I SLING MY duffel bag over my shoulder and walk with Ryan toward the fast-draw area. The shooting range spans acres set up for various events. We can hear the pop-pop of trapshooting shotguns in the distance, as well as the less frequent report of rifles in a long-range event on the other side of the property. Although most of the competitions use wax bullets, not real rounds, keeping people safe with all this shooting going on requires a lot of organization and strict rules for crowd containment. The folks behind the event have done a good job.
“Congratulations on your medal, by the way,” Ryan says, as we wind our way through throngs of uniformed officers and spectators eating cotton candy and corn dogs. “The ceremony’s coming up soon, right?”
What we’re talking about is the Medal of Valor, the Texas Rangers’ highest honor. Only a handful of Rangers have ever earned the award.
Next week, they’ll be giving it to two.
I’m getting one.
Unfortunately, the other award will be given posthumously.
My old lieutenant, Kyle Hendricks, died in the line of duty helping me make a major drug bust in West Texas last summer. I would just as soon have the focus be on Kyle’s sacrifice. But everyone in my life is treating the award like a big deal.
“How are things in Dallas?” I ask Ryan to change the subject.
“Oh, I’m not in Dallas anymore,” he says. “I’ve got a new assignment. I’m bouncing around state to state.”
Ryan explains that Congress has recently created a task force to investigate an epidemic of Native American women going missing each year. He’s been charged with coordinating the Southwest region’s arm of the task force, working with tribal, state, and local police, along with the Bureau of Indian Affairs and FBI.
“You must know the woman who just won the archery competition?” I ask, hooking my thumb back toward where we came from. “Have you worked with her?”
“Oh, I know her,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I wouldn’t exactly say we work together. Some of these reservation police don’t quite play nice with the federal government.”
Ryan and I arrive at the quick-draw area, where a large crowd has gathered. As we proceed to the shooting area, I can hear people talking about us—about Ryan being a competition ace, and about my reputation of being good with a gun. Unlike Ryan, most of my shooting experience is in real-world situations.
As the competitors line up facing a wooden fence about thirty feet away, the event host briefs us on how the contest is going to work. Between us and the fence, metal targets two feet in diameter are displayed at about waist height.
The metal targets are coated in lithium grease to mark where the wax bullets strike. There’s a light, covered in Plexiglas, in the center of the target. And each target has an impact sensor that will clock the speed of the shot.
In fast-draw competitions, if the competitors are any good, no one will be able to tell who wins with only the naked eye.
In the first round, the targets are placed fifteen feet away. Then they’ll be moved back another three feet for the next round, and another three for the final. Twenty-one feet might not seem like a lot, but when you’re shooting from the hip, you’ve got to be a hell of a shot just to hit the target, let alone be able to do it with any kind of speed.
We get to shoot three times each round, and the average scores decide who moves on. The top two shooters from each group in the first round move on to the next, but after that it’s single elimination.
For safety, the crowd will gather behind us. Ordinarily I wear a SIG Sauer P320 on my hip. But a semiautomatic pistol is strictly forbidden in a contest like this. Today, that gun is holstered at the small of my back. On my hip is a Ruger Vaquero, a six-shot single-action revolver. The single-action makes shooting fast even more difficult because you have to cock the hammer back as you draw. I’m a little rusty with the Ruger, and I’m just hoping I can hold my own against someone like Ryan.
“Shooters on the line,” the announcer says, and the first five of us take our place.
I position myself on the far left, and Ryan takes the spot directly to my right.
I dig my cowboy boots into the dirt like a batter getting into position beside home plate. I focus my eyes—shaded by my Stetson—on the target in front of me.
I wrap my hand around the smooth rosewood grip of the revolver.
I slow my breathing, trying to keep my nerves under control.
“Shooters set,” the announcer says.
The crowd is silent in anticipation.
The light flashes, and I pull the gun, cock it, and squeeze the trigger—all in one fluid motion that takes less than half a second. The air fills with pops as the other competitors do the same.
I look down the end of the line to see the times displayed.
The guy to the far right, a highway patrol trooper out of Odessa, recorded a time of 0.687 seconds.
The next officer, a female detective from Houston, recorded 0.551.
The middle guy, an embarrassed DEA agent, missed the target completely.
Then comes Ryan’s score: 0.315.
All the scores—those who hit the target anyway—would be more than respectable at any event held by the most elite quick-draw organizations.
Ryan’s is downright amazing.
I open my mouth to tell him so, but he has a look of unpleasant surprise on his face as he examines the numbers.
I check my own time.
0.314.
Ryan’s perturbed expression disappears and is replaced by a friendly smile.
“Hot damn, Yates. That’s some fine shooting,” he says. “This is going to be fun.”