Shallow Graves

he’d have to draw and cock it before he could shoot. It was a six-shot gun and it would take probably three minutes to reload. If he had extra ammo on him. Which he probably didn’t.
    Bobby, on the other hand, was already holding a double-action Browning automatic .380 with twelve rounds in it. Which all you had to do was aim and pull the trigger. The light was behind him. He could reload the Browning in two seconds.
    Torrens was in the yard, true, but he wasn’t going to do diddly except stand there like a scared rabbit.
    He hoped Billy was watching him. He never missed a chance to impress his smarter brother.
    What he’d do is let the guy go for the gun then shoot him in his leg. Watch him fall. Then let him crawl a little. Shoot again.
    Maybe he’d aim for Pellam’s boots. They were a good contrast, black on the white gravel. But so were the man’s eyes, which glinted two reflections from the yellow porch light. And his white shirt under the dark jacket.
    But then he decided there was something about the way the man had opened his jacket that made Bobby uneasy. Don’t play games. Do Pellam, do Torrens. Go back to the boy. Or the mother. Or both.
    Go for a chest shot.
    Without really deciding, or thinking, Bobby dropped into a crouch.
    He swept the gun upward in an arc, keeping his arm straight the way he knew to do and practiced every week. Squinting, but leaving both eyes open, as the blade sight rose right toward the white slash of Pellam’s shirt. He started to pull the trigger.
    Thunk.
    A shovel.
    Bobby thought: Goddamn . . . who did that?
    Somebody’d snuck up and hit him in the chest with a shovel. Or . . . Damn, it hurt. He coughed. Or maybe it was an axe handle. Bobby dropped his unfired gun. He looked down. Where’d it go? He looked behind him. There was nobody. He looked at his chest again and saw the blood. Oh, that hurts. He was getting dizzy. Then he saw Pellam holding the Colt at his hip, surrounded by a cloud of smoke. Bobby reached for his gun. He fell to the porch. He looked for the shovel.
    He asked, “Who. . . ?”
    He died.
    PELLAM SPUN AROUND , looked behind him, into the fields to the side of the house.
    No Billy.
    He whispered to Keith, “Get down. Don’t move.” And started forward. But he didn’t get very far. The door crashed open and Billy, staggering out, dropped to his knees over Bobby, shrieking. He lifted his own gun and fired sloppily at Pellam.
    Ragged blue flashes appeared in the man’s hand, the huge crack of the shots filling the night. A bulletpopped the sound barrier inches from his left ear with the noise of a huge snapping finger.
    All Pellam had time for was one shot, from his hip. He felt the kick, smelled the sulfur from the black powder. He saw the slug dig out a chunk of the porch. Billy fired fast and Pellam dove to the ground. He hit hard, landed on his right elbow. There was a loud snap, followed by breath-taking pain. His vision went black and dusty from the dislocation. He rolled onto his back. His shoulder joint popped back into alignment. He fainted for a second. Sweat shot from his forehead and he felt nausea in a bristling wave.
    He lifted the Colt. It fell from his hand. His right arm was useless.
    “Bobby, oh, Bobby . . .” Billy was moaning.
    More shots from the automatic. Bullets dug into the camper and the ground near him.
    Six shots, seven, eight.
    “Sonabitchsonabitch! Son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch!”
    Pellam lifted the Colt again. But it was a replay—the gun did a double gainer to the ground.
    Christ, how many shots in that clip?
    Ten, eleven, twelve . . .
    Click, click, click.
    Empty. He was out. Thank you . . . Pellam raised his head and watched Billy reload.
    Pellam dropped his six-shooter again, felt the cold wet touch of the gravel, smelled the sour earthy-oily scent of the stone. He saw Billy coming closer. He lowered his head and heard the crunch of the gravel under the man’s loafers.
    Pellam grabbed for the Colt once more. He hit the butt with his fingers and knocked it out of reach.
    He heard the man’s breathing. Pellam looked up, opened his eyes. He saw the bore of the gun in the man’s hand, six feet away.
    Billy stopped.
    A good day to die . . .
    Billy stopped.
    He looked behind him as if he’d heard something.
    Then he was flying through the air.
    Sailing, the way stuntmen did, off springboards mounted on either side of black powder charges in the war movies.
    Billy sprawled on