Bearstone

by Will Hobbs

  In the first light the outfitter trotted his horse along the flats at the bottom of the Rincon creek. From the point the man disappeared into the trees, the trail climbed so abruptly that his horse would be slowed to a walk. Cloyd ran to keep up. He wished he had Blueboy, but a horse would give him away turning over stones and breaking sticks. He had to follow so carefully that the best tracker in the mountains wouldn’t know he was being followed.

  Maybe the bear’s gone over the mountains, Cloyd hoped, across the rockslides where even the red-haired man couldn’t track him. But what if he had just killed a deer and would stay in the Rincon to feed a few days? What if he’s eating berries along the stream in the meadow?

  Cloyd hurried up the mountain, cutting the switchbacks and watching to make sure he didn’t come too close to the man on horseback. Finally he could see through the trees to the meadow, the one where he’d seen the bear. He stopped to take off his jacket. He’d soaked himself with sweat. The outfitter, he guessed, was even now on the meadow looking for signs. Cloyd crawled to the edge of the trees and peeked around the trunk of a large spruce.

  He saw the horse first, then the man kneeling in the grass where the bear had loped toward the trees and stood up. It hadn’t taken the tall man much time to find the track of the bear. He was as skillful as Walter said, and after all, Cloyd thought bitterly, he’d been told right where to go.

  As eager as he might be, the red-haired man took his time examining the signs, especially around the place where the bear stood up. Then he climbed the tongue of a talus slide to a spot well above the meadow where he crouched awhile and scanned in all directions with his large binoculars.

  In a bowl like this any sound would carry, Cloyd knew, yet the outfitter descended the slope as quietly as a cat. He’s hunting, Cloyd realized—he’s deadly serious. Cloyd remembered how the red-haired man had almost laughed at him. If the man knew, he would simply sneer at the suggestion that an unarmed boy on foot hoped to stop him.

  How could it be done? Maybe make enough noise to warn the bear? That’s what he’d been thinking as he rushed up the trail. But if he yelled and scared the bear away, wouldn’t the man catch up again? How could the bear escape the best tracker in the country?

  Cloyd watched the man return to the signs on the meadow. Most likely he hadn’t caught sight of the bear through the binoculars.

  The outfitter packed a daypack with his binoculars and what must have been food and water. Cloyd watched him string his bow and check his arrows one by one. How close would you have to get, Cloyd wondered, to hunt with a bow and arrow? The man hobbled his horse, entered the trees where the bear had, and disappeared.

  The man’s rifle must be in the saddle scabbard on the horse, Cloyd reasoned. With the rifle he could make plenty of noise. The mountains would echo the shots all the way to the bear, wherever it was.

  The rifle was there in the scabbard, as he’d hoped. But when Cloyd pulled the bolt back and exposed the chamber, there was no ammunition in it. He searched the saddlebags—no shells! The outfitter must have them in his daypack. The man was gone now, the chance to keep him in sight lost.

  Cloyd knew he lacked the skill to track the man or the bear in the woods. His only chance now was to get back to the trees on the other side of the meadow, on the slope opposite the one the man was on. That way he could climb without being seen and find a high place where he might spot the outfitter again—if he was lucky.

  Cloyd worked for most of an hour until he found a lookout close to timberline, high above the dogleg between the lower and upper meadows. Great ups and downs rippled the upper basin, where even now the outfitter or the bear or both might be hidden from view. Big patches of stunted spruce dotted the flanks of the basin, and thickets of brush grew everywhere, looking from this distance like tall grass. A thousand places he couldn’t see. I’m an unlucky person, he thought.

  Cloyd can’t be too far off, Walter thought. He didn’t take the horse. He’ll be back. Walter’s mind drifted back to his work, as he readied the charges for the second blast. Once you blast, he reflected, you forget about all the backbreaking work. Another three or four feet of the mountain is broken loose, and you just never know what you’re going to find. Most times nothing but rock. A bonanza, he mused, is a hole in the ground owned by a champion liar. But sometimes a man found good ore, and once in a million lifetimes, a fabulous strike like the Cresson Vug. It’s really gambling, is what it is, he thought. They ought to make it illegal.

  Walter came running out of the tunnel hollering, “Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!” even though there was no one to hear it but himself. Muffled somewhat, the blast sent fewer clouds of fumes and dust than usual out of the mouth of the mine. He was concerned that the explosion lacked punch. When the air cleared enough for him to see, he entered the mine. So what if the air’s still bad, he thought. No sense in an old man babying his lungs.

  He groaned when he saw the blasted face at the end of the tunnel, recognizing at once what was wrong. The old face had been only partially blown out; two mounds of rock held the bulk of it fast. Two missed shots—worse than rotten luck. Two mounds of rock clinging there with crucial charges inside, unshot but possibly hair-triggered to blow when a man tried to pick at the surrounding rock to get at them.

  Outside, he sat and thought about the missed shots. He could wait until next summer to try to pick them out, but then they’d be hanging over his head all winter and he’d still have to face them. He could give up on the Pride of the West, he supposed. But one thing he couldn’t do—wait until somebody was blown up fooling around inside the mine. If he was going to remove them, he’d better try while he had the nerve and while the boy was safely away blowing off steam. “Maude, you were right—it’s a risky business,” he said aloud.

  He lit the headlamp, shouldered the pick, and entered the tunnel. More than anything, he had to know if the missed shots hid some decent ore.

  The hours of careful waiting and watching ended as the tall white clouds turned dark and the wind began to blow. Cloyd glimpsed a figure moving swiftly for a low spot several miles up the basin. If it was the man on the track of the bear, it meant the bear had moved up the Rincon in the direction of the Divide.

  Cloyd took off running. He avoided the meadows and tried to make time in the stands of timber and in the brush. He glimpsed the figure again clearing the top of the Divide, vanishing just as lightning struck up there. Apparently the outfitter had dropped his tracking and hurried up the ridge while Cloyd was in the brush. The man was taking a risk climbing into the weather, Cloyd thought. He must be closing in on the bear.

  Cloyd broke into the open and made for the place where the man went over the top. As he climbed, it began to sprinkle; he had no rain gear. He ran stumbling up the ridge and into the wind with no thought but that he had to reach the bear in time.

  As he topped out on the Divide, he found the outfitter’s straw cowboy hat weighted and left in plain sight—as a sign for his brothers? Cloyd thought the man must be a little farther east on the Divide and a little below it. He had to be, it was the only hidden place. If he’d gone on down the steep slope to the west, he’d be visible.

  The thundershower had passed by and was attacking the Pyramid. The day was waning now; he knew he had to guess right.

  Yes, the outfitter had to be tucked out of sight on one of the small terraces angling to the north and dropping like stairs down to Ute Lake. The man—and the bear—must be about where he’d passed the day before on his way up from the lake.

  Just in case the outfitter had somehow doubled back, Cloyd checked behind. His eye caught a flash of bright yellow. Riders in rainslickers, three of them coming up the Rincon and leading a fourth horse. The brothers. He left the ridgeline quickly.

  Cloyd found the highest terrace, but the man wasn’t there. He ran its length, then crawled to the far edge to avoid being seen as he gained a vantage point. Below him lay another little meadow surrounded by rockslides and brush. He
made his way down to it among the rocks and ran for the far end. The wind blowing hard against him slowed him down.

  When he dropped at the far end of the meadow to look below, he saw them on the next shelf. It was the bear he’d seen, a huge brown bear turning over rocks above the mountain willows at the edge of the meadow, looking maybe for pikas or marmots. The outfitter was stalking in a crouch. He sneaked along the line of brush until he drew close to the bear on the other side. The man carried his bow with an arrow in place. The bear wasn’t aware of him.

  Cloyd yelled with all his might. Strangely, neither the bear nor the man paid any attention. The red-haired man drew close to a gap in the brushline. Cloyd screamed again and again, desperately, with no result. As close as they were, the bear and the man were deaf and unreachable, like phantoms in a dream. Then he realized that he was yelling from above and into a sturdy wind, and his voice was being blown away, up and behind him.

  Suddenly the tall man stood out in the open in front of the bear with the bow pulled all the way back and the arrow aimed. Sensing something, the bear stood up as if to have a better look and took the arrow in its neck.

  The bear didn’t fall. It roared in pain and charged the man through the opening in the brush with uncanny speed. But the outfitter hadn’t wasted any time nocking a second arrow, and released it into the bear’s chest.

  Still the bear came on, all teeth and claws and blood, and knocked aside the bow the man lifted to shield himself. As the man spun away, the big bear hesitated, then stood up and tried to brush away the arrowshafts with its paws.

  The man crouched and brandished a long-bladed knife. Returning to all fours, the bear took a few steps toward him, gave a strangled growl, and collapsed on its side.

  The red-haired man circled the fallen bear several times. Then he knelt and ran his hand across its broad forehead. He inspected the teeth and the underside of one of the front paws, and sized the claws against his forefinger.

  Cloyd fell to his belly in the cover of the rocks and let the bitterness roll over him in waves. He dreaded being seen by the outfitter now—that would make the man’s victory complete. He’d gladly sink into the ground if he could. The uncaring wind shifted and carried the fragment of a shout from above and behind him. The others were coming, the brothers. He had to get out of there. He scuttled backward until he was well away from the lip of the shelf, then stood and ran off the downhill side into the rocks on the steep slope below. Above him, the riders crossed the spot he’d fled.

  There was whooping and shouting as the three men met up with their brother and the dead bear, but Cloyd couldn’t see them and he couldn’t hear the outfitter’s voice. He had to hear what the man would say. He worked his way through the talus until he was directly below them, then crept under the edge of the meadow where he could hear.

  “Biggest bear I ever saw,” said one. “You win again.”

  “You sure got the jump on us, Rusty, sneaking off in the night like that,” said a second brother. “We came as soon as we saw your note. Helluva bear. Did he charge you? How’d it go?”

  “Look at the forehead,” the outfitter said, not so loud as the others.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s dished out.”

  “So?”

  “Look at the hump on its back, the forehead, the teeth, the claws—that’s a grizzly.”

  “Everybody knows there aren’t any grizzlies left in Colorado,” the third brother protested.

  “Wasn’t true. This here’s a grizzly.”

  “If you say so—you’re the expert. Well then, you’ve sure got yourself a trophy here, Rusty.”

  “What I’ve got myself here is a heck of a mess.”

  “Waddaya mean?”

  “It’s illegal to kill a grizzly. They’re protected. Hundred thousand dollar fine and a year in jail.”

  “So … you didn’t know it was a grizzly, did you?”

  “It … crossed my mind—I couldn’t tell for sure until I was up close…. It charged me—I had to defend myself.”

  That’s a lie, Cloyd thought. That’s not how it happened

  “Well, who’s to know?” one of the brothers snapped. “Ain’t nobody’s business but yours.”

  “I got carried away.”

  There was a pause, then Cloyd heard the red-haired man’s voice fill with what almost seemed like regret. “It’s probably one of the two cubs that were reported around the Pyramid ten or twelve years ago.”

  “Look, Rusty,” the same brother said, “Quit worrying. You made a terrific kill here, and it’ll make a once-in-a-lifetime trophy.”

  “You guys think I can go ahead and display it in my home—show it to the game warden when he comes over to visit?”

  “I see your point. You’ve got a problem here, don’t you? How ‘bout I just take it back to Texas with me. Let’s skin it out right now.”

  “I don’t know, Andy. I could lose my license over this—that’s my livelihood we’re talking about. Even if a grizzly’s found dead, you’re supposed to report it as soon as you can so the Department of Wildlife’s scientific guys can study it.”

  “C’mon, we’ll pack the skin out good and careful. No one’ll ever see it. Tell you what. I’ll give you a thousand dollars for it, make it worth your while. I’d really like to have that monster baring his teeth on the floor in front of the fireplace. Look at the size of those claws! From what you’re saying, if you do report this thing, there’s no way they aren’t going to take it away from you. Then what if they don’t like your story? You’ll end up without the bear and in big trouble both!”

  “We’d have to leave the carcass, Andy. Backpackers would come across it and report it. The bone structure would identify it as a grizzly. Sam Perkins—the game warden—he knows we’re up here. I’d never get away with it. Besides, he’s a good friend. The more I think about this, the more I’m convinced that the only way I’m going to come out at all on this deal is to get ahold of Sam right away. He’s going to want to bring in the department helicopter and lift this grizzly out as soon as possible, before it starts to spoil. So let’s get down to the guard station and radio this in.”

  “It’s a helluva shame.”

  “Sure is,” the outfitter agreed. “But I’m not going to risk my business over it.”

  After the men were gone, Cloyd approached the bear. Kneeling close to its massive head, Cloyd asked the bear’s forgiveness. He prayed that somehow this bear wasn’t the last one. Hadn’t there been two cubs? Maybe there are others that nobody knows about. Overcome with grief, he stayed into darkness. Cloyd vowed to the mighty grizzly that he would remember him forever, not lifeless like now, but standing tall and alert, sniffing the wind, still the most powerful animal in the mountains.

  As he fled down the Rincon trail, the night was full of accusing voices. A large owl suddenly flapped out of the dark and almost struck him. He yelled sharply in terror. His grandmother had told him about owls. This one would be the dead bear’s spirit freshly loosed from its body.

  It was no accident he’d seen the owl, Cloyd discovered. When, in the middle of the night, he stumbled into camp and lifted the flap of the canvas tent, his misgivings were verified. Instead of the musical comings and goings of the old man’s breath, he was greeted by an uncanny silence. He had to fumble for a flashlight. Indeed, Walter was not there. His sleeping bag was rolled up as it always was during the day. The old man had not been to bed this night at all.

  Cloyd ran up the ore dump and into the mine. His flashlight caught the trace of dust lingering in the air. There’d been a blast, he knew. And with that knowledge came the sickening realization that Walter had been working all along and had set off another round of blasting. He listened. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart. If Walter was working in there, he should be able to hear it: any sound carried in the mine. But there was no sound at all coming down the tunnel, only the uncanny silence. He called. No answer.

  Cloyd found him fac
e down at the end of the tunnel. Only the old man’s head, shoulders, and right arm showed above the rubble. The explosion had made meat of one side of his face. Cloyd knelt close. Walter was still breathing, but he was unconscious. There was a nasty gash in his scalp on the back of his head, and it was all matted with blood. Cloyd went to work to free the old man from the rubble. He worked with the flashlight in his teeth, so he could use both hands. It took time. He fought the panic that was making his head swim. He had to be able to think. What was he going to do? How much time did the old man have? The legs were pinned badly, but at last he freed them, and then he saw the fracture. Surrounded by blood and dirt, the broken bone of the old man’s lower leg was sticking out, and it had a sharp point on it.

  Cloyd felt dizzy, he felt the panic rising again, and he fought it. He had to get Walter outside. He picked him up as gently as he could and started out of the mine. He didn’t know if he’d be strong enough to make it, but he clenched his teeth, straightened his back, and kept moving. Cloyd let the flashlight drop from his fingers as he reached the portal; outside there was moonlight and even the first hint of dawn. Then it came to him, his only chance to get help fast. A helicopter. A helicopter was coming to get the bear. He stumbled and then recovered. It felt like he was carrying three hundred pounds. He told himself how light the old man was, and he kept going until he reached the tent.

  Cloyd laid Walter down on a sleeping bag, then opened the other bag and spread it across him as a blanket. He knew he had to keep the old man warm. Then he ran down to the creek, drank from it, and splashed his face with the cold water. He had to think, and think right. Rusty said he was going to radio for a helicopter from the guard station. Where was that? He hadn’t said—no clues at all. It could be any direction from where he killed the bear. How long would it have taken him to get there? There was no telling. How long before the helicopter came?