by Jon Sharpe
“Why, that’s what that British gent said about those ele-things he likes to hunt,” Moose said. “He claims they have two teeth as long as my arm and they wear a trunk on their face. But what would they need with a trunk when they don’t even wear clothes?” Moose guffawed as if he had told a joke.
Fargo decided to take advantage of the bear hunter’s friendliness. “You’ve been out after this griz before, I take it?”
“That I have,” Moose said somberly. “And he got the better of me every time.”
“Better how?”
“Brain Eater ain’t a normal bear. He’s got the painter gift of throwing a hunter off his scent. Hell, even hounds can’t bring him to bay.”
“How does Brain Eater throw you off?” Fargo keenly desired to know.
“He’s smart. He doubles back on himself. He sticks to rocky ground when he can. He goes up slopes too steep for a horse, knowing we have to go around. He sticks to water, too, and will stay in a stream for miles.”
“I’ve never heard of a bear doing all that,” Fargo admitted.
“Now you know why no one has caught him yet,” Moose said. “And why that bounty is as good as mine.”
“Putting the cart before the horse, ain’t you?” Rooster said.
“Listen. No one has been out after Brain Eater as often as me. And the more I do it, the more I learn of his ways and the more I get the feel of him. Won’t be long, I’ll know what he’s going to do before he does it. That’s the day I bring his hide into Gold Creek and collect the bounty.”
“If he doesn’t eat your brain first,” Rooster said.
They reached the site.
“Look at them all,” Moose said, and rode into the thick of them.
“It’d be funny if it wasn’t so damn pathetic,” Rooster remarked.
Fargo grunted in assent.
The small cabin and the ground around it literally crawled with bear hunters. Some were on their hands and knees looking for tracks. One man had climbed onto the roof and was looking for sign from up there. The woman with her three children had them poking around in some bushes that weren’t big enough to hide a turkey.
Moose dismounted and walked about bragging how Brain Eater’s days were numbered.
Fargo sat the saddle of the Ovaro and shook his head in mild disgust. Any tracks the bear had left would have been obliterated. He noticed that a finger of pines came close to the rear of the cabin, perfect cover for a stalking bear, and he was about to ride around and confirm his hunch when the Englishman with the fancy rifle that brought down elephants rode over.
“I say, Fargo, wasn’t it? Wendolyn Channing Mayal, remember? Although most people call me Wendy for short. What do you make of all these blighters?”
“They’re a herd of jackasses,” Rooster said.
“I quite agree, Mr. Strimm,” Wendy said. “They’ll bloody well spoil it for those of us who have a legitimate chance at this beast.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Rooster said. “That gun of yours, and your fine clothes and all. You don’t strike me as somebody who is in this for the money.”
“Most astute, Mr. Strimm.”
“Most what?”
“You are exactly right,” Wendy said. “I hunt for the thrill. For the sport of it. Elephants and water buffalo in Africa, tigers in India, jaguars in South America, I’ve hunted them all. I came to your marvelous country to add a grizzly to my tally, and as luck would have it, read in a newspaper about the bounty and this bear.”
“Maybe you do have a chance at him, then,” Rooster said.
“I can track and I can shoot and I have nerves of steel,” Wendy declared. “I should say I most certainly do.” He touched the cap he wore and rode toward the stream.
“Not a bad feller for a foreigner,” Rooster said.
Fargo motioned and circled around the cabin toward the pines.
Just then a farmer in bib overalls bawled that he had found a bear track near the outhouse and nearly everyone rushed over to see for themselves.
Moose was one of them, and got a laugh by bellowing, “Why, hell, you idiot. This ain’t no bear track. It’s a dog print, for crying out loud.”
Fargo glanced at Rooster. “Ira Stoddard had a dog?”
“Wouldn’t know. Never met the man.”
The pines closed around them and muffled much of the hubbub. Fargo bent his gaze to the carpet of needles and patches of bare earth. He hadn’t gone twenty feet when he came on the outline of a front paw. “I thought so,” he said, and pointed.
“Crafty critter,” Rooster said. “Snuck in close so he’d be on Ira before Ira could wet himself.”
“Or get off a shot,” Fargo said. Most meat-eaters did the same. They snuck as near as they could to their quarry before they pounced.
“You reckon this bear is gun savvy?”
“I’ve seen it before,” Fargo said. Bears and other animals were shot at or saw a man use a gun and equated firearms with danger and stayed away from those who carried them.
“We got us one smart bear here.”
“So everyone keeps saying.”
Fargo penetrated another hundred yards but didn’t find more prints. The pines rose in a series of slopes to a phalanx of firs. Above the firs reared a stark spire. “How about we go up and take a gander at the countryside?”
“I don’t have nothing better to do.”
The climb took two hours. Their horses toiled up steep inclines and they skirted deadfalls and rock outcroppings to finally reach a stone shelf. Drawing rein, they climbed down.
Fargo cast his eyes over nature in all her splendor. Peaks that slashed the clouds. Mountains abundant with timber, split by gorges and ravines. From that height the creek was a thin blue ribbon that contrasted with the greens and browns of the woodland. To the east a pair of bald eagles soared.
Rooster breathed in deep. “God, I love the wilds. Once they’re in your blood, you can’t ever get them out.”
“I wouldn’t want to,” Fargo said. He could no more take up city life than he could give up whiskey or women. About to turn to the Ovaro, he gave a start.
High on a mountain to the north was the green rectangle of a meadow. A creature was crossing it. Even at that distance, its bulk and ambling gait and color left no doubt what it was.
“Brain Eater,” Fargo said.
Rooster turned and blurted, “I’ll be damned! God, he must be huge.”
Fargo looked at him. “What do you say?”
“We go for it,” Rooster said eagerly.
They mounted and headed north. Fargo didn’t push. It wouldn’t do to exhaust their mounts to reach the meadow any sooner. Given all he had learned about Brain Eater, they had a long hunt ahead.
Rather than go all the way down to the creek and then up the next mountain to the meadow, they crossed a spiny ridge and wound along a switchback to a bench that brought them to within a quarter of a mile. A short climb and they were there.
“He’s long gone by now,” Rooster said. “But lookee here, hoss.”
Grizzlies ate plants as well as the flesh of anything they could catch, and Brain Eater had treated himself to some yellow violets. In the process he had torn at the ground to get at the roots, and there, as clear as could be, was the entire track of a forepaw. Fargo looked, and whistled.
“Know what you mean,” Rooster said. “It gives me goose bumps.”
Climbing down, Fargo sank to one knee. Typical grizzly tracks for a mature male were ten to twelve inches long and seven to eight inches wide. This track was nearer to twenty inches long and fifteen to sixteen inches across. He held his spread fingers over the print; it dwarfed his hand.
“Jesus,” Rooster breathed. “The thing is a monster.”
Fargo nodded. He had never seen griz tracks this huge. Hell, he’d never heard of griz tracks like this.
To the west the sun sat perched on the rim of the world. The shadows around them were lengthening.
“Looks like we camp here for the n
ight and go after Brain Eater at daybreak,” Rooster said.
Fargo took a picket pin from his saddlebags and pounded it into the ground using a rock. Rooster hobbled his horse. They stripped both animals and Rooster set about gathering firewood. Fargo half filled his coffeepot from his canteen and after kindling a fire, put coffee on. He shared his pemmican and they sat chewing as the day gave way to the gray of evening and the gray gave way to the black of night. Above them a multitude of stars sparkled.
A coyote yipped but otherwise quiet reined.
“Peaceful, ain’t it?” Rooster said. “Almost makes me forget what we’re up here for.”
As if they needed a reminder, from out of the nearby woods rumbled a menacing growl.
4
Fargo was on his feet in an instant, the Sharps pressed to his shoulder.
“It can’t be,” Rooster said, rising. “He should be long gone by now.”
The growl came again, louder and longer, and from the sound, the bear was moving.
“He’s circling,” Rooster said.
Fargo thought he glimpsed the gleam of eyeshine in the trees. “When he rushes us go for the heart or lungs.” The skull was a poor target. The bone was inches thick.
The growling suddenly ceased.
Fargo and Rooster peered hard into the blanket of ink but minutes went by and no sounds or movement betrayed the beast’s presence.
“Strange he hasn’t come at us,” Rooster whispered as if afraid his voice would provoke an attack.
Fargo stayed silent and focused on the woods.
“Maybe it wasn’t him,” Rooster said. “Maybe it was something else.”
It had sounded like a bear to Fargo, and while the northern Rockies had more bears than any other part of the country, the odds of it being another were slim.
For more than ten minutes they stood in tense expectation of a roar and a charge that didn’t materialize. Finally Fargo lowered his Sharps and scratched his chin.
“Makes no sense.”
“Could be he was warning us off,” Rooster speculated.
Fargo doubted it. Why would a man-killer scare off prey? “We’ll take turns keeping watch.”
“I’ll take the first watch,” Rooster said. “I couldn’t sleep anyhow, after this.”
They sat with their rifles across their laps and resumed their meal.
Fargo filled his tin cup and sipped the hot coffee. He debated saddling up and lighting a shuck. But if the bear followed and came at them out of the dark, they’d be easy to take down. At least here they had the firelight to see by, and the fire itself was a deterrent.
“Wait until Moose and the others hear we saw it and heard it,” Rooster said. “They’ll think we’re bald-faced liars. Moose claims Brain Eater never makes a sound but then Moose likes to claim he knows things he doesn’t.”
Fargo was raising the cup to his mouth when from up the mountain came a loud whoof.
Rooster put his hand on his rifle. “You hear that? It was him again.”
They listened but the sound wasn’t repeated.
“At least he’s moving away from us,” Rooster broke their silence.
“Or wants us to think he is,” Fargo said. Long ago he had learned not to underestimate the innate cleverness of the bruin clan. They were intelligent and unpredictable and deadly.
“We could light torches and go after him,” Rooster proposed.
“Nothing doing,” Fargo said. They couldn’t track and keep alert for the bear, both.
“What’s a little risk when there’s five thousand dollars at stake?”
Rooster was grinning but Fargo could tell he was serious. “My life is worth more to me than money.”
“When you get my age you’ll think different. I ain’t as spry as I used to be. My scouting days are over and all I got to show for it was a watch the army gave me and a pat on the back for a job well done.”
“So that’s why you’re here.”
“It’s hell growing old,” Rooster said. “With my half of the five thousand I could get me a small place in Missouri. An acre or so with a house. I’d hunt and garden some and in the evenings I’d sit in my rocking chair and watch the sun set.”
“Never took you for the rocking chair type.”
“Neither did I. Truth is, pard, I’ve had my fill of the wilds and its dangers.” Rooster sat back and a dreamy expression came over him. “I’d like a peaceful life for a change. I’d like to get up in the morning knowing no one will try to lift my scalp or shoot me or I won’t be gored or torn to bits.”
“There’s no guarantee it will be us who gets the bear,” Fargo said.
“That’s a cruel thing to say.”
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“Too late. They were up before you got here and now with you to help me, they are higher than ever.”
“Damn, Rooster.”
“I know. But I can’t help myself. I’ll do anything to earn that bounty. Anything at all.”
Fargo wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “Be careful you don’t get yourself killed.”
“We all die, hoss. It’s only a question of when.”
Now and then a wolf howled and coyotes yipped and for a while an owl sat in a tree and hooted at them, but otherwise the night was peaceful.
Fargo sat up the last half and woke Rooster by poking him with his boot as a pink tinge heralded the new dawn. They had coffee and pemmican and were in the saddle and on the move before the sun rose. For over an hour they roved in ever wider circles around their camp but they didn’t find so much as a smudge.
With Fargo in the lead, they headed up the mountain. He looked for tracks, as well as claw marks on trees. Bears were fond of leaving sign for other bears but not Brain Eater, apparently. At midmorning they drew rein on a crest overlooking a spectacular vista of virgin wilderness.
“The damn critter is a ghost,” Rooster griped. “Moose was right about that much.”
From their vantage they could see back down the mountains to Gold Creek. The buildings were mere specks in the haze.
“What now?” Rooster asked.
“It’s pointless to keep on,” Fargo said. The bear could be anywhere. To go on searching would be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, only this needle didn’t stay still and finding it could take months, if it ever happened at all. Reluctantly, he turned the Ovaro toward the far-off specs.
By nightfall they reached the creek and made camp. Again they took turns sitting up but the night was quieter than the one before and the grizzly didn’t pay them a visit. They followed the creek and eventually came to Ira Stoddard’s cabin. The swarm of bear hunters was long gone.
It was early afternoon when they rode into town. Rooster said he had to go see somebody and they parted company. Fargo went straight to the Three Deuces, paid for a bottle, and claimed a chair against a side wall. He was filling his glass when perfume wreathed him and a warm hand fell lightly on his shoulder.
“I was beginning to think I’d never see you again,” Fanny Jellico said. She wore a pink dress that left nothing to the imagination. “Mind if I join you?”
“Be my guest.” Fargo pushed the glass across to her and took a long pull from the bottle.
“Where have you been?” Fanny asked, her luscious lips curled in a playful pout. “I thought for sure you’d come calling after I threw myself at you.”
“Went after the bear,” Fargo said, and briefly told her about his first attempt to track the grizzly down.
“You actually saw it?” Fanny marveled. “You’re the first one who has.”
“Don’t make more out of it than there is. I might have seen its eyes. That’s all. Others have gotten a better look than me.”
“Who?” Fanny asked. “Not one other bear hunter has gotten close enough.”
“The people the griz killed.”
“Oh.”
Fargo sucked down more bug juice and set the bottle on the table.
“Are you working right now?”
Fanny glanced at a large clock on a shelf behind the bar. “Not for another hour or so yet. Why?” She grinned impishly. “What did you have in mind?”
“Treating you to a meal.”
Grinning, Fanny slowly ran a hand from her neck down over the swell of her bosom to her flat stomach. “I was hoping it might be something else.”
“Later,” Fargo promised. “Do you know a good place to eat?”
“The best in town.”
The sign read BETTY’S HOME COOKING. Betty turned out to be a stout matron who wore her white hair in a bun and had the sweetest disposition this side of sugar. She brought menus and gave Fargo a glass after informing him that while normally she didn’t allow alcohol in her establishment, she’d let him partake of the bottle he’d brought if he promised to behave.
“You won’t get rowdy, will you? If there’s anything that gets my goat, it’s a man who can’t hold his liquor.”
“Rowdy, no,” Fargo said, “but I can’t promise I won’t get playful.” He placed his hand on her hip. “You and me, out back, after I’m done eating?”
Laughing, Betty pushed his hand away. “Oh, you,” she said, and went to greet another customer.
“What is it with you and women that we want to fawn all over you?” Fanny wondered.
“It must be my dimples.”
The tiny bell over the door chimed and in came the mother of three with her children in tow. She looked around, started toward a table at the back, then caught sight of Fargo. To his surprise she changed direction and steered her brood over to theirs.
“I beg your pardon,” she said with a distinct drawl, “but you’re him, aren’t you? Rooster’s friend? Fargo?”
“He is,” Fanny confirmed, looking highly amused. “What can he do for you?”
“I can talk for myself,” Fargo said.
“I’m Cecelia Mathers. This here is Abner”—she tapped the oldest boy on the head—“and this one is Thomas”—she tapped the middle child—“and this is my youngest, Bethany.” She gave the girl a hug and the girl smiled shyly.
“Care to join us?”
“No, no, I wouldn’t think of imposin’,” Cecelia said. “It’s just that I was talkin’ to Rooster a while ago. He told me how you almost killed Brain Eater.”
