She turned to the window again. “His wife is quite pretty. What can she do?”
Trace deadpanned, “She’s a cook.”
“A cook?” Suddenly, Kate was interested. She could bake a mean sponge cake, but that was about the limit of her culinary skills. It was not for nothing that she so often praised the Good Lord for creating bacon and beans. “Can she cook for white folks?”
“I’m sure she can. Why don’t you ask her, Ma?”
“I will. What’s her name?”
“I don’t know.”
Kate frowned. “You didn’t ask?”
“No. It didn’t seem important at the time.”
“Well, if she can cook, it’s important now, isn’t it?”
The Mexican woman’s name was Jazmin Salas and her husband’s name was Marco. Yes, she could cook for white folks and any other color of folks, come to that, and yes, Marco was a fine blacksmith and very good with horses.
“Can you bake Queen Victoria’s favorite sponge cake?” Kate asked.
Jazmin was hesitant, then she said, “I have never heard of it, señora.”
Kate was pleased. “Good. Because that I will make myself.”
Since there was no accommodation for Kate’s extra staff, Marco Salas said they could sleep outside under the shelter of a tree or some such.
Kate wouldn’t hear of it. “Until a suitable house for you and your family can be built, you must live in the cabin.”
Trace pointed out that the cabin was already overcrowded.
Kate said, “Then we must make do, mustn’t we?”
Trace wondered what Quinn and Frank would think of that, but they were out on the range . . . with troubles of their own.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
After finding a half-devoured carcass of a yearling longhorn, Cobb and Quinn rode with rifles across their saddlebows and sat high in the saddle, their searching eyes constantly scanning the vast terrain around them.
In the worst of times, the terrain west of the Pecos was a wilderness of thorn, rock, and dust. But following the wet spring and summer, it was the best of times and the flats were grassy and covered with mesquite, acacia, and whitebrush. Small trees like walnut, oak, and Mexican ash were confined to the arroyos and creek terraces where a black bear with a taste for grass-fed beef would hole up to sleep off a meal.
“Tracks head south toward the canyon country,” Cobb said. “Old Ephraim is no fool. But he’ll be back, count on it.”
“Judging by the tracks, he’s a big bear,” Quinn said.
Cobb nodded. “He’s a big male all right, and he’ll go six hundred pounds and more.” His horse tossed its head and the bit jingled in the quiet. “A black bear ain’t much inclined to attack humans, but if he does, watch out. A grizzly now, he may beat you up some and let you go, but not a black bear. He’ll kill you every time.”
Quinn smiled. “Nice feller, huh?”
Cobb shrugged. “It’s just his way. As a rule, Ol’ Ephraim minds his own business, but this one may be old and can’t hunt his usual prey. He’s decided Kerrigan yearlings are easy to kill and he’ll come back every time he’s hungry.”
“So what do we do, Frank?” Quinn asked.
“The yearling’s innards were still warm and the tracks are fresh, so he’s still close. We find him and kill him and take his skin home to your ma.” Cobb gave the boy a searching look. “You up for it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never chased a bear before.”
Cobb smiled. “Well, that’s honest. I reckon you’ll do just fine.”
The day was warm with no hint of the coming fall. A soft south wind walked across the long grass and bore the scent of late summer wildflowers. Of the bear there was no sign, only its tracks.
The rolling country was cut through by dry watercourses, and here and there grew patches of wild oak. A few cottonwoods stood by the streambeds and seemed to have prospered during the summer. A few fat cattle grazed, but they were a ways off the range Kate had claimed for herself and probably bore Colonel Jason Hunt’s H bar H brand.
Quinn, with his sharp young eyes, saw the arroyo first, its entrance almost hidden by mesquite. “There, Frank! Over there by the trees.”
Cobb drew rein and studied the arroyo and its surrounding ridge. To the right of the entrance dropped a talus slope overgrown by bunch grass, and to the left was a sheer rock face about thirty feet high.
He swung out of the saddle and walked in the direction of the arroyo, casting around for tracks. After a while, he waved at Quinn to come on. The boy gathered up the reins of Cobb’s horse and rode forward.
“He headed for the arroyo all right,” Cobb said. “Mesquite usually means there’s water close. Seems like he has himself all the comforts of home.” He stepped into the saddle. “Let’s roust him out. Ephraim, I reckon your cow-killing days are over.”
Cobb and Quinn dismounted at the entrance to the arroyo, a narrow fissure in the rock face about fifteen feet wide. For long moments, Cobb listened into the afternoon. The only sounds were the small music of crickets in the grass and the rustle of the wind. His eyes lifted to the top of the ridge.
Quinn understood his thinking. “Can we get a shot from up there?”
After a moment, Cobb shook his head. “The arroyo narrows toward the crest and will limit our field of fire. The only way is to go in after him.” His eyes met Quinn’s. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”
Quinn grinned. “Real glad to hear you say that, Frank, because neither am I.” He bowed. “After you.”
Cobb took a single step into the canyon . . . and was instantly hit by a runaway locomotive in the shape of three hundred pounds of snarling fury. The bear flattened him, slamming all the breath out of him. His rifle spun out of his hands and clattered against the wall of the arroyo. In a split second, the animal slashed its claws across Cobb’s chest and then it was past him.
Startled, Quinn fired his Henry from the hip, missed, and fired again. He hit the bear just behind the left shoulder blade and scored a lung shot. Coughing up frothy blood, the bear staggered on for about fifty yards and collapsed.
Cobb was shooting!
Quinn ran to the entrance of the arroyo where the man was up on one knee, firing his revolver. Quinn stepped into the canyon, his rifle ready. About thirty yards away, almost lost in gloom, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a huge, black, shambling shape. Quinn tried a snap shot, but his bullet hit off a wall and chipped rock. Spaaang!
From somewhere in the distance, the black bear roared its defiance.
A man doesn’t track a game animal cross-country without learning something about him, and there was nothing about this bear Quinn liked. The roar had an unusual quality, as though the big boar had yelled, “Here I am. Come get me or I’ll come get you.”
He was a bear to be reckoned with.
Cobb got to his feet. The front of his faded blue shirt was ripped to shreds and scarlet with blood. He fed paper cartridges into his Colt, then looked at Quinn, no blame in his eyes. “You shot the wrong bear, kid. You killed Ephraim’s mate.”
“It’s early fall and mating season is well over,” Quinn pointed out. “They shouldn’t have still been together.”
“No, they shouldn’t. This is a mighty unusual bear.” Cobb holstered his revolver then picked up his rifle. “I think I got a bullet into him. Let’s finish it.”
The shadowed arroyo was dank. At the base of its walls olive green ferns grew, the like that Quinn had never seen before. Ahead of him the canyon narrowed and then stopped at a wall of rock before making a sharp turn to the right. Fed by an underground stream, a thin trickle of water ran down the rock face and splashed into a natural rock tank that was green with algae.
Feeling the effects of his mauling, Cobb slowed his step as he turned to his right and followed the course of the arroyo. Each breath he took was shallow—as though it pained him—and every now and then, he leaned a hand on the wall for support. Quinn grew anxious. He knew the seg
undo was almost out on his feet and needed medical help that he could not give.
Gradually the arroyo grew wider and then opened up into a circular area about half an acre in extent. A gnarled mesquite grew to the right of an undercut in the rock that was about eight feet high, the same wide and seemed to be several feet deep.
“Bones,” Quinn said. “It looks like a graveyard.”
Bones—some white, most yellowed—carpeted the area in front of the cut. A few still had streaks of red meat and shredded tendon clinging to them. Quinn identified deer, pronghorn antelope, jackrabbit, birds, cattle and . . . a human skull and partial rib cage.
Cobb took a knee next to the human remains. “A fairly recent kill, but some of the animal bones are years old. We’re looking for a mighty elderly bear.”
“Is that why he killed a human?” Quinn swallowed hard. “And ate him.”
“Yeah. Seems like Ephraim is growing too old to hunt his regular prey. Young cows and humans are easy to kill.” Cobb studied the skull. “It’s a woman in this case. She was probably Mexican or Lipan.”
Cobb slowly . . . very slowly . . . lifted his head . . . then his eyes . . . “Oh my God,” he whispered.
Quinn followed the man’s gaze to the top of the arroyo rim. The bear’s head was in plain sight. Its emotionless black eyes stared hard at Quinn as though marking him, remembering every aspect of his features.
“Damn you!” Cobb yelled. He dropped his rifle, drew, and hammered five shots at the rim. But the bear was already gone.
All Cobb managed to do was shoot holes in the wind.
Quinn quickly made his way to the entrance of the arroyo and ran outside, his Henry at the ready. His eyes searched the top of the ridge, but he saw nothing except a broad swath of blue sky. The ancient talus slope was close and he tried to climb it, but the incline was too steep and he managed to only scrabble a few feet before sliding back to the flat, shingle showering around him.
“He’s gone,” Cobb yelled, making his way out of the arroyo. “We’ll find him another day.”
It was only then that Quinn saw how ashen was the man’s face and the pain in his eyes. The front of Cobb’s shirt was a bloody mess.
“I’d better get you home, You look all used up.”
“An angry bear can do that to a man.” Cobb collapsed and Quinn had to help him into the saddle.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For a week, Frank Cobb hovered between life and death, Kate at his side constantly. Jazmin Salas, whose father had been a respected village healer, prepared various potions and salves from herbs, trees, and cactus that seemed to help Cobb’s pain.
On the eighth day after the bear attack, his fever broke and that night Kate was able to feed him a little beef broth.
As Quinn’s worry about Frank faded, he and Trace had other concerns. They had discovered bear tracks and scat their side of the Brazos—once not a hundred yards from the cabin—and an abandoned bed in a clump of wild oak that the bear had made comfortable with a mattress of leaves and tree bark. They found no sign that the animal had eaten recently, even ignoring some rotten tree trunks it would normally have torn apart to feast on carpenter ants.
“Chances are that it’s not the same bear,” Trace said.
“It’s the same bear,” Quinn said. “He’s got Frank’s bullet in him and he followed us here.”
Trace looked into his brother’s eyes and saw a glint of fear that couldn’t be explained away as just the teenager’s vivid imagination.
“All right. We hunt him,” Trace said. “If he’s been shot already, he’ll want to hole up and he’s got a comfortable bed right here.”
“Don’t tell Ma, Trace,” Quinn said. “She’s already worried enough about Frank.”
Trace nodded. “We won’t tell her until we kill your bear.”
“Frank calls him Ephraim.”
“That was the name the old mountain men gave to a big male grizzly.”
Quinn pulled a face. “This bear is a lot more dangerous than any grizzly.”
Because of the overcrowding in the cabin, Trace and Quinn spread their blankets outside. The nights were not yet too cold and made for comfortable sleeping weather.
An hour before dawn, Trace shook Quinn awake and held a forefinger to his lips.
Quinn rolled out of his blankets and grabbed his rifle. When they were out of earshot of the house, he said, “If he’s in bed, we can shoot him while he’s asleep.”
Trace smiled and his teeth gleamed white in the waning moonlight. “Not very sporting, is it?”
“This isn’t sport,” Quinn said. “This is kill or be killed.”
“This bear really has you spooked, young brother,” Trace said, still smiling.
“You’ll see, Trace. You’ll see.”
The bed was empty, but the feral, musky smell of the bear hung in the air. Trace kneeled and placed his hand on the leafy mattress. “It’s still warm. Damn bruin heard us coming and lit a shuck.”
Quinn’s hands were white knuckled on his Henry. “He’s close. I can sense him.”
“Look.” Trace held out his hand palm up, showing a smear of blood from the base of his thumb to his middle finger. “Frank shot him all right. He’s still bleeding.”
From somewhere among the shadowed trees, came a growl, low, menacing . . . and close.
Trace lifted his rifle into a firing position. “Where the hell is he?”
“I don’t know. His growl is coming from everywhere,” Quinn said.
The two young men stood together, their rifles at the ready. A thin dawn light filtered through the trees, but shadows still lay like inkblots on the land—dark, mysterious, and hinting of unseen dangers.
“Back out of here, Quinn,” Trace said. “Slowly . . . and I’ll cover you.”
“No, I’m staying right here with you, Trace.”
The bear’s growl prowled through the morning quiet and reached out for the Kerrigan brothers like a grasping hand. Trace looked wildly around him. Where was the damned animal? “Quinn!” he yelled. “It’s you he wants. Back away like I told you.”
The roar of Quinn’s rifle was an emphatic no!
“Where is he?” Trace yelled. “Did you get him?”
“Up there, beside the fallen tree!”
“I don’t see him!”
Quinn fired again. “I saw him! I saw him!” he yelled. “Look! He’s there by the tree, standing on his hind legs!”
Trace looked and saw nothing but shadow. He stepped to his brother, grabbed him by the arm, and yelled, “We’re getting out of here!”
“Did I hit him? Did you see him?”
“No. You were shooting at a shadow.” Trace pulled Quinn by the arm. “Let’s go.”
The bear seemed to come out of nowhere.
Trace turned at the last second and took the full brunt of the animal’s charge. The bear slammed into him with the force of a runaway brewery horse and Trace fell on his back, all the wind knocked out of him. Turning on a dime, the bear changed direction and went for Quinn, its slavering, fanged mouth wide open.
Boom!
The sound of a large-caliber weapon hammered across the aborning day. Startled, but not hit, the bear broke off the attack and vanished into the trees.
Moses Rice, his smoking dragoon in his hand, raised the big revolver for another shot, but lowered it again. “That bear is in the next county by now.” His ebony face concerned, he looked at each boy carefully. “Either of you boys hurt?”
“Only our pride, Mose,” Trace said, picking himself up off the ground.
Quinn’s face was ashen, his Henry clutched tightly in his hands. “For a minute there, I thought I was dead.”
“Don’t play around with bears, no,” Moses said. “Look what happened to Mr. Cobb, lying all tore up an’ hurtin’ in Miz Kerrigan’s best bed.”
“Mose, it was the same bear,” Quinn said. “He followed us home.”
“Lot of black bears in West Texas,” Moses said.
Quinn shook his head. “Not like this one.”
“Did you tell your Ma?” Moses asked.
“No. I didn’t want to worry her,” Quinn said.
“Don’t worry Miz Kerrigan, no,” Moses said. “She’s got enough worries right now. You boys wait here.”
Moses followed the path the bear had taken and was soon lost among the trees. He was gone for thirty minutes and when he returned his face was solemn. “We leave the bear alone.”
Trace agreed. “Hell, that’s fine by me.”
“No,” Quinn said. “He took us by surprise this time, but we’ll kill him next time.”
“Let the bear be!”
It was the first time Trace and Quinn had ever heard Moses raise his voice.
The Kerrigan boys walked back the cabin in silence, but Moses’s lips moved as though in prayer. When Trace listened closely, he realized the old black man was speaking in a tongue he did not understand. His was a prayer in the old language, a slave benediction that had its beginning hundreds of years before in the darkest reaches of Africa.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
September came and went, and the bear sign became less evident. Trace and Quinn figured the animal had given up and was probably holed up in a hollow log somewhere to sleep away the winter.
Frank Cobb, as tough a man as the West had ever produced, was up and about and showed little lasting effects from his close brush with death. Moses was strangely withdrawn, and took to walking the surrounding hills and forests with his Colt’s Dragoon stuck in his waistband. If he saw anything on his rambles, he never mentioned it.
One Indian summer day in early October, following two weeks of cold, Kate decided it was high time to leave the cabin and check on her cattle and the state of the range. Her sons had already done it many times, but she insisted she wanted to see for herself. “I need to get out for a while. The cabin walls are closing in on me.” She stepped outside.
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