Bearstone

by Will Hobbs

  At first light he woke, and he knew he couldn’t ride away and give up, leave his dream behind. Maybe he would fail, but at least he had to try. Maybe what happened with the roan was all a part of earning the peak, not a reason to give up. Hadn’t the old man said that the hurt you get over makes you stronger?

  He ate quickly and set out on foot. “Good-bye, Blueboy,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m going for the top of the world.”

  Within a few hours he’d angled up the mountain far enough to emerge from the trees and find the Pyramid towering right in front of him. As yet not a cloud had formed over the mountains. Already he could see the mesas down in New Mexico. How much greater would be the view from the peak, where he would be able to see in all directions. With spirits rising he bounded from rock to rock on the talus slopes tumbling from the ridge high above. The small rockrabbits called pikas squeaked and scurried among the boulders on all sides. A marmot the size of a small dog stood on its hind legs and whistled shrilly at him. He grinned to think about how the old man called them whistle pigs. “Are you a whistle pig?” he asked playfully. The marmot whistled once more. “I guess you are. I wish I could whistle like that.”

  Clouds were forming quickly up and down the range as he reached the mountain. He could imagine what a lightning storm on the peak would be like; he wasted no time picking a route. There was only one by which he had a chance of reaching the summit, and that was the knife-edge in front of him where two planes of the Pyramid met. He left the pikas and the marmots behind and started picking his way up the knife-edge. Now it was all rock. Some of the rocks were loose and could take him with them. A fall down either face would be deadly, but the north side would be the worst. He’d slide a thousand feet on the snow before being pitched onto the boulders below.

  Cloyd kept climbing and tried to keep his mind on each step, each handhold. The air was thin and seared his lungs. Every time he reached a spot that might have stopped him, he found a way around or located cracks and footholds that enabled him to continue. The clouds were building and starting to darken, but they were still in the distance. Cloyd felt strong. He remembered that first day at the old man’s farm when he climbed to the outcrop, found the bearstone, and fastened his longing on these peaks. He fell into the rhythm of climbing and proceeded up the knife-edge at a steady, careful pace.

  A calm joy lifted Cloyd up the final piece of the climb. He was as sure he’d make the top as he’d ever been of anything. He seemed to float up the last little bit and stepped to the very tip of the Pyramid.

  Peaks on all sides were riding in the blue sky. Peaks everywhere, dancing, jutting up, all in motion. He had to sit down and grip the rock. Peaks, as far as he could see, peaks, rock and green tundra, snow banks, spruce forests, river canyons.

  As he caught his breath, Cloyd saw a big bird soaring far below. Probably it was an eagle. He enjoyed its mastery of the winds, then watched it disappear. A storm was gathering in the Needles, and shadows were overtaking the mountainsides. Out in the low country, the sun was still shining. He was amazed to recognize the Chuska Mountains in the hazy distance. They were the same mountains he always saw from White Mesa. Home wasn’t really so far away. Someday he’d go home, he knew, but it didn’t have to be soon. Whenever it happened would be all right. Cloyd pulled the blue stone from his pocket and set the little bear on a flat rock at the very top of the mountain. “Lone Bear,” he said aloud, “we’re not so alone anymore.”

  Cloyd thought about how Walter liked to be deep in the cold darkness of his gold mine. He wished the old man could have stood here with him. He wanted to tell him this is the heart of the mountains, up here in the light where you can see forever. Where you feel like you’re a part of it all, like the beating heart of the mountains is your own heart. He’d never felt this way before, free and peaceful at the same time. If only there was a way to show the old man how thankful he was, for this, for Blueboy, for everything. He could show he cared for Walter like a son for a father.

  The wind began to blow hard, and the temperature was dropping. He’d have to start down soon. He wished he could stay longer and try to take it all in, but it didn’t matter. He had fulfilled his dream. It would be something he could always keep with him.

  Then he remembered what his grandmother had told him, how the Utes knew all these mountains. Other Utes like himself must have stood on this same peak years ago. They had probably done something special, said or sung something. Then Cloyd recalled a ceremony his grandmother had taught him, but which he’d never done. Taking the bearstone in his hand, he held it out and offered it in turn to the Four Directions, then to the Earth and the Sky.

  Cloyd was eager now to be on his way back to the old man. But he wouldn’t take the shortest way; there was more he wanted to see. Dropping through the deep timber, he picked up the Divide trail and followed it until he sighted Ute Lake, a deep green crater tucked under the north slope at timberline.

  On the way down he saw three bull elk grazing in the lush grass along a rivulet that fed the lake. When they heard the horse coming down the switchbacks, the elk hurried up the far side of the basin and into the brushy mountain willows beyond.

  At lakeside, Cloyd made his camp and hobbled his horses in the good grass. Before long he had his rod and reel assembled and was searching for bait. He found a tiny grasshopper and dropped it on the surface of the deep and rocky lake, but the fish weren’t interested. They could see its legs kicking, but they weren’t interested. He tried the salmon eggs. No luck. The trout started hitting the surface for flies even tiner than gnats. He wondered if the old Utes had fished at this lake named after them, and how. He laughed out loud. He doubted they were fly fishermen.

  As the sun was dropping behind the Needles, he sat by his fire and ate a chili supper. It tasted good, and the packhorse would have one less can to carry. Warmth and contentment spread through his body.

  Cloyd’s fourth morning found him riding out of Ute Lake up to the Divide and descending into the long alpine basin called the Rincon La Osa, which would lead him back to the valley of the Pine. This night he’d be at the mine with Walter, he thought happily. He thought about how he was going to tell the old man about that moment when his eyes and Blueboy’s met, that he’d found out the answer to the question of whether horses could care about you. The red-haired man was wrong about horses, at least about this one. He had a lot he wanted to talk about with Walter. He wondered if Walter would recognize how much he’d grown in four days’ time.

  He stopped to rest and eat berries on the bank of the Rincon stream as it wound its way slowly across a small meadow below the long basin. Kneeling by the stream to drink, he marveled at the clarity of the water, which seemed to magnify every pebble on the bottom. He became aware that he was looking as well at the dark backs of three large trout, motionless except for the fanning of their fins.

  One of them, perhaps becoming aware of him, darted up a tiny inlet on his side of the creek. Cloyd followed and kept his eye on the fish moving slowly up the narrow passage. He’d like to catch this fish, he thought, catch it somehow without a fishing pole. Was it true what his grandmother had said, that in the old days some of the Utes could catch fish in their bare hands?

  He would try. The fish would have to come back to the stream sometime. He could pick a spot and wait for it to come through.

  With one knee on each bank, Cloyd straddled the inlet. Slowly he lowered his hands and then his arms into the icy water as deep as his arms were long. And then he waited.

  Five minutes, ten minutes, he couldn’t tell anymore. His arms went numb, his back ached, but he didn’t move a muscle. He could see the trout slowly swimming toward him, pausing here and there for long minutes.

  The trout was close now. Cloyd could see its mouth working, its bright orange markings. It was looking through the tunnel his hands and arms made. Would it retreat or dart between his hands before he could close on it? He held them as still as he could. It swam still closer. He
began to narrow the gap between his freezing hands, slowly, slowly, slowly. Unsuspecting, the cutthroat swam between them. Cloyd closed in as calmly as he could. He dug with his nails, grasped the fish, and lifted it in one motion out of the water and onto the bank.

  He stood up to ease the striking pain in his back. The horses whinnied. A dark shape was moving at the edge of the meadow. An animal loping with an unusual gait. A bear! A huge brown bear, and it was aware of him. It stood on its hind legs to have a look at him, and its head swayed back and forth. Cloyd was astonished at how tall it was. Its claws were enormous. The bear dropped quickly to all fours and suddenly disappeared into the trees.

  The big fish flip-flopped against Cloyd’s leg. He nudged it back into the water with his foot, then leaped across the Rincon stream and took off running in hopes of a second glimpse of the huge bear. Once in the trees Cloyd walked softly, looking all around, and tried to listen for the bear’s passage. All he could hear was the furious pounding of his own heart.

  In the quiet darkness of the trees, the bear was nowhere and everywhere. Suddenly Cloyd felt foolish and reckless for having tried to follow. He ran back to the sunlit meadow, to the horses. He wanted to hurry back to the camp on Snowslide Creek. He wanted to tell the old man about the bear.

  It was late afternoon when he rode into camp. He was anxious to see Walter. The old man was drinking coffee and visiting by the campfire with his friend Rusty, the red-haired man.

  Walter’s face lit up when he saw Cloyd. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow or so,” he said. “How’d everything go?”

  “Fine,” Cloyd mumbled. All his enthusiasm was squelched. The tall man was looking him over, like he did before. No handshake this time, but all the feelings were the same as before.

  “Cloyd here’s been out exploring the mountains. Did you climb that Rio Grande Pyramid?”

  Cloyd nodded halfheartedly. He felt so disappointed that someone else was there, and worse, that it was the red-haired man. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

  “My goodness, that must’ve been something. I’ll bet you could see hundreds of miles from up there.”

  “See any wildlife?” the outfitter asked abruptly.

  Cloyd’s heart began to pound. This wasn’t as he’d pictured it, telling Walter how he’d caught the fish and seen the bear. But the outfitter had brought the subject up, and the man was making him feel bad again, sick even, as if he was suddenly burning up with fever. He cast wildly about thinking for what to say or do, but he couldn’t think; he could only feel the resentment burning inside, and he wanted to prove himself, show that he wasn’t a nothing, show that he knew something, something that would impress the big hunter. He’d seen a bear without having had to track it down with dogs. “Some elk …” he said, teetering on the brink, and then he added, “… and a bear.”

  “When’d you see the bear?” the man asked quickly.

  “Today.”

  “What kind?”

  Cloyd hesitated. “He was brown. I guess he was a brown bear.”

  “No such varmint. Black bear in a cinnamon phase. How big?”

  “Taller than you, standing up.”

  The red-haired man smiled condescendingly. “Me standing up, you say, or the bear?”

  “Both.”

  The man grunted. “You saw this bear standing on its hind legs? How far away was he?”

  Now Cloyd regretted he’d said anything at all. Suddenly he didn’t feel good about seeing the bear. The man was making him feel bad, making it seem in front of Walter like he was exaggerating. Maybe he was, a little, but he really didn’t think so. What could he do now? He saw what he saw, and he wouldn’t let the tall man shame him. “Just across the meadow,” he said.

  The man lifted his red eyebrows. “Oh, whereabouts?”

  Again he hesitated. “Rincon,” he said finally.

  “Oh? La Vaca or La Osa?”

  “La Osa.”

  “Rincon of the Bear, eh?” he said skeptically, with a wide grin. “Walter, you think he might’ve let his imagination get away from him up in that high altitude?”

  Agitated, Walter got up. The conversation had gone badly. Cloyd had been embarrassed. His friend had no feel for the boy at all. “Why no, Rusty,” he declared, “that ain’t possible. Cloyd’s got an eye for detail better’n mine by far.”

  The tall man rose, hung his coffee cup in the branch of a tree, and crossed the fire circle to Cloyd. He clapped Cloyd’s shoulder. “No hard feelings, kid. I believed every word you said. Fm just part lawyer, I guess, and curious to boot. Say, I’ve got to be going, Walter—my brothers are expecting me for supper.”

  Walter put together a meal for the boy. They ate quietly. Walter didn’t pester him; he could see Cloyd didn’t want to talk just now. Walter let his mind drift, mulling things over. Like about how he’d been single-jacking all this time the boy was gone, day and night practically, when he’d told the boy he wouldn’t. He was nearly ready to fire and should be getting some sleep, lest he make a mistake during the crucial preparation of the charges.

  Cloyd’s grown, Walter reflected. He’s stronger, more like a young man than a boy. Because of how it went with Rusty, he’d have to wait awhile before asking Cloyd about the ride. They should’ve shared the ride in the first place. On the other hand, sometimes it was better to be out there on your own. That’s when you really see things and learn something. Cloyd got to have the whole country to himself.

  Tomorrow he’d fire the hole. Funny, it didn’t really matter if he found anything. How could he expect to with only two blasts? That wasn’t a significant amount of progress. But it was the trying again that made it worthwhile. This round might be his last ever. All his steels were dull, and it wouldn’t do any good to try to sharpen them anymore—they needed retempering. The summer was run out anyway. His life, for that matter, was about run. But he’d come back to the Pride of the West the way he’d always wanted to, come full circle.

  There was something weighing in the air tonight, Walter thought, something weighing on this time that should be savored. As he watched the boy in the firelight, he saw it building. Maybe Cloyd, too, was realizing that the summer was about over. It wouldn’t do any good to talk about it. There’d be time yet for ending on the upside.

  It was Cloyd who broke the long silence. “Why did he keep asking me about that bear I saw?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He didn’t believe me.”

  “Oh, he was trying to pick your memory.”

  Cloyd shook his head decisively. “He wanted to catch me saying something that wasn’t right so he could prove I was making it up.”

  “Oh, no. I know Rusty awful well. He was so interested he could hardly hold himself still. Didn’t you see how fast he took off? He was bustin’ to get back to camp and get started after that bear. Sounded like a trophy.”

  Cloyd struggled against the panic that ripped him. His breath caught short, and his heart pounded in his ears. “It’s not hunting season,” he said, as calmly as he could. “Bear season was in June, wasn’t it?”

  “Open season on bears, Cloyd, or there’s hunts off and on all year, I forget which.”

  Cloyd’s mind raced. He’d given away the bear, and the outfitter was going to try to kill it. “Does he have those dogs with him?”

  “They don’t use any on this hunt. Too easy, they say. You see, Rusty and his brothers get together every summer for a pleasure-hunt. It’s kind of a contest. The first brother to get himself a bear wins a prize of some kind.”

  “They can find a bear without dogs?”

  “They’re awful good. Rusty’s the best trapper, tracker, and hunter in the San Juans. As a matter of fact, they’re bowhunting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, with bows and arrows. That’s the way Rusty favors. He even writes articles for a magazine about bowhunting.”

  “There was a rifle in the case on his horse.”

  “Well, he�
�d have it along with him. But he prefers to bowhunt because it takes quite a bit more skill. It’s like the Indians used to, only the arrows are made out of fiberglass or some-such and the head’s like three razor blades in one. You wouldn’t want to touch the thing—it’d take your thumb off. Even so, the odds against the hunter getting close enough are pretty long. Sometimes these guys come up empty-handed. Take this hunt for instance. They’ll be heading back sometime soon and still have nothing to show. They probably won’t come within miles of that bear of yours. Bears cover a lot of ground, you know. The chances of finding any one bear with that kind of head start are slim at best.”

  Cloyd wasn’t reassured. The old man said the outfitter was the best trapper, tracker, and hunter in the mountains. This man might very well kill the bear, and he’d told him where to find it. Now he’d done it, spoiled everything. In the old days, his grandmother said, the Utes wouldn’t kill bears. That would bring on the worst of bad luck, she said. Cloyd considered his secret name and fingered the bearstone in his pocket. He had to undo his mistake.

  Cloyd hoped to slip out of camp as soon as the moon rose to light his way. He struggled to stay awake after Walter fell asleep, but soon failed, worn out by his long ride off the Divide. The moon was high in the sky when he awoke. He feared that the red-haired man had already gone up the Rincon after the bear. The old man’s breathing whistled its usual song; Cloyd was able to collect his jacket and slide through the tent flap without waking him.

  He climbed in the moonlight to a vantage point above the confluence of the Rincon creek and the Pine River, and waited, his confidence collapsing all around him. He was alarmed by every sound the night made.

  To his relief, he finally spotted the outfitter riding up the Pine trail. It was still all but dark, yet Cloyd recognized the profile of the tall man. He wondered why the man was alone, then recalled the contest among the brothers. The outfitter wanted the bear all for himself.