Page 50 of Cold Target

Finally, he reached Ashford.

It wasn't much. A main street with maybe a dozen buildings. A post office. A diner that looked closed. A hardware store. A bar with a neon Pabst sign in the window.

And at the far end of the street, a hunting and fishing supply store with a hand-painted sign that read ASHFORD OUTFITTERS.

Joe parked in front of it. The lights were on inside, which surprised him given the hour. Then he saw the smaller sign on the door: OPEN 24 HOURS DURING DEER SEASON.

He got out and went inside.

The store was exactly what he expected. Mounted deer heads on the walls, their glass eyes staring down at racks of camouflage clothing and shelves of ammunition. Fishing rods lined one wall. A glass case near the counter displayed hunting knives and compound bows. The air smelled like gun oil and canvas and something vaguely animal.

Behind the counter stood a woman in her late twenties, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans.

"Help you?" she said.

"Hope so," Joe said. He walked to the counter. "I'm looking for information about old logging camps or mining operations in the area. Anything abandoned or still running."

The woman frowned slightly. "You a history teacher or something?"

"Something like that."

She shook her head. "I wouldn't know. I don't hunt or fish. I'm just helping out my uncle—he owns the place."

"Your uncle around?"

"He's up at his cabin for the week. Won't be back till Sunday."

Joe nodded. "Any idea who might know? Old-timers, maybe? Someone who worked in the industry back in the day?"

The woman thought about it. "You could try Pike's Bar," she said. "Just around the corner, two blocks down. That's where all the old guys hang out and get drunk."

"Pike's Bar," Joe repeated.

"Can't miss it. Only bar in town."

"Thanks."

"Sure."

Joe walked out into the snow. It was coming down heavier now, accumulating on the sidewalks, on the roofs of parked cars.

He found Pike's Bar exactly where the woman said it would be.

It was a low building with wood siding painted dark red, the paint peeling in places. A neon sign in the window said PIKE'S in green letters. Through the frosted glass, Joe could see warm light and movement inside.

He pushed open the door.

The bar was small and dark and smelled like beer and cigarettes and old wood. Wood paneling on the walls, scarred and stained from decades of use. A pool table in the back corner, currently unoccupied. A jukebox near the door playing something country and mournful. Neon beer signs—Miller, Budweiser, Pabst—casting colored light across the room.

There were maybe six people inside. A couple sitting in a booth near the back. Three men at the bar, spaced out, each nursing a drink in silence. And behind the bar, a heavyset man in his fifties with a gray beard and a Milwaukee Brewers cap.

Joe walked to the bar and took a stool near the middle. The bartender came over, wiping his hands on a towel.

"What can I get you?"

"Whatever's on tap," Joe said.

The bartender pulled a pint of something local and set it in front of him. "Four bucks."