by Jon Sharpe
Wendy and Bethany were still asleep.
Fargo stretched and stood. Birds were singing. Far below the blue of the creek stood out against the green of the woodland. Reluctantly, he woke the Brit. He had to shake him a while before Wendy’s eyes fluttered open.
“Is that you, Yank? I was having the most wonderful dream.”
“How do you feel?”
“Too soon to tell.”
Bethany jerked at Fargo’s touch, then sat up. She scratched her hair and looked around and said, “Oh.”
Fargo passed out more pemmican for breakfast. When they were done he boosted Wendy onto the Ovaro and swung Bethany up.
He slid the Sharps into the scabbard and held on to the elephant gun.
The slope below was treacherous. Fargo picked their way with care. The stallion, as sure-footed as it was, experienced a few slips and slides. He was glad when they reached the bottom.
Fargo gazed over his shoulder—and his blood became ice.
A giant form was silhouetted on top of the cliff. It was in shadow and the head and neck were indistinguishable from the dark block of body but there was no confusing it for an elk or some other animal.
Brain Eater wheeled and plunged into the forest.
It happened so fast, Fargo half wondered if he’d imagined it. But no, she was shadowing them. He continued on down. That she hadn’t attacked was encouraging. She might hold off until dark.
Wendy kept passing out. The next time he did his arm slipped from around Bethany and she would have fallen had Fargo not caught her. He set her down and walked with her hand in his.
In a while Wendolyn straightened and frowned. “Sorry.”
“When you need to stop and rest, say so.”
Fargo checked behind them so many times, he got a crick in his neck. Brain Eater didn’t show.
Miles to the south, gray smudges against the blue sky marked where tendrils of smoke rose from town.
Fargo wondered if he would ever see it again.
Another night washed dark and chill over the vastness of the northern Rockies. The carnivores emerged and the timberland echoed with their roars and cries.
Fargo camped beside a spring in a sheltered nook.
Uncomfortably close brambles hemmed it on three sides. He didn’t like the spot but they had been without water all day.
Now he had coffee on to brew. Wendy was on a blanket with an arm over his eyes. Bethany swirled a stick in the spring.
“I feel bloody awful,” Wendy lamented.
“By midnight tomorrow we’ll reach Gold Creek.”
Wendy placed his arm on his chest. He was drawn and haggard and ungodly pale. He’d refused a bite to eat, saying he was too queasy to keep it down.
Bethany stood and threw the stick into the darkness. Coming around the fire, she surprised Fargo by plopping into his lap. “Tell me a story.”
“A what?”
“Ma always told us a story before we went to bed. I’d like to go to sleep so tell me one.”
Fargo was taken aback. Most of the “stories” he knew would get belly laughs in a saloon but weren’t fit for children.
“You must know one,” Bethany said. “A fairy tale would be nice. Ma liked fairy tales.”
Fargo racked his brain. He recollected his mother had told a few when he was young but he would be damned if he could remember them. “How about the goat and the turtle?”
Bethany smiled and squirmed excitedly. “I never heard that one. How does it go?”
“Once upon a time”—Fargo remembered most fairy tales began that way—“there was a goat and a turtle. One day the goat was walking along and he saw a turtle and said ‘howdy.’ ”
“Howdy?” Wendy said with his eyes closed, and snorted.
“That’s how goats talk,” Fargo told Beth. “Just then it started to rain. The goat was wet and cold but the turtle pulled into his shell until the rain stopped and then poked his head out again.”
“I saw a turtle do that,” Bethany said.
“The goat liked the shell. It kept the turtle dry. He wanted a shell for himself so he went out back of a house where an old woman had hung her laundry and pulled a blanket down with his teeth and swung it over his back.”
“Gosh,” Bethany said.
“He went to the turtle to show him. He bragged how his shell was bigger and better than the turtle’s. Just then it rained again. The blanket was soaked. So was the goat. The turtle laughed so hard, the goat got mad and stomped on him and the turtle died.”
“Oh, the poor turtle.”
“The moral of the story is don’t poke fun at people unless you want to be stomped.”
“That was a good one,” Beth said.
Wendolyn opened his eyes. “It was the sorriest excuse for a fairy tale I’ve ever heard.”
“If you can do better be my guest.”
“I have a joke I heard about three sailors and a farmer’s daughter.”
“Tell us,” Bethany coaxed.
“Not on your life, little one.”
Bethany pecked Fargo on the cheek. “Will you tuck me in like Ma used to do?”
Fargo tried to remember the last time, if ever, he’d tucked a child in. He pulled the blanket to her chin and patted her cheek. “If you need anything give a holler.” He returned to his seat at the fire.
“The goat and the turtle?” Wendy said again, and indulged in quiet laughter.
“Go to hell,” Fargo said.
Wendy’s mirth died in his throat and he thrust a finger at the woods.
Eyeshine blazed where the brambles merged into the trees.
Fargo jumped up and jammed the elephant gun to his shoulder. It was the heaviest rifle he’d ever held. The Brit had to be a lot stronger than he looked to tote the thing around all day. Fargo sighted down the barrel—and the eyes disappeared.
“Was it Brain Eater, do you reckon?”
Fargo felt foolish. “I can’t say,” he admitted. But now that he thought about it, the eyes weren’t as high off the ground as the grizzly’s, nor as far apart.
“And me lying here useless,” Wendy said.
Fargo edged toward the trees. A black bear wouldn’t worry him. They scared easier than grizzlies. He came to where he thought it had been standing.
“Anything?” Wendy whispered.
“No.”
The relief Fargo felt was short-lived. He came back into the circle of firelight just as a roar rolled down from the crags above.
25
“Now that was the bloody bear,” Wendy exclaimed.
Fargo agreed. From the sound, Brain Eater was about a quarter of a mile off. Was she making a kill? Or letting them know she was still after them?
Bethany had sat up and was staring fearfully up the mountain. “Will she kill us like she did my ma?”
“I won’t let her,” Fargo said. “Lie back down and try to get some sleep.”
She did as he told her, the blanket up to her nose, her eyes as wide as double eagles.
Fargo went over to the Brit. “How are you feeling?”
“Better and better. By morning I’ll be in the prime of health.”
Fargo placed his hand on Wendolyn’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”
“A slight fever, nothing more. I insist on pulling my weight. I’ll take second watch tonight.”
“Like hell you will.”
“You’re making too much of a fuss. I’m perfectly capable, I tell you.”
“The answer is still no.” Fargo sat where he could see the woods and most of the brambles and placed the elephant gun across his lap. It was going to be a long night. He filled his cup with coffee and wet his throat.
“You’re terribly stubborn, Yank.” Wendy wouldn’t let it drop. “Why can’t you take my word for it?”
“Because you’re a terrible liar.”
“What if I stay up anyway?” Wendy challenged. “What if I help you stand watch all night?”
“You’re welcome to try.
”
“All right, then,” Wendy said angrily. “Just sit there and see if I don’t.”
In less than ten minutes both were sound asleep, Bethany’s face cherubic in the starlight, Wendolyn snoring and sputtering and tossing.
The coffee helped but Fargo was worried he might not stay awake the whole night. An occasional crackle brought him to his feet but whatever was out there stayed out there. Deer, mostly, he reckoned. Once he saw eyes but it was a raccoon. “Shoo,” he said, and stomped his foot, and the little bandit ran off.
By midnight Fargo had downed six cups. It was a wonder he didn’t slosh when he moved. But the six weren’t enough. His chin kept dipping to his chest and his eyes would close. He always snapped them open but each time it took longer than the last.
Midnight came and went. Fargo jerked his head up and swore. This time he had been out for several minutes. Brain Eater could have walked up to him and separated his head from his body and he’d never have known it. He picked up the coffeepot and shook it. Another three or four cups, he calculated, enough to last until morning. He poured and set the pot down and when he looked up, something was looking at him.
The creature was in the trees, far enough away that he couldn’t tell what it was. The eyes were big enough and high enough—but was it Brain Eater? He set the cup down and reached for the elephant gun.
The eyes were coming closer.
Fargo cocked the hammer and remembered to firm his grip. The animal stopped just beyond the firelight. He wanted it to growl or roar so there wouldn’t be any doubt. All it did was stand there. To hell with it, he thought, and took aim.
The animal took a few more steps.
“Damn,” Fargo said. “I should shoot you anyway.”
The cow elk seemed curious. She stared at him and the sleepers and at the Ovaro and then turned and walked off.
Fatigue set in again, and it was all Fargo could do to stay awake. He stood and walked around the fire. He slapped himself and pinched himself.
Wendy was sawing logs. Bethany had pulled the blanket up over her head.
A chill wind started to blow in from the north. Fargo was grateful. It revitalized him a little. Enough that he was still awake when a golden arc framed the eastern horizon.
He had done it. He had lasted the night. He let the Brit and the girl sleep in.
With the spreading light of the new day, his spirits rose. That Brain Eater hadn’t attacked suggested the grizzly had made another kill. He hoped so, for their sake. It would keep the bear away a while.
They reached the creek about eleven.
Wendolyn knelt and splashed water on his head and neck. He claimed he was feeling better. As for Bethany, she sat staring sadly into space. Every now and again she would sniffle and say, “Ma.”
While the Ovaro drank, Fargo prowled the bank and scanned the woods. He couldn’t shake a persistent feeling the bear was close. He tried to tell himself it was nerves.
Wendy had wet a handkerchief and applied it to the gash on his head.
“Any dizziness this morning?” Fargo asked.
“Hardly any. All I needed was a good night’s rest. Which reminds me. It was damned decent of you to let us sleep.”
“You can return the favor tonight if we don’t make it to Gold Creek.”
A mile along they rounded a bend and came on a small shack, with a mule tied to a sapling. A sluice sat near the water.
As they passed the sluice the door opened and out strode an unkempt barrel of flab holding a shotgun.
“What the hell are you doing on my claim?”
“Passing through,” Fargo said.
The man had the shotgun halfway to his shoulder when he blinked and said, “Wait. I know you. I saw you in town. You’re that scout. The one who found the Nesmith family.”
“That was me,” Fargo confirmed.
“They were decent folks.” The man lowered his shotgun. “Sorry for pointing this at you but a man has to protect his own.”
Fargo was too tired to dally. “Be seeing you.” He put another bend behind them, and suddenly stopped. “Damn it. I have to go back.”
“What on earth for?” Wendy asked.
“To warn him,” Fargo said. “If the grizzly is following us, he’s in danger.” He handed the elephant gun to Wendy so he could run faster. The shack door was open. Apparently the man had gone back in. “Mister?” he hollered. He got no answer. He went around the sluice and was almost to the shack when he saw red drops on the ground.
Stunned, Fargo stopped and placed his hand on his Colt. It couldn’t be, he told himself. He hadn’t heard a scream or a shout. He sidled to the left to see past the corner.
The shotgun lay in a scarlet pool. Drag marks led toward the trees.
Fargo heard a crunch. Shadows cloaked a huge shape that was tearing and biting. He backed away. When he was past the shack he whirled and flew along the creek. The Brit and the girl were still on the Ovaro, talking. He grabbed the elephant gun.
“What’s wrong?” Wendy asked in alarm.
“Ride like hell.”
Bewildered, Wendy gripped the strap to his ammo pouch, and paused. “It’s Brain Eater, isn’t it?”
“Don’t stop until you reach town.” Fargo was tired of running. “I’ll hold her here as long as I can.”
“What kind of bounder do you take me for?” Wendy said indignantly. “I’m staying to help.”
“Think of her,” Fargo said with a nod at Bethany.
“Why must it be you?”
“Go!” Fargo said.
Wendy angrily declared, “I am against this. I’m not a coward.”
“Never said you were. Hold on to her.”
“What?”
“Hold on to Beth,” Fargo said, and gave the Ovaro a hard slap. The stallion broke into a trot. Wendy looked back and scowled as they disappeared around a stand of cottonwoods.
Fargo turned and sprinted back. He slowed when he neared the shack so the bear wouldn’t hear. That was when he realized, to his shock, that he had forgotten to grab the Sharps. He drew the Colt. The crunching had stopped. He cautiously peered around the corner and almost swore out loud.
The grizzly was gone. Incredulous, Fargo crouched and glided toward the spot where he had last seen it. Any movement, however slight, caused him to freeze: the twitch of a leaf, the flutter of a butterfly, the flight of a sparrow. He smelled the blood before he saw the remains. An arm was severed, a leg mangled. The sternum had been opened like a breadbox, exposing the ribs and the organs underneath.
Fargo was astounded by how much damage the grizzly had inflicted in so short a span. It had to be there somewhere but for the life of him he couldn’t spot it. He looked behind an oak barely wide enough to hide a broom and realized how foolish he was being. He went another ten feet, and halted in consternation.
Down the stream, the day was shattered by the scream of a girl in mortal terror.
26
Fargo flew. Beyond the cottonwoods was a straight stretch but no Ovaro or the pair on him. In his mind’s eye he saw them fleeing for their lives with the man-killer after them.
Worry gnawed at Fargo like a termite at wood. He ran until his chest was ready to burst. Stopping, he doubled over and sucked in deep breaths. He would rest for a minute and go on.
The forest was quiet. He marveled at how quickly the bear had circled the cabin and gone after the Ovaro. It was pure luck the grizzly hadn’t spotted him or caught his scent.
The ache lessened and Fargo ran. He kept thinking he would spot Wendy and Bethany around each bend but he didn’t. When his exhausted body couldn’t take the punishment anymore, he stopped. He was caked with sweat, his lungs in torment. Sinking to a knee, he listened in vain for some sound that would tell him the Brit and the girl were safe. When he recovered sufficiently, he set off again.
A copse of alders blocked his view. He was almost to them when he heard a grunt. Darting to his left to a log, he flattened on the other side. Not a mom
ent too soon.
Brain Eater came out of the alders. Her head was down and she was rumbling in her chest. Dried blood splotched her coat. She went a short way past the log and stopped. Raising her nose to the breeze, she sniffed. Then she sniffed the ground.
Fargo’s gut churned. She had caught his scent. If she found him he was dead. The Colt was a man-stopper but all it would do was annoy her.
Brain Eater turned in a circle, still sniffing. She looked south and she looked north. Growling, she lumbered off at a brisk clip, her hump rising and falling with every dip of her enormous body.
Fargo figured she would go as far as the shack, realize her mistake, and come after him. The moment she was out of sight he was up and through the alders. He paced himself, his lungs be damned. It was life or death and he was fond of breathing.
He took pride in his stamina. Not that long ago he’d taken part in an annual footrace that drew some of the best runners in the country, including an Apache girl famed for her fleetness. He didn’t win but he came close, and now he called on all his ability to get as far from the griz as he could.
He fretted about the Ovaro, and Beth and the Brit. He hadn’t heard shrieks or shots but he hadn’t heard any when the man at the shack was killed, either. The stallion’s tracks reassured him.
Fargo ran until his legs were mush and his lungs were on fire. Gasping for breath, he shuffled to a boulder close to the water and sat. His hands on his knees, he waited for his body to stop aching. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he was stranded afoot with no food and miles to cover to reach town.
A distant grunt warned him that Brain Eater had taken up the chase.
Fargo rose and made to the south. She would overtake him long before he reached Gold Creek. With just the Colt and the toothpick, killing her was next to impossible.
He could slow her down, though. He swept the ground for a suitable stick and found one about a foot long and as thick as his thumb. He drew the Arkansas toothpick and sharpened one end as he ran.
By the position of the sun he had seven or eight hours of daylight left. Enough to rig several traps. Maybe a deadfall, too, although that would take a lot of doing.
The grizzly was smart but he was smarter. He must believe that more than he believed anything if he was to have any chance at surviving.
