by Jon Sharpe
“They might still be there,” Moose said.
“You’re the expert on bears,” Wendolyn said. “Do we wait for them to come out or do we go in after them?”
Bird Rattler and his friends had not uttered a word the entire ride. But now the venerable warrior cleared his throat and said, “Go in.”
“Catch them napping, as it were?” Wendy said. “I like the idea.”
Fargo didn’t. Something was bothering him but he couldn’t put his mental finger on the cause.
“Piikani go there,” Bird Rattler said, and pointed at the west end of the fir belt. “White-eyes go there,” and he pointed at the east end.
“Piikani?” Wendy said.
“It’s what the Blackfeet call themselves,” Fargo explained. The names that whites called most tribes weren’t their real names. The Apaches were the Shis-Inday. The Comanches called themselves the Numunu. The Crows were the Apsaalooke.
“It’ll take us half the day to get up there,” Moose observed.
“Stay here if you want,” Wendy said. “Personally, I like going into the bush after dangerous game. It adds to the thrill.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t go.”
Wendy ran a hand over his elephant gun. “At last I can put my beauty to the test.”
They agreed that each group would start into the firs when the sun was at its zenith. Then they separated and began their climb. The terrain was rugged, their ascent arduous. Still, Fargo and his companions reached the fir belt half an hour before they were to move in. “We’ll rest a bit,” he announced. Shucking the Sharps, he sat with his back to a boulder, plucked a blade of grass, and stuck it in his mouth. From where he sat he could see the buzzards and the fox.
Wendy breathed deep of the rarefied air, and smiled.
“I daresay I like this country of yours. These mountains stir the very soul.”
“They’re just mountains,” Moose said.
“That’s like saying the ocean is just water. Look about you.” The Brit gestured. “These noble crags and lofty heights are a testament to the grandeur of creation. They would inspire a poet to rapturous verse.”
“Raptu-what?”
“The hand of an artist is everywhere. Don’t you feel it?”
“I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about,” Moose said.
The Britisher appealed to Fargo. “Surely you understand. Explain it to him, if you would.”
“I don’t need him to,” Moose said. “I ain’t dumb. You got your head in the clouds.”
“I doubt you comprehend at all,” Wendy said.
Moose bunched his fists. “Keep talking to me like that and so help me, I’ll pound you.”
“Talk a little louder so the bloody bears will know we’re here.”
“They already do.”
“Is that true?” Wendy asked Fargo.
“Odds are,” Fargo said.
“Then how do we sneak up on them?”
“We don’t.”
“Is this like tiger hunting? Do we go in and make a lot of noise and drive them toward the Indians? Or do the Indians drive them toward us?”
“Drive a grizzly?” Moose said, and laughed.
“We go in and hope we get off a shot before they claw us to bits,” Fargo said.
“You make it sound as if we’re depending entirely on luck.”
“Now the foreigner gets it,” Moose said.
Wendolyn muttered something about Yanks, shouldered his elephant gun, and walked away.
Moose chuckled. “I reckon I hurt his feelings.”
“Go easy on him. That elephant gun of his could come in handy.”
“That reminds me,” Moose said. “I’m been meaning to ask. What the blazes is an elephant, anyhow?”
Fargo had been keeping an eye on the sun, and now he stood. “I’ll tell you later. It’s time to start in.”
“Look out, Brain Eater,” Moose said. “Here we come.”
Firs grew high and straight and thin. They were so closely spaced that their trunks were in perpetual shadow. Fargo and the others had to thread through a maze of narrow gaps, often with limbs practically poking them in the face.
Of all the places the two grizzlies could pick to lie low, this was especially dangerous. The bears could charge out of anywhere at any time.
Fargo held the Sharps in his left hand with the stock on his leg and the barrel against his chest where it was less apt to be snared by limbs. Moose was thirty feet or so to this right, Wendy about the same distance to his left. So far they had penetrated over a hundred yards and the only sign of life had been a few birds and a chipmunk that chattered and scampered off.
Fargo probed the shadowed gloom. A mistake could cost them their lives. His nerves were on edge. When a finch took startled wing, he gave a slight start himself.
Skirting several tightly clustered boles, Fargo drew rein.
On the ground were droppings. That they were bear was obvious.
That they were left the day before would be easy to confirm but he didn’t climb down and risk being pounced on. He clucked to the stallion.
The minutes crawled. It was half a mile to the middle of the stand. The heat and the quiet took a toll. Drowsiness nipped at him but he shook it off.
They spooked a rabbit. They sent a doe and two fawns bounding off. A cow elk snorted and plunged away through the undergrowth in a panic.
Fargo had not seen bear sign since the droppings but now he came on a tree with claw marks and another where the bark had been rubbed off and crinkly hairs stuck to it.
Wendy drew rein and extended an arm.
Fargo looked but didn’t see anything. He thought it must be the Brit’s imagination. Then a large shape detached from a mass of shadow. Snapping the Sharps up, he was about to shoot when the shape stepped into a sunbeam. “Another damn elk,” he said in disgust.
The firs seemed unending. With the sun screened by the tall trees, Fargo had to guess how much time had passed. About an hour, more or less, he reckoned, when the Ovaro pricked its ears.
Ahead, something moved.
Fargo brought the Sharps up again but snapped it down. He stopped and waited for the approaching rider to reach him. “Any sign?”
“No,” Bird Rattler said. “You see bears?”
Fargo shook his head.
“They not here,” the warrior stated the obvious, sounding as disappointed as Fargo felt.
Red Mink and Lazy Husband converged from either side. Moose and Wendy joined them, and the looks on all their faces said all there was to say.
Fargo reined down the mountain. It would take them until long past dark to reach the meadow. Were it not for Cecelia and her children, he’d make camp in this valley and head back to them in the morning.
The buzzards were gluttons. They had eaten down to the skeleton and half a dozen were up to their feathered bellies in intestines and organs. The stink was abominable.
Fargo gave them a wide berth. The feeling that had pricked at him all day came over him stronger than ever. He stopped and stared at the ungainly birds and racked his head for a reason.
“What’s the matter?” Moose asked. “I want to get back to Cecelia quick as we can.”
“Something’s not right,” Fargo said.
“About those beastly scavengers?” Wendy said, viewing the vultures with distaste. “They’re ugly blokes, I’ll grant you, but they serve a purpose. I’ve seen their like on every continent.”
“Not them,” Fargo said. “Something else.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I wish to hell I could.” Fargo watched a buzzard tug at a strip of flesh that was stuck to a leg bone.
“Let’s keep going,” Moose urged. “It’ll be dark soon and Cecelia and her little ones are alone.”
“You act like their father,” Wendy teased.
“Maybe I will be,” Moose said. “Cecelia is looking for a new husband. I might not be much of a catch but she says I can be trai
ned.”
Wendy laughed. “Ah, yes. Don’t you find it ironic that women marry a man and then want to change him into something he wasn’t when they said ‘I do’?”
Moose shrugged. “I don’t mind changing some if I get to be in the same bed with her every night.”
“Sex,” Wendy said. “The great equalizer.”
“God, you talk peculiar. And you better not be thinking of Cecelia when you say that word.”
“Perish forbid,” Wendy said.
Moose motioned impatiently at Fargo. “What are we waiting for? Those bears ain’t anywhere near here.”
“No, they’re not,” Fargo said, and the vague notion that had been troubling him was suddenly clear as crystal. “Son of a bitch,” he blurted.
“What’s wrong?” Moose asked.
“Why didn’t I see it sooner?”
“See what?”
“Brain Eater never came back to her kill.”
Moose looked as confused as a human being could be. “So she didn’t come back? What difference does that make?”
“A grizzly wouldn’t let that much meat go to waste unless it had a damn good reason.”
“She wasn’t hungry or she was busy with the male,” Moose said. “When bears mate they don’t think about food as much. I’m like that myself but after it’s over I’m always hungry as can be.”
“Brain Eater didn’t finish the horse because she wasn’t here,” Fargo said, “and if she wasn’t here, where was she?”
“I still don’t savvy.”
Fargo raised his reins. “Ride,” he said. “Ride like the wind and hope to God I’m wrong.”
18
A full moon cast the meadow in pale light. They came out of the trees and drew rein, their exhausted horses hanging their heads.
Wendy cleared his throat. “I say, the fire has gone out. Weren’t they supposed to keep it going night and day?”
“Cecelia!” Moose hollered, and used his heels with no thought to his own safety.
“Damn,” Fargo said. He went after him. He still hoped he was wrong but the Brit had a point; the fire should still be burning. Fire was one of the few things most bears were afraid of. Cecelia knew that. And with her children at stake, she wouldn’t let it go out.
Moose frantically bellowed her name. He was the first to reach the camp. Drawing rein, he exclaimed, “My God! The lean-to!”
Fargo was off the Ovaro before it stopped moving. The structure was a shambles, the limbs and brush in bits and pieces. So were many of the articles that had been in it.
“No, no, no, no,” Moose said, moving amid the ruin in a daze.
“Fargo!” Wendy called. “Over here.” He was on a knee by the charred vestige of their fire. “Look at this.”
Partially burned logs were scattered about. A gouge in the earth explained why.
“It looks as if the ruddy bear attacked the fire,” Wendy marveled.
Fargo turned to the Blackfeet. “We need your help. The woman and her children are missing.”
Bird Rattler grunted and translated for his friends and the three spread out.
Fargo took only a couple of steps when fingers like iron spikes clamped onto his arm.
“Where are they?” Moose cried.
“Their horses are gone. It could be they escaped.”
Moose didn’t seem to hear him. His fingers dug deeper. “If anything has happened to them I won’t ever forgive myself. I should never have went with you.”
“We should help the others look.”
“I didn’t want to go,” Moose said. “You heard me. I was against it but she made me.”
“Moose, listen—” Fargo said, but the big bear hunter turned and ran off in erratic circles bawling Cecelia’s name. Fargo went to where the horses had been. The ground was churned by their hooves. He was moving toward the stream when light flared and flames crackled. “Bring a brand,” he hollered, and Wendy jogged to join him.
“Anything, mate?”
“Not yet.”
“Our big friend is beside himself,” Wendy said, nodding at Moose, who was at the other end of the meadow, continuing to bellow. “Can’t say as I blame him. I’d be worried sick if it was my woman. Do we go off into the woods after them?”
Rubbing his beard, Fargo debated. Tracking at night was a painstaking chore. Even with torches, it took forever. Plus their horses were worn out and they weren’t much better off. As much as he disliked to say it, he did. “We wait until first light.”
“That’s the smart thing,” Wendy agreed. “But I predict you-know-who won’t like it.”
Moose didn’t. “Why are you two standing here?” he demanded when he stopped running and shouting and came to the fire. “We have to keep looking. All night, if need be.”
“No,” Fargo said.
Moose had turned but stopped. “What the hell do you mean, no? Cecelia and her kids are out there somewhere and they need us.”
“They could be anywhere,” Fargo said. “It’s no good for us to blunder around in the dark.”
“We’ll yell a lot. They’re bound to hear us.”
“So will the bears.”
“No. We’re doing it and I won’t hear no argument.”
“Use your head,” Fargo said.
“I’ll use something,” Moose angrily retorted. Setting his rifle down, he cocked his fists.
Fargo backpedaled. A jab clipped his jaw. A straight arm brushed his shoulder. He blocked an overhand to the face. The force, though, sent him staggering. He recovered, heard Wendy holler, and Moose was on him. Knuckles the size of walnuts grazed his head and his hat went flying. Planting himself, he rammed a hard right to Moose’s gut and whipped an uppercut to Moose’s jaw. All Moose did was blink. Fargo dodged a clumsy hook and retaliated with a flurry that should have set Moose back on his heels. Moose absorbed the punishment like a sponge.
“Stop this fight this instant!” Wendy shouted while trying to step between them.
“Butt out!” Moose roared, and gave the Brit a shove that sent Wendy sprawling.
“Calm down!” Fargo tried, and a fist arced at his face. Ducking, he flicked a right cross. He might as well have hit solid rock.
Moose paused, his face twisted in fury. “Are you going to help hunt for her or not?”
“At daybreak.”
“You can’t get it through your head,” Moose said. “She needs us now. She could be lying out there hurt, for all we know. Or worse. So you’re going if I have to throw you over a saddle and tie you down.”
“Use some sense.”
“I’ll use something else,” Moose growled, and waded in anew.
Fargo’s temper snapped. He’d tried to reason but Moose was too mad to listen, and Fargo would be damned if he was anyone’s punching bag. As Moose sprang, he twisted and drove his right fist into the pit of Moose’s stomach. Moose grunted and folded but stayed on his feet. Fargo remedied that with two swift blows to the ear that caused Moose to fall to his knees. Instantly, Fargo skipped in and swung a solid right to the chin. He almost broke his hand but Moose swayed and his eyelids fluttered and he keeled onto his side.
“You did it!” Wendy whooped.
Fargo wasn’t so sure. He poked Moose a few times. The bear hunter didn’t move but he did groan. Fargo went to the Ovaro for his rope.
“Is that necessary?”
“You saw him,” Fargo said. He bound Moose’s wrists and was doing the same to his ankles when the night disgorged the three Blackfeet.
Bird Rattler would make a good poker player. He showed no surprise at seeing Moose on the ground. “We use big white as bait now?” he dryly asked.
“We should, the jackass,” Fargo said. He had a welt on his temple and his head hurt like hell. “Any sign of the woman and her little ones?”
“We not find,” Bird Rattler reported. “Come back. Wait for sun.”
“I’ll make coffee,” Fargo volunteered. He needed sleep but the fight had his blood racing. And it
wouldn’t hurt to sit up a while and see if Cecelia showed.
Bird Rattler started to lead his horse off and the other two did the same.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Fargo asked.
“Make our fire,” the Blackfoot said.
“Like hell. From now on you sit with us and share our food.”
“Maybe him not want,” Bird Rattler said, indicating Moose.
“I don’t give a damn. After what he just did he doesn’t have a say.” Fargo looked around for the coffeepot. It had been knocked a good ten feet from the fire. Retrieving it, he headed for the stream. He wasn’t expecting company but he got some.
“I’d like a word,” Wendolyn said.
“What’s stopping you?”
“You are. You’re in a bit of a snit and I can do without having my head bit off.”
“So long as you don’t take a swing at me we’ll get along fine.”
“Very well, then. The issue is this.” Wendy paused. “I’m having second thoughts. We’ve lost your friend and now possibly Mrs. Mathers and her children. I have to ask. Is five thousand dollars worth all these lives?”
“We quit now, Rooster died for nothing. I’m seeing it through no matter what you or anyone else does.”
“I didn’t say I was bowing out,” Wendy said quickly. “In case you haven’t heard, we British are famous for our stiff upper lips.”
Fargo reached the stream and squatted to dip the pot in the water.
“I heard something,” Wendy whispered. “There.” He extended his elephant gun toward the other side.
All Fargo heard was the babbling of the water. He had about decided it was nothing when a plaintive cry came out of the darkness.
“Help us, please.”
Fargo dropped the pot and splashed across. Three small faces peered at him from atop the bank.
“Up here, mister,” Abner said.
“Hurry,” Bethany begged.
“She’s hurt real bad,” Thomas added.
Fargo scrambled up and over and nearly stepped on Cecelia. She was on the ground, a hand pressed to her side, her skin like chalk. Her eyes were shut. “Cecelia?” he said, but got no answer.
“She passed out,” Abner said. “We didn’t know what to do.”
