by Jon Sharpe
Fargo was astounded by how much damage the grizzly had inflicted in so short a span. It had to be there somewhere but for the life of him he couldn’t spot it. He looked behind an oak barely wide enough to hide a broom and realized how foolish he was being. He went another ten feet, and halted in consternation.
Down the stream, the day was shattered by the scream of a girl in mortal terror.
26
Fargo flew. Beyond the cottonwoods was a straight stretch but no Ovaro or the pair on him. In his mind’s eye he saw them fleeing for their lives with the man-killer after them.
Worry gnawed at Fargo like a termite at wood. He ran until his chest was ready to burst. Stopping, he doubled over and sucked in deep breaths. He would rest for a minute and go on.
The forest was quiet. He marveled at how quickly the bear had circled the cabin and gone after the Ovaro. It was pure luck the grizzly hadn’t spotted him or caught his scent.
The ache lessened and Fargo ran. He kept thinking he would spot Wendy and Bethany around each bend but he didn’t. When his exhausted body couldn’t take the punishment anymore, he stopped. He was caked with sweat, his lungs in torment. Sinking to a knee, he listened in vain for some sound that would tell him the Brit and the girl were safe. When he recovered sufficiently, he set off again.
A copse of alders blocked his view. He was almost to them when he heard a grunt. Darting to his left to a log, he flattened on the other side. Not a moment too soon.
Brain Eater came out of the alders. Her head was down and she was rumbling in her chest. Dried blood splotched her coat. She went a short way past the log and stopped. Raising her nose to the breeze, she sniffed. Then she sniffed the ground.
Fargo’s gut churned. She had caught his scent. If she found him he was dead. The Colt was a man-stopper but all it would do was annoy her.
Brain Eater turned in a circle, still sniffing. She looked south and she looked north. Growling, she lumbered off at a brisk clip, her hump rising and falling with every dip of her enormous body.
Fargo figured she would go as far as the shack, realize her mistake, and come after him. The moment she was out of sight he was up and through the alders. He paced himself, his lungs be damned. It was life or death and he was fond of breathing.
He took pride in his stamina. Not that long ago he’d taken part in an annual footrace that drew some of the best runners in the country, including an Apache girl famed for her fleetness. He didn’t win but he came close, and now he called on all his ability to get as far from the griz as he could.
He fretted about the Ovaro, and Beth and the Brit. He hadn’t heard shrieks or shots but he hadn’t heard any when the man at the shack was killed, either. The stallion’s tracks reassured him.
Fargo ran until his legs were mush and his lungs were on fire. Gasping for breath, he shuffled to a boulder close to the water and sat. His hands on his knees, he waited for his body to stop aching. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he was stranded afoot with no food and miles to cover to reach town.
A distant grunt warned him that Brain Eater had taken up the chase.
Fargo rose and made to the south. She would overtake him long before he reached Gold Creek. With just the Colt and the toothpick, killing her was next to impossible.
He could slow her down, though. He swept the ground for a suitable stick and found one about a foot long and as thick as his thumb. He drew the Arkansas toothpick and sharpened one end as he ran.
By the position of the sun he had seven or eight hours of daylight left. Enough to rig several traps. Maybe a deadfall, too, although that would take a lot of doing.
The grizzly was smart but he was smarter. He must believe that more than he believed anything if he was to have any chance at surviving.
From a fork high in an oak Fargo watched to see what would happen.
Grizzlies were sharp-eyed brutes. Brain Eater spotted his bandanna. She stopped and gazed warily about and sniffed. She walked up to it and sniffed some more. She put a front paw on it, unaware that it was stretched over a hole and held in place with small rocks, and that under it was the sharpened stick, embedded deep. She tried to draw back but her own weight worked against her. She yowled as the tip pierced her paw.
Fargo grinned. It wasn’t much of a wound but anything that slowed her down helped.
Brain Eater roared. She raised her leg, bit the stick, and wrenched it out. In her rage she shook it and bit it in half. She clawed at one of the pieces and walked in a circle and roared again.
Fargo quickly clambered down. He had a good lead and he wanted to keep it. He jogged for a while, the sun warm on his bare chest. He hadn’t liked to give up his buckskin shirt. Fortunately he had a spare in his saddlebags.
A spruce offered his next vantage. He climbed high enough and roosted on a thick limb.
Brain Eater was nearing the next trap. It had been a lot harder to rig but it would hurt her more. Fargo thought she would go right by but his scent on the shirt was strong and her nose didn’t fail her. She spied it hanging on what appeared to be a low branch, and stopped.
Brain Eater warily moved toward it. She stopped to sniff and turned her head from side to side. The shirt moved slightly in the breeze. She lumbered closer but stopped again. Fargo began to think she wouldn’t be curious enough. Then she raised the same paw and clawed at the shirt.
The principle was simple: a notched limb for a lever, a large log, and gravity. He’d had to strain every sinew to position the log just right.
The grizzly tugged. The shirt moved and the limb was torn out from under the log and the log rolled down on her. She tried to jump over it and once again her weight was her enemy. The log hit hard and she sprawled forward.
Brain Eater was enraged. She attacked the log, biting and clawing. When her fury subsided she turned south again. She was limping.
Fargo scrambled down. He hadn’t accomplished much other than making her mad as hell. But she would be more cautious and come on slower, gaining him precious time. The longer he delayed her, the closer he got to Gold Creek and safety.
For about fifteen minutes Fargo held to a steady pace. Another of the innumerable bends brought him to a pool—and two men camped beside it. The flap to their tent was open, and they were seated on stools. Beyond were their hobbled horses.
Fargo figured they were prospectors. “We have to get out of here.”
The pair picked up rifles and rose. Both were big and blond and well muscled.
“Hej,” one of them said. “Pratar du svenska?”
Fargo remembered them now. They were Swedish or Danish.
Immigrant farmers, lured to Gold Creek by the bounty. “Brain Eater is after me,” he warned. “Take me to town.”
They looked at one another.
“Jag forstar inte,” the one on the right said.
“Var snall och prata langsammare,” said the other.
“Goddamn it.” Fargo glanced over his shoulder. They had a few minutes yet. “Do either of you speak English?”
“Ja,” the one on the right replied. “Engelska.”
“The bear is after me,” Fargo explained, and jabbed a finger back the way he had come. “Do you savvy? Brain Eater? She is hunting me and will kill us if we don’t light a shuck.”
“Bear?” the immigrant on the left said.
“Yes, yes,” Fargo said. “Do you understand? Bear. Brain Eater. After me.” Again he pointed north.
“Bear,” the same man said, and beamed at his companion.
“Bjorn!”
“Bjorn?”
“Ja.”
The pair hefted their rifles and eagerly brushed past Fargo.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The one pointed as Fargo had done. “Bear!” he excitedly exclaimed.
“Yes. Brain Eater.” Fargo touched his head and made a scooping motion. “Do you understand? The grizzly that has been killing everybody. We must go. Now.”
The Swedes looked positively
delighted. They raised their rifles.
“No, damn it.” Fargo’s sense of urgency was climbing. He ran to the nearest man and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Don’t do this. Your guns won’t stop it.” They were armed with old long rifles better suited for small game. “We must get out of here while we can.”
The immigrant smiled and nodded. “Oroa dig inte. Vi kommer att doda bjornen.”
“What?” Fargo said.
“Slappa,” the man said.
“What the hell does that mean?” Fargo was growing desperate, and shook him. “You’re going to die if you don’t listen to me.”
“Tillrackligt,” the immigrant said, and tugged loose. “Lamna detta till oss.”
Fargo looked at the other one and the man smiled and nodded. He didn’t know what else to do. “You could at least learn the damn language.”
“Tack for att bjornen till oss,” the man said.
Fargo was about to appeal to them once more but they had run out of time.
Brain Eater was there.
27
The grizzly barreled around the bend and came to a stop. It looked past the two Swedes at Fargo and let out a growl.
“Run!” Fargo shouted, and dashed to the horses.
As for the immigrants, they grinned and the one on the right said, “Det ar var tur dag.”
The other one nodded. “Pengarna ar var.”
Fargo couldn’t get the first hobble off. It was a makeshift affair, a short piece of rope with more knots than he had knuckles. He hiked his pant leg and palmed the Arkansas toothpick.
“Vill du skjuta forst?”
“Nej du gar forst.”
“Detta var din ide. Det ar ratt att du skjuter forst.”
It looked to Fargo as if they were arguing over who should shoot first. He slashed at the hobble but the rope was new and stiff and resisted his blade.
“Behaga. Jag insisterar du gora det.”
“Hur omkring om vi skjuter tillsammans sedan?”
A few strands parted but nowhere near enough. Fargo glanced at the grizzly, wondering how long it would continue to just stand there.
Not another second. Brain Eater roared and was on the Swedes with incredible speed. The one on the right bleated, “God Gud!” and tried to take aim. A paw crushed his face.
The other Swede cried, “Han hor dodat dig!” and fired.
Whether he hit the bear or not was irrelevant; it had no effect whatsoever.
Brain Eater roared as her claws sheared into the second man’s crotch. He shrieked and dropped his rifle and cried out.
“Vad du gor du, din dumma bar?”
With a powerful surge, the grizzly ripped him open from manhood to sternum.
Fargo was only partway through the first hobble. Darting around the horses, he plunged into the woods. He went about ten feet and sprawled flat.
Brain Eater was chomping on the second Swede’s innards. His guts had spilled out and the bear had part of an intestine in her mouth and was shaking the ropy coils.
The other man was whimpering and convulsing.
There was nothing Fargo could do. He stayed flat and drew the Colt. It wouldn’t do much good but he wasn’t going to be ripped apart without a fight.
Brain Eater wolfed a hunk of flesh. Straddling the dead man, she nuzzled his neck and head and sank her fangs into his forehead. As easily as if she was peeling the crust of a pie, she peeled the scalp from the cranium and spat it out. She licked the blood that welled, then spread her jaws wide and closed them on the man’s head. It burst like a melon and she lapped at the oozing brains as if she couldn’t get enough of them.
Hampered by the hobbles, the horses were trying to flee and whinnying in panic.
Fargo wished he had the elephant gun. He had a perfect shot.
Brain Eater went to the other Swede. He had stopped moving. She pawed at his body and when there was no reaction, she ripped off an ear and a swatch of hair. Underneath gleamed the skull.
Fargo told himself to look away but didn’t.
Brain Eater’s teeth were so many razors, slicing through flesh and crunching bone. Once again she indulged in her favorite food and when she was done, she licked the brain pan clean.
The horses had gone about ten yards. One was bucking and struggling to break free of the hobble.
Brain Eater raised her dripping maw. She broke into motion and swiped at the first horse. A leg cracked and the horse squealed and went down. The bucking horse tried to kick Brain Eater but the grizzly dodged and raked her claws from tail to ribs.
Fargo figured she would be busy for a while eating. He crabbed backward and stood. The grizzly was tearing at the second horse’s belly. Turning to the south, he stealthily made his way through the woods to the creek.
More running. His feet were sore and his leg muscles protested but he ate up the distance. He wondered how many more hunters or gold seekers he would encounter. Three men had died and he was indirectly to blame. With the bear after him, he invited death on everyone he met.
No sooner did the thought cross his mind than two women came flying up the creek toward him. Both had cornstalk hair and wore plain homespun dresses and bonnets. At the sight of him they stopped and one called out, “Vem ar du? Var ar vara man?”
“God in heaven,” Fargo blurted. They were the Swedes’ wives. He ran to them and they stepped back and thrust out their hands as if in fear of being attacked. “It’s not me,” he said. “It’s Brain Eater.”
“Vad han talar om?” the other woman said.
Fargo pointed to the north. “Bear. Do you understand that word?” To get them to understand, he raised both hands and curled his fingers into claws and growled deep in his chest.
“Han ar en galning,” the first woman said.
The other one mumbled and then said in atrociously accented English, “Are you crazy man?”
“At last,” Fargo said. “Brain Eater is after me. You have to run—”
“Where our husbands?” the woman anxiously asked. “Where Sven? Where Olaf?”
“Dead. Brain Eater killed them and—”
The woman turned to her friend. “Han sagar vara man ar doda.”
“Vi maste se till ourselves.”
To Fargo’s amazement, they raced past him. He grabbed at the second woman’s arm but she jerked away. “Don’t go back there. The bear will kill you, too.”
They didn’t listen.
Fargo stared after them. That way lay certain death. He stared to the south. That way lay his only hope. He turned north and went after them.
For females in dresses they were remarkably swift. Farming wasn’t for the puny, and these two were antelopes. One of them glanced back and said something to the other and both ran faster.
“Damn it.” Fargo was trying to save their lives. He hoped one would trip so he could overtake them but his luck was true to form.
“Sluta jaga oss!” one of them yelled at him.
The best Fargo could make of it, she had called him a slut or an ass. The first didn’t make any sense, and as for the second, he’d been called worse.
The pair were abreast of a wide pine when a gigantic mass of muscle and fur swept from behind it and was on them before either could stop. They screamed in unison and died singly with savage sweeps of the grizzly’s paws.
Fargo drew up short. He had tried but they hadn’t listened. Whirling, he got out of there. He expected the bear to feast on their brains and that would gain him time. The thud of heavy paws proved otherwise.
Brain Eater was after him.
Fargo willed his body to its utmost. He had already run so far and so hard that he couldn’t sustain the pace for long. He was worn out. His hip hurt like hell. His clawed leg hurt worse. But he refused to give up.
As inexorable as an avalanche, Brain Eater closed the distance.
Fargo had one consolation. Bethany had escaped. She was a sweet kid, the kind he’d like to have himself one day, maybe when he was forty or fifty and rea
dy to settle down.
He chuckled at how ridiculous he was being. Here he was being chased by a killer bear and he was thinking of the family he’d never have.
Rocks and boulders covered the ground ahead. He avoided the largest and was almost to bare ground when his left boot became wedged. Momentum carried his body forward and he pitched flat. The pain set his head to spinning. He almost didn’t hear the grunt behind him but he did smell the blood and the pungent bear odor. Rising to his knees, he turned.
Brain Eater stood a few yards away. That close she was immense, a mountain of ferocity unrivaled by any creature on the continent.
Fargo’s chest constricted. She had him. He could shoot her but he couldn’t stop her.
The grizzly whuffed and pawed the earth, her dark eyes glittering with bloodlust. She slavered in anticipation of sinking her teeth into his body.
“Go ahead,” Fargo said, his hand on the Colt. “I’ll make you pay.”
Brain Eater opened her mouth and swept forward. Fargo had the Colt out in a blur and jammed the muzzle into her mouth. He fired just as a tremendous blow cartwheeled him like a feather in a gale. He slammed down close to the creek with one leg in the water. His body pulsed with pain but he made it to his knees again, and he still had the Colt.
Brain Eater was shaking her head. She was bleeding copiously from her mouth, and drops flew all over. She roared, and saw him, and charged.
This was it, Fargo thought. He aimed at her left eye, fired, and missed. The slug scoured a red furrow above it.
She was almost on him. He fired again and her eyeball exploded and then she rammed into him and it felt as if a herd of buffalo were trampling his every bone. Somehow, he stayed conscious. He was on his belly and he had scratches everywhere. He heard coughing. He raised his head and shook it. The fuzziness cleared enough for him to see Brain Eater, doing more head shaking. Blood dribbled from her mouth and the empty socket where her left eye had been.
Fargo grinned. The Colt could hurt her. He pushed up and extended the six-shooter. “Come and get it, bitch.”
