Frozen Sniper

Chapter Two

Cole hiked the six miles from the paved road to his cabin, keeping to the woods, staying out of sight. But for all he knew, the law might already be waiting for him there.

His cabin stood halfway up the slope of the mountain behind Hollis' place. The knife-maker's widow had offered to let him live on the second floor of the barn over the knife shop or build on some level pastureland nearby, but Cole preferred his privacy. The only reason that the cabin wasn't all the way up the mountain was that the land grew too steep and getting materials any higher up was too challenging.

As it was, a narrow and hazardous dirt road struggled to reach his cabin — more trail than road, really, and nothing that someone would travel by accident. Potholes the size of buckets and steep drop-offs dissuaded any visitors, which was just fine with Cole. He had added a "Keep Out" sign at the bottom of the hill to emphasize the point. The difficulty of driving the road didn't matter much to him, considering that he had not gotten around yet to buying a vehicle. No Cole in the far reaches of history had owned more than a horse or mule, but he supposed he wouldn't mind driving somewhere from time to time.

He had built the one-room cabin himself, hammering it together out of rough-cut lumber and roofing it with sheets of corrugated metal. He had taken extra care with that roof, making sure that it didn't leak, and sealing any nail holes with hot pitch. No electricity, no plumbing. He had dug a hole and built an outhouse over it. Though new, the cabin wasn't much different from something straight out of the 19th century. The solitude and simplicity of the cabin suited Cole just fine.

He stoked the fire in the tin potbelly stove and heated a can of store-bought chili — his hunt that morning hadn't been all that successful. He was just finishing the last bite when he heard a motor, way down at the bottom of the hill.

"Goddammit," he muttered.

Cole didn't know if it was trouble coming or not, but it was good to be prepared. He had two guns in the cabin, the rifle and a 12-gauge shotgun. Cole opted for the double-barreled Iver Johnson shotgun. Though battered and worn, every inch of the well-oiled metal gleamed. He loaded the shotgun with double-ought shells and stuck several more shells in his coat pocket, where he could reach them in a hurry. He hooked the shotgun in the crook of his left elbow, the breech open. Keeping the gun open would send a message that he was willing to talk. Snapping the gun shut would mean that the conversation was over.

He went out and stood on the front porch of the cabin, waiting. Slowly, laboriously, the Ford car wound its way up the mountain, headlights cutting into the deepening shadows. He could see that it was the county sheriff.

A deputy was driving, with the sheriff beside him. Cole had met Sheriff Bill Johnson a few times and knew him to be a man who ladled out the law fairly. In this county, sheriff was an elected position that required combining one-part law enforcement and two-parts of good ol' boy politician. He was like a walking, talking recipe for a moonshine cocktail.

After struggling up the rough road, the car came to a stop with what seemed to be a sense of relief. The deputy switched off the engine and got out, but stayed there, keeping the vehicle between him and Cole. Cole didn't recognize the deputy, but he didn't like the man standing where he couldn't see what he was up to.

Sheriff Johnson didn't wear a coat, so that his uniform and badge were plain to see. He was a big man, squarely built, with a belly that hung just a bit over his wide leather belt with its big shiny buckle. No holster on his hip. The sheriff got out and stretched.

"Mr. Cole, that is one hell of a road," he said. "In fact, it’s more like a Billy goat path."

"Keeps the traffic down," Cole said, keeping to the shadows on the porch.

"I'm sure it does," the sheriff said. He advanced cautiously now, seeing that Cole held a shotgun. It wasn’t an unusual greeting in the mountains, where folks tended toward suspicion. "We just come up here to talk."

On the other side of the big Ford, the deputy shifted and banged a rifle down across the hood.

Cole snapped the shotgun closed and leveled it at the lawmen. Conversation over.

There was nothing quite like the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun to stop a man in his tracks. Sheriff Johnson froze. It would be an even bet whether his puckered sphincter was darker than the muzzle of that shotgun. He then turned to see what his deputy was doing to provoke Cole, saw the deputy leaning across the hood with a rifle, and shouted, "Cole, now don't you shoot! Barney, put down that rifle, goddammit. You want to get us both killed? Come out from around the car."

"But sheriff, he's got a shotgun—"

"Do it!" the sheriff ordered. Holding out his hands to show that they were empty, he turned his attention back to the porch, and although he addressed the deputy, the words were meant for Cole. "Cole here is a war hero. Show him some respect. Let's get this sorted out."

"But sheriff, he shot two men—"

"Shut up, Barney," the sheriff said, not making much effort to disguise his annoyance with the deputy. "Like I said, let's get this sorted out. Cole's not gonna shoot us. Are you, Cole?"

"I reckon not," Cole said. He snapped the shotgun open and stepped down off the porch to meet the sheriff halfway.

The sheriff kept his hands raised, not quite up in the air like he was surrendering, but to show that he wasn't any threat. Beside him, the deputy eyed Cole warily.

"Real nice place you got here," the sheriff said, saying it like he meant it. He looked around and seemed to admire the trees and the mountain stillness. He took a deep breath of the clean air and sighed. "Beats living in town, that's for damn sure."

"Built it myself," Cole said. His voice felt rusty and he realized that whole days went by when he didn’t speak to a single person. Between talking to Norman Jean this morning and now the sheriff, he felt like a politician going around making stump speeches.

"That's good. A man ought to build himself a house with his own two hands. Not enough of that these days. That's how our people did it, back in the old days." The sheriff put his hands on his hips, as if signaling that he was getting down to business. "I suppose you know what this is about."

Cole didn't say anything.

The deputy spoke up: "See, Sheriff, I done told you—"

"Let me handle this, Barney," the sheriff said, cutting him off. "Cole, there's two men dead down on the road into town. Would you know anything about that?"

Still, Cole kept quiet.

The sheriff sighed and hitched up his pants. The deputy was fidgeting, but the sheriff seemed used to mountain people like Cole who didn't say much. He took his time filling the silence before he said, "I asked myself, who around here could gun down two men like that and then slip off into the woods like a ghost? Had to be a hunter. Maybe even somebody who had been a soldier."

"Lots of men around here was in the war," Cole said.

"You mean like Deputy Gibson?" the sheriff said, nodding to indicate his deputy. "What did you do in the war, Barney?"

The deputy hesitated. "Fixed broken Jeeps, mostly. I never made it overseas."

"Everybody done his part that was in uniform," Cole said. "Ain't no shame in that."

"Yeah, well, some done more than others," the sheriff said. "Like you, for instance. For what it's worth, the woman didn't tell me a thing, other than that whoever came along saved her from those men. Tight-lipped, yessir. Now, the truck driver said he saw a man with a rifle who stepped off into the woods. I got to thinking about who around here could shoot two men through the heart and I have to say that you came to mind."

"Fair enough."

"Those two were a known quantity around here. They styled themselves as outlaws, I guess you'd say. Always looking for trouble. They figured themselves as hard men. They didn't know what they'd run into, now did they?"

"Let's take him in, sheriff," the deputy said.

"Shut up, Barney," the sheriff said. He paused. "What Deputy Gibson means is that we'd be obliged if you came with us into town so we can settle some questions about this shooting business."

"Are you arresting me?"

"No need for that," the sheriff said. "Let's just go into town and clear this up."

"All right," Cole said. "I'll need a few minutes to close up."

"Take your time," the sheriff said. "It wouldn't be honest of me not to say that you might be gone a while."

Cole nodded and turned back toward the cabin, but not before he heard the deputy mutter, "Yeah, he might be gone twenty years to life."

The sheriff hadn't come out and said that, but Cole knew that the deputy had it right. Should he go into town with them? Cole didn't see how he had any other options. He had shot those men, even if they'd had it coming. But this wasn't like the war. You couldn't just shoot somebody — two somebodies, he reminded himself — and not expect to bring down the law on your head.

He had half a mind to disappear for good into the woods. But he didn't really want to be a fugitive for the rest of his days. Maybe the sheriff was right, and this could be cleared up one way or another. It was the only chance Cole could see of getting out of this mess.

He walked into the cabin. Looking back into the clearing through the one window, he could see the two lawmen watching the cabin. The sheriff had more of a hangdog expression on his face, as if he'd rather be doing something else, but the deputy looked eager.

“You want me to go around back in case he makes a run for it?” the deputy asked, loud enough for Cole to hear.

“No, you stay put. We’ve had enough people shot in this county for one day.”

“I won’t shoot him if I don’t have to.”

“Cole ain’t the one I’m worried about gettin’ shot.”

Cole unloaded the shotgun, stowed the shells with the others in a box high on a shelf above the door, and took an extra minute to wrap the shotgun in an oily rag. He did the same with his rifle. Then he hid both guns under a loose floorboard beneath his cot. It was the best he could do in a short amount of time, and like the sheriff had said, he might be awhile. The stove was already out.

He walked out and pulled the door shut. There wasn't any lock.

"You are doing the right thing, Mr. Cole," the sheriff said. "You ride up front with me."

The deputy wasn't pleased. "Why do I have to ride in back like a criminal?"

"Because Mr. Cole here ain't a criminal, neither. And to be honest, I prefer Mr. Cole as a conversationalist."

"Sheriff, he ain't said a dozen words."

"Exactly," the sheriff said. "Barney, you are finally catching on."

They drove down the mountain, just ahead of nightfall, which was just as well because the narrow dirt track would have been treacherous to navigate in the dark. Once they reached the highway, they drove past the spot where the shooting had taken place. A couple of state police cars were out there now, along with a man with a camera who appeared to be a reporter. The sheriff didn't slow down or comment on the scene.

When they reached town, they drove directly to the sheriff's office next to the courthouse. Although there were spaces in front on the street, the sheriff parked in back, then led the way into the office. It wasn't a big space, just a couple of desks, a cramped office for the sheriff, and two cells. Cole didn't like the looks of those bars.

"Have a seat, Mr. Cole. You want some coffee?"

"Thank you, but I'm fine."

"All right. I'm going to call across the street and try to catch the judge."

"The judge? Do you reckon I need a lawyer?"

"Maybe, but let's see what the judge has to say first."

"If you say so." Cole wasn't in any hurry to get a lawyer, anyhow. He trusted them about as much as your average rattlesnake.

The sheriff left a message with the judge’s clerk and hung up. They didn't have to wait long. The sheriff's phone rang, and he disappeared into his office to answer it. He returned a minute later and nodded at Cole. "Let's take a walk over to the courthouse and talk to Judge Dorsey."

Leaving the deputy behind, they crossed the street and entered the stately brick courthouse. Cole realized he still wasn’t wearing handcuffs, which he took to be a good sign.

It was late in the day, so most people had gone home. Their footsteps rang in the empty courthouse halls. The judge's chambers were on the first floor. Cole followed the sheriff and found himself in what looked like a small library, filled floor to ceiling with leather-bound law books. The place had a good smell of old leather and cigars, with an underlying hint of bourbon. They had entered using a door on the hallway, but another door in the office itself opened up into the empty courtroom. Behind a large wooden desk sat a small, white-haired man with blazing, coal-black eyes. Those were the eyes of every sawmill foreman and banker that Cole had ever seen. Cole's heart sank.

The sheriff started to explain the situation, but Judge Dorsey waved him off. "I know all about it. Sounds like those two got what they deserved. It’s likely that their demise saved the taxpayers some money and trouble. Anyhow, I know all about you, Mr. Cole. You are a goddamn war hero. But the thing is, we can't have you goin' around shootin’ people. So the sheriff and I have come to a solution."

“Does it involve jail?”

"Not if we can help it, Mr. Cole. With the war in Korea, there's been a recruiting drive," the sheriff explained. "There's a bus leaving in the morning, taking recruits to basic training. It would be best if you're on that bus."

Cole could not believe what he was hearing. "I'm done with the Army."

"But maybe the Army ain't done with you," Judge Dorsey said. His black eyes glittered. “Besides, the Army sure as hell beats prison.”

"A lot of veterans are re-enlisting," the sheriff went on in a reasonable tone. "It's a chance for you to be a hero again rather than get dragged through the mud with some sort of trial. The prosecutor we've got now doesn't see things quite the way that the judge and I do, so there's no telling what he's apt to pull. He’s just not what you’d call sensible. He wants to make a name for himself and run for judge.”

The judge snapped those glittering black eyes at the sheriff, as if he had said too much.

Now, Cole started to understand. The judge and the sheriff didn’t want the prosecutor to have any kind of case that might threaten the judge’s re-election, and maybe the sheriff’s, too. If Cole was on the other side of the world, he’d be safely out of reach.

“If this goes to trial, you might need to hire yourself a real lawyer, not a court-appointed one. No offense, Mr. Cole, but it don't seem like you got the money for that."

"The sheriff and I figured this would be a good way to avoid any trouble for you with this shooting business," Judge Dorsey added. "The last thing we want to see is you arrested. But this needs to cool off. By the time you get back, nobody is going to remember those two fools you shot, or much care. You’ll be a war hero all over again."

Cole felt like he was being railroaded, but the judge and the sheriff had a point. If it went to trial, he didn't have the money for a good lawyer. Finally, he nodded in agreement.

"All right, it's decided,” the sheriff said. “We'll head back across the street to my office. You’ll have to sleep in one of the cells, but the cell won’t be locked. Bus leaves in the mornin'."