Trent Reedy - Divided We Fall

From the standing position, JoBell fired off five quick shots, and one-two-three-four-five, cans went flying off the plank almost all at once. She went down on one knee and fired off ten rounds with almost no hesitation. Ten bottles exploded. She lowered herself to the prone position, careful to keep the rifle out of the dirt, and quickly shot down five more cans. Then she dropped her magazine and cleared her rifle before she stood up. “We’re going to need a tougher range,” she said.

I clapped as JoBell took a little bow. “You’re a better shot than any of my drill sergeants.”

JoBell waved my compliment aside and looked down at her rifle. “Please, you all only qualified with wimpy little M4s. You need a real weapon like this baby.”

“You know, for as liberal as you are, you sure do like guns,” Sweeney said.

She started back to us. “Don’t box my politics. Besides, even though my father and I disagree on more and more lately, we’ve had shooting in common since I was old enough to hold my first BB gun. We go to the range, and all our arguments fade away. There’s only him, me, our weapons, and the targets.” She put the rifle back in its case.

“It is not fair to ask of others what you are unwilling to do yourself. I am willing to show you some news alerts that have come in, JoBell,” said Digi-Eleanor. JoBell reached for her pocket.

“Don’t!” Becca said. “You promised. No news. No politics. Today it’s just shooting and then the rodeo.”

“Come on ,” she said. “I want to see if there are any developments about that psycho shooter last night—”

“Sorry, babe,” Sweeney said, pulling a pop from the cooler. “You promised.”

JoBell pressed her lips together and blew out through her nose. “Eric, you call me ‘babe’ one more time, and I swear I’ll put a couple seven-six-two rounds through you.”

Becca had the .45 back together. She carried the pistol and a magazine up to the shooting line and slapped the magazine in. She pulled back and released the slide to chamber a round, then widened her stance and aimed the gun with her left hand over her right to steady her shot. Firing the ten rounds in her weapon’s magazine more slowly than JoBell had, Becca shredded seven cans before dropping the mag and clearing the handgun.

“Guess I need more practice,” she said.

Sweeney, who never shot much, took his turn next, trying out JoBell’s dad’s rifle. We loaded him up with ten rounds. He hit four cans.

“You have another magazine for that rifle?” I asked JoBell.

She handed me the M1A, which I immediately cleared before she gave me a twenty-round magazine. “Good luck,” she said.

I couldn’t hide my grin as I walked to the firing line. This was a sweet rifle, and I hadn’t gone shooting since basic training. I hoped I wasn’t too rusty. Slapping in the magazine and chambering a round, I started from the standing position. I centered the front sight post on a bottle, breathed in, exhaled, in and hold . I squeezed the trigger and the bottle shattered. I aimed at another and fired again, missing. I might have jerked the trigger too hard that time, pulling my shot off. I focused on my shooting fundamentals again and fired, dropping another bottle. I relaxed and kept taking out cans and bottles, loving that feeling of smooth unity with the weapon, that power to hit anything.

When I fired off my last round, I listened, as I always did, for the satisfying sound of my shot echoing into the distance. Instead I heard the rough sound of helicopter blades chopping the air.

“Danny, stop!” Becca yelled, pointing up to the sky above the clearing. “We’ve got company.”

A copter-cam drone hovered there with its camera pointed right at me.

How could I have been stupid enough to think we were free from the press? “Damn it! Why can’t you just leave me alone!” I shouted.

A woman’s voice rang out from a speaker on the drone. “We’d be happy to leave you alone if you’d just answer a few questions for ABC News.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sweeney said. “They want to do an interview via drone?”

“I’d be happy to talk to you in person.”

“This is private property,” Becca shouted up at the machine. “Get out of here!”

“We should just shoot it down,” Sweeney said quietly.

The copter-cam descended a little. “Oh yes, please. Shoot up this drone. That would make such a great story!”

I dropped the magazine and cleared the rifle. JoBell stepped up beside me to whisper in my ear. “They have footage of you shooting. They’ll get a whole story out of that. We should get out of here.”

I hated that we were in this situation, but she was right. I nodded and then held my finger over my lips. Becca and Sweeney got the message. We packed up and went back to clean and lock up the weapons at Becca’s house. The copter-cam followed us the whole way.

“Maybe we should just skip the rodeo, guys,” I said later while we all sat on Becca’s screened-in porch. “The media will be all over it, just like with everything else.”

“Come on , man!” Sweeney said. “Becca called the rodeo association. They aren’t letting reporters on the grounds, and the canopy over the whole arena ought to keep out cam drones. It will be great. Even if the reporters do get footage, they’ll have to run the story of the wholesome, all-American cowboy kid.”

“Or else they’ll report on the animal rights abuser,” JoBell said.

Sweeney stood up from where he was sitting. “It won’t be like that. This will—”

“Can we just do this?” Becca cut in. “Please? After the car chase and the guy who tried to shoot Danny last night, I need something good, something normal.” She looked intently at me. “ You need this.”

Becca can be persuasive, so after the news drone had given up and flown away, we helped her get her horse ready and loaded, and then her dad drove us to the arena. If I’d had the Beast, I would have towed the horse trailer myself, but that Stratus couldn’t tow so much as a Radio Flyer wagon.

Me, JoBell, Sweeney, and Mr. Wells took our seats on the wooden benches as the sun dipped below the mountains beyond the arena. Becca was back at the trailer with her horse. Sweeney and Becca had been right. The rodeo grounds were huge, and the North Idaho Rodeo Association was a private organization, so once again I got a break from the media.

The announcer came on. “Howday, folks. We’re fixin’ to get started with some rip-roarin’ rodeo action as soon as our cowgirls are in place for the grand entry. I want to remind you all, ladies and gentlemen, if you have not had the chance to mosey on over to Eddie’s Bar-Be-Cue, you need to giddyup and git yerself some. It’s the finest eatin’ in all of Idahayew.”

Sweeney laughed. “Is this guy for real?”

Almost everyone I ever met in Idaho talked normal, like the people on the news or on the sitcoms. No accents. But Rick Hayes somehow managed to come up with a hick backwater voice all his own every time he announced a rodeo.

Hayes went on, “I also want to remind everyone that this is a private club rodeo, and the NIRA asks all members of the media to report to the announcer’s booth for a press pass. Any reporters or photographers working without a pass will be politely escorted from the premises. Rodeo is about family and fun, not trying to snag a story.”

I was relieved to hear that.

The grand entry started as the first girl rode in and circled the arena, holding a flag for Dinkins Family Dentistry as she galloped around the ring. The girl rode okay, but bounced a little in the saddle. This didn’t bother Sweeney at all.