Grizzly Fury (2 page)

Yet another town meeting was called. Enough was enough, everyone agreed. The way things were going, pretty soon the grizzly would be breaking into homes in town. Something had to be done.

Gold Creek was prosperous. They had six hundred dollars in the treasury but they didn't think that was enough. They took up a collection that brought the total to a thousand. The mayor thought that was piddling. They needed the best and the best didn't come cheap. He reminded them of how many had lost their lives, and how many more might lose theirs, and called on everyone to do their civic duty and donate as much as they could afford. He also threatened to close the saloons until he had a large enough sum to suit him.

A week later the flyers went out. They were sent to newspapers far and wide, announcing that a five-thousand-dollar bounty had been placed on the grizzly that was terrorizing Gold Creek.

They even gave the bear a name.

They called it Brain Eater.

 

Skye Fargo came up the trail from Fort Flathead. He swung around Flathead Lake and followed Swann River to the mountains. Instead of crossing over Maria Pass to the other side of the divide, he took the trail that led north and in a few days reached Gold Creek.

From a distance it looked like any other boomtown except that most of the buildings were made from logs. At the south end stood an exception, a church with a steeple. There were a few houses, too, that boasted of the prosperity of their owners.

Flowing past the town from the north was the ribbon of water that accounted for much of Gold Creek's wealth.

Fargo gigged the Ovaro down the mountain. A big man, he wore buckskins and a red bandanna. A Colt was strapped around his waist and the stock of a rifle jutted from his saddle scabbard. His lake blue eyes missed little as he passed outlying cabins and shacks and entered the town.

He was pleased to see so many saloons—six, by his count. It suggested to him that like many frontier settlements, the people of Gold Creek revered the Lord on Sunday and raised holy hell the rest of the week.

A portly man in a bowler was crossing the street and nodded as he went by.

“Ask you a question, mister,” Fargo said, drawing rein.

The man had florid cheeks and ferret eyes. He stopped and looked Fargo up and down and said, “Another one, by God.”

“Another what?” Fargo said, not sure he liked the man's tone.

“Another fool after that damn griz,” the man said. “Or am I mistaken?”

“It's not dead yet?” Fargo wanted to know. He'd hate to think he had come all this way for nothing.

The man snorted. “Mister, that bear is Satan incarnate. You ask me, the bullet hasn't been made that will bring him low.”

Fargo bent and patted the stock of his rifle. “I aim to give it a try.”

“You and fifty others. Our town is crawling with bear hunters, thanks to that flyer we never should have sent out. My name is Petty, by the way. Theodore Petty. I own the general store. I also happen to be the mayor.”

“You don't want the hunters here?”

“At first I did. I put five hundred dollars toward the bounty, thinking it was for the best. Had I known the kind of people it would bring I wouldn't have done it. But enough idle chat. My advice to you is to turn around and leave. Five of the hunters have already died and you could be the sixth.”

“The griz has killed five more?”

“Actually, the total is eleven. But no. Only two of them were hunters. Another was killed in a drunken fight in a saloon and two more had a falling-out over how they were going to split the five thousand dollars and shot themselves dead.” Petty touched his bowler's brim. “Good day to you, sir.”

Fargo digested the news as he rode to a hitch rail in front of one of the saloons and dismounted. Tying off the reins, he stretched. The saloon was called the Sluice. He pushed on the batwings. Although it was barely noon the place was crowded. He bellied up to the bar and paid for a bottle. Since he couldn't find an empty chair, he went back out and sat on an upended crate and savored his first swallow of red-eye in more than a week.

“Well now, what have we here?”

Fargo cocked an eye over the bottle at a young woman in a gay yellow dress, holding a yellow parasol. Brunette curls fanned from under a matching yellow bonnet. She was appraising him as a horse buyer might a stud stallion. “Didn't your ma ever warn you about talking to strange men?”

“She did, indeed,” the woman said. “But I always make exceptions for handsome men, and God Almighty, you are one handsome son of a bitch.”

Fargo laughed and introduced himself.

“I'm Fanny Jellico,” she said with a twirl of her parasol. “Let me guess. You're here after Brain Eater?”

Nodding, Fargo said, “You too, I take it?”

Now it was Fanny who laughed. She leaned her back to the wall, closed her parasol, and surveyed the busy street. “It's become a circus. I suppose I shouldn't complain since we've got more business than we can handle but it's almost as dangerous in town as it is out there in the woods with the bear.”

“We?” Fargo said.

“Me and a bunch of girls came all the way from Denver,” Fanny explained. “It was Madame Basque's doing. She runs a sporting house. When she saw that flyer she knew there was money to be made. So she loaded eight of us into a wagon and here we are.”

“That's a long way to come.”

“Maybe so,” Fanny said. “But we're making money hand over thigh.”

Fargo chuckled. “The marshal and the parson don't mind?”

“There isn't any law,” Fanny revealed. “The town never got around to appointing one. As for the parson”—she gazed down the street at the church, then looked at Fargo and winked—“he's as friendly as can be.”

“I hear there's been a knifing and a shooting.”

“Hell, there have been twenty or more just since we came,” Fanny said. “The hunters spend more time fighting amongst themselves than they do hunting the bear. And I use the word ‘hunter' loosely. Some of them couldn't find their own ass if they were told where it is.”

Fargo was beginning to understand why Theodore Petty resented the influx of bounty seekers. Gold Creek had gone from a run-of-the-mill mountain town to a wild-and-woolly pit of violence and carnal desire. Just the kind of place he liked most.

“If you're interested in a good time, you might look me up at the Three Deuces. Madame Basque made an arrangement where we use the rooms in the back. I'm there from six until midnight most every night.”

“I might just do that.”

Fanny brazenly traced the outline of his jaw with a finger. “I might just let you have me at a discount, as good-looking as you are.”

The next instant the front window exploded with a tremendous crash. Fargo sprang to his feet and simultaneously Fanny screamed and threw herself against him. Both watched a man tumble to a stop in the street and lie half dazed.

Through the shattered window strode a colossus. Seven feet tall if he was an inch, he wore a buffalo robe and a floppy hat. Tucked under his belt was an armory: two pistols, two knives, and a hatchet. He walked over to the man in the street and declared, “Get up and get your due.”

The man rolled over. Buckskins clad his wiry frame. He was getting on in years and had hair as white as snow. He had a lot of wrinkles, too. Propping himself on his elbows, he wiped a sleeve across his mouth, smearing the blood that dribbled over his lower lip. “You shouldn't ought to have done that, Moose.”

“You say mean things, you should expect it,” the man-mountain declared.

Fargo pried Fanny's fingers from his arm. “Hold this,” he said, and gave her the bottle. Moving out from under the overhang, he headed toward the old man. “Rooster Strimm,” he said. “It's been a coon's age.”

Rooster blinked and grinned. “Why, look who it is. Ain't seen you since Green River.”

Moose didn't like the interruption. “You know this feller?” he said to Rooster.

“I surely do,” the old man confirmed. “He's a friend of mine. Skye Fargo, meet Moose Taylor.”

Moose turned. “Friend or not, you'd better back away. Rooster, here, was mean to me and I don't like it when folks are mean. I aim to hurt him some and there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Care to bet?” Fargo said.

Fargo didn't have a lot of close friends. He could count them on two hands and have fingers left. It wasn't that he was unsociable. When he had half a bottle in his belly and a dove on his lap, he could be as sociable as anyone. But people who had known him for a good many years, and were still alive, were rare.

Rooster Strimm was one of the few. Fargo had met him shortly after he came west. At the time Strimm had been scouting for the army and had taken Fargo under his wing. It had been Fargo's first taste of life on the frontier and he'd loved it.

Now, watching blood trickle down Rooster's chin, Fargo felt a cold sensation in his chest.

Moose had his hands on his hips and was glowering. “Mister, I've whipped bigger men than you without half trying. Make yourself scarce.”

“Why did you throw him through the window?”

“Not that it's any of your business but he called me noaccount. Said I was the worst hunter alive and that the only way I'd get the griz is if it walked up to me and asked me to shoot it.”

Fargo glanced down at Rooster and grinned. “Did you really say that?”

Rooster nodded. “Can't hardly blame me. Moose, here, is the Mike Fink of bear hunters. He likes to brag about all the bears he's killed but most weren't much more than cubs.”

“That does it,” Moose said. “I'm going to shake you until your teeth rattle.” Bending, he reached to grab Rooster by the front of his shirt.

Fargo shoved Moose. Not hard, but enough that he stumbled a few steps. “No,” Fargo said.

Slowly straightening, Moose clenched and unclenched his big hands. “I told you to butt out. You should have listened. I don't like to hurt folks but you've gone and pushed me so now I have to hurt you.”

“If you're dumb enough to try,” Fargo said.

“That does it.”

Moose was on Fargo before Fargo could raise his arms to defend himself. A fist with knuckles the size of walnuts would have flattened Fargo's nose, only Fargo ducked and retaliated with a solid right to Moose's gut. The punch would have doubled most men over. All Moose did was grunt and wade in with his big fists flying. Fargo backpedaled, blocking and slipping most of the blows. Those that connected jarred him to his marrow. Moose was immensely strong. Fargo countered a left cross, spun away from a jab, and drove a straight-arm into Moose's jaw. It was like hitting an anvil. Pain shot clear to Fargo's shoulder. Wincing, he retreated and Moose came after him.

Fargo was vaguely aware they were gathering a crowd. Someone yelled for Moose to beat him to a pulp.

Moose was grinning as if this were great fun. He held his arms in a stance that left his face and neck exposed, and when he moved, he shuffled awkwardly, as if his feet were so far from his brain, there was a delay in the brain telling the feet what to do.

Fargo didn't think this was fun at all. He was hurting, and he had to end it before Moose connected. He ducked a looping left, didn't fall for a feint, and slammed Moose a good one on the cheek that rocked Moose on his heels. Moose stopped grinning. He looked angry and baffled. Apparently he was used to beating others easily and couldn't understand why Fargo wouldn't go down.

Moose arced a right and then a left. Fargo swiveled and avoided the first but the left smashed his shoulder and sent him tottering a good six feet. It was like being hit by a battering ram. He set himself and Moose started toward him.

Suddenly someone stepped between them, dressed all in yellow with her parasol over her shoulder. “That will be enough, Moose,” Fanny said quietly.

Moose was as astounded as Fargo. He lowered his fists partway and stared dumbly at her. “I know you,” he said.

“That's enough, I said,” Fanny repeated. “Or I will tell Madame Basque and you won't get to have a girl for the rest of our stay.”

“Not have a girl?” Moose said, sounding stricken.

“I know how fond you are of Harriet. But if I ask, she'll close her legs to you.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Only if you force me.”

Moose lowered his arms the rest of the way. “Haven't I always been nice to you gals?”

“You have, and I like you,” Fanny said. “I also like him.” She pointed her parasol at Fargo. “And I don't want the two of you hurting each other over something as stupid as this.”

“It's not stupid,” Moose said, and nodded at Rooster. “He teased me. Called me a piss-poor hunter.”

“Well, then it's only fair that you tease him back. You can tell him you're bigger than he is.”

“Bigger?” Moose said.

“A lot bigger.” Fanny held her right thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. “He has a tiny little one.”

“He does?” Moose's face broke into an ear-to-ear grin. “You hear that, Rooster? She says you got a tiny little pecker.”

“You could go around telling everyone he's a mouse and you're a bull,” Fanny said.

“Oh, hell,” Rooster said.

Moose threw back his head and great peals of mirth burst from his chest. “That's a good one, Fanny. Can I say it just like you said it?”

“Yes, you may, with my blessing.” Fanny patted him on the shoulder. “Now why don't you run along and have a few drinks and I'll tell Harriet to expect you later?”