The Sword of God

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Sheriff Lester Grogan saw the man on the shoulder of the road, hauling a heavy pack in the direction of Truth. He was a hundred yards away when he noticed him for the first time, so he slowed the cruiser in order to take a better look. From behind, he looked just like any other hiker who passed through the hills in this part of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. He was a little over average height, and he looked lithe. He looked strong, too, judging by the amount that he was carrying without appearing to struggle. There was a large backpack over his back with several smaller bags lashed to it and, carried on a strap so that it crossed diagonally across his bag, there was a rifle.

Grogan drew up alongside and slowed the car to his pace. He reached for the button to slide down the electric window.

“Hold up there, partner?”

The man stopped. He looked across to him. “Yes?”

“How you doing?”

“I’m fine.”

Grogan quickly assessed him. He was dirty and dishevelled, with long dark hair that reached down to his shoulders, matted and twisted at the ends, and a thick, shaggy beard. His clothes were dirty, too. His jeans were frayed at the cuffs and patched in several places, and his hiking boots were caked with mud. He had the bluest, coldest eyes that Grogan had ever seen. They burned out from beneath heavy brows with an icy fire, and as the man turned to look at him in return, he felt momentarily disconcerted.

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