Robert Moore Williams

The Incredible Slingshot Bombs by Robert Moore Williams - It was only a slingshot, but it hurled more death than a thousand-pound bomb. Where did Tommy Sonofagun get those deadly pellets?

"You go over to the other ridge," the sheriff said to the two deputies. "If he tries to get out that way, stop him. But remember, we want him alive, if we can get him that way."

I only half heard what the sheriff said. My attention was fully occupied by the dogs down in Ten Mile Valley below us. I couldn't see them but I could hear them bugling down there in the cedar thickets. Baying slowly and mournfully, they were searching for the lost trail. A creek ran down the middle of the valley. Probably Tommy Sonofagun had crossed the creek and thrown the bloodhounds off his trail. Tommy might be a moron but he had enough animal cunning to lose a pack of hounds that were after him.

His name wasn't really Tommy Sonofagun. It was Tommy Britten, but the loafers around Brock's Tavern had taught him to say that his name was Tommy Sonofagun. They thought this was funny.

The sheriff and I watched the two deputies tramp down into Ten Mile Valley, but we lost sight of them before they reached the farther ridge. The steel towers of an electric high-line ran along this ridge for a couple of miles, then dipped down and crossed the valley. The transmission line carried current from the big dam about twenty miles to the north. When the war first started, there was some fear that enemy agents might sabotage this high-line and the sheriff had spent most of his time out in the hills guarding it.

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