Read Matt Helm--The Interlopers for Free Online

pretended to.

5
    When you’re hunting an animal that can smell you, you’ve got to figure your approach very carefully according to the wind; when man is the quarry you can forget such refinements. The wind was right, anyway, blowing gently from the sniper to me, and there was good stalking cover the whole way—if I could only break away to take advantage of it without getting shot first.
    I mean, if I could see him up there through the intervening brush, he could undoubtedly see me down here, and he was presumably doing his looking through the rifle-scope, with his finger on the trigger. I was gambling that he wouldn’t try to drive a light, high-speed, easily deflected .243 bullet through a mess of twigs and branches as long as he had a good chance—or thought he had—of catching me in the open if he waited. But the minute he guessed that I was aware of the trap and trying to get out of it, he’d undoubtedly shoot rather than risk losing me.
    Of course, it didn’t have to be a .243 and he didn’t have to be the mysterious marksman who’d killed Nystrom and his dog with two well-placed shots for reasons still to be determined. But that sharpshooter was the most likely candidate, and I wanted badly to get out of his sights before he chalked up two Nystroms—one real and one phony—to his credit.
    Luck helped me out, in the form of a rabbit that took off in front of Hank, who was too young to resist the temptation. He was gone in a flash, right on the bunny’s heels. Running rabbits is a serious crime for a bird dog of any kind, and it gave me an excuse to blast fiercely on the whistle and shout loud imprecations that I hoped carried well against the wind to the man with the gun while I stumbled clumsily after the chase—until it carried me out of sight into a brushy gully.
    Crouching there, I continued to whistle and yell until the pup came slinking back, very guilty and ashamed of himself. I spoke to him severely and used the leash to tie him to a tree, letting him think that was part of the punishment. Then I drew a long breath; I’d made it out of sight, and there were no bulletholes in me, and my adversary was not alerted. At least I hoped he wasn’t. Leaving the pup tied, keeping low, I made a quick circle of the little knoll, slipping up behind the rifleman without further trouble. When I got within a couple of hundred yards of the spot, I could see that he was still there.
    I had a good view of the sole of a boot sticking out of the brush, and from this angle I could see about half a bare head above the undergrowth. It had a lot of hair on it, but sexwise that means nothing these days, and as far as I’m concerned, no double standard applies to people who hide in bushes with rifles, anyway.
    With a rifle of my own, I might have tried the shot, but all I had was Grant Nystrom’s choice of sidearms: a short-barreled Colt .357 Magnum revolver with the butt trimmed down for concealment purposes. It wasn’t a bad gun as revolvers go—it was a lot more gun than the .38 Specials we’re usually issued—but it was no long-range weapon, and I’m not much of a long-range pistol-shooter, either. The long-range capabilities were all with the opposition, which made my problem clear if not simple: I had to get close enough for one good shot before he spotted me, since I probably wouldn’t be given time for a second should the first one miss.
    I looked around. The ground rose to the left toward another bare hillside—bare of brush, but there was some scraggy grass that I thought would give me at least partial cover. I worked my way up there, using my knees and elbows, until I was above the sniper and about eighty yards away. Instinct warned me that was as close as I’d better go.
    I slipped the .357 out of its trick holster inside my waistband, and cocked it, muffling the click under my jacket. I made myself steady and comfortable, flat on my stomach. Parting the screen of grass in front of me, I tried the