Chapter 142: Spirit Of Competition

As the targets were pushed back from seven yards out to twelve and fifteen, the limits of basic pistol marksmanship quickly became obvious. At fifteen yards, the black silhouette boards looked frustratingly small to young men who had never held a handgun until that morning.

​Floyd squined down the top rib of his Colt .380, his forehead beaded with sweat as his right arm quivered slightly from holding the gun out for so long.

​"At fifteen yards, this paper looks about as small as a nickel!" Floyd complained, taking a breath before squeezing the trigger.

​BANG. A puff of dirt kicked up five feet to the left of the wooden post.

​"Confound it!" Elmer laughed from the next lane, lowering his own revolver. "You shooting at the target, Floyd, or trying to pick off crows in the oak trees?"

​"Wind carried it!" Floyd muttered, pulling the slide back to eject the smoking brass casing. "Wind’s blowing right across the ridge!"

​"Wind my foot, palooka!" Raymond chimed in from behind the line. "You flinched like a startled mule right when the hammer fell!"

​Ricky stepped up to his lane at the fifteen-yard line. Even with his heightened physical focus and perception, hitting a small paper target at fifteen yards with a short-barreled pocket pistol required real discipline. He set his feet shoulder-width apart, brought both hands up in a tight, locked grip, and let his breathing drop into a slow, steady rhythm.

​He squeezed the trigger. BANG. BANG. BANG.

​Three clean, sharp shots echoed across the valley. Down range, three neat holes punched directly through the chest silhouette, clustered tightly together.

​Miller lowered his field glass, letting out a low whistle. "Good shooting, boss. Every single round right where it counts."

​Ricky eased the slide back, locking the action open, and turned to the men with a calm smile. "Take a second to settle your shoulder between shots, boys. Don’t fight the pistol. If your arm starts shaking, lower the gun, take a fresh breath, and lift it back up. You can’t force the bullet where it doesn’t want to go."

​"Easy for you to say, boss," Floyd gritted out, though he adjusted his stance as instructed, locking both hands around the grip. He squeezed off another round—BANG—and this time, the bullet tore straight through the lower edge of the target paper. "Hey! Got the bastard!"

​"Progress!" John Caldwell chuckled, clapping Floyd on the shoulder.

​By two o’clock in the afternoon, Miller called a halt to the pistol practice and had the men clear the line. Ralph and Miller walked down the long pine tables, lifting heavy wooden crates filled with long bolt-action rifles.

​"Pistols away, gentlemen!" Miller announced, his voice booming over the firing line. "We move now to the premier long-range arm of the United States military—the Model 1903 Springfield rifle chambered in .30-06! Pay attention, because rifle marksmanship is a whole different ballgame."

​The tenement boys gathered around the tables in an eager semi-circle as Miller lifted one of the heavy Springfields, pointing out the receiver, the five-round stripper clip guide, and the folding rear leaf sight.

​"Our targets are set at progressive distances down the valley," Miller explained, pointing toward the open ground. "One hundred, one hundred and fifty, and two hundred yards along the lower embankment. Further down near the tree line, you’ll see the white boards at three hundred, four hundred, and five hundred yards. Today, we’ll teach you sight alignment, elevation, and recoil control."

​Floyd picked up a Springfield, grunting slightly under its weight. "Heavy devil, ain’t she?"

​"She’s eight pounds of real steel, son," veteran Ralph warned with a smirk. "And that .30-06 round packs a real bite. If you don’t plant that buttstock tight against your shoulder pocket, she’ll leave a purple bruise that’ll keep you awake all week."

​The men were instructed to assume the prone position first, laying flat on their bellies on the dirt embankment with low mounds of packed dirt acting as rifle rests.

​At one hundred yards, the heavy rifles began to crack across the hillside—BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!—sending heavy thuds echoing through the timber. Dirt mounds kicked up behind the wooden posts, but with the dirt rest supporting the stocks, almost all the men managed to land their rounds somewhere on the silhouette boards.

​"Not bad!" Miller called out, walking down the prone line. "Keep your elbows anchored, boys!"

​When Ricky took his turn at the one-hundred-yard mark, he bypassed the dirt mound rest entirely. He stood tall at the firing line, bringing the heavy Springfield up to his shoulder in a classic standing offhand stance.

​John Caldwell stepped beside him, raising an eyebrow. "You aren’t using the dirt mound rest, boss?"

​"In a real fight, John, you don’t always get a sandbag or a dirt ridge to lean on," Ricky replied calmly.

​Ricky held his breath, letting his perception guide his sight alignment. The front sight post settled squarely within the rear leaf notch. He squeezed the trigger smoothly.

​BOOM.

​The heavy stock pushed firmly back against his shoulder. one hundred yards down the range, a clean hole punched through the exact center of the bullseye.

​Miller lowered his field glass and looked over at Ricky in genuine surprise. "Bullseye at a hundred yards, standing offhand! That takes a steady shoulder."

​"It’s just about controlling the heartbeat between pulls, Miller," Ricky said, cycling the heavy bolt with a sharp clack-slide to eject the spent brass.

​As the target distances were pushed back to one hundred and fifty yards, the difficulty increased sharply. Several of them, misjudged their elevation, sending rounds bouncing into the dirt short of the posts. But after Miller showed them how to flip up the rear sight leaf and adjust the elevation notches, the men began scoring steady hits again.

​Then came the two-hundred-yard line. At two hundred yards, the white paper boards appeared as tiny specks against the dark timber line.

​The men lay prone in the dirt, squinting down their sights through the afternoon haze. Volley after volley missed completely, kicking up dirt wide of the marks.

​"Blazes!" Clarence groaned, slamming his palm into the dirt after his third consecutive shot went wide. "I can barely see the paper, let alone the center of it!"

​"Don’t rush it, Clarence," Raymond called out, adjusting his own sight. "Focus on the white shape!"

​Ricky laid down on the dirt embankment, bringing his rifle up. He focused his vision intently on the distant target, becoming completely, unnervingly still. The men nearby quieted down just watching his absolute lack of movement. He let out a slow, steady exhale and squeezed the trigger.

​BOOM.

​"Hit!" Miller announced through his field glass. "Confirmed hit on the upper torso silhouette!"

​Before Ricky could cycle his bolt for a second attempt, four crisp, rapid rifle shots cracked in rhythmic succession from lane four down at the far end of the embankment—BOOM... BOOM... BOOM... BOOM.

​Miller swung his field glass toward lane four, his eyes widening. "Hold on... four straight hits! Three of ’em clustered right inside the center ring at two hundred yards!"

​The whole line went quiet. Ricky got up from the dirt and walked down to lane four to see who had taken the shots.

​Lying prone behind a small mound of dirt was Rico Johnson, a thin, quiet sixteen-year-old from the tenements—a year younger than Marek. He held his Springfield with complete composure, cycling the bolt with smooth, practiced efficiency as if he had been doing it his whole life.

​"Holy smoke!" Floyd shouted, leaning over to gawk. "Look at young Rico! The kid’s a regular sharpshooter!"

​Raymond clapped Rico on the shoulder, laughing. "Where in the world did you learn to shoot like that, kid?"

​Rico offered a shy, modest grin, brushing dark hair out of his eyes. "My old man used to take me up to the timber near Lake Champlain before he passed. He’d give me three cartridges and tell me not to come home without two rabbits and a turkey. You learn real quick not to waste lead when supper’s on the line."

​Ricky crouched down beside Rico, offering him a warm, respectful nod. "That’s exceptional marksmanship, Rico. Natural talent."

​Rico flushed slightly, sitting up straight. "Thank you, boss. Just following what Miller showed us about the sight leaf."

​Seeing a sixteen-year-old outshoot everyone on the line sparked an instant wave of competitive pride among the older tenement boys.

​"Well, hell!" Elmer grunted, slamming another stripper clip into his magazine. "If a sixteen-year-old can hit it at two hundred yards, I ain’t leaving this range till I hit it too!"

​"That’s the spirit, Elmer!" Raymond laughed, settling back into his prone position.

​As five o’clock approached and the sun began to dip behind the western ridge, John Caldwell stepped out in front of the assembled men holding a large, freshly planed pine board. He set it up on two wooden sawhorses near the center of the range.

​"Alright, gather round, boys!" John called out, his refined voice carrying clearly across the firing range. "Listen up!"

​The men dusted off their trousers and gathered around the board, leaning in with keen interest.

​"Starting tomorrow morning," John announced, tapping the smooth pine wood, "this board will be mounted permanently on the front porch of the farmhouse. It is our official Camp Leaderboard."

​The men leaned forward, whispering among themselves.

​"We will track individual scoring for the two hundred, three hundred, four hundred, and five hundred-yard rifle categories," John explained clearly. "To earn a spot on this board, a shooter must land three consecutive hits on target at the designated distance. Higher consecutive hit streaks will take the top spots on the board."

​Ricky stepped up alongside John, resting his hands comfortably on his belt. "And naturally, top marksmanship deserves proper compensation."

​The crowd went completely silent, every eye fixing on Ricky.

​"Every Sunday," Ricky announced with a quiet smile, "the top three shooters in each category will receive an official Sunday Pass into White Plains, complete with pocket cash rewards funded directly by the syndicate."

​A murmur of excitement rippled through the ranks.

​"Here is the reward breakdown," Ricky continued. "For the two-hundred-yard category, third place receives five dollars, second place receives ten dollars, and first place receives fifteen dollars."

​Floyd gasped, turning to Elmer. "Fifteen bucks?! Just for shooting paper?! That’s more than two weeks of backbreaking labor on the docks!"

​"Each higher distance bracket increases the reward by five dollars," Ricky detailed smoothly. "For three hundred yards: third place gets ten dollars, second gets fifteen, and first gets twenty. For four hundred yards: third gets fifteen, second gets twenty, and first gets twenty-five."

​"What about five hundred yards, boss?" Raymond called out eagerly.

​"At five hundred yards," Ricky said, raising his voice so everyone could hear, "third place takes twenty dollars, second place takes thirty dollars, and first place takes fifty dollars in cash!"

​The entire company erupted into wild cheers. Fifty dollars in 1910 was a small fortune for a tenement youth.

​"Fifty greenbacks?!" Elmer shouted, throwing his cap into the air. "And a Sunday pass to White Plains?! Saloons, gambling, hot meals, and whatever else we want!"

​"There’s one more thing," Ricky added, raising a hand to quiet the noise. "Any shooter who manages to hold the first-place spot in the five-hundred-yard category for four consecutive weeks will be awarded a custom-built, precision-tuned Springfield rifle of their very own."

​Even Miller and the older army veterans grinned, shaking their heads in clear approval.

​"Shit, boss," Miller chuckled, stepping forward. "Can us veterans get in on this leaderboard too? I wouldn’t mind fifty extra greenbacks in my pocket come Sunday."

​"Everyone qualifies, Miller," Ricky smiled. "Good shooting earns good money. The only rule is that a man can only collect a reward for his highest qualified category per week. You can’t double-dip across multiple brackets."

​John stepped up to write the first entries on the board. "Rico takes the initial top spot for the two-hundred-yard line with four consecutive hits! The rest of you have until Saturday evening to beat his streak!"

​"We’re coming for your spot, Rico!" Floyd shouted playfully, slinging an arm around the blushing sixteen-year-old’s shoulders.

​Ricky watched the men laugh and chatter enthusiastically as they picked up their rifles and began marching back up the dirt trail toward the farmhouse for supper.

​Standing beside John, Ricky looked over toward the open field near the tree line. In his mind, he was already laying out the next phase of their training once the carpenters finished framing the timber structures tomorrow.

​He planned to build a specialized CQC training house using modular, sliding pine wall panels that could be reconfigured daily into randomized room layouts and tight hallways. It would force his men to clear unknown spaces under high pressure without relying on memorized paths—training their reflexes, double-handed pistol accuracy, and speed to a level no ordinary street gang or city police force could ever hope to match.

​"That leaderboard rewards was a stroke of genius, boss." John said, watching the men head toward the mess tables. "They’ll be begging to shoot until sunset every day."

​"A little friendly competition keeps their minds sharp and their spirits high," Ricky replied, turning to walk back toward the farmhouse.