by Jon Sharpe
Fargo returned to the fire and added logs so the ring of light spread. He didn’t spot any glowing eyes.
The Ovaro was looking to the west now.
Whatever was out there, Fargo realized, was circling. It could be anything. A wolf, a coyote, a fox, a deer.
The Ovaro lowered its head and went back to dozing.
Thank God, Fargo thought. They had been through enough for one day. He wondered what was keeping Wendy and thought about calling his name but that would wake the others. He sat down and checked the coffee. It was hot enough. Filling his tin cup, he leaned back and sipped. The warmth was welcome. So was the new vitality that flowed through his veins. But it didn’t last. He swore in frustration.
“Somethin’ the matter?” Cecelia was peering at him over her blanket.
“Tired, is all.”
“I can keep watch if you want to lie down.”
“Go back to sleep.” Fargo placed the Sharps in his lap.
“I keep waking up,” Cecelia said. “It’s my side. It hurts somethin’ awful.”
“You’re holding up better than most would.” Fargo waggled his tin cup. “Care for some?”
“Don’t mind if I do. Hold on.” Cecelia grunted, propped her elbows under her, and slowly sat up. “Damn,” she said, her face pinched. “That made me dizzy.”
“Go slow for a while.”
“I’ll try, but I never have liked to lie around doin’ nothin’.” Cecelia paused. “I’m sorry about your friend. He was an ornery cuss but I liked him.”
Fargo frowned.
“Guess I shouldn’t have mentioned him. What else would you like to talk about? The weather?” Bethany stirred, and Cecelia tenderly pulled the girl’s blanket higher. “I made a terrible mistake,” she said so softly Fargo barely heard. “I shouldn’t have come on this hunt.”
“You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”
“I can blame myself for whatever I like.” Cecelia touched her daughter’s cheek. “Worse, it could have been my precious, here, or either of the boys. I wasn’t thinkin’ straight. I wanted the money. Wanted it more than anythin’. I put my kids’ lives at risk for a few dollars.”
“More than a few.”
Cecelia’s eyes misted over. “It could be a million and it wouldn’t be enough if I lost them.” She looked down at her side. “This could have been one of them instead of me. That griz almost had us. If I hadn’t’ve flung that brand in its face . . .” She stopped.
“You did and all of you are alive.”
“Damn it. Don’t try to make me feel better. I did wrong and my kids came close to dyin’ and I’ll never forgive myself for bein’ so stupid.”
“We all do stupid things.”
“Cut it out, I say.” Cecelia straightened and winced. “I’m glad I hurt so much. Every twinge will remind me to put my children before everythin’ else.” She gave a slight shake and tilted her face to the heavens. “It sure is pretty in the high country, ain’t it?”
Moose abruptly sat up and looked around in confusion. “I thought I heard your voice. What’s going on? Why ain’t you sleeping?”
“I couldn’t so I’ve been bendin’ Skye’s ear,” Cecelia quietly replied.
“Well, you can bend mine.” Moose blinked his eyes and rubbed his beard. “I should go dip my head in the stream to wake up.”
“No need. I’m goin’ to lie back down here,” Cecelia said. “I get tired too easy.”
“It’s about my turn to stand watch anyway,” Moose said, and cast off his blanket.
“I’ll be glad when we’re back in town and don’t have to worry about bein’ attacked.”
“You don’t have to worry now,” Moose said. “I’m here to protect you.”
“That’s sweet of . . .” Cecelia stopped and her eyes widened. “God, no.”
Fargo heard a grunt, and turned.
It was Brain Eater.
21
The giant grizzly didn’t roar or growl or rear; it exploded toward them.
Fargo barely had time to leap to his feet. The Sharps was next to him and he grabbed it as he rose and jammed it to his shoulder. He started to curl the hammer back as his vision filled with hair and teeth.
Cecelia shouted his name.
A blow to his chest sent Fargo flying. He lost his hold on the rifle as he tumbled end over end and came to rest with the world fading from black to firelight and to black again. Dimly, he heard the screams of the children, heard Moose bellow and the boom of a rifle, and a war whoop. He got his hands under him and made it to his knees.
The bear had Moose by the leg and was shaking him as a cat might a mouse. The big bear hunter, his features twisted in agony, was belaboring the grizzly’s head and neck with his rifle.
Bird Rattler was striking with his tomahawk. Lazy Husband had notched an arrow.
Cecelia was too weak to do more than clutch Bethany and Thomas to her. “Shoot it!” she yelled, but not at Moose.
Abner had picked up her rifle and was cocking it. He thumbed the hammer back and raised the barrel so the muzzle was pointed at Brain Eater’s head.
No, Fargo wanted to shout, go for the body. But as he opened his mouth the rifle went off.
Brain Eater let go of Moose and a forepaw flashed. The ruptured and crumpled body that landed ten feet from the fire bore little resemblance to the boy who had enraged it.
Cecelia and Bethany screamed.
Fargo heaved erect. He drew his Colt but didn’t have a shot.
Bird Rattler was in his way. The tomahawk had bit deep again and again with no more effect than a pinprick. But now the bear took notice, and the sweep of a paw pinwheeled the Blackfoot to the earth. Brain Eater turned to finish him off but suddenly Moose was on his good leg and pointing a pistol.
“Die, damn you!”
The pistol spewed lead and smoke and the slug took the bear in the neck.
Brain Eater reared. As big as Moose was, the bear towered over him. Moose drew his long knife and plunged the blade into her body, hollering, “You won’t hurt them, you hear me! Over my dead body!” He drew out the knife and stabbed again.
By then Fargo had a clear shot at the grizzly’s throat. He fired twice and saw blood spurt.
Bird Rattler was back in the fray, hacking at the bear’s head and body.
Moose dodged a raking paw and stabbed with fierce vigor, burying his knife to the hilt.
Fargo saw Cecelia attempting to scramble back and he ran to her and looped his hands under her arms. “I’ve got you,” he said, and dragged her away, Bethany and Thomas clinging tight.
“Moose!” Cecelia screamed.
Fargo looked up.
Brain Eater had a huge paw on either side of Moose’s head.
Moose was struggling mightily but the grizzly was too strong.
“Like hell!” he raged. “Like hell, like hell, like hell!”
And with each “hell” he drove his knife into her.
Brain Eater opened her maw. Fargo thought she was going to bite Moose on the head but she went for his neck. Moose stabbed and punched and tried to twist from her grip and then her fangs were at his jugular. Scarlet gushed, and Moose uttered a gurgling cry and went limp.
“Nooooooo!” Cecelia wailed.
Fargo let go of her. He had spotted his Sharps. He ran to it and scooped the rifle up.
Moose was down, his body convulsing. Brain Eater swatted at his head.
From behind the bear, Bird Rattler rushed. He had a lance. He drove it into her for fully half its length and wrenched it out so he could drive it into her again. But with a hideous roar Brain Eater wheeled. Her paw caught the warrior across the face, her claws shearing through Bird Rattler’s eyes and nose and lips.
Fargo fired. He aimed at the heart. Only a heart shot would drop her quick. But he must have missed because she spun and saw him and charged. Skipping backward, he dropped the Sharps and resorted once again to his Colt. He fired, nearly tripped, and fired once more. She was
almost on top of him. He threw himself to one side just as a paw slammed into his leg. Upended, he described a high arc that ended with the thud of his body on the ground. A black pit sucked at him and he fought to stay conscious.
Bethany was screaming.
Thomas bawled, “Ma! Ma! Ma!”
A gun cracked.
Fargo pushed but had no strength. The black pit consumed him, and there was only silence.
Something was crawling on his face.
Fargo opened his eyes and wished he hadn’t. Sunlight seared them like burning flame. They watered and his vision blurred and he shut them. The prickle of tiny legs left his cheek and a fly buzzed his ear. He was aware of the smell of the earth under his cheek, and another smell. His head hurt.
His chest and leg hurt worse. He couldn’t get his mind to work as it should, and in his befuddled state he was unsure where he was or what had happened.
A whimper reminded him.
Fargo tensed to rise, and caught himself. The bear might be nearby. He cracked his lids and saw what was left of Bird Rattler a few yards away. The warrior’s head had been split like a melon and his brain was gone.
The whimper was repeated.
Fargo slowly turned his head. Cecelia was on her back, her arm bent at an unnatural angle, her fingers hooked as if she were scratching at the air. Blood framed her in a pool.
Fargo gambled. He raised his head. Brain Eater was nowhere to be seen. Bodies were, though. Bird Rattler. Lazy Husband—his brain had been eaten, too. Moose. Abner, with half a head. A smaller pile of mangled flesh and shattered bones must be Thomas.
A legion of flies swarmed them.
Fargo pushed to his knees. He had been out for hours. The sun was straight overhead. The front of his shirt was torn and he had claw marks on his chest. His left leg had deeper cuts and was slightly numb. When he stood the leg nearly gave out. He shuffled over to Cecelia and nearly stepped on her intestines.
The grizzly had ripped her open from sternum to hip. That she had lasted as long as she had was a tribute to her will.
Fargo eased down, gently clasped her hand, and said her name.
Cecelia’s eyes opened. They were mirrors to horror beyond reckoning. She tried twice to say something and managed, “Skye?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? It wasn’t your fault.” Cecelia swallowed and winced.
“Why am I still alive?”
“Why are . . . either of us?” Cecelia weakly rejoined. “The bear . . . ate their brains . . . and then left.”
Fargo needed a gun. The grizzly might come back. He started to turn but she gripped his hand so tight, it hurt.
“Wait. You have . . . to save her.”
“Who?” Fargo said, and knew the moment he asked.
“Beth. She got away . . . I think. I told her to run. She went that way . . .” Cecelia tried to point toward the stream. “You must find her.”
“I will,” Fargo vowed.
“I don’t have any kin who would take her,” Cecelia gasped. “Get her to an orphanage. Or a minister or a priest.”
“I’ll see she’s taken care of.”
Cecelia smiled and closed her eyes. “Thank you. I’m afraid I don’t have long left.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll stay with you.”
“No,” Cecelia said. “Forget about me. Find Bethany. She must be scared to . . .” She stopped and inhaled.
“For what it’s worth, you’re a fine mother,” Fargo sought to ease her regret. “You did what you thought best.” He squeezed her hand but she didn’t squeeze back. “Cecelia?” He pressed his fingers to her wrist; she had no pulse. “Damn.” He slowly stood and surveyed the slaughter. He saw his Sharps. As he was reloading it he remembered the horses.
They were gone.
Fargo went over to where they had been tied. There was no blood, which told him they ran off and weren’t killed. He’d trained the Ovaro to come when he whistled and he whistled several times but the stallion didn’t appear. He moved to the stream and hollered for Bethany over and over, with the same result.
Kneeling, Fargo undid his bandanna. He soaked it and washed each of his cuts to reduce the risk of them festering. He washed his face, wrung the bandanna out, and retied it. Standing, he shouted for Bethany and whistled for the Ovaro, and shouted louder. He was about to turn when the undergrowth to his left crackled. Snapping the Sharps to his shoulder, he aimed at moving brush.
Out of the thicket shuffled Wendolyn. His shirt and pants were ripped and stained with blood and he had cuts on his upper arm that could use stitches. He was holding his elephant gun limply at his side. He mustered a lopsided grin and said, “Miss me?” His legs started to buckle.
Fargo caught him and lowered him onto his back. “I figured the bear got you, too.”
“I never heard it,” Wendy said. “I had just got done buttoning up and it was on me.” He stopped. “Wait. Did you say ‘too’? How many of the others?”
“All of them except you and me and maybe the little girl,” Fargo informed him.
Shock made the Brit paler than he already was. “No,” he said. “Not that remarkable woman and her adorable boys.”
“Here,” Fargo said, undoing his bandanna again. “Let me clean you up.”
The blow to Wendy’s head had cut half an inch deep. Fargo cleaned the slashes and the other wounds and cut a strip from Wendy’s shirt to use as a bandage. The Brit lay quiet until he was done.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let myself be taken so easily.”
“A grizzly is a ghost when it wants to be.”
“I should have been at your side. Together we could have saved them.”
“Or you could be lying over there with your brains eaten out.”
“I never expected . . .” Wendy paused. “I thought bears were blundering, noisy beasts. Of all the animals I’ve hunted, this grizzly of yours reminds me most of a tiger. Its stealth belies its bulk and its cunning is second to none.”
“That pretty much describes a grizzly, all right,” Fargo said.
“I’ve underestimated my enemy and now those poor people have paid for my mistake.”
“Quit beating yourself over it.”
Grimacing, Wendy sat up. “This beast has to be stopped. We have to kill this blighter.”
“Dead as dead can be,” Fargo agreed.
22
They spent the better part of an hour searching for Bethany, yelling her name until they were hoarse. Then they attended to the bodies. The best they could do was cover them. All except Cecelia. Wendolyn insisted on burying her even though they had nothing to dig with except branches and rocks. They scooped a shallow grave and Wendy bowed his head.
“In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread until you return to the ground. For out of it were you taken. For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.”
Fargo waited, and when the Brit didn’t go on, he said, “Was that the Bible?”
Wendy nodded and shouldered his elephant gun.
“Is that all you’re going to say?”
“What else is there?”
The patches of blood still crawled with flies. Fargo kindled a new fire near where the lean-to had been. The coffeepot was intact and half full, and he put it on to heat.
The Britisher squatted across from him. “Let’s assess our situation. Everyone else is dead. Our horses have run off. Most of our supplies have been destroyed. We’re both wounded and hurting. Brain Eater is still out there somewhere and could show up at any moment. Is there anything I missed?”
“There’s a storm coming,” Fargo said, and pointed to the west where a thunderhead framed the horizon. Flashes of lightning danced in the dark clouds.
“Just what we need,” Wendy said. “A good drenching.”
“It’ll be a couple of hours yet,” Fargo said. “We’ll finish the coffee and hunt cover to wait it out.”
“What then? Do we go after the bear on foot?”
“I don’t think we’ll have to,” Fargo replied. “When she’s ready she’ll come for us.”
“Tigers do the same thing,” Wendy said. “They turn on you, and the hunter becomes the hunted.” He closed his eyes and touched the bandage on his head.
“You all right?”
“I keep having dizzy spells. They don’t last long but they’re a nuisance.”
Fargo had problems of his own. His hip was stiff and his leg so sore he could barely stand to put his full weight on it. “We’re not in much shape for bear-killing.”
“We have to outthink the monster. You know these animals better than I do. Come up with an idea that will give us an edge.”
“That’s a tall order,” Fargo said. But he put his mind to it as they sat sipping coffee and listening to the distant rumble of thunder.
The wind picked up, bringing with it the scent of moisture. The sky darkened and the thunder grew louder.
They collected all the weapons and saddles and what was left of their supplies and put everything under a spruce. Its thick limbs would ward off most of the rain. For their own shelter Fargo chose a hollow overhang by the bank of the stream. As the first drops fell, they hunkered with their backs to bare earth.
Lightning speared the sky and thunder shook the ground. The firmament opened and unleashed a torrent, the rain so heavy they couldn’t see more than a few feet.
Fargo felt an occasional cool drop on his face and the lash of the wind but otherwise he was snug as a bedbug in a quilt.
The stream flowed faster, its surface pockmarked. A piece of wood went floating past, and shortly after, a frog.
Wendy had his arm across his chest and his elephant gun across his lap. He began trembling and rubbed his hands together.
“You cold?”
“Like a block of ice,” the Brit confirmed.
Fargo frowned. The temperature hadn’t fallen more than a couple of degrees. He wondered if infection was setting in. It was common with animal bites, and often fatal.
“When we are back to Gold Creek, the first thing I am going to do is take a hot bath,” Wendy said. “I may stay in the tub for a month.”
“You’ll be the talk of the town,” Fargo joked. “Most men don’t take but one bath a year and keep it as short as they can.”
