Although her street is called Paradise Court, Marion Blackburn was a nervous wreck. New neighbors built a shooting range on the other side of her property line in unincorporated Johnson County. Their shooting was loud, and she feared a stray bullet would ricochet toward her house. Even in gun-loving Texas, Blackburn could be forgiven for her worries. Twenty-six years ago, her oldest son was killed in a shooting accident nearby. She knows what it’s like to lose a loved one to a stray bullet.

In recent weeks, Blackburn called and wrote letters to about a dozen federal, state and county elected officials, anybody she thought could help. But she neglected to make the one contact that mattered most.

She started with a call to the Johnson County sheriff. Deputies came by and looked at the boundary lines and the shooting range. They pronounced it legal.

“Can’t be,” Blackburn remembers thinking. But it’s true. Texas laws are lenient, compared with city rules, when it comes to shooting in unincorporated areas of a county.

A person can use a gun in unincorporated areas, in most cases, as long as a bullet doesn’t cross a property line or the shooter isn’t behaving in an irresponsible manner. It’s a Texas tradition, for sure.

The shooting range is built with logs and tin and has a dirt berm behind it. Sheriff’s deputies pronounced it solid, Blackburn recalled. The shooters’ position is less than 30 yards from the home.

It’s against the law to shoot across someone’s property line, but these neighbors shot along their own side of the fence.

Lt. Tim Jones, a spokesman for the Johnson County Sheriff’s Department, says that deputies tell shooters to stop when they violate laws, and that some are charged with disorderly conduct.

The bottom line is responsibility, says Alice Tripp, legislative director for the Texas State Rifle Association.

“No matter where you are, you’re responsible and accountable under the law for the discharge of a firearm or bow and arrow, just like you are with your car,” she said.

“If you damage someone’s property or injure someone, it doesn’t matter where you are. Nobody could say that you could shoot into someone’s house and that would be OK.”

Still, from Blackburn’s perspective, that’s almost what happened to her 19-year-old son, Glenn, in 1983.

Glenn died from a gunshot wound to the back of his head — from a rifle. The three friends with him later told investigators they were outside when it happened. At first, it was ruled a suicide.

During a grand jury inquiry, the friends admitted they had lied about the circumstances. Glenn had died when one of the boys accidentally pulled the trigger, according to Blackburn’s recollection.

No charges were ever filed.

“There are too many things that can happen with weapons that are unexpected,” she said.

After few elected officials bothered to reply to her letter-writing campaign, Blackburn contacted The Watchdog.

I reviewed state law and found one exception. County commissioners can enact a shooting ban in unincorporated areas in platted subdivisions where properties are 10 acres or less.

Blackburn’s neighborhood is legally called Paradise Estates. She lives on Lot 70.

When I told her, Blackburn talked about circulating a petition among her neighbors.

Before doing that, though, I asked her why she never tried to talk to the neighbor with the shooting range. She said she felt intimidated.

So I left her home, went around the block and knocked on the neighbor’s door.

Roland Buie greeted me. I told him why I was there.

Buie is a minister who moved into the neighborhood to start a church. His pastoral manner quickly emerged when I told him about Blackburn and her family history. He shoots with his two sons for enjoyment, he said, but he wanted to help her.

“As a pastor, I deal with people’s problems all the time,” he said.

“I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable in her own home. We’ll quit shooting out there. Tell her I apologize. I really didn’t mean to upset her in any way.”

I asked if she could come over. He quickly said yes, and in a few minutes, I introduced neighbor to neighbor.

They each apologized to the other. “Really, I guess I should have walked over here, huh?” she said.

“I can’t even begin to know how it feels to lose a child,” he said.

He told her he intended to dismantle the shooting range. They talked about neighbors they both knew and their families.

When I left, they were becoming friends, neighbors.