Winterkill - C. J. Box [115]
“Yes, there he is,” Cobb said with resignation. “He must have known I wouldn’t let him into my home.”
Joe looked back to Cobb. The Reverend was shaking his head sadly, still rubbing his ear, but slumping as if he had given up. There didn’t seem to be any fight in him. Joe made a quick decision that Cobb would stay put and wouldn’t be a threat, since he had, in effect, already given Spud’s location away.
Joe lowered the shotgun and jumped off the porch, turning his back to Cobb.
“Go inside and stay put,” Joe shouted over his shoulder. “You’ve got no part in this anymore.”
“Don’t hurt him,” Cobb implored. “He’s an idiot, but there’s no reason to hurt him.”
Joe said nothing. Nate met him in the yard between the trailer and the church, breathing hard from bulling his way through the deep snow. Joe crossed in front of Nate on his way to his pickup.
As Joe threw down the ramps and fired up his snowmobile, he squinted through the storm. Spud Cargill was getting far enough away that with the hard-falling snow he was little more than a shadow in the field.
“Spud Cargill, STOP!” Joe shouted. “Don’t make us come after you!”
Joe shouted several more times as he backed the machine out of the truck. Cargill didn’t respond. He was struggling through the snow, high-stepping and stumbling. Several times, he pitched forward and vanished out of sight for an instant.
Joe idled the snowmobile alongside Nate.
“I can hit him from here,” Nate said, sliding his .454 out of his shoulder holster.
“No!” Joe said. “I’m going to go get him.”
“I could blow a leg off and shut him down.”
“Nate!”
Nate smiled slightly and shrugged. “I’ll cover you in case he’s crabby.”
“That’s a deal.”
As Joe roared by, he saw Nate out of the corner of his eye with his big pistol extended over a log, the sights, no doubt, on the back of Spud Cargill’s head.
Joe quickly closed the gap between himself and Cargill. Joe drove one-handed, his right hand on the throttle and his left holding the shotgun. The snow was thigh-deep, and Spud Cargill was flushed and sweating. His eyes were wild. He didn’t have gloves or a hat. Joe couldn’t see if Spud had a weapon or not. Joe veered around him, cutting him off, then pointed the shotgun at Cargill’s chest.
“That’s enough,” Joe said.
Cargill stopped, wheezing, his breath billowing from his nostrils like dual exhausts. Slowly, Cargill bent forward and grasped his knees in an effort to catch his breath.
“Turn around and head back.”
Cargill’s hand came up with a tiny double-barreled Derringer in it. Joe flopped back flat on his seat as the little pistol cracked and the bullet missed. Still on his back but grasping the hand grip, Joe buried the throttle with his thumb and the snowmobile howled and pounced forward. The collision with Spud Cargill smashed the plastic windshield and cracked the fiberglass hood. Joe felt Cargill’s body thump beneath the tracks as the snowmobile passed over him.
Once Joe was clear, he sat back up and circled back.
A hand pushed its way out of the tracked snow, and then a knee. Joe drove up alongside and grabbed the hand. With tremendous effort, he pulled Spud Cargill from the snow. Cargill came up with his mouth, eyes, and ears packed with snow but his hands empty of little guns. The tracks of the snowmobile had shredded the front of his coat.
It wasn’t until then that Joe realized how absolutely terrified he had been, and how instinctual and unplanned his reaction was.
While Spud coughed and sputtered, Joe reached up and grabbed Cargill’s coat collar from the back. “Miranda rights!” Joe spat, not having the time, energy, or inclination to say more at the moment. Spud started to speak, but with a firm grasp of the coat, Joe gunned the snowmobile and rode it back to the church, dragging a flailing and screaming Spud Cargill alongside. As Joe rode back, he saw that Spud’s pickup was on the side of the church, obscured from the road and covered by a tarp that was now heavy with snow.
Nate stepped away from the church as Joe rode up and let go