Disclaimer: This story is written for entertainment purposes only.  No profit is being made from it.  No infringement on anyone’s copyright(s) is intended.

 

Night of the Smoking Gun

Written by Sue David and Valerie Wells

© 7/2001

 

Once every month or so, every police officer in the Metro Division -- and throughout the city -- was expected to go to the firing range and practice. Most officers rarely, if ever, drew their weapons on duty, and their skills would suffer if they didn't practice. None of them wanted to discover his skills were sub-par in a situation where they had to draw their weapon. So most went to the practice range uncomplainingly.

 

Starsky was one of those. In fact, he even enjoyed it. His strict schedule of an afternoon's practice twice every month was the reason he was one of the best marksmen at Metro. Hutch sometimes complained a bit about the twice a month routine, because it was twice as much as was required, but he had to admit he never worried whether his partner would hit his target.

 

Today Starsky was in especially fine form. He'd emptied his gun several times, making a tight pattern of holes in his target, and pushed it steadily farther and farther away, testing himself.

 

Hutch had grown tired of shooting at a paper target and had joined Starsky in his cubicle to watch him practice. He never ceased to be amazed at how well Starsky could shoot.

 

"Good thing you became a cop," he commented when Starsky stopped to reload.

 

"Why?" Starsky asked, cocking an eyebrow at him suspiciously.

 

"Because you'd have made a hell of a scary crook," Hutch said with a grin.

 

"Ha, ha," Starsky said. "Whatsa matter? You get bored?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"One more clip and we'll call it a day," Starsky said. "Okay?"

 

"Sure."

 

Starsky put in a fresh clip, sighted, and emptied the gun in one quick burst. He pulled the lever to bring the paper target back and Hutch was astonished -- again -- by the tight pattern of bullet holes in it. He whistled.

 

"Damn. I'm glad you're on my side."

 

Starsky grinned, one of his ear-to-ear Starsky specials. "A guy's gotta be good at something."

 

"Come on, moron," Hutch said, slinging an arm over his partner's shoulders. "I'll buy you a taco."

 

"Wow," Starsky said. "A whole taco? Just for me?"

 

"Just for you," Hutch said, giving him a playful shove ahead of him.

 

They had a stakeout planned for that evening which was liable to go all night, watching a  drug house for a murder suspect. They bought a whole sack of tacos and filled a small cooler with sodas to take with them. But just as they were getting back into the car to head for the stakeout, the radio beeped.

 

"Zebra Three, stand by for a patch through from Captain Dobey."

 

"This is Zebra Three," Hutch said.

 

"That you, Hutch? I wanted to catch you before you headed out. I need you and Starsky to come into the office in the morning."

 

Starsky groaned, and Hutch rolled his eyes before answering, "Captain, you know we'll be up all night."

 

"Not to work, Hutchinson," Dobey growled. "Just come in to meet with somebody before you go home. Is that too much to ask?"

 

"No, sir," Hutch answered with a sigh. "Who is it?"

 

"Steve Hanson," Dobey said. "He's got a proposition for you."

 

"What is it?" Starsky hissed. "Does he want us to be in another movie?"

 

Hutch gave a shrug. "What's he want, Captain?"

 

"I don't know," Dobey said. "But he promised it was for a good cause."

 

Hutch exchanged a glance with Starsky. "Okay, we'll be there. What time?"

 

"Eight."

 

"Okay." Hutch hung up the mike. "Wonder what he wants?"

 

It was a long, boring stakeout and their suspect never showed up. Starsky and Hutch spent most of the time wondering what Steve Hanson wanted, but neither of them could guess.

 

They were a little early, but Hanson was already there. He greeted them with a smile and a firm handshake for both of them.

 

"I never forgot what you boys did for me a couple years ago," he began after they sat down. "I can't repay you and I don't have any business asking another favor but, well, here I am."

 

"What is it, Mr. Hanson?" Hutch asked.

 

"Steve," Hanson corrected with a smile. "Well, boys, it's like this. I've been doing a Wild West show for the last several months, a Buffalo Bill kind of thing."

 

Starsky lit right up. "I used to love those when I was a kid. I didn't know anyone was still doing them."

 

Hanson chuckled. "Nobody was," he said. "But me and some other guys decided to try a revival of the thing and see if anybody was still interested. And they are, believe it or not. It's been going really well."

 

"So what do you need from us?" Starsky asked.

 

"We've been approached by St. Jude to do a benefit for them," Hanson said. "I couldn't say no, but we were supposed to be taking a couple of months off so two of my sharpshooters could appear in a movie. They're committed to do the film and I can't find anybody else to fill their roles for the benefit. So," he gave a shrug and a grin, "I thought maybe you two'd do it. It's pretty easy. Just a 'Gunfight at the OK Corral' spoof, nothing to it."

 

Both detectives looked inquiringly at their captain.

 

"It's fine with me," he answered the look. "I'll check with the chief, but stuff like this is great for public relations. I'm sure he'll give the okay."

 

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other and without a word passing between them, looked back at Hanson.

 

"We'd love to," Starsky said, speaking for them both.

 

Hanson beamed. "That's great, boys. I really appreciate it. It's only one show, on a Saturday night. Two weeks from now. Okay?"

 

Starsky nodded eagerly.

 

"Do we wing it or are you going to rehearse us?" Hutch asked.

 

Hanson chuckled. "I'll rehearse you. Got some time today?"

 

"We haven't been to bed yet," Starsky said. "Up all night at a stake-out. How's this afternoon?"

 

"Fine. Meet me at the county fairgrounds at four. We're renting the arena."

 

They arrived in the middle of someone else's rehearsal, a teen-age girl doing an Annie Oakley kind of act. They hung back in the doorway watching her. Dressed in old-fashioned cowgirl style, the girl was running her horse around barrels, over jumps, and doing trick riding all the while. She flipped herself off the saddle, lightly touched the ground, swung back up and repeated it on the other side, did a handstand on the saddle, stood in the saddle and rode with her hands straight up in the air, and finished by stopping the horse so suddenly it reared.

 

Starsky and Hutch both broke into spontaneous applause. Starsky also whistled, until Hutch elbowed him, hard.

 

The girl dismounted and grinned at them, patting her horse. She led the horse, a palomino, over to them. "You guys must be the cops Steve told us about."

 

"We are," Hutch said. "You're really good."

 

"Thanks," she said. "It's Sunshine as much as me, though," she added, patting the horse's nose. Sunshine nuzzled her hair and made a whuffling sound. "She knows when to turn and how to pace herself so I can do that stuff without killin' us both."

 

Starsky was not at all sure he liked horses, so he hung back, but Hutch put out an inquiring hand to stroke the velvet nose, and Sunshine allowed it. "She's beautiful," he said.

 

"Say thank you," the girl told the horse, and Sunshine bowed. Hutch was so startled he took an involuntary step back, and Starsky burst into laughter.

 

Hutch flushed. "I don't see you making friends with her, either," he said, annoyed.

 

"Shake hands with the nice policeman," the girl said to the horse with a wicked grin. Sunshine solemnly raised her right front hoof and offered it to Starsky. This time Hutch was the one who laughed, but Starsky gave his partner a dirty look and gingerly took the offered hoof.

 

"She's pretty smart," he said to the girl. "How'd she know to give her paw to me instead o' Blondie, here?"

 

"Hoof, Starsk, not paw," Hutch said.

 

"Whatever," Starsky said. "How'd she know?"

 

"Ah, ah," the girl said, giggling. "That'd be telling. I'm Angie, by the way. Steve'll be here in a minute. You guys are gonna fill in for Dan and Tigger?"

 

"I guess so," Starsky said. "What do we have to do?"

 

"Dan does a shootout kind of thing with Steve," Angie said. "You know, a staged gunfight with blanks, saying stuff like, 'This town ain't big enough fer the both of us!' Lots of silly stunts, shooting under their knees and twirling their guns. Tigger does a sharpshooter thing with real bullets. He shoots bottles off the tops of barrels and plugs a nickel and busts balloons and stuff like that. Some of it's staged," she added when Starsky and Hutch exchanged a worried glance. "The nickel's already plugged. It's a sleight of hand thing. But some of it's real, too. Tigger can shoot the wings off a bumblebee, Steve says."

 

"You better take Tigger's job," Hutch said to Starsky.

 

"I ain't THAT good," Starsky answered.

 

"Don't worry," Angie said. "Steve'll fix it. It's all Hollywood stuff, anyway. We can fake things when we have to."

 

"You weren't fakin'," Starsky said.

 

She gave a shrug and blushed slightly. "No, but it's really not as hard as it looks. And I've been riding since I was three." 

 

"Hey, boys!" Hanson came in through the far door at the other end of the arena and waved to them. When he reached them, he shook their hands and beamed at both of them. "Good to see you. I really do appreciate you helping us out like this." He put an arm around Angie's shoulders. "I see you've met our star."

 

Angie's blush deepened.

 

"We got to see part of her act, too," Hutch said. "You want us to compete with that?"

 

Hanson chuckled. "Why not? I have to." To Angie, he said, "Would you show these boys the dressing rooms and their gear?"

 

"Sure." Angie looped Sunshine's reins up over the saddle horn and beckoned to Starsky and Hutch. "This way, guys." She took off at a brisk walk, with the horse following her like a huge golden dog. Starsky and Hutch brought up the rear, with grins at each other over the horse's behavior.

 

Angie led them to the door Hanson had come through and pushed it open. "Dan and Tigger's dressing rooms have their names on the doors," she said to them. "You don't have to worry about the costumes today, but be sure to pick up their six-shooters and the blanks that are with them. I'll get one of the roustabouts to help me set up Tigger's stuff."

 

"Thanks," Starsky said.

 

Angie gave him a mock salute and strolled away, with Sunshine still following her.

 

By the time they came back, Angie and a young man of around 20 were setting up the shooting gallery for Tigger's act. One of the displays looked like a huge dartboard.

 

"What's that for?" Starsky asked the young man.

 

"Angie stands here," the kid said, demonstrating, "and we stick a bunch of balloons all around her, and Tigger shoots 'em."

 

Starsky went several shades paler. "You're kidding."

 

"Nope," the kid said cheerfully. "You oughta hear the crowd gasping and fainting."

 

"It ain't the crowd I'm worried about," Starsky said. "What if I miss?"

 

"Aw, you won't miss," the kid said. "And if ya did it wouldn't matter. You'll be usin' blanks for that part." He pulled Starsky around behind the contraption and pointed out the miniature openings in the back, so small they didn't show unless one knew where to look. "I stand back here and poke 'em with pins to make 'em pop. The crowd don't know that, of course. They can't see back here."

 

Starsky let out the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding, and the kid laughed out loud.

 

Meanwhile, Hanson was walking Hutch through their act. "You'll be the good guy hero," Hanson said. "You come riding in on Angie's horse -- you do know how to ride, don't you?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Good. Wouldn't matter, though. That horse can almost talk. Anyway, you come riding in, waving and smiling and so forth, and do a turn around the arena. We'll introduce you as Cowboy Ken and the crowd won't know what your act's going to be. You pull one of your six-guns and shoot a round or two into the air, Lone Ranger style, and Sunny'll rear. Just hang on with your knees and don't fall off over her butt."

 

Hutch laughed. "I'll try not to."

 

"Then I come out, dressed in black, Mr. Bad Guy, and call you out. We don't have an actual script, we just wing it, but I'll say something like," he put on a classic Hollywood Western bad guy accent, "'You done put me in that jail o' yers, Marshal, and I come back to git my revenge,' and you holler something appropriate at me -- anything but 'herecomesmccoynow,'" he added, laughing.

 

Hutch flushed to his hairline at the memory of that botched scene in Hanson's movie, but he laughed good-naturedly. "Yes, sir. I promise."

 

Hanson grinned. "Then you clamber down off the horse and give her a little whack on the flank -- she knows what to do, you don't have to do much more than give her a little pat because that's her cue to trot back to Angie, waiting over there," he gestured. "And you assume the position." He demonstrated the cowboy shoot-out pose of feet apart, hands over holsters. Hutch nodded. "Then we start doing silly stuff like turning our backs and shooting over our shoulders and shooting between our legs, and under one knee and so forth, until the crowd's laughing. Wait until they laugh."

 

Hutch nodded again.

 

"When they're laughing good, I'll holler something else, like 'Yer marshalin' days're done, Cowboy Ken!' and shoot right at you. Blanks."

 

"I certainly hope so," Hutch said.

 

"Then you aim both your six-guns at me and let go a couple of rounds and I'll fall down and pretend to be dead. You do a Rocky thing," Hanson raised his six-guns over his head and strutted for an imaginary crowd. "Whistle -- can you whistle?"

 

"Not very well," Hutch said.

 

"I'll get somebody to do it for you," Hanson said. "Put your fingers up to your mouth and pretend to whistle, then. Sunny'll come trotting back, you climb on and do a victory lap and ride back out. A couple of rodeo clowns will come out with big brooms and dustpans and pretend to sweep me up like trash and then carry me out. That's all there is to it. You got all that?"

 

"Sure," Hutch said. "Sounds fun."

 

Hanson gave a grin and a shrug. "It's hokey as hell, but people seem to like it. Ready for a run-through?"

 

"Yeah."

 

When Sunshine reared, Hutch almost lost his seat, but somehow the horse sensed it and dropped back down in time to keep him from falling. Angie, standing nearby, gave him a couple of pointers on how to hang on, and when he tried it again, he didn't have any more trouble. He and Hanson ran through their act three or four times, and Hanson pronounced him ready.

 

Starsky had watched all this, amused, and after Hutch took his victory lap and rode out, he applauded. Hutch made a face at him. "Let's see how you do, hotshot," Hutch said tartly.

 

"Hell, my job's easy," Starsky said.

 

"As long as you don't forget which gun has blanks and which one has real bullets," Angie pointed out. "Please don't forget that."

 

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Starsky said. "I don't wanna shoot ya anymore than you want me to. I'll put the real bullets on this side," he patted the left holster, "and the fake ones over here," he patted the right holster.

 

Hanson, standing on a box where the announcer's podium would be, cued Starsky by his announcements: "Sharpshooter Dave's prowess will amaze you with his accuracy on the bottles..." and so forth.

 

The targets were set against the wall, with stacks of straw and burlap behind them to catch the bullets in case he missed. But he didn't miss, not even once. Even Hutch was startled by his deadly accuracy.

 

"Damn, partner," Hutch said. Starsky just grinned.

 

When it came to the part of the show where he shot at the balloons surrounding Angie, he carefully put the gun back in his left holster and drew the one from the right.

 

"During the actual show," Hanson told him, "we'll have one of the rodeo clowns bring you two fresh guns, both loaded with blanks, when you get to this part."

 

"Good," Starsky said.

 

"You're so good with that, I wouldn't worry too much even if you did have real bullets," Angie said, taking up her position on the dartboard.

 

"I would," Starsky said. "Any particular pattern I should shoot?" he asked Hanson.

 

"No, it doesn't matter. Mitch'll just pop balloons at random and the crowd won't be able to tell where you're aiming," Hanson answered.

 

Starsky took up his position about 50 feet away from the dartboard and called to Angie, "You ready, sweetheart?"

 

"Yeah," she called back.

 

Starsky popped the cylinder open to double-check that the bullets were really blanks before taking up a spread-legged stance, sighting down the barrel, and squeezing off a shot. Mitch popped a balloon, and Angie cringed away as though a bullet had whizzed by her. Starsky stopped and opened the cylinder again.

 

"They're blanks," Hanson assured him with a chuckle. "It's just that Mitch and Angie are good at what they do."

 

Starsky grinned ruefully.

 

He ran through his act two more times before Hanson was satisfied.

 

"Okay, boys, I think we're all ready. We'll have a dress rehearsal the night before the show and I'll introduce you to everyone else then." Hanson clapped a hand on both their shoulders. "I can't thank you enough for this."

 

"We're glad to do it, Steve," Hutch said. "See you then."

 

The days leading up to the dress rehearsal were uneventful for the two detectives. The slow pace allowed Starsky even more time to practice at the firing range. Although he knew he could hit those bottles in the show, he was not leaving anything to chance. Steve had loaned him the guns he would be using so he could practice. Before long, he believed he was as accurate with the old-fashioned weapons as he was with his automatic. He and Hutch both practiced their quick draw and while Hutch was fast, Starsky was amazing.

 

On the way to the dress rehearsal, Hutch told him, "You would have made a hell of a gunslinger, Gordo."

 

"Thanks, Blondie!" Starsky said. "The boots woulda killed me though. Man, those cowboys liked their shoes pointy!"

 

Hutch laughed. "You probably would have found a way to make them more comfortable."

 

"If your feet aren't happy, nothing is happy. My Aunt Rosie taught me that."

 

"Thanks for the tip. Rosie is a wise woman."

 

"She can't make decent chicken soup, but she knows about shoes."

 

At the dress rehearsal, all of the cast and crewmembers were in place for a complete run through of the show for the following night. The costumes were pure Hollywood confection. Hutch's was all white, with lots of fringe, conches and silver buttons. His six guns were shiny chrome with pearl handles. He even wore white boots. Starsky laughed at him and said, "You look like the Good Humor man from 1880!"

 

"More like the Rhinestone Cowboy. Very funny, Sharpshooter Dave." Hutch felt silly dressed in the all white outfit. "Guess if it's good enough for Dan, I can handle it."

 

Starsky looked more like a traditional cowboy. He was dressed in black pants with a tan shirt and tan suede vest. His six shooters were hung in black leather holsters, sans spangles. "This is all right," he proclaimed. He had to promise Steve he would change out of his blue sneakers in favor of black boots for the real show.

 

Steve's rig was perfect for his character -- called "Black Bart" -- in the show. He was dressed in black from his boots to his hat. Even his guns were all black. Everyone was introduced to the cops and they seemed friendly and helpful. One of the roustabouts tried to teach Starsky how to do a few rope tricks while they were waiting. Starsky was coordinated and he picked it up quickly.

 

Angie and Sunshine did their part. Then Starsky amazed the entire group with his sharp shooting. Everyone said they hoped he'd come back and have a competition with Tigger at a later date. Starsky was glad he'd practiced so much. While everyone was watching Starsky, one man in particular had his eye on the dark-haired cop.

 

Lee Garland was not surprised he hadn't been recognized by either one of the detectives. They had busted him in a high school drug-pushing raid on their first undercover assignment. Lee was arrested with a kid named Gary Prudholm who had died in a knife fight in the county jail. That was ten years and twenty-five pounds in the past. Lee had gone bald in that time and grown a mustache. He looked nothing like his younger self. Five years hard time could also do that to a man. Starsky and Hutchinson had changed too, but not as much as Lee. He hated the two men for what he thought they did to him.  Even though the time he did was for a subsequent crime, he still blamed the Metro detectives for his first arrest.  He was only seventeen years old when they busted him. Now, an angry twenty-seven year old sat plotting his revenge.

 

Hutch and Steve ran through their skit. Everything was perfect. Hutch was getting used to Sunshine and his movements with the horse were graceful. Starsky marveled at his best friend. The man could be equal parts athlete and klutz at times. Sitting on that horse with the reins in one of his big hands, Hutch looked completely natural and relaxed. Starsky made himself a promise to get Hutch to go riding. He could get used to the big beasts if it made Hutch happy.

 

Hutch's practice with the quick draw paid off and he convincingly beat Steve. They hammed it up and he "killed" the bad guy. One of the roustabouts whistled for Hutch right on cue and Sunshine came trotting over to him. He hopped on and rode her around the arena, bowing to the clapping crew and waving his hat. The clowns carted off Black Bart as planned.

 

By the time the lights were being turned off in the arena, Lee Garland had his plan. The only thing he needed to do to make it work was to figure out how to keep Steve Hanson from performing the following night.

 

When the detectives arrived an hour before the show the next evening, a frantic teenager greeted them.

 

"Slow down, Angie. What happened?" Hutch asked, putting one hand on each of Angie's shoulders.

 

"I don't know what we're gonna do! The show's a sellout and Steve can't go on!"

 

"Wait a minute, sweetheart, why not?" Starsky asked. "Is he okay?"

 

Just then, Steve walked up behind them and Hutch saw that he had his arm in a sling. "What happened?" he asked the actor.

 

"It was the damnedest thing. I was climbing up on my horse to practice the ride in sequence and he bucked. I fell right off onto my kiester and dislocated my arm. I can't do the shootout with you, Hutch."

 

A few of the crewmembers had gathered around, including Lee Garland who had placed a burr under the horse's saddle to ensure that Steve would take a tumble. "Hey," Garland said, "I have an idea. Why not use Sharpshooter Dave here? If we rearrange the sequence so he does his act first, he could change into the Black Bart costume while Angie's in the arena."

 

Steve smiled and nodded. "Great idea. How 'bout it?"

 

Starsky smirked. "Me and Blondie here in a quick draw?"

 

Hutch poked him in the ribs. "Just be sure you let the good guy win."

 

"Yeah, okay. I can do that. I saw you two do the act enough times, I think."

 

"That's great! Thanks, boys," Steve said appreciatively.

 

Steve did manage to ride into the arena with everyone else. He was also able to emcee the show. As anticipated, the appreciative crowd was awed by Starsky's sharp shooting. They loved it when he plugged the nickel. Mitch and Angie were right, the crowd enjoyed the balloon sequence and no one knew Mitch was behind the board with his pin.

 

After he took his bows, Starsky rushed back to the dressing room to change into the shirt, vest, and hat that would turn him into Black Bart. He came out in time to see Hutch adjusting the strap on one of his holsters before climbing onto Sunshine for their act. Lee Garland was giving him last minute instructions.

 

"Be sure and use the left gun for the first shot and the funny ones. That way you know you have enough blanks for the final showdown."

 

The detectives had reworked the sequence a bit. They wanted to have the final shots fired in a quick draw. Hutch nodded his understanding.

 

Walking up to him, Starsky asked, "Do I look like a Jewish Jesse James?"

 

Hutch looked up and said with a snort, "Nah, you look terrific. Put that tough cop look on your face. You know, the one you use when you're doing bad cop."

 

Starsky pretended he was interrogating a murder suspect and changed his facial expression and body language. "This one, punk?" he asked.

 

"That's it! I'll just look like my usual charming self, of course." With that remark, Hutch swung up into the saddle. "Break a leg, partner," he said as he rode out on his cue.

 

The crowd applauded wildly for Cowboy Ken. He trotted around the arena and fired one shot into the air with the gun from his left holster. Starsky watched the fluid motion as the horse reared and Hutch didn't even break a sweat. While he was turning the horse around, Starsky strode out into the arena, adding a little "gunslinger" to his usual swagger.

 

"Marshal Ken!" he shouted. Hutch spun the horse around to face him. "You done throwed me in yer jail and I come fer my revenge!" Starsky continued.

 

"You'll never win, Black Bart. You and your evil kind always lose out to good." Hutch jumped down off the horse and slapped her flank just like he had rehearsed. Sunshine trotted out of the way.

 

Starsky continued, "You'd better hope yer faster'n me, Marshal. If'n you ain't, I'm gonna plug you fulla holes."

 

The two friends squared off in the middle of the arena. Each one taking cowboy style strides toward the other. Since Starsky wasn't riding, he had put on a pair of spurs and the audience could hear them clearly with every step, "clink, clink, clink."

 

With a knowing glance, the partners dove in opposite directions, firing at each other in ways guaranteed to make the crowd laugh. When Hutch had counted down his shots and was ready to switch to the gun from the right holster, Starsky shouted, "Enough funny stuff, Marshal. Git up and fight like a man. Yer marshalin' days is done!"

 

They stood again, taking up the cowboy stance. Hutch's fingers twitched beside his holster. Suddenly, they both drew their guns and fired, the sound reverberating around the arena. Hutch watched in fascination as Starsky's gun dropped from his hand and he fell over into the dirt. He didn't even put a hand up to catch himself. Hutch couldn't help thinking that had to hurt.

 

While the crowd cheered and applauded, Hutch raised his shiny gun barrel in front of his lips, blew the smoke away, twirled the six-shooter around his finger a few times and smoothly set it back into its holster. The audience went wild. He was just hoping he wouldn't drop it.

 

Hutch and the offside crewmember faked his whistle. He raised his hands Rocky style and jumped up and down a few times while Sunshine trotted to him. Looking back over his shoulder at Starsky a few times, the crease between his eyes deepened. Starsky was supposed to be playing dead, but something didn't feel right to Hutch. Ignoring that feeling, he swung into his saddle and started his victory lap. When he turned back to face Starsky, he saw the clowns heading out from the side. Then, he saw something worse.

 

Underneath Starsky, the ground was starting to show a spreading dark wetness. The color drained from Hutch's face as his mind raced. Jumping down from the horse, he ran to his fallen partner saying, "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"

 

Some of the crowd had seen it also. They were starting to climb to their feet and a woman close to where Starsky was lying screamed as Hutch reached him.

 

"Starsky!" he exclaimed as he knelt in the blood-dampened dirt and gently turned him onto his back.

 

The clowns were beside him and one of them screamed for an ambulance.

 

Hutch's hands were shaking as he pushed the vest back and ripped open the black shirt to reveal a heavily bleeding chest wound. "Oh, God!" Hutch said. He pulled off his white bandana and pressed it against the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. His ears were ringing and visions of Starsky lying on the ground next to the Torino after Gunther's hit man shot him floated into his brain.

 

Oblivious to all other sounds around him, Hutch concentrated on Starsky.

 

"Hey, buddy, open your eyes for me, will ya?" he said. The bandana was soaked through, but someone had produced some clean cloth for Hutch to use instead. One of the clowns applied pressure while Hutch took Starsky's hand in one of his and patted his cheek with the other one. "Please, Gordo. Please don't die!" He raised Starsky's head and shoulders and laid them in his lap to help his labored breathing. The motion promoted a response from the stricken man and his eyes fluttered open for a few moments.

 

"Hu-sh?" he mumbled. Hutch's blood turned to ice water when he saw a little blood slip out of the corner of Starsky's mouth.

 

"Shhhh, I'm here. I'm right here," Hutch said. He looked into eyes that weren't really focusing on him.

 

Starsky blinked, trying to clear his vision so he could see Hutch better. He raised his other hand and touched Hutch on the face. "I'm okay," he said. Then he added, "Hurts. Hold my hand?"

 

Hutch turned even whiter. He was holding Starsky's hand and he gave it a squeeze. "I'm holding it, buddy. Can't you feel that?" He was starting to shake and a tear had escaped from his eye and rolled down his cheek.

 

Starsky looked up at him, brushing at the tear and said, "Don't cry, 'm not scared." Then his eyes rolled up and he went completely limp in Hutch's arms, his hand dropping.

 

"Noooooo!" Hutch yelled at him, letting go of his lifeless hand to feel desperately for a pulse. "Where's that ambulance!" The pulse was still there, but it was weak. Hutch couldn't hear the siren screaming into the fairgrounds. Some of the cowboys had opened the back for them and soon they were driving the ambulance right over to the grisly scene.

 

Steve rushed to meet them. "They were supposed to all be blanks!" he shouted, pointing at the group surrounding the dying detective. "Please, God, help him!"

 

They pushed their way through the crowd. The cowboy in white was covered in blood from the man on the ground. He was pleading with him and rocking him on his lap. "Please hang in there, buddy. Don't leave me. Oh, God, please!"

 

The paramedics looked at Starsky and immediately took him from his partner. They strapped him onto the stretcher and hustled him into the ambulance almost before anyone knew what had happened, knowing they had better treat him in transport or they were going to lose him. Hutch ran after them, but he was pushed back when he tried to climb into the ambulance. "No! Your friend is in serious trouble. We're headed for Memorial," the paramedic shouted at him.

 

"He's my partner. We're cops!" Hutch shouted back, "I'm riding with you."

 

"No, you're not. Don't get in the way or your friend's gonna die. Have someone drive you." The man jumped into the back of the van and pulled the doors shut. Before Hutch could voice any other protest, the ambulance was churning up dirt to rush out of the arena.

 

Steve took Hutch by the shoulder with his good arm and turned him around to face him, "Come on, we'll drive you."

 

Hutch said, "I killed him, Steve." His voice was icy and almost calm.

 

"He's not dead, Hutch! He'll make it, now come on with me."

 

Steve and Charlie, one of the roustabouts, tried to guide Hutch toward the exit. The crowd was being escorted out of the building, but Hutch didn't notice. Suddenly, as they passed the large area of wet, blood-tainted dirt, Hutch stopped, dropped to his knees, and was violently ill.

 

The two men helped the shaken blond to unsteady feet and successfully got him out of the building and into the back seat of a car. Angie had stabled Sunshine and was running toward them. Steve called to her, "Angie! Call Captain Dobey at Metro right away. Let him know what happened."

 

She nodded and ran back for a phone as Steve's white Mercedes peeled out of the parking lot.

 

Charlie sat in the back with Hutch, trying to help him get out of some of his gear. When he tried to take the six guns from him, Hutch stopped him. "No. They're evidence." His hand pushed Charlie's away.

 

"Evidence?" Steve said, a catch in his throat.

 

"If I've killed him, they might press charges." Hutch's expression was flat, his words without emotion.

 

"Against you?" Steve said.

 

Charlie chimed in with, "No way, man. This ain't your fault."

 

Hutch shook his head and started to put his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He stopped his hand in its motion, staring with wide eyes at the blood on it.

"Oh, my God. W-What if he dies, Steve? Starsky's my partner! He's my best friend. I-I...."

 

Steve was stopped at a traffic signal. He spun around to look at Hutch's stricken expression. "Look, we don't know how this is gonna turn out, Hutch. He needs you to be strong for him. Keep your chin up."

 

The blond man in the back seat just stared at him blankly. When they arrived at the hospital, Charlie and Steve had to help Hutch out of the car and into the waiting area. The receptionist looked up at the blood stained apparition of Dudley Do-Right as he was steered into a chair.

 

"He all right?" she asked Steve.

 

"No, but he's not bleeding. You have his partner here, just brought in, David Starsky."

 

She looked at the paperwork in front of her and then asked him to wait a moment while she put her head into the treatment area to see what was happening. She came back and nodded at him. "GSW, sorry, gunshot wound to the chest? He's in Trauma One. I don't know anything else yet."

 

"Officer Hutchinson over there is his partner. Keep us posted, huh?"

 

"Sure, mister. Hey, you look familiar...."

 

Steve just smiled and started to walk away from her. The young woman was probably only in her early twenties. "Wait! Steve..." she snapped her fingers a few times and said, "Hanson. Steve Hanson. Wow!"

 

He smiled at her. "Yes, ma'am. I'm him."

 

"I can't wait to tell my mom. Oh, sorry to meet you this way, though." She blushed.

 

"I know. I'll be over there with my friend." He walked over and joined Hutch, just as Captain Dobey barreled into the Emergency Room. He made it to the waiting men in seconds. He was surprised to see Hutch sitting there, knowing his partner was shot. Usually, Hutch would be fighting the staff to let him into the treatment area.

 

"A young girl called and said Starsky was shot. What the hell happened?" he asked breathlessly.

 

Hutch looked up at him, his eyes full of pain. "I think I k-killed him, Cap."

 

Dobey was stunned. "You what? How?"

 

Hutch unbuckled his holsters and silently handed them over to Dobey. The captain was worried about his detective. Hutch looked terrible, and his all white costume had too much of Starsky's blood on it.

 

Steve said, "Real bullets, Captain Dobey."

 

"How the hell...." Dobey started.

 

"We don't know yet," Charlie said.

 

Dobey motioned Steve away from Hutch. "How bad is it?"

 

Steve shook his head. "Bad. I've never seen anything like that."

 

"On the way here, I called for a team to go over to the arena for physical evidence and to interview the crew."

 

Steve nodded his understanding.

 

Hutch was shaking his head and mumbling, "I should have checked them. Oh, God, why didn't I check them?"

 

A doctor was walking out toward them. They were the only people in the waiting area. He stepped up and introduced himself. "I'm Doctor Moore. You gentlemen here for David Starsky?"

 

Hutch stood on shaky legs and said, "How is he?" He didn't like the grim look on the doctor's face.

 

"Not good, I'm afraid. He's lost a lot of blood and he coded once before we sent him up to surgery. I'm sorry, but it doesn't look very good."

 

What little color had been in Hutch's face drained away and Dobey pushed him back down into a chair. He dropped his head into his hands and started to shake again. "No," was all he would say.

 

"I called for his medical records. His scars...some of the staff explained about his previous injury."

 

Dobey said, "Is that making things worse?"

 

"I'm not sure it will be a factor. That was a while ago and he looks to have recovered. As I said, he's up in surgery. Thank God it was only a single bullet this time. We'll know more in a few hours."

 

Moore turned and walked back through the double doors, leaving the shocked men in his wake. They all turned and looked at Hutch, none of them knowing what to do for him. Dobey whispered to Steve, "Stay with him. I have to make some calls."

 

Dobey went to the pay phone to call Edith and Huggy. When he spoke with Huggy, he asked him to come to Memorial immediately. If Starsky died at Hutch's hand, he knew what it would do to the blond. "We can't leave Hutch alone for a minute, understand?"

 

"I hear ya, Captain. I'm there." Huggy hung up and headed for the hospital.

 

Dobey returned to find little had changed. Hutch still sat on the same chair, upright now, with a look of shock on his face that frightened his captain. It was almost as if he'd checked out -- except for the haunting anguish in his eyes. When Dobey sat down next to him, Hutch turned his head and looked at him with such pleading in his eyes that Dobey felt his own eyes burn in sympathy.

 

"Can I ask a favor?" Hutch said hoarsely.

 

"What is it, son?" Dobey asked, very gently.

 

"If I promise not to run, will you let me stay here for now? At least until we know how he is?"

 

"Run? What are you talking about?"

 

Instead of answering, Hutch reached into the hip pocket of his costume and withdrew a flat leather wallet. He held it out. "From the charges," he said, voice shaking. "I won't run, Captain. I promise you."

 

"What charges?" Dobey recognized the leather wallet. It was Hutch's badge. And he damned sure wasn't going to take it.

 

"A--assault with a -- a deadly weapon," Hutch said, his voice shaking so badly now he could barely get the words out, and he stammered as he always did when he was particularly upset. "For -- shooting..." He couldn't finish.

 

"No, Hutch!" Dobey laid a hand on his shoulder. "There aren't going to be any charges. Have you lost your mind?"

 

"You have to arrest me," Hutch said.

 

"For what? It was an accident! They were supposed to be blanks!" Steve said. He was almost as pale as Hutch was. "It's not like you did it on purpose."

 

"Doesn't matter," Hutch said, suddenly intense. "You think I'd've done that on purpose? I'd cut off my own arm first!"

 

"Hutch, son, take it easy," Dobey said. When Starsky was like this, he shouted. With Hutch, he was afraid to. And something occurred to him. "Wait a minute. They were supposed to be blanks. How come they weren't?" He directed this question to Steve.

 

Steve shook his head. "I don't know. The only real bullets in the place are for Tigger's gun, the one Starsky was using. All the others are loaded with blanks. We're very careful about that. We keep the guns and the bullets in separate cabinets to make sure we don't make a mistake. How could real bullets have gotten into Hutch's gun? I watched Starsky lay his gun with real bullets down and pick up the one with blanks in it when he came backstage to change. He opened the gun and checked to make sure it had blanks."

 

"But I didn't," Hutch said bleakly. "I didn't check. My God, why didn't I check?"

 

Dobey suddenly gripped Hutch's shoulder hard. "Who loaded your gun?"

 

Hutch shook his head and now Dobey saw tears standing in his eyes. "I don't -- I don't know."

 

"Mitch or Lee," Steve said. "They handle the props. But they both know the difference between blanks and bullets. Like I said, we keep them in separate cabinets."

 

"Do you trust them?" Dobey asked.

 

Steve nodded. "I've known Mitch since he was a kid. His dad was a prop man on several of my pictures."

 

"And Lee?"

 

"Lee was a rodeo cowboy on the Oklahoma-Texas circuit before he moved out here," Steve said. "Why would he do something like that? Why would anybody?"

 

"Is Wally still in prison?" Dobey asked.

 

Steve nodded. "I just talked to his sister a few weeks ago."

 

"It sounds to me as if someone wanted to kill you," Dobey said. "You were supposed to be playing Starsky's role." His eyes narrowed. "Why weren't you?"

 

"His horse threw him," Charlie put in. "He wrenched his shoulder and that's his shootin' arm."

 

"Wait a minute," Steve said. "That horse has never done that before. He's as gentle as a lamb, normally."

 

"There was a burr under his saddle," Charlie said. "After he threw ya, I unsaddled him because I figured you wouldn't be ridin' him tonight. Big ole cocklebur under the blanket. No wonder he bucked. Musta hurt like hell."

 

Steve and Dobey both stared at him. Hutch was too miserable.

 

"How did a cocklebur get under the saddle blanket?" Steve demanded. "There isn't any brush within miles of that arena, and I bought that blanket myself only last week."