SOMEHOW THE SYNAPSES in my brain send the message to my hand in time. I let the coin fall and thrust my gun high up in the air, stretching my finger outside the trigger guard. The silence—when we were all expecting a bang—has a strange, sobering effect on the crowd. I hear gasps of terror and then exhalations of relief.
The mother runs past me and scoops up her little boy, who seems oblivious to the danger he was in. Crying, the woman clutches him in her arms, thanking me profusely and apologizing at the same time.
My heart pounds as fast as I ever remember it pounding, even in the most heated of battles. My legs are wobbly. My whole face feels numb, and I blink back tears.
The organizers are looking at each other with expressions that say, What should we do?
“Do you want to try again?” one of them asks. “We’ll do a better job of keeping the crowd back.”
I holster my gun.
“Gentlemen,” I say, “I’m calling it a day.”
The crowd gives me the biggest round of applause of the afternoon.
“Rory,” Ryan says, putting a hand on my back. His voice is full of genuine respect. “That was the finest gunmanship I’ve ever seen. You’re the winner in my book.”
I tell him that I’m happy with a draw.
“We all had fun and nobody got hurt,” I say. “That’s all I care about.”
Ryan takes my hand and holds it up, and the two of us stand for a moment with our arms raised in joint victory, letting the audience give us another round of applause. I have to spend a few minutes shaking hands and talking to folks, but I’m eager to get out of there. It’s late in the afternoon, and I’ve got a three-hour drive ahead of me to get home to Redbud. More important, I feel a little sick to my stomach and just want to sit in my truck and decompress.
As I’m heading toward the exit, however, I spot Ava Cruz. She’s buying a lemonade from a stand, with her bow and arrow slung over her shoulder across her body. I break my stride and approach her.
“That was some nice shooting I saw you do earlier,” I say to her.
“That was some nice not shooting I saw you do,” she says.
“I’m Rory Yates,” I say, extending my hand, “from the Texas Rangers.”
“I know,” she says, shifting her lemonade to her left hand so she can shake. “I’m Ava Cruz from the Tigua Tribal Police.”
“I know,” I say, and grin.
She has a cool disposition, and I can’t tell whether it’s just her ordinary demeanor or she doesn’t like me.
Or both.
“Where’d you learn to shoot a bow like that?” I ask.
She explains that she grew up going to Native American festivals throughout the West. There are various competitions—dancing, drumming, jewelry making. Her specialty was archery. She practiced whenever she could.
“This was easy,” she says, tilting her head back toward where the contest had occurred. “Stationary targets. When I was a girl, I used to have a ratty old foam ball. I’d have my friends kick it, and I’d shoot it while it rolled. Or shoot it in midair.”
I nod, impressed.
“The practice paid off today,” I tell her. “Those other competitors didn’t stand a chance.”
She shrugs. “My police chief made me come. I wish I’d stayed on the Pueblo. I’ve got a case I’m working on. It feels wrong to be out playing games when a woman’s missing.”
I nod, understanding where she’s coming from. In law enforcement, it’s easy to let the desire to help others consume your thoughts, even when you’re not on the clock.
“Your case,” I say. “Anything the Rangers can help you with?”
She smirks. “No thanks.”
I squint, trying to figure out what she’s implying.
“No offense,” she says, taking a sip of lemonade, “but the Texas Rangers used to round up the Indigenous people of this land and drive them out of the area or lock them up on reservations. Your organization has a long history of wrongdoings against Indians.”
I’m taken aback. The Texas Rangers have been around in one form or another for nearly two hundred years—before Texas was even a state—and I’m aware that not everything in the Rangers’ history is something to be proud of. But history is also complicated—not always black and white—and I know there were Native Americans among the earliest Texas Rangers. Regardless of the history and all its shades of gray, I am very proud of the modern Rangers, an elite investigation unit that helps solve crimes throughout Texas. It’s an honor and a privilege to wear the tin star on my chest. I thought pretty much everyone in law enforcement—inside and outside of Texas—felt that way.
Apparently not Ava Cruz.
“You seem like a decent guy, Rory, but people wearing that badge,” she says, pointing to the star on my chest, “treated people who looked like me pretty badly in the past. I think I’ll pass on asking the Texas Rangers for any help.”
I open my mouth to defend the Rangers, but Ava Cruz moves to walk away.
“You did a good thing today,” she says. “I’ll give you that.”
As I watch her walk away, I remember Ryan’s reaction when I brought her up. He clearly doesn’t have much of an opinion of her.
I don’t feel the same way.
One minute with her, and I have a high opinion of her already.