Grizzly Fury (22 page)

“Dead. Brain Eater killed them and—”

The woman turned to her friend.
“Han sagar vara man ar doda.”

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 ready 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.”

Brain Eater fixed her remaining hate-filled eye on him. Her lips curled from her teeth and she hurtled at him.

Fargo aimed at her other eye. He had to be sure so he didn't shoot until her face was inches from the muzzle.

The blast and her impact were simultaneous. The sunlight blinked out. Pain filled every particle of his body. He felt a crushing weight on his chest and pushed but it wouldn't budge. Gradually he realized it was Brain Eater; she was on top of him. Her hair was in his mouth and nose, her blood on his neck. Spitting and coughing, he twisted his head so he could breathe.

A large shape blotted out the sky.

“Oh God,” Fargo said, thinking that the grizzly was getting up.

“No,” Wendy said. “Just me and the tyke.”

Fargo blinked. The large shape was the Ovaro. The Brit was dismounting, Bethany in his arm. “Where the hell have you two been?”

“You're the one who told me not to stop until we reached town, remember?” Wendy set Bethany down. “I couldn't do it, though. I couldn't desert you. So we came back.”

Bethany squatted and put her hand on Fargo's cheek. “You have the bear on you.”

“I noticed.”

Wendy was admiring the griz. “Look at the size of this thing. And you killed it without needing my elephant gun. I'm impressed, Yank.”

Fargo glared. “My ribs are about to cave in.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

The Brit tied one end of Fargo's rope to the bear's leg and looped the rope around the saddle horn and goaded the Ovaro. By gradual inches the grizzly slid far enough off that Fargo could wriggle out from under. Wendolyn and Bethany helped him to his feet.

“If you don't mind my saying so, you look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

Bethany giggled. “You smell like bear pee.”

Fargo looked down at himself and sniffed. She was right. He handed his Colt to Wendy and waded into a pool and sat down. The water came as high as his chin. He let it soothe his hurts and aches.

“There's a lot to do yet,” the Brit reminded him.

That there was.

They skinned Brain Eater, Fargo doing most of the work since Wendolyn was still weak. They didn't have the salt to cure the hide but that didn't matter. It wouldn't rot before they reached town.

Since Wendy and Bethany had to ride, they couldn't roll up the hide and tie it on the saddle. So Fargo rigged a travois.

It was slow going but they reached Gold Creek about half an hour after the sun went down.

Their arrival caused quite a stir. Everyone came to see the hide and finger the claws. Many snipped hairs as a keepsake.

Mayor Petty was especially pleased to hear that both bears were dead. He called a town meeting in the street and after a long-winded speech about how devoted he was to the public good and how well his plan had worked out, he somewhat reluctantly handed over the bounty.

Fargo and Wendolyn agreed to split it into three equal shares. They looked up the parson and explained the situation and the minister said he knew of a good family that would be happy to take Bethany in.

Fargo didn't think it would be so hard. He squatted and she placed her little hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes.

“I'll miss you.”

Fargo coughed.

Tears trickled down Bethany's cheeks. “I wish I could stay with you. You'd make a good pa.”

“No,” Fargo said. “I wouldn't.”

Bethany hugged him, his face buried against his shirt. She said something he didn't quite hear.

“What was that?”

“I love you.”

Fargo pried her loose and nodded at the parson, who picked Bethany up. She was crying.

“Don't worry, my son,” the parson said. “She'll be cared for as if she was their own.”

Fargo walked out of the church without looking back. Wendy called his name but he kept on walking. He needed a bottle of whiskey. He planned to get drunk and stay drunk for a week or so.

That should be more than enough.

 

 

 

A shot cracked sharp and clear from around the next bend in the winding mountain road.

Skye Fargo drew rein and placed his hand on the Colt at his hip. A big man, broad of shoulder and chest, he wore buckskins and a white hat turned brown by the dust of his travels. He heard shouts and the sounds of the stage that was ahead of him coming to a stop. Slicking his six-shooter, he gigged the Ovaro to the bend. He could see without being seen.

Four masked men were pointing six-shooters at the stage. A fifth had dismounted. The driver's arms were in the air and the pale faces of passengers peered out the windows.

The fifth bandit swaggered over and opened the stage door.

“Get your asses out here,” he barked, “and keep your hands where I can see 'em.”

The first to emerge was a terrified man in a suit and bowler. He cowed against the coach and fearfully glanced at the outlaws and their guns.

The next was a woman who had to be in her eighties if not older. She held her head defiantly high and when the outlaw took hold of her arm, she shrugged free and said, “Don't touch me, you filth.”

The outlaw hit her. He backhanded her across the face and when she fell against the coach, he laughed.

“Leave her be, damn you!”

Out of the stage flew a young tigress with blazing red hair. She shoved the outlaw so hard that he tottered back and then she put her arm around the older woman to comfort her.

The outlaw swore and raised his pistol to strike her.

“No,” said a man who wore a flat-crowned black hat and a black duster. “Not her or the old one.”

The man on the ground glanced up, swore some more, and lowered his revolver. “Hand over your valuables,” he commanded, “and be quick about it.”

Fargo had witnessed enough. He didn't like the odds but he couldn't sit there and do nothing. Staying in shadow at the edge of the road, he rode toward them at a walk. His intent was to get as close as he could before he let lead fly but he was still twenty yards out when one of the robbers pointed and hollered.

“Someone's comin'!”

Fargo fired. His shot caught the shouter high on the shoulder and twisted the man in his saddle. Two others started to rein around to get out of there but the man in the black duster and the outlaw on the ground had more grit; they shot back. A leaden bee buzzed Fargo's ear. The man in the duster fired again and Fargo felt a sharp pain in his right leg at the same instant that he put a slug into the outlaw standing by the stage. The man staggered, then recovered and ran to his horse and swung up. Fargo fired yet again but by now all the outlaws were racing up the road. He didn't go after them. He was bleeding.

The driver jerked up a shotgun but the gang was out of range.

Fargo came to a stop next to the stage.

“Don't let them get away!” the terrified man bawled.

Dismounting, Fargo kept his weight on his left leg and hiked at his right pant leg.

“They wing you, mister?” the driver asked.

Fargo grunted and eased down. He pulled his pant leg to his knee. The slug had torn through the flesh of his calf and gone out the other side. “Son of a bitch.” Thankfully, though, his bone had been spared. The blood was already slowing.

“Why are you sitting there?” the terrified man demanded. “You should go after them.”

“Shut the hell up, Horace,” the driver said. “Can't you see he's been shot?”

“Don't you dare talk to me in that tone, Rafer Barnes,” Horace said. “I won't have it, you hear?”

Fargo pried at the knot in his bandanna.

A dress rustled and perfume wreathed him. The redhead smiled warmly and said, “Thank you, sir, for coming to our rescue.”

“Let me see that leg, young man,” the older woman said, sinking to her knees. “I've tended my share of bullet wounds in my time.”

“I've been hurt worse,” Fargo said, and went to tie his bandanna over the holes. To his surprise and amusement, she slapped his hand.

“Let me see it, I said.” She bent and probed and announced, “It's not serious but you'll be limping for a good long while. I advise you to see a sawbones, though, to clean it up.”

“Listen to my grandma,” the redhead said. “She always knows what she's talking about.”

Fargo wrapped his bandanna and tied it. Without being asked, the young woman slipped an arm under his to help him stand.

“There you go.” Her green eyes were luminous in the light of the full moon and her lips were as red as ripe strawberries.

Fargo breathed in the scent of her hair. “I'm obliged, ma'am.”

“My name is Melissa. Melissa Hart. This is my grandmother, Edna.”

The older woman had risen and was brushing off her dress. “How do you do?”

Rafer Barnes leaned down from the seat. “I'm obliged, too, mister, for the help. I'm not supposed to let you, but how about if you ride up here with me the rest of the way and spare your leg?” He paused. “You're bound for Oro City, I take it?”

Fargo admitted that he was and accepted the offer. His wound was less likely to take to bleeding again than if he rode the Ovaro. He tied the stallion to the back of the coach, limped to the front, and climbed on. The women and Horace were already inside.