by Jon Sharpe
“She needs the money.”
“Is that all? Then why don’t we send her back and I’ll give her my share if we bag the brute?”
“That’s considerate of you.”
“I don’t need the money. I’m not here for the bounty, as I’ve already explained. I’m here for the sport of the hunt and nothing more.” Wendolyn motioned. “So what do you say? Do we make her go back?”
Fargo grinned. “I’d like to see anyone make Cecelia Mathers do something she doesn’t want to.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You can ask her if you want but I know what she’ll say.”
“Stubborn, is she?”
“Practical,” Fargo said. “Without her and the kids, this won’t work.”
“What makes you so certain?”
They were almost to the forest. A squirrel scampered in the upper terrace and a robin warbled.
“Have any of the hunters gotten close enough to get off a shot at Brain Eater?” Fargo asked, and answered his own question. “No, they haven’t. This bear stays away from anyone who is after it.”
“Are you saying it’s smart enough to tell the difference? Exceptional, if true.”
“I’ve never heard of a bear like this one,” Fargo said.
“In Africa once an elephant went rogue. He raided villages in the dead of night and hunted people like we’re hunting this bear. And when warriors went after him, he avoided them just as this blighter has been avoiding us.”
“I saw an elephant once,” Fargo mentioned. “It was with a circus.”
“Ah. Then you know how gigantic they are compared to these puny bears.”
“A griz is a lot of things but puny isn’t one of them.”
Wendy patted his rifle. “My beauty will prove otherwise. It’s custom-made, you see, to my specifications by Holland and Holland of Bond Street.” He proudly ran his hand along the barrel. “Most big-game guns are four bore but mine is a two. It’s the most powerful firearm there is short of a punt gun.” He opened a pouch that was slanted across his chest and held out a shell.
“Good God,” Fargo said.
Wendy smiled. “It weighs half a pound, to your Yank way of measure.”
“How much does the rifle weigh?”
“Twenty pounds.”
Fargo’s Sharps weighed about twelve and that was considerable for a rifle.
“It can drop a bull elephant in its tracks but it has its disadvantages,” Wendy said. “The smoke, for one. After I shoot I can’t hardly see. It’s like being in a fog.”
“What’s the other?”
“The recoil,” Wendy answered, and touched his right shoulder. “If you’re not braced for it, it can spin you around or knock you on your backside.” He smiled wryly. “Or break your shoulder.”
“That’s some gun,” Fargo said.
“It has to be. I’ve gone after cape buffalo and hippopotamus and rhinos, as well as elephants. All are a lot bigger than your grizzlies.”
“It’s not the size—it’s the teeth and the claws.”
“Even there, I’ve hunted lions and tigers and other big cats. I know what to expect.”
Fargo looked at him. “No,” he said. “You don’t.”
10
The meadow was a five-acre oval bordered on the north by a stream and to the west, south and east by a crescent of woodland, mostly spruce with a few oaks.
“Not bad,” Rooster declared after they had drawn rein in the center. “The griz will have to come into the open and we’ll have clear shots.”
“Exactly as you wanted,” Wendy said.
Fargo had to admit the spot was perfect. “We have a lot to get done before dark. Let’s get to it.”
Moose helped Cecelia down and she bustled about overseeing her brood and setting up the camp to her satisfaction.
Each of them stripped their own horse. Fargo took a picket pin from his saddlebag and pounded it into the ground. He preferred a pin over a hobble; in an emergency he could pull it out and ride like hell that much faster.
Abner, Thomas and Bethany collected firewood while Cecelia kindled a fire. She took a coffeepot to the stream and filled it. She also filled a pot for the stew she was making.
The aromas made Fargo’s stomach growl. The smell would also serve as a beacon and bring in any bear that caught a tantalizing whiff.
Over an hour of daylight was left, and Rooster and Moose had just sat down to rest, when Fargo proposed they build a lean-to.
“What in the world for?” Rooster demanded. “I don’t mind sleeping on the ground.”
“It’s not for us. It’s for them.” Fargo nodded at Cecelia and the children. She was stirring the stew, and glanced up.
“No need to go to all that trouble on our account.”
“It will give you someplace to run to if the bear comes. He won’t charge you if he can’t see you.”
Cecelia gazed at her offspring. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have one, at that.”
They had brought an ax and Moose took it on himself to chop down saplings and cut the limbs they needed. A thicket provided the brush for the sides. When they were done it was eight feet long and four feet deep.
Although Rooster had complained, he walked around it and declared, “A damned fine job if I say so myself.”
The long day in the saddle had given them all an appetite.
There wasn’t a drop of stew left in the pot when they were done. Fargo had two helpings plus four cups of scalding hot coffee. Leaning back, he patted his belly and said contentedly, “You’re a good cook, Cecelia.”
“It’s not all I do good,” she said, and she looked at Moose and winked.
Moose blushed.
“Tomorrow we start on the blinds first thing,” Fargo announced. He wanted them in position and ready as early as possible.
“You’re not expecting the bear that soon, are you?” Wendy asked.
“There’s no telling.”
“It shows up, we’ll have it in a cross fire,” Rooster said. “It will be like shooting ducks in a barrel.”
“Except this duck fights back.”
About an hour after sunset Cecelia ushered her flock to the lean-to. She spread blankets and had them say their prayers, then kissed each on the cheek and came back to the fire. Sighing contentedly, she said, “This has been a fine day.”
“Doesn’t take much to please you, does it?” Rooster said.
“Any day that ends with a full belly and my kids healthy and happy is as fine a day as I can expect.”
They made small talk for a while. Cecelia rose and tiptoed over to the lean-to. When she returned, she was smiling. “They’re asleep, and I’ll whale the tar out of anyone who wakes them.”
“Does this mean we have to whisper?” Moose asked.
“No, just don’t do any shoutin’.” Cecelia clasped his hand. “Let’s you and me go for a stroll, shall we?”
“Now?”
“Why not?” Cecelia tugged but Moose stayed where he was.
“It’s night.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark?” Cecelia pulled harder and Moose reluctantly stood.
“I ain’t scared of nothing. I just don’t see no sense to it when we’ve ate and can relax.”
“There are ways and there are ways,” Cecelia said.
“You have plumb lost me.”
“Come along, infant.”
Rooster waited until they had ambled out of sight before he smirked at Fargo and said, “Walk, my ass.”
Wendy was sipping tea from a china cup. “Surely you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“She has a hankering to have her pump primed and Moose has the pump handle.”
“Here and now?” Wendy said in amazement. “There’s a time and a place for everything, old boy, and this certainly isn’t it.”
“You’d say no, I suppose?” Rooster scoffed.
“I daresay I would, yes,” Wendy said.
“We English are more reserved than you Americans. We know when to keep our peckers in our pants.”
“Prim and proper, eh?”
“Exactly. You’re familiar with British manners, then, I take it?”
“I know bullshit when I hear it,” Rooster said. “Madame Basque told me you pay her gals a visit nearly every other night.”
“Yes, well,” Wendy said, and coughed. “Prim and proper is well and good but a man shouldn’t be a fanatic about it.”
He turned to Fargo. “How about you, sir? What’s your view? When should a man turn down an offer to have sex?”
“When he’s dead,” Fargo said.
They were up at the crack of day. In order to cover the meadow from end to end they decided that they should post themselves at the cardinal points of the compass. Fargo figured they should draw lots but Wendy wanted to be by the stream.
Moose chose the west end and Rooster immediately said his spot would be to the east. That left south. Each man got ready.
The opposite bank of the stream was higher than the near bank. Periodic high water had eroded away the bottom, leaving an overhang. Wendy waded across and settled into a pocket where he was effectively screened from the woods behind him and could see all of the meadow.
Moose ripped out brush and piled it in a semicircle around a tree with the open end toward the meadow. Seated with his back to the bole, he was invisible to any animal that approached through the woods. He, too, could see the entire meadow.
Rooster was more elaborate. He chopped several stout limbs, climbed halfway up an oak, and rigged a platform for him to sit on. From that high up he had an obstructed view.
Fargo didn’t go to all that trouble. He chose a small spruce at the meadow’s edge and crawled under it. From where he lay he could see everyone and everything.
Cecelia added green wood to the fire so it would give off more smoke and put a pot on. She encouraged her kids to play and make a lot of noise—so long as they stayed near the lean-to.
Fargo placed the Sharps in front of him, folded his arms, and rested his chin on his wrist. Now all they could do was wait and hope the smoke and the smell of the food and the sounds of the kids playing attracted the giant grizzly. It might work. It might not. The bear could be anywhere within fifty miles. But since all the attacks had taken place in that general area, the brute just might catch literal wind of their bait.
The minutes crawled into hours and then the sun was at its zenith. Cecelia and her children sat around the fire eating and talking and making more noise than they ordinarily would.
Fargo and the other men stayed where they were. They didn’t dare break cover, not when the grizzly might be close by without them knowing.
As the afternoon waxed, Fargo grew drowsy but shook it off.
He must stay alert. When the bear came, it would be sudden and silent, and he must be ready.
The sun dipped and the shadows multiplied. Twilight washed the browns and greens in gray. Soon it would be too dark to see much of anything.
Fargo crawled from under the spruce and moved into the open. The others followed his example. Their disappointment was as keen as his own.
“I should have known it wouldn’t be easy,” Moose said. “It could be days before he shows.”
“The bounty is worth the wait,” Cecelia said.
Fargo picked up the coffeepot and filled his tin cup. “We’ll take turns keeping watch tonight.”
“I take a turn, too,” Cecelia said. “This was my idea, remember?”
“No need for you to,” Moose said. “I’m the man. I should do it.”
“Listen here,” Cecelia said, poking him in the chest. “I’m not one of those gals who sits on her ass while her man does all the work. A wife should be a helpmate and no one will ever say I shirk my duty.”
Moose’s eyebrows tried to climb into his hair. “We’re married?”
Little Bethany giggled.
Cecelia told her to shush and bent over the pot to stir the stew. “No, we’re not. Not yet, anyway, but who knows? You might take enough of a shine to me that livin’ with me will appeal to you. Until then, there’s no harm in actin’ like we already said ‘I do.’ ”
“I do what?” Moose said.
“Ain’t you ever seen anyone hitched? That’s what folks say when the parson asks them if they will.”
“Will what?”
“Forget I brought it up.”
Night was falling and stars sparkled. From out of the primordial reaches of the wilds rose the howl of a wolf.
Somewhere closer a fox keened.
Rooster came over to Fargo. “I’ve been doing some thinking, pard.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Ain’t you funny?” Rooster said. “But if this bear is as smart as he seems to be, he won’t show himself during the day. He’ll wait until night when most of us are asleep and he can sneak in close.”
“That’s what I would do if I was him.”
“So when we’re keeping watch tonight, we’ll be in more danger than we were all day.”
“A lot more.”
“Well, damn,” Rooster said.
11
Fargo’s turn was the last two hours before daylight. He woke feeling sluggish when Moose poked him with a finger as thick as a spike.
“Time to get up, sleepyhead,” Moose joked, whispering so as not to wake the others.
The men had spread their blankets in front of the lean-to. Cecelia and the children slept under it. Anything that came at them had to get through Fargo and the others first.
“Did you see or hear anything?” Fargo asked as he stretched and shook his head to try and clear it.
“It’s been quiet as can be,” Moose said. He sank onto his blanket and lay on his back with his rifle against his side. “The only problem I had was staying awake.”
Fargo stiffly rose and stepped to the fire. The crackling flames cast a glow that lit the lean-to and the horses. All else was ink. The woods were a black wall. He could hear the gurgle of the stream but couldn’t see it.
Sitting cross-legged, Fargo placed the Sharps in his lap and poured himself a cup of coffee. He needed it badly. His muscles felt sore, which puzzled him since he hadn’t done anything strenuous. And his head was mush. It took two cups to bring him to where he felt halfway normal.
Occasionally a coyote or a wolf raised a lament to the heavens but otherwise the night was quiet.
Soon snoring came from the lean-to; Moose had fallen asleep.
Fargo refilled his cup and shook the pot. There wasn’t much left. He must make more before dawn.
Far to the west a mountain lion screamed. It woke several of the horses. They pricked their ears and one stamped a hoof but after a while they dozed.
Half an hour went by and Fargo was close to dozing, too. Again and again he shook himself. Once he slapped his cheek. It was so unlike him. He attributed it to his feeling awful, and began to wonder if he was coming down with something.
Then, in the woods to the south, a twig snapped.
Fargo was instantly alert. Twigs didn’t break on their own. Several of the horses had raised their heads and were listening, the Ovaro among them. He put both hands on the Sharps. Something was out there. But it didn’t have to be a meat-eater. It could be a deer, an elk, anything. He added wood to the fire. The flames rose and the light spread a little farther but not far enough to reach the forest.
No other sounds came out of the dark. Fargo relaxed and sat back. He was about to drain the last of the coffee when he noticed that the Ovaro was staring to the west. He saw only darkness. The stallion was slowly moving its head, as if whatever was out there was circling.
Fargo rose and went over. “What is it, boy?” he whispered. He peered hard but still saw nothing.
The Ovaro nickered, and at the limit of the light, eyes appeared. Large eyes, gleaming with shine from the fire, fixed on their camp.
Fargo couldn’t be sure they were a bear’s eyes. But he
pressed the Sharps to his shoulder and curled his thumb around the hammer.
The eyes blinked, and moved. Not toward him but toward the stream.
An animal come to drink, Fargo guessed. The eyes blinked again and were gone. He heard the thud of what might be hooves and then a splash.
The Ovaro lowered its head.
Fargo took that as a sign all was well and returned to the fire. He still had over an hour to go. He finished the last of the coffee and set his cup down. His stomach grumbled and he was rising to go to his saddlebags for some pemmican when eyes appeared to the south. He stopped and brought up the Sharps. Whatever the thing was, it was just beyond the ring of firelight. The eyes stared at him without blinking. He was sure this time.
It was a bear.
He aimed between the eyes but didn’t shoot. It was a bear, yes, but was it the bear? Was it Brain Eater? He didn’t think so. The eyes weren’t high enough off the ground. It might be the other bear, the one that killed the Nesmith family. What was it the woman told him? The bear that attacked them was middling. The eyes staring at him were those of a bear that size.
The Ovaro nickered.
Fargo glanced at it, expecting to see it staring at the eyes to the southwest. But no. The stallion was staring to the northwest. He risked a quick look.
Another pair of eyes was fixed on him with baleful intensity. Larger eyes. Eyes that were much higher off the ground. Eyes that could only belong to one animal.
Brain Eater, Fargo thought, and a tingle ran down his spine. He had a bear to the right of him and a bear to the left. If they charged he couldn’t possibly drop both before they reached him. He swung the muzzle of the Sharps from one to the other. They went on staring, and it occurred to him that they weren’t staring at him; they were staring at each other.
Suddenly Brain Eater made a whuff sound and its eyes were gone. Brush crackled.
Fargo turned toward the smaller bear. It, too, had slipped away. He let out the breath he had been holding and stood rigid with expectation but nothing happened. The night stayed quiet. Both bears were apparently gone.
