Sniper's Justice (Caje Cole Book 9) David Healey (little bear else holmelund minarik .TXT) 📖

know how they covered so much ground on their short legs. He never would have considered them proper hounds, but they were eager hunters and he learned that the breed had been bred for just this purpose.

More than a dozen hunters had gathered. Cole had worried that they would all be Nazi fossils like Hauer, but to his surprise, they were a friendly, hale and hearty bunch. Some were French rather than German. Hauer was just the friend of a friend. Cole had been puzzled about how Hauer had landed an invitation, until he realized that the German had provided a case of premium Russian vodka and some bottles of rare schnapps. That alone seemed to be Hauer’s ticket for admission.

The other hunters gladly welcomed Cole as a novelty. They had never hunted with an American.

“Let’s see what Americans are made of, yes?” they kidded him.

“Where are your buckskins and coonskin cap?” another asked with a laugh.

The jibes were friendly and Cole could see that the other hunters were mostly beefy businessmen dressed up in new hunting clothes. “I’ll see if I can keep up.”

He soon saw that the kidding had not been idly spoken. To get into position, there was a great deal of hiking, mostly uphill, as they climbed from the lodge into the higher elevations. Cole wished that he was twenty years younger. Danny didn’t seem to have any trouble, taking to the trails like a mountain goat. He spelled his grandfather by taking the rifle for a while and slinging it over his own shoulder. The rifle couldn’t have weighed more than eight pounds, but after a couple of hours of hiking, Cole felt his shoulder sagging under the weight.

Although the fall morning was chill, Cole soon found himself sweating inside his hunting coat. The autumn woods proved to be a reward in itself for all of this exertion. The trail passed through heavy stands of pine and fir, making the air smell fresh and alive. Their feet scarcely made a sound on the matt of damp, fallen pine needles. A few deciduous trees blazed among the pines in vibrant tones of yellow and orange. With no roads nearby, the only sounds came from the footsteps of the men, occasional guffaws at quiet jokes, the twitter of birds, and the rush of the streams they passed. As Cole fell into the rhythm of the march, his heart and legs pumping, he felt intensely alive. He was in his element.

By the time they were deep into the hills, it was already past noon. Sandwiches were handed out. After a few shy appearances, the sun had hidden itself for good. With the short fall days, they would only have a couple of hours to hunt before having to start back to the lodge.

Once they were in position, the hunters spread out into smaller groups. He and Danny found themselves stuck with Hauer. After all, this was to be an unofficial shooting competition, so it made sense that they were together, although Cole would have preferred the company of just about anyone else.

“Good luck,” Hauer said. He had seemed amused before, but now there was another look evident on his face, as if he was enjoying some private joke.

“Just watch what you’re shooting at today,” Cole reminded him. “Make sure your targets have four legs.”

Hauer just smiled.

After following a narrow trail, they were set up in a pretty little valley, or what Cole would have called a “bowl” back home, a low, open area facing the edge of the forest rising beyond. He, Danny, and Hauer seemed to have the valley to themselves. The baying of dogs came closer.

Through the trees, they caught a blur of movement. Cole felt a thrill of excitement as he realized that it was game. He looked more closely and saw a dark shape rushing through the trees toward them.

It was a boar. Cole had seen wild pigs before, but never anything this size. The boar must have weighed at least a couple of hundred pounds and was the size of a German Shepherd. It burst from the trees and ran right at him, lowered its head, and charged. He could see ivory tusks jutting in front of the boar’s mean, dark eyes.

“Pa Cole, he’s headed right for us,” Danny remarked nervously. His grandson stood just behind him and hadn’t brought along a gun.

“Hold tight,” Cole said.

He raised the rifle to his shoulder and tracked the boar through the scope. That pig could move. The boar had already covered half the distance across the clearing. This morning with the hunting master, they had all agreed on zones of fire. This boar was squarely within Cole’s zone. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Hauer with his own rifle nestled in the crook of his elbow. If Cole missed his shot, that boar was going to plow right through him. It was clear that he wasn’t getting any help from Hauer in stopping the boar.

A running shot from the side was one thing, but a running shot with an animal coming straight at you was far more difficult. First of all, it meant that the animal wasn’t running away but charging at you. Each second that one waited required another instantaneous mental calculation about where to aim to adjust for the trajectory of the bullet. Also, the boar coming at them made a small target from the front.

“Pa Cole!” Danny said nervously.

This was the point where some men might have run for it. Others would have shot blindly in desperation, hoping against hope that one of their bullets would strike true, stopping the tusked nightmare steaming toward them at full speed.

But Cole stood his ground, his crosshairs steady. He waited until the charging boar’s head filled the field the view, then squeezed the trigger.

The boar made a sound that was like a grunt of frustration and rage, then skidded to a stop, not twenty feet from where Cole stood. His