A Shot Heard 'Round

1A Shot Rings Out

Sheriff Everett Hiram heard the shot just about the time the office door flew open and slammed against the inside wall, rattling the wood-framed photograph of Governor Harold E. Hughes. Old Duke, his sixty-two year old use-only-when-desperate deputy, dove headlong into the room and splashed on the floor in front of his desk.

"They’re at it again, Everett!" he shouted, picking his starved, one hundred forty pound, chicken-like body from the floor. "It’s them damn Petler brothers, Sheriff. They’re drunk again and they’re shooting up the town."

Through the French glass window facing Main Street, Sheriff Hiram observed the results of the gunfire. Everett shook his head in disbelief as he leaned forward to watch the hoopla outside. Scurrying past the window, away from the gunfire, were three of the town’s finest citizens, if a town of five hundred could be said to have such people. One of the fleeing trio turned toward the window and stared with horror-filled eyes at the sheriff, pointing back from where he had run. Two other men ran east, down the middle of the street and dropped prone on the pavement, covering their heads when a second shot rang out.

The town dog pack, comprised of a distinguished array of the filthiest mongrels Corwith County had to offer, was also on the move. Every shape and size of confused canine ran together as a single body of bedlam. Some of these curs had felt the sting of number six shotgun pellets more than once on one of their nightly forays through the surrounding farms and knew to run at the sound of the thunder. The remaining pack ran just because every other dog around was running, and it just appeared to be the proper thing to do at the time.

Bringing up the rear of the pack, Merle Oaken’s guide dog loped with long strides, eyes peering beyond his long nose, as if searching for some unseen prize ahead. The dog’s tongue dangled over the right side of his jowl, slopping frothy bubbles of saliva on the pavement each time the dog’s enormous paws slammed against the concrete. Galloping along the north side of Main Street, the pack turned headlong into an alley, the lead dog falling, to be trampled by the rest. Through the rising dust the dog’s feet shot toward the sky like the legs of an overturned table. The mongrel attempted to correct its predicament by twisting his body to right itself, pushing its nose against the dirt for leverage. The dog rose, confused by the dust, and ran in the opposite direction of the pack, until his instincts, or perhaps just plain dog-sense, informed his legs that the pack was now behind him and running the other way. The dog turned around clumsily and retraced its path, running down the alley in a valiant attempt to catch up with the stampeding pack.

Viola Vanderhoff, moving swiftly along the sidewalk in front of Everett’s office, glanced back toward the shooting sounds behind her, ramming violently into the unsuspecting Amy Flanigan. Mrs. Flanigan, carrying two brim-filled bags from Merle’s Grocery, had been watching the brilliant colors of the setting sun bouncing off the low clouds in the western sky, and not the least bit concerned about anyone running toward her at that particular moment, since she thought the shots were just thunder. Through the window Everett observed apples, vegetables, and other assorted items flung into the air as the flimsy brown grocery bags exploded between the women. Among the items gaining altitude were Mrs. Flanigan’s glasses, spiraling upward in a circle, as if a pinwheel caught by the wind. Everett felt tremors in the wooden floor of his office as the amply rotund Vanderhoff woman crashed to the sidewalk like a wrecking ball.

It was about that time when Everett figured he’d better get up from his chair.

Before the gunfire erupted, the late afternoon was dimming to a typical Friday night in Apology, the September weather cooling the small Iowa town, signaling the end of the summer of 1965. The town’s high school students had gotten home safely, after being bussed to Renoir, twenty miles away, where the population was big enough to have argued for a school years ago. Now, many of the town’s residents were preparing to travel back to Renoir for a football game. It would be a clear, cool night for the event.