Grizzly Fury (11 page)

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.

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.

“So the two bears are sticking close to one another?” Rooster said thoughtfully. “Maybe the smaller one is her cub.”

“Too old,” Fargo said. Cubs stayed with their mothers for a year or so, two years at the most. The smaller grizzly looked to be twice that.

“Now and then a cub doesn't want to go off on its own no matter what.”

“Then where this Brain Eater goes, the smaller one follows,” Wendy said.

“You know what this means, don't you?” Cecelia said.

Moose, who hadn't uttered a word since Fargo arrived, roused and said, “What?”

“We have to kill both of them.”

“There's no bounty on the smaller griz,” Rooster said.

“So what?” Cecelia countered. “It's killed people, the same as the big one. And it will go on killin' unless it's stopped.”

“I daresay I have no objection,” Wendy said. “Two bears are twice the sport and twice the fun.”

“Fun?” Rooster said, and snorted.

“We can always sell the hide for money,” Moose said. “It won't be a lot split five ways but it will put a little extra in our pokes.”

“A fine notion,” Cecelia said, smiling warmly at him.

Then she turned to Fargo. “How about you, Skye? What do you say?”

“We kill both.”

“This hunt is getting complicated,” Rooster groused. “Killing the big one will be hard enough.”

Cecelia asked Bethany to get her a clean plate and ladled squirrel meat onto it. She added a slice of bread and handed it to Fargo, saying, “Here you go. You must be awful hungry after the day you've had.”

“I'm obliged.” As he speared a morsel with his fork, Fargo noticed Moose staring at him.

“Back to these bears,” Wendy said. “You Yanks have more experience with the brutes. How do you suggest we go about it?”

“Very carefully,” Rooster said.

 

The next morning the men were in position by sunrise. They waited throughout the day while Cecelia cooked and her children played and made a lot of noise.

Neither grizzly showed.

That night the men and Cecelia took turns keeping watch and maintaining the fire.

Neither bear appeared.

Two more days and nights wore on their nerves. They never knew but when one or another of the man-killers would come bursting out of nowhere to rip and rend.

The next morning dawned clear and brisk. Wendy had the last watch and woke everyone.

Fargo cast off his blanket and stood. He needed coffee but first he went to the stream. Kneeling, he dipped his hands in the cold water and splashed it on his face. Usually that was enough to jar him awake. He did it several times and wiped his face with his sleeve. As he went to rise he glanced to one side.

There was a moccasin print in a strip of mud. The print had not been there the day before because he had knelt at the exact spot.

Fargo examined it. The imprint was smooth and clear; it had been made in the past hour. He placed his hand on his Colt and stared across the stream at the wall of vegetation.

Rooster came shuffling up, and grumbling. “My old bones don't take to lying on the ground as good as they used to. I should have brought extra blankets.” He stopped. “What has you looking like a dog on point?”

Fargo pointed at the mud.

“Damn,” Rooster said, and squatted. “He was spying on us, I bet.”

Fargo nodded.

“And where there's one there are more. The question is, how many?”

“The question is, which tribe?” Fargo said. Given where they were, it could be one of two, either the Blackfeet or the Bloods. Neither were fond of whites.

Rooster knew that, too. “This ain't good. They won't like us being here.”

The rest took the news uneasily except for Wendolyn.

“I say, why the long faces? These savages won't bother us, will they? Not with all the guns we have.”