Chapter 1

It has been a quiet week; so quiet that Wendy Gleason and I were able to sneak off to drive the bluebonnet trail yesterday. It's the peak of bluebonnet season and the views across the fields were spectacular. Wendy kept wanting to stop to take pictures. I asked what she was going to do with so many photos. "You must have taken a hundred."

"When I'm a dotty old lady in a rocking chair, I'll take them out and remember how much fun we've had today."

We're at that stage in getting to know each other where everything looks a little brighter when the other one is around. We took a picnic and had lunch in somebody's field. We laughed a lot. I hadn't been that relaxed in months.

I should have known the lull wouldn't last. Today the weather blew up blustery and chilly, a weak winter storm making one last effort before spring sets in for good. I got caught in a rainstorm an hour ago, and before I had time to go home to change clothes, I got a call from Robert Caisson's wife. She said the Caisson brothers were in the backyard in a standoff with guns and she was afraid they were going to kill each other.

When I arrived the two were still outside, sopping wet from the rain, both holding outsized pistols, and shouting at each other. In their forties, they're big men, at least 6'2" and 230 pounds. I demanded to know what they were upset about, but they ignored me. T.J.'s wife, Daria, said it was too stupid for her to bother telling me.

It's starting to get dark and cold, which I hope will put an end to their nonsense. I'm standing on the back porch in wet clothes and wet shoes, getting madder by the minute. I'm scared if I get out there and try to talk to them, one of them will shoot me. Meanwhile, I have to listen to them holler at each other like third graders. The conversation so far has gone like this:

"Daddy always favored you and you think you should have anything you want."

"Bull. You're Mamma's little pet. No wonder you're so full of yourself."

"I'm going to shoot you and be glad to spend time in jail just so I don't have to listen to any more of that,"

"You couldn't hit the side of a barn. You're mad because I was always a better shot than you."

"Fellas," I holler. "You sound like a bad TV western. You're acting like children. Come on inside and let's sit down and talk."

Neither of them so much as glances my way. If it weren't for me being the chief of police and charged with keeping the peace, I'd go home and let them keep this up all night. But I'm afraid eventually one of them is going to make good on his threat.

I go back inside. "Darla, where is T.J.'s wife?"

"She has the kids over in Bobtail. She took all of them to a movie."

"How many kids are there?"

"Each of us has a pair of them. The older ones are just a few months apart, and the younger ones are a year apart. They're good kids." She isn't looking at me while she talks. She's watching the door to the backyard, hoping, as am I that the two men will come inside. "I swear to God, I hope they kill each other," she says.

I would protest that she doesn't mean that, but she might. Darla is a scary-looking chunk of a woman who wears cowboy outfits and motorcycle boots, and wears her dishwater blond hair down to her waist. She and her husband belong to a motorcycle club, and they tear around the countryside on weekends. Oddly enough, although all the motorcycle people look savage, I've never heard of them giving the law any trouble.

I asked about T.J.'s wife because of the four of them, she's the most mild-mannered. I was hoping to call on her to help smooth things out. With that option gone, I step back outside. "If you boys don't cut this out," I holler, "I'm going to take you both in and you can spend the weekend in a jail cell." I might as well have been yelling to an empty yard. "Put the guns down!" I put all the authority I can muster into my order.

1. J. finally looks my way and says, "Chief, get out of here. We have to settle this between us. He'll come to his senses eventually."

"Like hell I will!" And just like that Robert's gun goes off.

1. J. yells and spins and drops to his knees.

Robert flings his gun down and leaps backwards. "I didn't mean to shoot. The gun went off by itself."

Darla comes screaming out of the house and stomps to Robert's side and says, "You damn fool. You don't have the sense of a goose."

"Are you sorry he didn't shoot me?"

"I swear, you two…" She stomps back into the house with Robert right behind her.

Neither of them has paid the slightest attention to T.J., who is moaning on the ground. I go over and see that he's bleeding pretty heavily. "One of you call 911," I yell. "He needs an ambulance."

"He can call the ambulance himself," Robert calls back.

"I'll call them," Darla says.

I put pressure on the wound, which is high on the right side of his chest, not life-threatening, until the paramedics arrive. I gladly hand over responsibility for the injured man to them. Then I go inside and tell Robert to get his jacket, that I'm taking him to jail.

"What do you mean taking me to jail? I told you I didn't mean to shoot."

"Mean to or not, you did. Now are you coming quietly or do I have to call for backup?"

"Robert, you better go with the Chief because if I have to look at you for one more minute, I'm going to kill you."