A Shot Heard 'Round
Author: Kevin M. Prochaska
Price:
$16.00 soft back
$25.00 hardback
 About
the Book:
Gunfire shatters a peaceful September afternoon in the small Iowa
town of Apology as a drunken Durham Petler pursues his rooster down
Main Street, blasting away at the bird with a pistol as the residents
dive for cover.
The Petler brothers live in a ramshackle cluster of buildings just
outside the city limits, immune from legal recourse by the town.
The brothers are deadly shots, and earn their living by shooting
competitively at matches around the state, but disturb the peace
by practicing at all hours of the day and night. When a survey crew
discovers that their property is actually within the town, the town
father’s attempt to force the brothers to abide by the town
laws, including restrictions on firearms discharge. After a series
of compromises involving the brothers and Sheriff Everett Hiram,
the problem appears to be resolved, until Mayor Owen Fuller is shot
while trying to disarm Durham
An odd parade of characters awaits the reader in A Shot Heard ‘Round.
Roguish Sheriff Everett Hiram runs the small Iowa town, aided by
his use-only-when-desperate deputy Old Duke. Grocery store owner
Merle Oaken, so convinced he’s going blind that he obtains
a very inexpensive guide dog and parades down Main Street, attempting
to train the mutt. Olaf Clancy is out of favor with some for bopping
wife Zelda to kingdom come with a piece of two-by-four. Weak-eyed
fisherman Flem Frederickson finds a wife who can find nightcrawlers
in the dark.
Unkempt brothers Deke and Durham Petler live in a ramshackle house
just outside the small Iowa town of Apology, and constantly disturb
the peace by target practicing all hours of the day and night for
shooting matches, where they make their living. When a survey shows
that their property is actually within the city limits, the town
council, with help from Sheriff Everett Hiram, places restrictions
their shooting. Just as the problem appears to be resolved, Mayor
Owen Fuller is shot while trying to disarm Durham, leading to a
total gun ban within the city limits. Angered by this treatment,
the brothers accept a sponsorship from the rival town of Lost Meadows,
sparking an outcry from the citizens of Apology. With a brilliant
plan involving dead pheasants, the sheriff steals the brothers back,
and they shoot for Apology. The glory is short-lived, however, for
the brothers are back in hot water with the town once more. The
boys hire a shady lawyer from Des Moines to defend them, and in
grand finale of the courtroom, the issue of their right to shoot
is decided.
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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.
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