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 ears ringing from the crack of the rifle, he finally allowed himself to take a deep breath. So much of this trip had reminded him of his age, especially the hike up into these hills, but he suddenly felt like a young man again.
“I’ll be damned,” Cole said, inspecting the boar. He felt adrenalin surging through him, making him feel twenty years younger. “He was an ornery critter.”
“I thought for sure he was going to plow you over.”
“Close,” Cole agreed. “If I’d missed him, this would be a different story. Wouldn’t that be a way to go?”
“But you don’t miss.”
“Not if I can help it, boy.”
Cole looked in Hauer’s direction. Hauer saw him and gave him a nod, but his attention was soon claimed by more movement among the trees. The dogs and drivers were still at it, and this time they saw the flash of a stag’s white tail, like a flag in the woods.
The mountain stag was running far ahead of the hounds, right in their direction.
“Here he comes, Pa Cole!” Danny whispered intently. Caught up in the excitement, he seemed to have momentarily forgotten his opposition to hunting.
Danny was right. The stag seemed to be headed right at them.
Cole raised his rifle, lining up the shot. Unlike the boar, the stag had no intention of leaving the cover the woods and charging them, but ran along the treeline, presenting its flank to Cole. Although the stag was farther away, this running shot was easier in some regards. All he had to do was lead the target. The fine optics of the Leica scope made the stag spring closer, gathering all the light of the overcast day.
Then at the last moment, the stag broke to the left and into Hauer’s quadrant. Cole lowered the rifle, leaving the stag to Hauer. Off to his left, Hauer’s rifle cracked. He saw the stag stumble, but it kept right on going. Before Hauer could fire again, the stag disappeared deeper into the forest.