The Uvalde Raider by Ben English (great books for teens TXT) 📕

not let the polished blue barrel of his Marlin reflect any sunlight, Micah stealthily slung up the rifle and wiggled ever so slightly to his right to get the best firing position. He grunted in spite of himself, the protesting ribs sending a clear message that they did not like the contortions that he was putting them through. He picked up the front sight of the rifle inside the rear aperture and paused to check the airstrip’s orange wind sock for any needed change in windage. The sock hung limp and still.

Micah measured the distance in his mind once more, still coming up with his target being a full 350 yards away. He had to be absolutely sure of everything about this shot to connect with the Shi’a Muslim standing on the boulder. At this range, the trajectory of the .30/30’s flat nose bullet was much akin to that of a tossed grapefruit. The trooper thumbed the Marlin’s hammer to full cock as he took in a full breath, let it halfway out and put the tip of the front sight exactly a foot and a half over the second terrorist’s head. Gently, ever so gently, he began squeezing the trigger.

The second Hezbollah gunman was starting to get the upper hand over the first one in their frenzied arm waving dispute. The first terrorist, cowed by the continual prodding, had moved ever so cautiously into the fringe of the open area when Micah’s .30/30 went off. The triumphant second gunman, still waving his hesitant comrade on, lurched a bit forward as the bullet impacted his chest. He toppled from the face of the rock, landing hard on the sloping ground below him. The Arab’s body slid a bit on impact but did not move again.

All of this was happening out of the corner of Micah’s right eye, as he fought against the Marlin’s recoil and shifted his aim to where the first terrorist had been standing. The man was no longer there. The highway patrolman saw movement among the low hanging branches and surrounding undergrowth where the Lebanese terrorist had run back through the brush line. Micah rose up on one knee and levered three more quick rounds to keep the fleeing gunman in high gear.

It was past time for the trooper to vacate, too. The four rounds he had fired were more than enough to give away his own position. Micah half turned and slid from the lip of the draw, making his way down the steep incline and back into the bed of the meandering cut itself. From there the law officer began working his way west back up the washout, and to the general vicinity where he had been before.

Stopping briefly he cupped his left hand to his ear, straining with everything inside of him to listen. He heard nothing. No yelling, no muttering, nor any sound of anything to do with any other man or the weapon he might possess. An eerie stillness had settled in, as if the last four rounds had never been fired.  Only the cessation of activity on the part of the land’s natural inhabitants revealed that something deadly had just occurred.

Micah’s mind raced at the onslaught of options and probabilities. The first gunman had not retreated back into the brush line, he had fled as fast as his feet could carry him. Once there he had made no attempt to turn to either side and try to return fire. He was in a panic, and panic kept one from thinking of what they should be doing next. More so, there was no return fire from the area where Blue Shirt had been, which meant his injuries did not allow him to do so or that he had nothing to return fire with. Either that, or Blue Shirt had no idea where the bullet that killed his companion came from.

Any of these possibilities put Micah in a stronger position. He had narrowed the odds down from four armed assailants to two dead, one wounded, and one who was not thinking clearly. The thought gave him confidence. However, at the same time he tempered that rising level of certitude with the knowledge that he could well be only one bullet away from catastrophe himself. This deal was not even close to being over and he was running out of time.

Micah began picking his way up the steep shouldered draw again, looking for a protected spot where he could get a little respite and a bit of reloading done. Another fifty yards and he found what he needed, a depression in the north face that would protect him from observation either up or down the dry wash.

Putting his back to the dirt wall, he flattened out against it and tried to reach inside his right front trouser pocket for some fresh .30/30 cartridges. But all of the walking, shuffling and crawling had caused the tightly-cut uniform trousers to settle down low on Micah’s waist. He simply could not get his raw and swollen right hand into the cramped pocket and his fingers around the loose riding ammunition.

Begrudgingly, he propped the Marlin rifle against the arroyo wall and took a step away. Clasping the front of the Sam Brown belt with his left hand, he pulled both it and the trousers up as he reached inside the offending pocket with his right. Micah had just touched the brass casings when he heard someone at the top the draw and behind, closing in fast.

The trooper hastily brought his hand out of the pocket and stepped to the rear, freezing with his back pressed again into the embankment. His right hand had gone automatically to his side, fingers resting lightly on the butt of his issued Model 28 revolver. He cut his eyes longingly to the resting Marlin, but the rifle might as well been a hundred miles away.

The sounds of the unexpected interloper running