by Jon Sharpe
From a fork high in an oak Fargo watched to see what would happen.
Grizzlies were sharp-eyed brutes. Brain Eater spotted his bandanna. She stopped and gazed warily about and sniffed. She walked up to it and sniffed some more. She put a front paw on it, unaware that it was stretched over a hole and held in place with small rocks, and that under it was the sharpened stick, embedded deep. She tried to draw back but her own weight worked against her. She yowled as the tip pierced her paw.
Fargo grinned. It wasn’t much of a wound but anything that slowed her down helped.
Brain Eater roared. She raised her leg, bit the stick, and wrenched it out. In her rage she shook it and bit it in half. She clawed at one of the pieces and walked in a circle and roared again.
Fargo quickly clambered down. He had a good lead and he wanted to keep it. He jogged for a while, the sun warm on his bare chest. He hadn’t liked to give up his buckskin shirt. Fortunately he had a spare in his saddlebags.
A spruce offered his next vantage. He climbed high enough and roosted on a thick limb.
Brain Eater was nearing the next trap. It had been a lot harder to rig but it would hurt her more. Fargo thought she would go right by but his scent on the shirt was strong and her nose didn’t fail her. She spied it hanging on what appeared to be a low branch, and stopped.
Brain Eater warily moved toward it. She stopped to sniff and turned her head from side to side. The shirt moved slightly in the breeze. She lumbered closer but stopped again. Fargo began to think she wouldn’t be curious enough. Then she raised the same paw and clawed at the shirt.
The principle was simple: a notched limb for a lever, a large log, and gravity. He’d had to strain every sinew to position the log just right.
The grizzly tugged. The shirt moved and the limb was torn out from under the log and the log rolled down on her. She tried to jump over it and once again her weight was her enemy. The log hit hard and she sprawled forward.
Brain Eater was enraged. She attacked the log, biting and clawing. When her fury subsided she turned south again. She was limping.
Fargo scrambled down. He hadn’t accomplished much other than making her mad as hell. But she would be more cautious and come on slower, gaining him precious time. The longer he delayed her, the closer he got to Gold Creek and safety.
For about fifteen minutes Fargo held to a steady pace. Another of the innumerable bends brought him to a pool—and two men camped beside it. The flap to their tent was open, and they were seated on stools. Beyond were their hobbled horses.
Fargo figured they were prospectors. “We have to get out of here.”
The pair picked up rifles and rose. Both were big and blond and well muscled.
“Hej,” one of them said. “Pratar du svenska?”
Fargo remembered them now. They were Swedish or Danish.
Immigrant farmers, lured to Gold Creek by the bounty. “Brain Eater is after me,” he warned. “Take me to town.”
They looked at one another.
“Jag forstar inte,” the one on the right said.
“Var snall och prata langsammare,” said the other.
“Goddamn it.” Fargo glanced over his shoulder. They had a few minutes yet. “Do either of you speak English?”
“Ja,” the one on the right replied. “Engelska.”
“The bear is after me,” Fargo explained, and jabbed a finger back the way he had come. “Do you savvy? Brain Eater? She is hunting me and will kill us if we don’t light a shuck.”
“Bear?” the immigrant on the left said.
“Yes, yes,” Fargo said. “Do you understand? Bear. Brain Eater. After me.” Again he pointed north.
“Bear,” the same man said, and beamed at his companion.
“Bjorn!”
“Bjorn?”
“Ja.”
The pair hefted their rifles and eagerly brushed past Fargo.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The one pointed as Fargo had done. “Bear!” he excitedly exclaimed.
“Yes. Brain Eater.” Fargo touched his head and made a scooping motion. “Do you understand? The grizzly that has been killing everybody. We must go. Now.”
The Swedes looked positively delighted. They raised their rifles.
“No, damn it.” Fargo’s sense of urgency was climbing. He ran to the nearest man and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Don’t do this. Your guns won’t stop it.” They were armed with old long rifles better suited for small game. “We must get out of here while we can.”
The immigrant smiled and nodded. “Oroa dig inte. Vi kommer att doda bjornen.”
“What?” Fargo said.
“Slappa,” the man said.
“What the hell does that mean?” Fargo was growing desperate, and shook him. “You’re going to die if you don’t listen to me.”
“Tillrackligt,” the immigrant said, and tugged loose. “Lamna detta till oss.”
Fargo looked at the other one and the man smiled and nodded. He didn’t know what else to do. “You could at least learn the damn language.”
“Tack for att bjornen till oss,” the man said.
Fargo was about to appeal to them once more but they had run out of time.
Brain Eater was there.
27
The grizzly barreled around the bend and came to a stop. It looked past the two Swedes at Fargo and let out a growl.
“Run!” Fargo shouted, and dashed to the horses.
As for the immigrants, they grinned and the one on the right said, “Det ar var tur dag.”
The other one nodded. “Pengarna ar var.”
Fargo couldn’t get the first hobble off. It was a makeshift affair, a short piece of rope with more knots than he had knuckles. He hiked his pant leg and palmed the Arkansas toothpick.
“Vill du skjuta forst?”
“Nej du gar forst.”
“Detta var din ide. Det ar ratt att du skjuter forst.”
It looked to Fargo as if they were arguing over who should shoot first. He slashed at the hobble but the rope was new and stiff and resisted his blade.
“Behaga. Jag insisterar du gora det.”
“Hur omkring om vi skjuter tillsammans sedan?”
A few strands parted but nowhere near enough. Fargo glanced at the grizzly, wondering how long it would continue to just stand there.
Not another second. Brain Eater roared and was on the Swedes with incredible speed. The one on the right bleated, “God Gud!” and tried to take aim. A paw crushed his face.
The other Swede cried, “Han hor dodat dig!” and fired.
Whether he hit the bear or not was irrelevant; it had no effect whatsoever.
Brain Eater roared as her claws sheared into the second man’s crotch. He shrieked and dropped his rifle and cried out.
“Vad du gor du, din dumma bar?”
With a powerful surge, the grizzly ripped him open from manhood to sternum.
Fargo was only partway through the first hobble. Darting around the horses, he plunged into the woods. He went about ten feet and sprawled flat.
Brain Eater was chomping on the second Swede’s innards. His guts had spilled out and the bear had part of an intestine in her mouth and was shaking the ropy coils.
The other man was whimpering and convulsing.
There was nothing Fargo could do. He stayed flat and drew the Colt. It wouldn’t do much good but he wasn’t going to be ripped apart without a fight.
Brain Eater wolfed a hunk of flesh. Straddling the dead man, she nuzzled his neck and head and sank her fangs into his forehead. As easily as if she was peeling the crust of a pie, she peeled the scalp from the cranium and spat it out. She licked the blood that welled, then spread her jaws wide and closed them on the man’s head. It burst like a melon and she lapped at the oozing brains as if she couldn’t get enough of them.
Hampered by the hobbles, the horses were trying to flee and whinnying in panic.
Fargo wished he had the elephant gun.
He had a perfect shot.
Brain Eater went to the other Swede. He had stopped moving. She pawed at his body and when there was no reaction, she ripped off an ear and a swatch of hair. Underneath gleamed the skull.
Fargo told himself to look away but didn’t.
Brain Eater’s teeth were so many razors, slicing through flesh and crunching bone. Once again she indulged in her favorite food and when she was done, she licked the brain pan clean.
The horses had gone about ten yards. One was bucking and struggling to break free of the hobble.
Brain Eater raised her dripping maw. She broke into motion and swiped at the first horse. A leg cracked and the horse squealed and went down. The bucking horse tried to kick Brain Eater but the grizzly dodged and raked her claws from tail to ribs.
Fargo figured she would be busy for a while eating. He crabbed backward and stood. The grizzly was tearing at the second horse’s belly. Turning to the south, he stealthily made his way through the woods to the creek.
More running. His feet were sore and his leg muscles protested but he ate up the distance. He wondered how many more hunters or gold seekers he would encounter. Three men had died and he was indirectly to blame. With the bear after him, he invited death on everyone he met.
No sooner did the thought cross his mind than two women came flying up the creek toward him. Both had cornstalk hair and wore plain homespun dresses and bonnets. At the sight of him they stopped and one called out, “Vem ar du? Var ar vara man?”
“God in heaven,” Fargo blurted. They were the Swedes’ wives. He ran to them and they stepped back and thrust out their hands as if in fear of being attacked. “It’s not me,” he said. “It’s Brain Eater.”
“Vad han talar om?” the other woman said.
Fargo pointed to the north. “Bear. Do you understand that word?” To get them to understand, he raised both hands and curled his fingers into claws and growled deep in his chest.
“Han ar en galning,” the first woman said.
The other one mumbled and then said in atrociously accented English, “Are you crazy man?”
“At last,” Fargo said. “Brain Eater is after me. You have to run—”
“Where our husbands?” the woman anxiously asked. “Where Sven? Where Olaf?”
“Dead. Brain Eater killed them and—”
The woman turned to her friend. “Han sagar vara man ar doda.”
“Vi maste se till ourselves.”
To Fargo’s amazement, they raced past him. He grabbed at the second woman’s arm but she jerked away. “Don’t go back there. The bear will kill you, too.”
They didn’t listen.
Fargo stared after them. That way lay certain death. He stared to the south. That way lay his only hope. He turned north and went after them.
For females in dresses they were remarkably swift. Farming wasn’t for the puny, and these two were antelopes. One of them glanced back and said something to the other and both ran faster.
“Damn it.” Fargo was trying to save their lives. He hoped one would trip so he could overtake them but his luck was true to form.
“Sluta jaga oss!” one of them yelled at him.
The best Fargo could make of it, she had called him a slut or an ass. The first didn’t make any sense, and as for the second, he’d been called worse.
The pair were abreast of a wide pine when a gigantic mass of muscle and fur swept from behind it and was on them before either could stop. They screamed in unison and died singly with savage sweeps of the grizzly’s paws.
Fargo drew up short. He had tried but they hadn’t listened. Whirling, he got out of there. He expected the bear to feast on their brains and that would gain him time. The thud of heavy paws proved otherwise.
Brain Eater was after him.
Fargo willed his body to its utmost. He had already run so far and so hard that he couldn’t sustain the pace for long. He was worn out. His hip hurt like hell. His clawed leg hurt worse. But he refused to give up.
As inexorable as an avalanche, Brain Eater closed the distance.
Fargo had one consolation. Bethany had escaped. She was a sweet kid, the kind he’d like to have himself one day, maybe when he was forty or fifty and ready to settle down.
He chuckled at how ridiculous he was being. Here he was being chased by a killer bear and he was thinking of the family he’d never have.
Rocks and boulders covered the ground ahead. He avoided the largest and was almost to bare ground when his left boot became wedged. Momentum carried his body forward and he pitched flat. The pain set his head to spinning. He almost didn’t hear the grunt behind him but he did smell the blood and the pungent bear odor. Rising to his knees, he turned.
Brain Eater stood a few yards away. That close she was immense, a mountain of ferocity unrivaled by any creature on the continent.
Fargo’s chest constricted. She had him. He could shoot her but he couldn’t stop her.
The grizzly whuffed and pawed the earth, her dark eyes glittering with bloodlust. She slavered in anticipation of sinking her teeth into his body.
“Go ahead,” Fargo said, his hand on the Colt. “I’ll make you pay.”
Brain Eater opened her mouth and swept forward. Fargo had the Colt out in a blur and jammed the muzzle into her mouth. He fired just as a tremendous blow cartwheeled him like a feather in a gale. He slammed down close to the creek with one leg in the water. His body pulsed with pain but he made it to his knees again, and he still had the Colt.
Brain Eater was shaking her head. She was bleeding copiously from her mouth, and drops flew all over. She roared, and saw him, and charged.
This was it, Fargo thought. He aimed at her left eye, fired, and missed. The slug scoured a red furrow above it.
She was almost on him. He fired again and her eyeball exploded and then she rammed into him and it felt as if a herd of buffalo were trampling his every bone. Somehow, he stayed conscious. He was on his belly and he had scratches everywhere. He heard coughing. He raised his head and shook it. The fuzziness cleared enough for him to see Brain Eater, doing more head shaking. Blood dribbled from her mouth and the empty socket where her left eye had been.
Fargo grinned. The Colt could hurt her. He pushed up and extended the six-shooter. “Come and get it, bitch.”
Brain Eater fixed her remaining hate-filled eye on him. Her lips curled from her teeth and she hurtled at him.
Fargo aimed at her other eye. He had to be sure so he didn’t shoot until her face was inches from the muzzle.
The blast and her impact were simultaneous. The sunlight blinked out. Pain filled every particle of his body. He felt a crushing weight on his chest and pushed but it wouldn’t budge. Gradually he realized it was Brain Eater; she was on top of him. Her hair was in his mouth and nose, her blood on his neck. Spitting and coughing, he twisted his head so he could breathe.
A large shape blotted out the sky.
“Oh God,” Fargo said, thinking that the grizzly was getting up.
“No,” Wendy said. “Just me and the tyke.”
Fargo blinked. The large shape was the Ovaro. The Brit was dismounting, Bethany in his arm. “Where the hell have you two been?”
“You’re the one who told me not to stop until we reached town, remember?” Wendy set Bethany down. “I couldn’t do it, though. I couldn’t desert you. So we came back.”
Bethany squatted and put her hand on Fargo’s cheek. “You have the bear on you.”
“I noticed.”
Wendy was admiring the griz. “Look at the size of this thing. And you killed it without needing my elephant gun. I’m impressed, Yank.”
Fargo glared. “My ribs are about to cave in.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
The Brit tied one end of Fargo’s rope to the bear’s leg and looped the rope around the saddle horn and goaded the Ovaro. By gradual inches the grizzly slid far enough off that Fargo could wriggle out from under. Wendolyn and Bethany helped him to his feet.
/> “If you don’t mind my saying so, you look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
Bethany giggled. “You smell like bear pee.”
Fargo looked down at himself and sniffed. She was right. He handed his Colt to Wendy and waded into a pool and sat down. The water came as high as his chin. He let it soothe his hurts and aches.
“There’s a lot to do yet,” the Brit reminded him.
That there was.
They skinned Brain Eater, Fargo doing most of the work since Wendolyn was still weak. They didn’t have the salt to cure the hide but that didn’t matter. It wouldn’t rot before they reached town.
Since Wendy and Bethany had to ride, they couldn’t roll up the hide and tie it on the saddle. So Fargo rigged a travois.
It was slow going but they reached Gold Creek about half an hour after the sun went down.
Their arrival caused quite a stir. Everyone came to see the hide and finger the claws. Many snipped hairs as a keepsake.
Mayor Petty was especially pleased to hear that both bears were dead. He called a town meeting in the street and after a long-winded speech about how devoted he was to the public good and how well his plan had worked out, he somewhat reluctantly handed over the bounty.
Fargo and Wendolyn agreed to split it into three equal shares. They looked up the parson and explained the situation and the minister said he knew of a good family that would be happy to take Bethany in.
Fargo didn’t think it would be so hard. He squatted and she placed her little hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes.
“I’ll miss you.”
Fargo coughed.
Tears trickled down Bethany’s cheeks. “I wish I could stay with you. You’d make a good pa.”
“No,” Fargo said. “I wouldn’t.”
Bethany hugged him, his face buried against his shirt. She said something he didn’t quite hear.
“What was that?”
“I love you.”
Fargo pried her loose and nodded at the parson, who picked Bethany up. She was crying.
“Don’t worry, my son,” the parson said. “She’ll be cared for as if she was their own.”
