Part I Gun Control
"Raise it up a little. There, that's it. Balance on your feet, don't rock back on your heels." Helen stepped back and seven-year-old Raylan sighted the row of cans. His palms were sweaty and the weight of the rifle made his arm shake, but he steadied it, eyeing his target.
"Pull the trigger slow, now. You got all the time in the world."
The smoke from Helen's cigarette drifted in front of him. He blew out a breath, drew back and fired, blowing the center can off the fence. The jolt of the rifle almost knocked him off his feet.
Aunt Helen laughed. "That's it. My turn." She threw down the butt and stepped on it, grounding out the ashes. Shouldering her rifle and aiming in one quick motion, she pulled the trigger, sending another one of the cans spinning into oblivion.
"Now," she said, stepping back. "Let's change your perspective. Get down on your belly and shoot."
Raylan flattened himself in the grass, the early morning dampness soaking into his jeans. He missed his first target from this new position, but his second shot took the last can. Helen set her rifle down and helped him to his feet.
"You're gettin' good at this. Next time we'll use smaller cans." She gave him a wink.
-o-o-o-o-o-
Deacon Brewer was a two-strike robber on parole turned accidental murderer when the Shreveport convenience store clerk he walloped upside the head shot a blot clot and died. After a witness picked him out of a photo lineup he became one of Louisiana's Most Wanted. He was apprehended by the Travis County Sheriff trying to steal a pick-up truck from a ranch outside of Austin. Murder trumped auto theft. He was immediately extradited back to the Bayou State.
The Dallas Marshals' office was short-staffed due to two retirements and an unfortunate accident involving a deputy on prisoner transport, two buxom blondes in a convertible, and a longhorn steer who chose the wrong time to cross the road. Enter the U.S. Marshal service in the form of fresh-from-Glynco Raylan Givens.
With the most experienced deputies out of commission, the task of transporting Brewer fell to the new guy. "We don't usually solo on transports. But there's nothing to be done." Chief Deputy Walters told him. "I'd go with you myself, give us time to get to know each other, but I've got a meeting with the AUSA and the District Attorney about that shit Reynolds got himself into."
He went over a list of procedures and precautions that Raylan half-listened to, handed him the keys to an official vehicle, a requisition form for his meals and motel, and the file of paperwork on the prisoner. "Don't second guess yourself," Walters said, slapping a meaty hand on Raylan's shoulder. "You were top of your class. You know what to do."
Down in Austin, the sheriff's deputy took the federal paperwork, looked over it carefully, and shook his head. "Don't envy you five hours in a car with this asshole," he said. He vanished into the bowels of the county lockup and Raylan paced the lobby, hat in hand, studying the Texas map on the wall and marking the easiest route to Shreveport in his head.
The deputy reappeared ten minutes later with the one of the ugliest men Raylan had ever seen. Brewer was obviously bi-racial, and he hadn't gotten the best of both worlds. His kinky hair was reddish brown, his skin yellowish and freckled. There was an angry red scar running from his right ear across his cheek. It ended beside a nose so flat and wide that he wondered how the man managed to breathe. His muscular arms were covered with prison tattoos and he had at least two inches on Raylan.
"This here's Deputy U.S. Marshal Givens and he's gonna take you back to Louisiana where you belong." The sheriff's man said. "You're their problem."
"They sent a federal after me?" Ray Brewer winked at Raylan. "Looks like I done hit the big time."
Raylan slid on the hat and pulled the cuffs from his pocket. "Your mama would be proud,"
The deputy rolled his eyes. Raylan snapped the cuffs on the and the deputy removed the shackles. "Good luck," he said, stepping back behind the desk.