by Jon Sharpe
Fargo lowered the Sharps and expressed his bewilderment with, “What the hell?”
Everyone shared his bewilderment. They sat around the fire eating their breakfast of oatmeal that Cecelia made and drinking coffee sweetened with sugar.
“Two bears?” Moose said, and slurped as he took a sip. “That ain’t good.”
“I’ve done some research on these grizzlies of yours,” Wendy said, “and I was told they’re not very social. It’s unusual to have two bears roaming together—isn’t that right?”
“Unless it’s a mother and a cub,” Rooster said. “But this second bear seems a mite big to be a cub.”
“I’ve seen a dozen bears in a river at the same time after salmon,” Fargo mentioned. “They always give each other a lot of space. If one gets too close to another, a fight breaks out.”
“Why didn’t these two fight?” Moose wondered. “You’d think the big one wouldn’t want the little one anywhere around.”
“You men,” Cecelia said. “So what if there’s two? It’s the big one we’re after. It’s the big one the bounty is on. And now we know that it knows we’re here.” She beamed. “It’ll come back, and when it does, the money is ours.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, woman,” Rooster said. “We have to kill it first.”
“Do you other chaps think it will come back?” Wendy asked.
All eyes turned to Fargo. By unspoken consent he had become unofficial leader, in part because he had more experience than any of them in the wilds, and in part because he had an iron edge about him, a force to his personality that they respected.
“I think it will come back,” Fargo answered. “The question is, when? We can’t let down our guard.”
“What I don’t get,” Moose said, and slurped some more, “is why the critter didn’t attack us last night.”
“You and me, both,” Rooster said. “This thing has killed upwards of fifteen people. I figured it would attack us on sight.”
“A normal bear might but this bear isn’t normal,” Fargo said.
“So what do you propose we do?” Wendy asked. “Go to our blinds and wait?”
“What else can you do?” Cecelia said. “You sure can’t go traipsin’ off after it and leave me and mine to fend for ourselves.”
“I’d never leave you alone,” Moose assured her.
“But it wouldn’t hurt if one of us went,” Fargo proposed, “and since I’m the best tracker, it should be me. I’ll try to find where Brain Eater went, and if I get a shot, I’ll take it.”
“Just so you remember that no matters who kills it, we all get our share of the bounty,” Cecelia said.
“You and your bounty money,” Rooster told her.
Cecelia gestured at her three young ones, who were hungrily eating their oatmeal. “When you have kids, old man, then you can criticize.”
Moose stopped slurping to say, “You leave her be, Rooster—you hear me? You pick on her too much.”
“Thank you, handsome,” Cecelia said.
“Who are you talking to?” Moose asked.
“You,” Cecelia said.
“Oh. No one’s ever called me that before. Mostly folks say I’m sort of ugly.”
“Not to me,” Cecelia said. “To me you’re the handsomest man alive.”
“Gosh.”
Fargo had finished eating, and stood. “I’ll head right out. If I can’t pick up the trail I should be back by noon or so.”
“Be careful, pard,” Rooster cautioned. “You said it yourself. Brain Eater ain’t normal.”
Fargo carried his saddle blanket, saddle and bridle to the Ovaro. He threw on the blanket and smoothed it, then swung the saddle up and over and bent to the cinch. He pulled out the picket pin and put it in his saddlebag. He was about to fork leather when Cecelia came over.
“Before you head out there’s somethin’ I need to say.”
“About?”
Cecelia gazed at the men at the fire, and her kids, and then at the deep shadows in the woods that had yet to be dispelled by the rising sun. “This hunt was my idea. I saw it as the best way to get the money I need.”
“You’ve made that plain,” Fargo said, impatient to be under way.
“You didn’t have to go along with it. None of you did. But I’m powerful glad you did. Without all of you, this wouldn’t work.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“That I’m grateful and I would take it poorly if anythin’ was to happen to you.”
“Thanks,” Fargo said. Her sincerity touched him. He saw that she was slightly embarrassed by her admission so he grinned and said, “I’d hug you but Moose would try to beat me to a pulp.”
“He’s a good man,” Cecelia said. “He doesn’t have much between the ears but the good counts for more than that.”
“You have plenty between yours so the two of you will come out even.”
Cecelia held out her hand. “Like Rooster said, you be careful out there.”
“Always.” Fargo climbed on and held the Sharps in front of him. As he tapped his spurs he tried not to dwell on the fact that a man could be as careful as he could be and still end up in a bear’s belly.
12
As the forest and the shadows closed around Fargo, so did a deep silence. Usually the songbirds started a new day singing in exuberance. Not one was singing today.
Fargo rode with every nerve tingling. Grizzlies were notorious for ambushing their prey. They were also cunning at concealing themselves. He searched in a loop. The ground was hard and there were plenty of pine needles to cushion the bear’s great weight but he found a partial print and then broken brush, enough to tell him the giant bear had headed west.
Fargo went slowly, as much to keep from being jumped as to not miss any of the spoor. Tracking was often painstaking; with grizzlies it was more so.
From the spacing between prints, Fargo deduced that the griz had been moving at a fast pace. It made no attempt to hide its passage and for over an hour Fargo made good time. Then he crested a rise. Below spread a granite slope sprinkled with scattered pockets of bare earth. Dismounting, he checked the bare patches first but he didn’t find a single print. It was possible the bear’s claws had scraped the granite here and there but the nicks would be slight and hard to find.
His only other recourse was to descend to the bottom and search for sign there. He rode back and forth for half an hour, but nothing. It was as if the grizzly had vanished into thin air. He ranged farther and came on a smudge but he couldn’t say whether the bear made it. He scoured the vicinity and found no other marks.
Fargo was getting nowhere. Frustrated, he returned to the granite slope. Maybe the bear hadn’t come all the way down. Maybe it had changed direction again. He reined to the right and spent another twenty minutes looking, without success. Swinging around to the left, he discovered a large pine that bore fresh claw marks.
“Thank you, bear,” Fargo said with a grin. He examined them; they were wider and deeper than any he’d ever run across.
He went a little way and found where the grizzly had urinated. Dismounting, he tried to tell if the urine came from under the bear or from behind it. If from under, the bear was a male. Females usually squatted, and the urine was usually behind them. But there were no clear prints to go by.
Brain Eater had gone north for about a hundred yards and turned due west again. Shortly after, the tracks pointed to the south. To someone unfamiliar with bears it would seem the grizzly was wandering all over the place. Fargo knew better. Brain Eater was doing what bears always did; they followed their nose. Bears relied on their sense of smell more than any other faculty.
Fargo hoped Brain Eater found something to eat. A gorged bear would lay up after eating. Twice he lost the sign but found it again. The few tracks of the bear’s whole paws were marvels; Bear Eater was as third again as big as most grizzlies.
Fargo was so engrossed in the spoor that when he flushed a gray fox, it startled him.
It startled the fox, too; the animal bounded away and never looked back.
Noon came and went and Fargo had yet to catch a glimpse of his quarry. He was thinking of that when he came out of a stand of firs, and there, on a shelf not fifty feet above him, was Brain Eater.
The grizzly had heard him and they set eyes on each other at the same instant.
Fargo drew rein.
Brain Eater reared.
Astonishment rooted Fargo. The thing was gigantic. It uttered a menacing growl. Recovering his wits, he jerked the Sharps to his shoulder. Belatedly, he realized that Brain Eater was a female, not a male as everyone assumed, which made the bear’s immense size all the more remarkable. Usually males were larger than females.
Fargo took aim. He centered the sights for a lung shot and started to thumb back the hammer. Brain Eater had other ideas; she dropped onto all fours and hurtled down the shelf toward him.
Fargo did the only thing he could. Hauling on the reins, he fled. He used his spurs and the Ovaro was at a gallop in a few bounds. He ducked to avoid having his head taken off by a low limb, shifted to keep from being swept from the saddle by another.
Fargo didn’t need to look back to know the grizzly was hard after them. The wheezing bellows of its breaths were proof enough. He looked anyway.
Brain Eater was swift of paw. Grizzlies always seemed ponderous until they exploded into motion. Over short distances they were faster than a horse but they lacked stamina. If he could keep ahead of it for half a mile or so, it would likely tire and give up the chase.
That half a mile soon felt like ten.
Fargo burst out of the trees and across a grassy tract. The Ovaro increased its speed—but so did the grizzly. It was only a dozen feet behind them, its muscles rippling under its hairy hide, its paws striking the ground in sledgehammer cadence. He shuddered to think of the consequences should the stallion go down. The bear would be on them in a heartbeat, and he would be ripped to pieces before he got off a shot.
Fargo wished he could shove the Sharps into the saddle scabbard so he’d have both hands free for riding. He was half tempted to twist in the saddle and fire but common sense checked the impulse. To hit a moving target from a galloping horse was more luck than anything. Even if he hit it he might not kill it, and wounded grizzlies were fiercely vengeful.
Woods loomed. Not daring to slow, Fargo plunged into them. Spruce were all around him. Limbs whipped past his face and snatched at his buckskins. His cheek stung and his shoulder was jarred. Then the trees thinned and Fargo was in the open again. But not for long. A belt of aspens spread before him.
Fargo steeled himself. Aspens grew close together. So close, threading a horse through them was a challenge. He’d have to constantly shift and turn, and ride slower. The only consolation, if it could be called that, was that the grizzly would have to go slower, too.
Another moment and Fargo was in among the pale boles and trembling leaves. Tightening his hold on the Sharps, he reined right, left, right again. Behind him the grizzly snarled, sounding terribly near. Fargo risked a glance and his blood became ice in his veins.
Brain Eater was almost on top of them, her slavering maw gaping wide to bite. Another instant, and the bear would sink her fangs into the Ovaro’s leg.
Fargo reined sharply aside. The grizzly, intent on the stallion, snapped and missed—and slammed into a tree with so much force that the slender bole shattered. Brain Eater pitched headlong. Roaring in baffled rage, she heaved onto all fours and resumed the chase.
Fargo had gained about twenty yards. It wasn’t much but if he could maintain the lead over the next few minutes, he could elude her. Bending low, he was finally able to shove the Sharps into the scabbard.
Brain Eater was a tornado in fur. Fueled by the fury of her fall, she came on more swiftly than ever.
Fargo broke out of the aspens. Below spread a rocky slope with scattered scrub brush. The peal of the stallion’s hooves on the rock was like the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil.
A band of talus edged the bottom. Only eight feet across it was nonetheless a peril. Talus was as treacherous for a horse as ice was for a person.
Fargo couldn’t go around. He’d have to try to cross and hope for the best. He angled toward where the talus appeared to be narrowest and was almost across when rocks cascaded from under the stallion’s rear legs and they buckled. Fargo expected to crash down but the Ovaro recovered and galloped into more woods.
Grizzlies had a justly deserved reputation for being tenacious. Brain Eater was a living example. She crashed through everything in her path. Obstacles were so much paper, to be shredded or barreled through.
Out of nowhere a gully appeared. Fargo raced along the rim, pebbles flying. Forty feet away the gully turned at a right angle. He had no recourse but to jump it. The Ovaro never broke stride. He nearly lost his hat when the stallion launched itself.
Brain Eater didn’t try to jump. Barreling headlong down one side and up the other, the bear shot out of the gully as if flung by a catapult. As it cleared the crest it roared.
Fargo was growing worried. The bear didn’t show sign of slowing.
The Ovaro came to the base of a steep hill and thundered up it. Fargo was elated to find he was gaining. He reached the crest—and drew sharp rein. He had misjudged. It wasn’t a hill. Erosion had worn the other side away, leaving a forty foot drop that overlooked a small lake.
Brain Eater charged up the slope.
Fargo had nowhere to go. Once again he was left with no recourse. A jab of his spurs, and the stallion bounded to the edge, and over. Kicking free of the stirrups, Fargo pushed clear. He cleaved the water in a dive that propelled him under. His hat came off and he grabbed it. Angling toward the light, he stroked and kicked. His buckskins and his boots hampered him.
A few more strokes and the sun was warm on his face. He sucked air into his lungs while treading water.
The Ovaro was swimming toward shore.
Brain Eater was at the bluff’s rim, staring down at them. Rearing onto her hind legs, she roared.
Fargo swam. He thought she might jump in after him but she stood there staring until his legs brushed the bottom and he wearily staggered out of the lake and sprawled on solid ground.
Brain Eater raised a giant paw and swatted the air as if it were his head, then dropped onto all fours and lumbered into the forest.
Fargo wouldn’t put it past her to circle the lake. Regaining his feet, he shuffled to the stallion. His boots squished with every step. He made sure the Sharps was still in the scabbard, forked leather, and fanned the breeze.
The dunking had soaked him to the skin. His buckskins were drenched. His saddle, his saddlebags, everything was wet. He needed to start a fire and dry out but that would have to wait. It wasn’t safe to stop until he put a lot of miles between Brain Eater and himself.
Fargo reflected on how Brain Eater almost had him. He owed his life to the Ovaro—yet again. He gave the stallion a pat. Later he would strip it and rub it down and see that the stallion had plenty to drink and ample rest.
Now that Fargo had seen Brain Eater with his own eyes, he had a better idea of what the people of Gold Creek were up against. He’d known the bear was big. He just hadn’t appreciated how big.
Fargo wasn’t so sure that luring it to the meadow was a good idea. Cecelia didn’t realize the degree of danger she and her brood were in.
A low growl punctured Fargo’s reverie. He glanced behind him, thinking Brain Eater was after him again, but nothing was there. The growl was repeated, off to his right, and he swiveled, his hand swooping to his Colt.
It was a bear, all right.
But a different one.
13
Fargo drew rein. He remembered the two sets of eyes at the meadow. He remembered Mrs. Nesmith saying that the bear that killed her family wasn’t Brain Eater, but smaller. This one had a lighter coat, especially around the head and neck. It also had razor teeth and claws as long as Fargo�
�s fingers. When it growled again and moved toward him, he flew for his life.
He wanted to beat his head against a tree for being so careless. He’d been so deep in thought, he hadn’t noticed it until he was much too close.
This new bear was quicker than Brain Eater and was after them like a hound let off the leash after a coon. It roared as it charged. A raking paw nearly caught the Ovaro.
Fargo swore. Slicking the Colt, he twisted and fired. The slug drilled the ground in front of the grizzly. He thumbed back the hammer to shoot again but the bear veered and broke off the chase and disappeared into the undergrowth.
Some bears were scared of guns; the noise sent them scurrying.
Fargo didn’t stop. He had escaped two bears in as many minutes and he would be damned if he would push his luck. He stayed at a gallop until he was sure neither was after him.
It was a long ride to the meadow and his friends. The sun had been down for more than an hour when the glow of their fire told him he didn’t have far to go.
Rooster was the first to spot him, and came running with his rifle. “About damn time, pard. I was commencing to worry.” He cocked his head. “You and that horse of yours look awful peaked. And did it rain where you were?”
“I could use some coffee.” Fargo’s buckskins were still damp and uncomfortable in the growing chill of the high-country night.
Cecelia had his cup full and held it out to him. “Here you go,” she said as he dismounted.
“Where have you been, my good man?” Wendolyn asked. He was holding his teacup and saucer and was as impeccably dressed as ever in a hunting outfit that included a wide-brimmed hat with a high crown that he had told them was popular with big-game hunters in Africa.
Fargo hunkered by the fire for the warmth. He swallowed half the cup before he launched into a recital of his day. They listened with intense interest. No one interrupted. When he was done he drained the rest of the cup and promptly refilled it.
