'Don't know, sheriff.'
The sheriff's voice pleaded. 'Tell me where he is or we'll have to search the woods. Maybe he's unconscious. He can freeze to death if he is. Was he hurt?'
'No, sheriff. Nobody was hurt. There were only four of us, in two cars, out visiting, on our way back. There's nobody in the woods.'
'Okay, thanks. So move! Move, you hear! Get that car going and get out of here. I don't want any parked vehicles on the side of a dark road. The wreck'U have to go too.'
Three men hesitated, but Leroux stepped forward. He took another, smaller step, and his heavy, bearded head came down and peered into the sheriff's eyes.
'We won't go. If we do you'll be after us for drunken driving. We lose whatever we do. We'll stay here and sleep it off.'
'You won't. Get into that car, Leroux!' The sheriff's voice was a cold whisper.
'None of us can handle the car. We've been drinking.'
'Your problem. You managed to get here. Now you get out of here again.'
'No,' Leroux said. 'And you have a problem too, sheriff. I'm going to punch you in the face and walk over you when you're down. I'll keep on walking until you forget what happened here. You've got your rider again, but I don't want to fight him this time. I'll fight you, sheriff.'
'He'll pull a gun on you, Leroux.' The young man who had spoken before was standing next to Leroux, his hand on the giant's sleeve. Leroux pushed the man and the man stumbled and fell. His broad-rimmed leather hat rolled in the road.
The sheriff grinned. 'I won't pull a gun on you, Leroux, but you'll be in real trouble afterward. Assault on an officer. The judge won't like that at all.'
Leroux's bull neck came down and his long arms dangled. He took another small step. The sheriff straightened up.
'SHERIFF,' boomed the cruiser's radio, 'YOU THERE, SHERIFF?' The words thundered into the woods and echoed back.
'Excuse me.'
The sheriff walked backward to the cruiser and de Gier's shotgun came up an inch and dropped down again. The sheriff reached into the cruiser's open window and came back clutching the microphone. 'I'm here, Bert, ten three.'
'Got the eggs, sheriff. Five dozen in a wicker basket, but I'm on the other side of the county and the roads are snowing in up here. Can I bring them in tomorrow?'
'No. Bring them in now.'
'Jim! Please. The snow's so heavy I can't see a foot even when the wipers are on double speed. Let me bring them in tomorrow.'
'No, Bert, right now. We need them for breakfast. Ten four, Bert.'
He threw the microphone back into the cruiser and walked forward. De Gier's shotgun moved a little again, but it was still pointed at the road.
'Last chance, Leroux. I'm staying here. Think before you come.'
Leroux growled. De Gier thought of interfering. A good punch from Leroux's double-size fist might snap the sheriff's head off. He would have interfered in an Amsterdam alley. Amsterdam suspects can be talked to, manipulated by gentle words, by a friendly touch. Even the leatherjacket ghouls can be talked to, the ghouls who lurk in alley comers, waiting for the weak. But ghouls don't want to fight. Perhaps this was a different situation. Leroux wasn't an evil force, but an individual, a workingman, a citizen intent on fighting the state that was trying to control his freedom, his rights. The sergeant studied Leroux's bulk; the leg muscles swelling under the tight jeans, the two-foot chest exposed by an open jacket, the man's vast shoulders. Perhaps he should be allowed to have his fight.
'Okay,' the sheriff said softly.
Leroux lurched forward and swung. The sheriff ducked, jumped aside, and kicked his opponent's leg just above the top of his boot. The man turned and staggered, but the sheriff was in front of him again, kicking the other leg. The giant's reflexes were slow, and he ducked too late when the long, rubber-covered flashlight hit him on the side of the neck. The contact of flashlight and neck was marked by a thud. The three other men came close. De Gier's shotgun moved, but they weren't planning to join the fight. They wanted to pull their friend away. There was no need. Leroux's knees bent and he fell slowly. The sheriff let him fall.
'Right,' the sheriff said and yanked an arm free and bent it back. The other arm followed. The polished metal of handcuffs shone blue in the cruiser's revolving lights and there was the small, ominous click of the handcuffs' lock.
Leroux tried to roll over but was stopped by de Gier's boot. De Gier stepped over the man.
'I don't believe it.'
'What?'
'Help me up.'
De Gier put out a hand. There was too much weight and the sheriff got behind his victim and pushed.
'I should have broken you into pieces, you little bastard,' Leroux said, still in the same surprised voice.
'But you didn't. You guys, you all drunk?'
'Yes, sheriff.'
'Got any money?'
'Some.'
'Enough for a taxi? Which one of you lives nearest?'
The young man in the leather hat answered. 'Me, sheriff. I'm from Jameson.'
'Can you put your buddies up for the night?'
'Yes.'
'Okay, all' of you get into the back of the cruiser. Sergeant, you drive that car across the road. Leave it in the clearing in front of the trailer. Never mind if it gets stuck in the snow. I want it off the road.'
De Gier took the shotgun, released the chamber's spring latch, and made the shells jump into his hand.
'Right, you guys, who owns the wreck?'
Another man stepped forward. 'Me, sheriff.'
'Got forty bucks?'
'Got a check, sheriff.'
'Write it out. I'll radio for a tow truck. Make the check payable to the sheriff's department and we'll pay the truck. Check better be good.'
'It's good.'
The man wrote the check, and the sheriff pocketed it. The sergeant came back.
'Let's go.'
They drove back at a reasonable speed.
'You did well, Jim.'
'Got him nicely, didn't I? But it wasn't a fair fight. Too much beer in the man. And I was all there, I didn't have to watch the others. Good thing you came along. I couldn't have taken them all, and Bernie would have taken too long to get here and Bob is home and Bert has his eggs to worry about. He was thirty miles out anyway. So tell me what else happened at Madelin's.'
De Gier took the raccoon tail from his coat pocket and showed it. He told the story that went with the tail.
'Shit,' the sheriff said. 'So that's why the tail wasn't hanging in your face. I was wondering what had happened to it. But that's homicide, sergeant. You might have called me. You saw him get away you say?'
'Yes, on snowshoes. The rifle was strapped to his back. He was taking his time. He knew nobody would go after him.'
'Good shot,' the sheriff said. 'If he missed on purpose. Could have been the fox. He shot a man through the hair once, from a fair distance. The bullet went straight through and didn't even nip the man's head. We couldn't prove it was the fox, but it was the fox all right. Maybe it was the fox now. You remember the time?'
'Eight-forty.'
