McNulty’s rifle was out in that field, probably clogged with snow, but with the Germans nearby he didn't want to chance going out in the open to retrieve it. Jolie still had the lieutenant’s pistol — and she might be needing it. That left him with a damaged rifle and a hunting knife.
"I'll be all right," he said. "You and the Kid get out of here. It's me he wants. It's me he'll come after."
"Cole—" Jolie started to say more, but then stopped herself.
"Go on," he said. “Get out of here.”
"Vous revenez à moi ou je te tue moi," she said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It is French for, 'Good luck, you stubborn horse's ass.' "
Cole grinned. "Now git. We ain't got all day."
Jolie and the Kid worked their way through the woods, keeping near the edge of the field but under cover of the trees. Fortunately, the Kid was skinny, and Jolie was able to put his arm over her shoulders to take some of the weight off his wounded leg.
Cole heard a door opening in the wrecked truck, but he couldn’t see more through the trees. He waited until he was sure Jolie and the Kid were not being followed by the Germans, then headed deeper into the woods. He was sure he would lead the sniper away from them, as surely as a mouse lures the cat.
Von Stenger kept to the edge of the woods, looking for where the American snipers' footprints entered the trees. The path of the truck had roughly followed their footsteps, so he did not have to go far.
Every sense was tuned to the woods around him. The enemy might be lurking anywhere. As a sniper, he had trained his eyes to seek motion rather than try to distinguish shapes among the puzzle of trees. Something gray flickered across his vision and his rifle was halfway to his shoulder before his brain registered that it was only a bird. Even his nose tried to pick up any smell that did not belong in the forest — men smelled like leather, damp wool, cigarettes, spearmint gum, gunpowder — smells that could carry surprisingly far on the winter air.
The silence of the woods was a little too quiet — someone had passed this way recently — or could still be waiting in ambush. He moved more slowly, rifle at the ready. The last thing he wanted to do was walk right into the sights of the Americans — or surprise them in their hiding place.
He soon found what he was looking for, the place where their tracks came into the trees. Two sets of tracks, none too neat, considering that one man was helping the other.
And blood on the snow.
Against the white snow, the blood stood out clearly as a full moon in the night sky.
There was not enough blood to indicate a fatal wound, but his bullet had found some piece of its target.
He followed the tracks to where they stopped just inside the tree line. To his surprise there was another set of tracks, indicating a third man. A spotter? Or another sniper? Two sets of tracks moved back toward the field. Again, he saw flecks of blood on the snow. One of these men was wounded.
Curiously, a set of tracks moved away, deeper into the woods. Blood also spotted the snow beside these tracks. He could almost see it steaming in the cold.
Von Stenger could read these tracks like a story. The two sets of tracks leading into the field did not concern him much. One man was slightly wounded; the other man was providing a shoulder to lean on.
The lone set of tracks headed deeper into the forest. Away from any help. Why? Because they belonged to a man just like him. The hillbilly sniper. Wounded but still very dangerous, like some cornered predator. Inviting Von Stenger to follow him rather than the two who had fled to help and safety. Deep in the woods, once and for all, they could settle this matter of who was the better man.
Von Stenger accepted the challenge.
The forest soon closed in around Cole. The snow-covered ground and frosted branches absorbed any sound. The wound alternately ached and burned, but it did not impede him.
Here in the woods, he was in his element. It did not matter if these were the hills of the Ardennes, or the mountains back home. He might not know the lay of the land here, but he understood the rules of survival.
It would just be the two of them now. Cole and the Ghost Sniper. He would have liked his chances better if he’d had a working rifle.
The first thing he had to do was to turn the tables. The German sniper would be coming after him, and Cole's trail was far too clear. He was leaving tracks in the snow, as well as blood.
The situation was like being in an aerial dogfight — you were at a disadvantage if you were the plane out front. The pilot behind you could just settle in and pick you off. To win the dogfight, you had to turn the tables and get behind your opponent.
All Cole had were his own two feet, but that was enough. He moved downhill, rather than seeking the higher ground. Normally, being up high would be to his advantage. But he needed to outfox Das Gespenst, so he moved downhill as quickly as he could, hoping that he had enough of a head start on the German. The trees would hopefully screen his movements — but all the man had to do was follow Cole's tracks. The German would know the general direction Cole had taken, but Cole would not really know where the German was coming from.
His ears strained for some sound, some clue that he was being followed. Except for the occasional creak of branches overhead, the forest was silent. Not so much as a bird broke the quiet.
At the bottom of the forested hill, he was disappointed to find nothing more than an ice-locked ravine. Damn it all. It wasn't what he had hoped for. The German would be coming, and Cole felt very exposed.
He started up the next hill, panting with the effort, and less careful about any noise he made. He needed speed and distance right now, not quiet. Once he got to the top, he heard just what he was hoping to hear. The sound of running water.
In the distance, he heard a branch snap.
He half ran, half slid down the other side of the hill toward the sound of the creek. At the bottom of the hill was a creek maybe twenty feet wide and a couple of feet deep. The water moved fast enough that it had kept ice from forming.
Without a moment's hesitation, Cole plunged into the stream, instantly getting soaked up to his knees. Even if the water wasn't frozen, it definitely felt like ice. Already, his lower legs grew numb.
He waded with the current, trying not to make too much noise. He slung his damaged rifle and used his arms to keep his balance on the slippery stones under his boots. It was bad enough to get his legs and feet wet. If he fell in, the cold would get him before the German did. He noticed that his shoulder wasn't bleeding so much — the blood had started to coagulate in the chill air.
Cole churned down the stream for about one hundred feet, until he spotted a log, bare of snow, that slanted down into the water. On an impulse, he moved past it until he came to a place maybe fifty yards down where a spring bubbled down into the main creek. The area was free of snow, yet was frozen solid enough that his boots would not leave tracks. He waded out of the creek and followed the frozen spring bed back into the woods. The frozen path did not go far, but it was enough. He looked back, just to make sure that he had left no tracks — or any blood.
Not a trace.
Satisfied, he worked his way back into a tangle of wild grapevines where he would be well hidden, but had a view of the creek. He rested his rifle over a fallen branch and settled down to wait. Von Stenger would have to be very close for Cole to shoot with any accuracy. He might just have to shove the rifle barrel up the Kraut's ass in order not to miss. But with any luck, he had just gone from hunted to hunter.