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on his side, firing a pistol at some unseen antagonist. A pool of red grew under the downed lawman, puffs of dirt marking incoming bullets.
    Zach’s father reached across the bench seat and shoved his son to the floor. “Stay down!” he repeated.
    In a flash, the old pump shotgun was out of the Ford’s gun rack, the seasoned weapon occasionally employed in pursuit of hungry coyote or an errant prairie dog. Zach could remember the fear in his father’s eyes, his shaking hands struggling to load shells into the scattergun’s tube. And then he was gone, the pickup’s open door bringing the sound of multiple gunshots roaring into the cab.
    Zach couldn’t stay on the floorboard. It was an impossible demand.
    He watched his father rush to the policeman’s side, quickly dragging the wounded officer to the rear of the police cruiser and out of the line of fire.
    For some reason, Zach’s naive mind assumed it was over… that the danger had ended. He could see his father was rendering aid to the cop, and the incoming shots had stopped. Zach wanted to help, too.
    Reaching for the door handle, movement from ahead stopped him cold. Two men appeared, advancing toward his father with raised weapons. Zach knew they were bad guys in a glance. He bellowed a warning, “Dad! Look out!”
    It all became a blur. Mr. Bass glanced up from the stricken man he was assisting, reaching for the nearby shotgun just as the first criminal fired his pistol. Zach remembered his father flinching, a slight hesitation in his reach, a pained expression in his eyes.
    The 12-gauge sang its song, a cloud of white fire and smoke erupting from the muzzle. Zach had never seen his father work the pump so frantically.
    And then it was over… the cloud of dust, cordite smoke, and confusion drifting away in the early morning breeze. Horror filled the young Bass’s eyes – four men were lying on the ground.
    He was out of the cab and sprinting to his father as fast as his legs would answer his panicked brain’s instructions. Pale gray skin like he’d never seen on a person before, the color of his dad’s countenance initially startled the boy. The raw flesh and pulsing crimson on his pop’s shirt explained everything.
    “Radio,” came a croaking voice. “Call for help on the radio,” the policeman said weakly, pulling Zach out of his trance.
    The young Texan located the microphone, hooked to the dash above a cluster of lights and knobs. He’d seen enough television to know how it worked. “I need help!” he shouted after pressing the button. “My dad and the policeman have been shot. They need help.”
    “Who is this?” came a strong female voice. “This is a law enforcement frequency. You shouldn’t be playing on here, son.”
    “My name is Zach Bass,” he responded in a rush. “My dad and I were driving into town. The policeman told me to use his radio to call for help. There are men shot all over the road. Everybody’s bleeding.”
    “What policeman?” the voice responded. “Where are you?”
    Zach threw down the microphone and sped to the rear of the car. He looked at the officer’s name tag, seeing the words, “Sgt. Hargrove,” engraved in the shiny metal. But Zach couldn’t read yet.
    He rushed back to the mic and again pushed the button. “The policeman’s name is S-G-T-H-A-R…” the young voice continued, spelling out the letters. “And we are going to Fort Stockton,” he finally finished.
    The dispatcher was still skeptical. “Where are your parents?”
    “My mom died a long time ago, and my dad is bleeding behind the police car. He’s dying! Please send help right now!”
    “Okay… settle down. I need to know what road you’re on. Do you see any signs along the pavement?”
    Zach looked up, not being able to see anything. The windshield of the cruiser was a spider web of shot-up glass. Poking his head outside, he glanced up and down the flat road but couldn’t see anything that would help.
    “No,” he