Chapter 33
Cutter blinked, resting his cheek against the warm walnut stock. He took a deep breath, released half, and then held it, squeezing the trigger.
Cutter had no idea what his bullet hit. But it wasn’t Duvall. At that distance, the fleeing outlaw was a blurry orb, completely eclipsed by the rifle’s front sight. Duvall stumbled and then picked up his pace. That was a good sign. The bullet had impacted the ground close enough to startle him.
Cutter worked the lever again, vaguely aware of spent brass tinkling on the gravel beside him as he chambered a fresh round. He sent another shot, then lifted his head a hair for a better look. Another miss. He cursed. Twenty more yards and Duvall would vanish into the tree line.
“No. You. Don’t,” Cutter whispered.
Behind him on the ground, Pink spat and cursed and rattled his cuffs, apoplectic.
“He’s running away, asshole!” he screamed. “You can’t just gun him down!”
Johnson put a knee on the kid’s leg and held him in place.
Cutter ignored the writhing Man Cub and adjusted his aim, blinking again to clear the blood and grit from his eyes.
At that range, the Winchester lobbed .30 caliber rounds like a mortar, falling over two feet in elevation.
Cutter lined up the front post in the center of the buckhorn rear sight and aimed as best he could at the back of Allen Duvall’s head before dropping the hammer.
The bullet left the barrel traveling around 2200 feet per second but dumped half its speed and energy by the time it reached the outlaw half a breath later. Cutter levered another round into the chamber, but when he blinked again, the man fell.
Sirens wailed and tires screeched as county deputies, Texas Highway Patrol, and Weatherford city officers swarmed the scene.
Knees wobbly from pain and adrenaline, Cutter turned with his back to the Caprice and slid to the gravel, rifle across his lap.
Two sheriff’s deputies trotted across the field to the lump that was the fleeing outlaw.
Four more surrounded Ricky Lee Pink, patting him down for other weapons and then helping him to his feet.
DPS Trooper Teague squatted down beside Cutter and took the Winchester. “I’ll take care of this before you’re tempted to use it as a cane.”
“Thank you.” Cutter sighed. He worked his jaw back and forth, feeling like he might vomit at any moment.
Johnson walked up and down the roadway, studying the tire tracks. He grinned broadly and gave an emphatic nod. “You did a Rockford turn, didn’t you?”
The trooper tipped back his hat and canted his head. “What the hell is a Rockford turn?”
“You know,” Johnson said. “He did a J-turn. Like James Garner does on TV. A goin’-the-other-way maneuver.”
“Right …” the trooper said.
Cutter chuckled, wincing at the fiery pain in his ribs, then noticed for the first time that blood covered much of the right side of Johnson’s face.
“LJ,” he said. “You’re bleeding.”
Johnson reached to touch a wound on his forehead. “Glass,” he said. “I’m good.”
Teague strode over to check on the injured deputy, then turned and nodded to Cutter. “Yep,” he said. “Just glass. Looks like the kid should have been a weasel.”
Cutter pushed himself to his feet, gritting his teeth at the pain.
Teague handed off the rifle to Johnson and rushed over to help.
“I’m fine,” Cutter lied, waving him off. “I’m just not one to sit on my ass while y’all do the work.”
The highway patrolman took off his hat and held it at arm’s length, shading his eyes while he peered out across the field.
“Hell of a shot,” he said. “You know, D Wayne, it wouldn’t hurt you to leave some work for the rest of us sometimes.”
“Noted,” Cutter said.
Teague picked a stalk of wild Timothy grass growing by the side of the road and stuck it between his teeth. “How far do you think, three hundred yards?”
Cutter said. “About that.”
“I say again, that was a hell of a shot. You must have aimed at his head and hoped for the best.”
“He emptied his pistol at me. Twice.”
“You don’t need to justify yourself to me, old son,” Teague said.
“It’s a fair bet we’ll find that hit list you put out over the radio stuffed in his pocket, or with the Jolly Bruised Giant over there.
We don’t let killers run off. They’ll just keep doing what they’re doing until they’re captured, or someone puts them down. You got ’em.”
The radio on Johnson’s belt squawked. One of the deputies out in the field radioed back that Cutter’s round had struck Duvall just below the belt on the right hip.
A couple of inches higher and it would have blown up his kidney.
As it was, the wound struck in the wing of his pelvis. Not likely fatal.
Cutter popped his neck from side to side. This was really going to hurt in the morning.
“Yep, we got ’em,” he muttered, half to himself. “Now we have to put together a solid case that sticks.”
“And figure out what they did with the diamonds,” Teague said.
“There is that.” Cutter swayed in place.
The trooper offered a hand for support. “Ambulance is en route.”
“I’m fine,” Cutter lied again. He dabbed away the blood covering his upper lip.
“Sure you are,” Teague said. “Lucy will kill us both if you don’t get yourself checked out by an honest-to-God doctor.”
“And I will,” Cutter said. “But first I’m taking this Man Cub to jail.”
“Taking him to jail in what?” Teague nodded at the bullet-riddled Caprice. “I can tell you right now this thing’s not roadworthy. I’d have to write you a ticket.”
Cutter forced a smile. “We’re taking him in your car,” he said. “But I’m coming too. I catch ’em, I clean ’em.”
Teague gave a tight chuckle, clearly worried about his friend. “Your rule.”
“Yep,” Cutter said. “One of them …”