Next World Series , Ewing, K. [classic books for 12 year olds txt] 📗

revolver until the last second. After all, having already taken a practice shot towards the Sheriff back in Weston, he was kicking himself now for lack of follow-through.

“This time, I’ll unload the whole spinny thing, whatever it’s called, into him. And she, that no-good Kate, better not get in my way,” he whispered.

* * * *

Approaching the trailer, still 20 yards out, voices could be heard talking but he couldn’t make out the words.

His hands were sweaty and his breathing intensified, hearing it in his head. Woosh Woosh, the thump of his heartbeat, seemed all around him, like the start of a bass guitar at a rock concert.

Boom! Boom! Boom! rang in his head, as he approached the side of the trailer.

“That’s him!” screamed the little girl. “The man in the red shirt!” she cried.

Judge Lowry still couldn’t see anything and ducked under the trailer, only seeing jean-covered legs, some big and others small. He worked his pistol out of his pants waist, fumbling and dropping it onto the dusty ground. His hands were sweaty and felt like they were covered in dish liquid. Feet shuffled and voices called out to each other, with his old friend telling everyone to stand back. This is it! the Judge thought. The showdown that never happened.

Little legs disappeared from the under-trailer view but not his. Cowboy boots—the same pair he had worn since the Judge could remember. He flashed back to a movie or a book, maybe where the shooter was under an 18-wheel trailer and shot the leg of his opponent, dropping him and allowing for the final kill shot. It seemed like a long shot but the only one left. Aiming for the right boot midway down, he held his breath and pulled the trigger for the first time in earnest. Boom! echoed under the truck, much louder than he suspected. His ears rang, and the boots didn’t move. He fired again, hitting the left boot while aiming once again for the right.

“What the...” he said aloud, his ears ringing as he watched the boot fall over, empty.

He breathed heavily and panicked, not knowing what to do, having more rounds but not remembering how many. Frantically he looked up and down the underside of the trailer for a way out. Shadows crisscrossed the ground on one side, moving the Judge towards the other.

“Nice try, Judge,” came the booming voice he had known for years and even had nightmares about. “You should have stayed away. I was going to let you tuck tail and run back to Pennsylvania, but then that little girl told me a story of a man who caught fish and threw them back into the lake while the children starved. I knew only a bastard like you would let that happen. So, come on out and let’s finish this like men.”

Judge Lowry panicked, sweating, and dropped the pistol again.

“Don’t shoot,” he cried. “I’m coming out.”

“Throw the gun out on the ground,” came the command from the Sheriff.

The Judge could see himself shot down right here or hanging from a noose in Weston after next Saturday’s festivities, in front of the entire town that used to fear and respect him. Neither scenario allowed him to go home.

“I’m stuck,” he said, shuffling around and buying time to think.

He could now see two sets of legs from under the trailer, one set larger than the other.

“You have five seconds to come out, Judge. One, two, three...”

He fired at the legs he thought to belong to his old friend and new foe. Crack! Crack! Crack! as he fired wildly but in slow motion, thinking he may blow his eardrums.

He fired until he heard the click, and then pulled the trigger twice more.

He couldn’t hear anything—like after the only concert he had ever been to. Cher rocked the house, as far as he was concerned, but he wouldn’t be able to hear properly for two days after.

There was silence, followed by Sheriff Johnson dropping straight face-first to the ground, like a boxer being knocked out on his feet. His head, turned towards the Judge, told the story. Blood on his face ran bright red and he didn’t make a sound.

How did I do that? thought Judge Lowry. “I think I’ve killed him,” he said aloud, not knowing what to do next.

Staring at the open eyes of the lifeless man, Judge Lowry half expected him to jump up, say “Boo!” or something else, to show it was a trick.

“Come on out, Judge. I have a question for you,” came the familiar voice of a female.

He slid out slowly, shielding his eyes, looking towards the sun. Rising cautiously, his empty pistol pointed towards the ground.

“Go ahead and drop that, Judge; it’s empty anyway,” said Kate, pointing hers at his chest.

“So, let me get this straight,” he replied, getting some confidence back and hoping to make a deal. “I killed your boyfriend, and you’re going to kill me?”

“He was my fiancé,” she replied, “and do you really think you shot him in the head from under the trailer?”

He paused, not quite computing. It was, after all, the first time he had ever fired a gun.

“So, if I didn’t shoot him, then...”

“You getting warmer, Judge. Now, for my question: How would you feel about a female Sheriff?”

“I don’t know. I mean…I’m not sure it would be the best...”

“Let me rephrase that,” Kate said. “How would you feel about not dying today, getting a ride back to Weston, resuming your old post in the Courthouse, and getting me elected Sheriff?”

“When you put it like that, it makes more sense, for sure,” he replied. “But why? Everyone knew you were already calling the shots behind the scenes. Why not just stay in your lane? I mean, you were engaged, right?”

“I was, but to