Free Endangered by C. J. Box Page B

asked Reed.
    “Negative,” Reed said back. “I don’t want to get anybody hurt.”
    “He’s inside,” someone said.
    Joe looked up. A dim light had been turned on inside the trailer in what looked like the living room. A moment later, the window was thrown open.
    “You sons of bitches have no right to be on my property, so get the hell off!”
    He sounded enraged.
    “Get in your goddamned cars and get the hell off my property, you fascist, jackbooted thugs!” he hollered. “Unless I see warrants and an order signed by the sheriff of this county—
the only authority I recognize
—you’re trespassing on my place and I’ll have all your asses. You have no right to be here!”
    He had a thundering voice, Joe thought, but slightly slurred. Joe blinked his eyes, trying to force away the effects of the exposure to the headlights so he could see again.
    “I’m right here, Tilden,” Reed responded from behind his van. “It’s Sheriff Reed. The warrant is on the way. So calm yourself down and stop yelling. Nobody wants any trouble if we can avoid it.”
    Reed had a patient, reasonable timbre to his voice.
    That seemed to startle Cudmore into silence.
    Reed said, “If you’re packing that pistol you carry around, you need to take it out of your holster and put it down and come out of the house. I need to see your hands.”
    “Sheriff, why are you here?” Cudmore asked.
    “I think you know why, Tilden,” Reed said.
    “Whatever it is, it’s bullshit.”
    “So calm down and let’s talk about it.”
    Joe took a deep breath. The situation seemed to be cooling. He chanced a glimpse around the front of his truck, keeping low this time so the headlights wouldn’t hit him again.
    In the background, he could hear one of the deputies on his radio calling for additional personnel. He hoped that Chief Williamson wasn’t monitoring the channel.
    Joe caught a glimpse of Cudmore as he lumbered past the dining room window. He was a huge man, blocky and solid. He had a massive Neanderthal brow and deep-set eyes. His unshaven face sparkled with silver whiskers. He wore a kind of slouch hat and there was a spray of wild thin hair that flowed from beneath the sweatband to his shoulders. The wispy hair glowed in the beams of flashlights and spotlights, and then he was gone.
    A few seconds later, his face appeared in the bottom corner of the window. Cudmore squinted into the light, his mouth curled with anger. “How many of you jackbooted thugs are out there, anyway?”
    “Quit saying we’re jackbooted thugs, Tilden,” Reed said with annoyance. “It’s my sheriff’s department. I don’t even know what a jackboot is.”
    “How many?”
    “Half my department, Tilden,” Reed said.
    “Well, shit, it’ll take more than that if you want to arrest me.”
    “Lower your weapon and come out,” Reed said. Not so reasonable-sounding this time.
    “Ain’t you heard?” Cudmore said. “There’s this thing called the Second Amendment. I got a right to keep and bear arms.”
    “Of course you do,” Reed responded. “But we’ve got a situation here and I’m getting impatient. We’ll give you your weapons back after we ask you a few questions at my office. If there’s been a mistake, you’ll be back here within an hour or so.”
    “To hell with that. I know how your so-called justice system works. Get your men off my place. All of ’em. I’ll talk to you, but only to you.”
    “That’s not going to happen, Tilden,” Reed said.
    Joe didn’t know all the reasoning or philosophy behind it, but he’d heard that some survivalists made it part of their governing philosophy to recognize the local sheriff as the only authority in the country because, for whatever reason, the rest of the government—especially the federal government—was considered illegitimate. At the moment, Joe couldn’t care less about Cudmore’s reasons. He wanted him in a cage—or worse.
    “You’re not arresting anyone,” Cudmore boomed.