shrugged. "You'd need just a little practice."
"I also saw that the dot on the plate was bigger. How much does the beam diffuse?"
"It's only good for about a hundred yards and you can't use it in bright daylight," Denny said. "But other than that, it can be a big help."
He took the gun from Frank's hand, picked up a clip, and slapped it into the butt of the gun. "Want to time me? I get nine seconds to get all twelve plates."
Frank nodded and held up his wristwatch. "Okay. I'll tell you when to start."
Joe picked up the bottle of soda and a glass from the table. "Well, if I'm going to be a spectator, I'm going to get myself some refreshments."
Denny hardly seemed to listen as he put the gun back on the table. He stood with his hands at shoulder height.
Frank watched the second hand creep up to the twelve. "Now!" he called.
Moving smoothly, Denny's right hand swept the gun up, his left working the action. He took the brace position, and the laser winked into existence. One shot, and the left-most plate fell down.
Two more shots, and two more plates fell down. Denny jerked toward the next, and his shot missed. Shaking his head, he bore down harder, spacing his shots more carefully.
The fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh plates fell, one shot to each. But Denny had used up all the bullets in his clip. He ejected the empty clip and started to reach for the full one on the table.
As he did that, another circle of red winked onto the next plate. It was much larger — four inches wide—and it didn't come from Denny's.
Joe whirled around, to see another laser beam shining from the woods to the side of them — a good hundred yards away. Even as he was turning, he heard a gun firing.
Five shots cracked in quick succession, knocking down the remaining plates. Then came a sixth, and that one knocked Joe down!
Chapter 3
Frank threw himself down, then began wriggling across to Joe. Callie, Denny, and Barbara had all dropped flat, trying to stay below the hidden gunman's line of fire.
Frank stayed low as he continued to snake his way to Joe's side. "Joe," he whispered, reaching out and fingering the large wet stain on his brother's shirt.
"Don't sweat it." Joe grinned up at his brother. "That's root beer. Nothing wrong with me except maybe a bruise or two. This is what got hit."
He held up the two-liter-size plastic soda bottle. Two holes showed where the bullet had passed through. Soda was still leaking out.
"That shot packed quite a wallop," Joe said. "Nearly tore the bottle right out of my hand."
"So instead you held on and let it knock you flat on your back." Frank shook his head in exasperation.
Both Hardys turned as Denny Payson snatched a clip of bullets from the table. No more shots came from the woods as he slapped the magazine into the gun still gripped in his hand. He jumped to his feet, aiming the pistol at the woods.
"Hold it a second," said Joe. "We all saw how well that guy shoots. And you want to go charging across this open yard into the woods where he's hiding?"
"You're going to let him get away, after he shot at us?" Denny stared at the Hardys in disbelief.
"There was no shot when you grabbed that clip. He's probably gone already." Frank frowned thoughtfully as he stared at the woods in the distance. "And he wasn't shooting at us."
"You could have fooled me," said Callie. "Were those spitballs flying past us?"
"No, they were bullets," Frank said. "But as you just said, they flew past. That guy was shooting around us." He pointed at the downed plates and the wounded soda bottle. "With that sight, he was able to put a bullet into each of these targets, which are a lot smaller than we are. If he'd wanted to, he could have nailed all of us."
"So why didn't he?" Denny challenged.
"Because he didn't want to," Frank answered coolly. "Or, more likely, he'd been told not to." He stared at Denny's pale face. "This was a warning, something to let you know the kind of trouble you've let yourself in
"I also saw that the dot on the plate was bigger. How much does the beam diffuse?"
"It's only good for about a hundred yards and you can't use it in bright daylight," Denny said. "But other than that, it can be a big help."
He took the gun from Frank's hand, picked up a clip, and slapped it into the butt of the gun. "Want to time me? I get nine seconds to get all twelve plates."
Frank nodded and held up his wristwatch. "Okay. I'll tell you when to start."
Joe picked up the bottle of soda and a glass from the table. "Well, if I'm going to be a spectator, I'm going to get myself some refreshments."
Denny hardly seemed to listen as he put the gun back on the table. He stood with his hands at shoulder height.
Frank watched the second hand creep up to the twelve. "Now!" he called.
Moving smoothly, Denny's right hand swept the gun up, his left working the action. He took the brace position, and the laser winked into existence. One shot, and the left-most plate fell down.
Two more shots, and two more plates fell down. Denny jerked toward the next, and his shot missed. Shaking his head, he bore down harder, spacing his shots more carefully.
The fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh plates fell, one shot to each. But Denny had used up all the bullets in his clip. He ejected the empty clip and started to reach for the full one on the table.
As he did that, another circle of red winked onto the next plate. It was much larger — four inches wide—and it didn't come from Denny's.
Joe whirled around, to see another laser beam shining from the woods to the side of them — a good hundred yards away. Even as he was turning, he heard a gun firing.
Five shots cracked in quick succession, knocking down the remaining plates. Then came a sixth, and that one knocked Joe down!
Chapter 3
Frank threw himself down, then began wriggling across to Joe. Callie, Denny, and Barbara had all dropped flat, trying to stay below the hidden gunman's line of fire.
Frank stayed low as he continued to snake his way to Joe's side. "Joe," he whispered, reaching out and fingering the large wet stain on his brother's shirt.
"Don't sweat it." Joe grinned up at his brother. "That's root beer. Nothing wrong with me except maybe a bruise or two. This is what got hit."
He held up the two-liter-size plastic soda bottle. Two holes showed where the bullet had passed through. Soda was still leaking out.
"That shot packed quite a wallop," Joe said. "Nearly tore the bottle right out of my hand."
"So instead you held on and let it knock you flat on your back." Frank shook his head in exasperation.
Both Hardys turned as Denny Payson snatched a clip of bullets from the table. No more shots came from the woods as he slapped the magazine into the gun still gripped in his hand. He jumped to his feet, aiming the pistol at the woods.
"Hold it a second," said Joe. "We all saw how well that guy shoots. And you want to go charging across this open yard into the woods where he's hiding?"
"You're going to let him get away, after he shot at us?" Denny stared at the Hardys in disbelief.
"There was no shot when you grabbed that clip. He's probably gone already." Frank frowned thoughtfully as he stared at the woods in the distance. "And he wasn't shooting at us."
"You could have fooled me," said Callie. "Were those spitballs flying past us?"
"No, they were bullets," Frank said. "But as you just said, they flew past. That guy was shooting around us." He pointed at the downed plates and the wounded soda bottle. "With that sight, he was able to put a bullet into each of these targets, which are a lot smaller than we are. If he'd wanted to, he could have nailed all of us."
"So why didn't he?" Denny challenged.
"Because he didn't want to," Frank answered coolly. "Or, more likely, he'd been told not to." He stared at Denny's pale face. "This was a warning, something to let you know the kind of trouble you've let yourself in
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