his decision. He holds his arm out so that the blood drips onto her stomach area and then draws his knife and puts the blade against his wound, pulling it back once with a sudden, decisive movement. A wince escapes his mouth, better than the scream he wants to give, and blood drips across her stomach onto the ground. He spreads more onto the side of her head then uses his handkerchief to pad his wound.

He gives Alex a final look, runs his fingers down her face and crawls into the shelter of a pile of boulders. He takes up a prone position, keeping low against the side of a rock, cradling the Colt in his hands, assessing the situation. She is alive. Decker is out there and will come to gloat over his kills. Jed is about thirty metres back from Alex, a fair way for a handgun, but with a good angle of fire and a solid rest for the pistol. He has no doubt he can add some excitement to Decker’s life if he approaches Alex.

He waits patiently, just as he has done over many years of hunting and photography. He once lay motionless for thirty hours, waiting for a crocodile to show itself. Decker is no crocodile but just as dangerous. Shoving the sensation of pain into a distant corner of his mind, Jed acknowledges that pain means he is alive. He waits as the seconds tick off, cradling the Colt in a two-handed hold, anticipating Decker’s appearance.

A shape appears over the skyline. Decker stands there, looking down at Alex, expressionless. Jed settles his grip, puts the front sight in the middle of his chest and takes up the slack in the trigger.

Decker calls the shot on Alex, satisfied he made a good hit but not an instant kill. Without a conscious thought, he works the bolt in a smooth movement and swings back to where the headmaster should be. He curses when he sees, through the scope, Joe sprawled across the rock.
The stupid bastard moved at the wrong time! Stepped right into the bullet meant for the ponce!
Decker curses again. He senses he jerked the second shot ever so slightly as he aimed at the headmaster to beat his reactions. The sight picture as the rifle fired was good and he feels satisfied he made another hit.
Three hits in five seconds at that range!
Fuck I’m good! Stupid bastards, thinking they can put one over me.

“Let’s go!” he says to Jesse as he elbows him in the side. “What do you think of that? Three hits, rapid fire!” He stands, cradling the Ruger in his arms and surveys the scene in front of him with deep satisfaction. He passes the rifle over and picks up his shotgun. “Let’s go for a look see,” he suggests, not waiting to see if Jesse is following. He wants to see the results of his work and look into the bitch’s eyes as she writhes in pain.

“Fuck’n good shooting Pa!” Jesse responds in admiration. “Hope you didn’t hit her too hard. I want to kick her in the guts before she goes. Pay her back for that slapping she gave me. Fuck’n bitch!”

Father and son are in a similar state of mind as they cover the ground. They desperately want to be standing over her as she lies helpless, watching the look in her eyes as she realises payback has finally come. Decker casts a vaguely interested glance toward Joe, sprawled untidily in a heap, his blood and brain matter splattering the rock.
Stupid fucker! The black bastard is dead and can wait a bit longer. The ponce is nowhere to be seen. If he isn’t dead, he’ll be cowering somewhere,
Decker predicts. “Keep a look out behind!” he orders.

He has to catch the bitch before she dies. They head over impatiently to where she fell, Decker in the lead with Jesse following respectfully, scanning carefully. Jesse bends down to pick up Alex’s backpack. Meanwhile, Decker slows as she comes into view, taking a step further to get a better view.

She is crumpled up against a rock and isn’t moving. Decker looks down in disappointment. He had been hoping to see her squirming and groaning with the pain of a gut wound. Instead she is lying peacefully against the rock as if asleep. There is blood over her stomach dripping onto the dirt and blood running down the side of her head.

“Well Jess,” he says, his satisfaction mixed with disappointment, “I guess I fucked that up big time!” It was good shooting. He could afford to be apologetic. “The bitch got what she deserved. And that fuck’n stupid black fella! Guess that’s it.”

Jesse feels himself deflate. His father’s shooting was good, but a chance blow on the head has denied them the pleasure of giving it to her. They look down at her body in contemplation, both lost in thought and imagining what could have been.

Decker is the first to move, drawing his knife while holding the shotgun against his leg. “At least we can have some fun with her. Open her up for the pigs and let ‘em have their way. She liked pigs. Now they can enjoy her and shit her out all over the place!” The thought takes away some of his disappointment.

Jesse laughs, remembering the time he put the boar in with the sows the bitch had been raising. That gave her a bloody shock when she climbed into the pen. He chuckles some more with the memory. He had watched her fight the boar off with a shovel after she tripped and lay sprawled on the concrete floor among the hay and pig shit. His disappointment eases as he imagines her being shat all over the country.

Decker looks around at Jesse and sees him holding the bitch’s bag. He takes it off him and rifles through it, finding an old wooden box. As he holds it in his hands, an electric shock of anticipation runs through him. He opens it expectantly but is met with the same emptiness that confronted Alex and Jed. He throws it back into the bag in frustration and eyes the bitch, enjoying the feeling growing in his loins. Maybe he can do her while she is still warm. Decker steps forward knife in hand and climbs down the cleft closer to Alex. He looks down on her, imagining her guts spilling onto the ground as an enticing delicacy for the pigs after he has had his way with her.

Jed cradles the Colt in the two-handed hold and puts the front sight onto Decker, centre of mass. He takes up the slack in the trigger just as Decker steps forward and bends over her body. A clump of grass shields him and spoils his aim. Decker turns to look up at Jesse. “Watch while I have some fun and make her pretty!” He wipes the blade against his leg and tests the edge with his thumb, savouring the expectation of what he is about to do as his hand feels for his zip.

Instead of watching, Jesse empties her pack onto the ground and kicks the contents around with the toe of his boot. He bends down to pick up the small, old wooden box. “Look at this Pa! This could be it!”

Decker casts a frustrated glance at his son as he looks into the box, his disappointment obvious.

“Nothing here Pa! If they found it, she’s not carrying it!”

Decker wonders again how his son is going to survive the world without his guidance. “If they found it, she’d have it, don’t worry about that! The bitch wouldn’t let anyone else look after it!”

Jed waits for Decker to take another step. Even one step will clear his line of sight but just then a voice bellows with authority.

“Hey fella! Stop right there!” Charcoal commands, standing astride a boulder behind Decker and Jesse.

Decker stops in surprise. The clump of grass still hides him from Jed’s view, just enough to make any shot chancy. A handgun against a rifle and shotgun is not a winning proposition in spite of what happens in the movies. Jed holds fire, waiting for the odds to improve with a clear shot.

Decker and Jesse half turn toward the sound of the voice. Although he can’t see, Jed realises someone unexpected is up there behind them. Decker eyes a figure standing silhouetted against the skyline. He stands calmly for a few moments, feeling a mixture of frustration and amusement about this latest turn of events, but no fear. Confrontation is what he is good at.

“Another fuck’n black fella! All on his little lonesome self!” he announces to the world, throwing his head back and yelling the words with contempt as he thumbs back both hammers on his faithful coach gun out of sight alongside his leg.

“Won’t be alone long! Got help com’n! Sent me offsider. Best you boys dump the rifle!”

Decker guesses the stranger lifted Brad from under his nose during the night.
Poor old Joe! The bastard had it coming anyway.
He sees the Winchester cradled in the shoulder of the black man, but detects uneasiness. Facing a man is very different to hunting or dealing with injured stock. Decker senses uncertainty. “You’re go’n to end up like your bro over there,” he says with a flick of his head, as he watches the stranger’s eyes from under the wide brim of his hat.

Charcoal is a top cattleman, not a gun fighter, and glances briefly toward Joe.

Decker senses rather than sees the slight movement of his head as Charcoal’s eyes flick to Joe. Charcoal has been concentrating on the boy and the rifle and forgotten about the shotgun. He can’t see it alongside the other man’s leg. Decker swings the shotgun up in a smooth movement, holding it like a pistol, taking up pressure on the trigger as he swings the barrels onto the target. He points them at Charcoal, just like using his finger to indicate something of interest. A perfect combat shot. The full choke left barrel fires just as it comes onto target. Nine pellets of buckshot are blasted toward Charcoal in a thunderclap of sound.

There is so little time, but years of cattle work have given Charcoal fast reactions. He starts to turn to the left as he sees the white man move. The range works in his favour. Four of the pellets hit him. It is like being hit by four .22s at the same time. One grazes across his chest, another slices through the flesh behind his right hip but misses his spine. The third hits his right forearm holding the Winchester and breaks his wrist. The fourth hits a rib and breaks it before sliding along the bone under the skin with diminishing velocity, coming to rest on his left side. The rest whistle past unseen, close enough to disturb the air and leave behind a buzzing trail of sound.

Charcoal feels himself falling as the Winchester drops from his hand. He hits the ground with a thump that rattles every bone in his body. His head hits the rock surface but he’s had worse being tossed from countless horses over the years. He shakes the stars from his head and flings his body sideways using his good left arm and left leg until he can roll over the edge of the boulder, over and over until he hits the ground. He drags himself behind cover and just keeps going, ignoring the pain, squirming his way across the ground to put as much distance between himself and those bastards as he can.