Novel 1968 - Down The Long Hills (v5.0) (6 page)

Betty Sue was a good climber—she had always been good at it ever since she first followed Hardy into the forest. Now she got up and climbed easily to the limb that was another four feet above the ground.

Black bears can climb trees swiftly, and a young grizzly will often climb. But a mature grizzly will not, because of his weight. Hardy stood with his back to the tree and notched an arrow.

Old Three-Paws thrust his huge head from the brush and stared at the horse. The stallion blew shrilly, then reared on his hind legs, his front legs pawing.

And then Old Three-Paws charged.

Chapter 6

T
HE GRIZZLY HAD expected with that juggernaut charge to smash the stallion back against the brush and trees, where the weight of the bear’s body would carry the horse off balance long enough for teeth and claws to do their work.

The stallion leaped aside, pivoting on his fore-feet and letting go with both iron-shod hoofs. The kick caught the bear on the shoulder and flank as he reached the end of his charge, and it was he who was knocked off balance, falling on his bad side.

He was up instantly, but not in time to escape the driving strike of the stallion’s forefeet, smashing down for a kill. The bear moved, evading one hoof, but the other ripped a great gash in his shoulder.

Warily, as if realizing that until now he had been lucky, Big Red circled the bear. Three-Paws reared up on his hind legs, wanting to get in a blow with his forepaw that might break the stallion’s neck or his leg. It was at this moment that Hardy chose to let fly with his first arrow.

It was not a particularly good arrow and it was not shot from a particularly good bow, but the distance was less than fifty feet and the white spot near the base of the grizzly’s throat made a perfect target.

Hardy drew his bow to its utmost, and let go. The arrow shot true, striking the bear in the throat, a bit to one side, but going in for more than half its length.

The grizzly struck at the stinging in his throat, then half-turned, staring toward his new enemy. He caught sight of the boy near the bole of the tree, and instantly he went for him. Hardy, his bow hung over his shoulder, was already scrambling up the tree when the bear glimpsed him. The branches were low, for he had chosen the tree well, and Betty Sue was already climbing higher to give him room.

As the bear charged for the tree, the stallion leaped in, great jaws agape, and slashed the bear on the hindquarters. The grizzly wheeled, striking a mighty blow that would have ripped the stallion apart had it landed; as it was, it left a long thin streak across one side that almost instantly began to show blood.

Old Three-Paws was really angry now. He stood there staring, shifting his eyes from the stallion to the boy in the tree; but mostly he watched the stallion as it moved back and forth in front of him, well beyond reach, but within leaping distance if the bear gave the stallion a chance.

A fighting stallion is an awesome creature, able to rip with teeth, clamp with mighty jaws, kick with the hind feet, or strike with the forefeet, yet Hardy knew that Big Red was no match for the grizzly, even a crippled grizzly such as this one was.

But the grizzly had been badly hurt. The kick had knocked the wind from him, his side hurt him now, and there was bleeding from his shoulder and rump, but it was the arrow in his throat that worried him most. He tried to get at it with his teeth, but he could not. He heard the stallion start, and waited with slavering jaws, the foam now mixed with blood.

“Red!” Hardy yelled. “No!”

The stallion was beyond hearing, beyond caring. Before him was his enemy, and he started forward, almost dancing, neck extended, lips curled back over his great teeth.

Ashawakie rested on one knee in the brush. He had seen only a little of the terrible fight, just a glimpse of it in the few seconds since his arrival; and the whole fight had not yet lasted a minute. Carefully, he lifted his rifle, watching for a good shot at the bear.

This was his old enemy. Here was his chance to destroy his fear. If this was a medicine bear, as he almost half-believed, his bullet would be useless; but if it was not, his old enemy would be destroyed, his fear gone forever.

Ashawakie took careful aim, the bear turned slightly, and Ashawakie eased back the hammer. In the stillness, as the stallion moved forward, cat-footed, the click of the hammer was loud, and it was a sound Old Three-Paws had heard before. He turned toward the sound, and Ashawakie’s finger tightened…tightened…his eye held on the sight-picture.…Suddenly the rifle leaped in his hands, and the great bear, struck full in the chest, staggered back and went to all fours.

Hastily, the Indian started to reload.

Old Three-Paws heaved himself to try to rise up, but he only succeeded in falling back on his haunches.

Now, Hardy thought—if I could only get Big Red. If I could drop on his back, and get Betty Sue down from the tree, we could slip away.

He called again, this time more softly. “Red! Big Red come here!”

The call reached the stallion and he hesitated, still wanting to attack, yet fearing the bear, knowing the danger that lay in the grizzly. Again he heard the call, more insistent now, and somehow the old habits of love and obedience fought down his fury, his instinctive lust to destroy lest he be destroyed.

Old Three-Paws was puzzled. He had come here to kill a horse, not such a creature of fury incarnate as this, nor had he expected to be assailed on every side. Again he tried to snap at the irritating thing thrust into his throat.

He started to growl, and coughed on the blood trickling down his throat. He heaved himself up, and started for the horse. Ashawakie, within his place of concealment, worked desperately to reload…the bear must be destroyed, the horse must be saved.

Big Red had almost started toward his master, but the movement of the bear stopped him. He knew he must not turn his attention from the monster. His only hope lay in swift movement, sudden strikes.

Three-Paws was moving toward Red, and Hardy raised his bow, drew back the arrow, and let fly. He missed.

One more arrow. He lifted the bow again…too late. Big Red, whistling shrilly, rushed at the bear. The grizzly reared up to strike, but the stallion dodged as if struck by a whip-lash, and slashed wickedly at the bear’s rump and flank. Three-Paws tried to turn, but something was wrong with his side where those crushing hoofs had struck before. He began to turn, and the iron jaws of the stallion ripped him again. Then Three-Paws lunged, and his weight hurled the stallion from his feet, knocking him to his side on the grass. With a deep snarl of triumph, the bear lunged for the kill.

And the rifle spoke again.

The bullet smashed against the grizzly’s skull, striking at an angle. The bullet did not penetrate, but the bear was stunned, half-crumpling, as if to his death, then suddenly he heaved himself up and threw himself into the brush where the shots had come from.

Hardy dropped from the tree so swiftly that he ripped the hide from his arm and skinned one knee, tearing his pants. He ran to the stallion.

“Red! Red! Oh, Red!” He was sobbing in fear, but the big horse managed to get up, shook himself, and started to where the bear had gone. Leaping, Hardy caught him by the halter.

“Come!” he pleaded. “Red, please come!”

He led the horse to the tree, snapped the picket-rope again, and scrambling to a low limb, helped Betty Sue to Red’s back. The big horse was trembling, partly from fury, partly from his fall, but he stood still at the boy’s pleading voice, the voice he knew and loved so well. Hardy scrambled from the limb to his back. “Let’s go! he whispered.

The stallion hesitated. They could hear the bear floundering in the brush, but there was no other sound. Reluctantly, the stallion let himself be turned away. Scrambling out of the hollow, Hardy found a dim trail and took it, then he deliberately headed back for the river.

He was nearing it when he saw a dim trail left by wagons—not many wagons, and long ago, but it was a trail and it was pointing westward. Red took it at a gallop, then slowed to a trot. Leaning over, Hardy could see the red streaks left by the bear’s claws. Behind them there sounded another shot.

There was still light in the sky, and the crimson along the ridges was just fading, the higher clouds still flushed and pink above them. Hardy had no thought except to escape, and he rode swiftly. Once away from the scene of the fight, Big Red seemed eager enough to be going, and they made good time, crossing a shoulder of the mountain by a faint trail, and descending toward the river.

There they came upon an old wagon trail, and Hardy followed it, content to be headed west, or almost west.

He had no idea who had been shooting from the brush, but he suspected it was the Indian who had followed them. All he could think of was that they were getting away, leaving the grizzly behind. Now, for the first time, he was aware that he was really frightened. It came over him all of a sudden, and he clung, trembling, to the stallion’s back.

After a while he felt better; the stars came out, and the big stallion moved on steadily, seemingly in no hurry to stop for the night. A light wind came down from the mountains, cool from the snows and fresh from the pines. Several times Hardy almost fell asleep, but the horse plodded on, regardless.

The trail turned slightly north, then still farther north, but Hardy was only half awake, and scarcely noticed. They came out of the trees into a valley of long meadows, streams, and scattered clumps of trees. And then, suddenly, the stallion stopped.

Hardy opened his eyes wide. Betty Sue was asleep in his arms, but the big horse, ears up, was staring ahead, and seemed to be scenting the air.

Hardy sat up tall and peered past Big Red’s head. Some distance off, right down on the ground, there was a light…a fire!

A campfire…

Hardy’s heart took a great leap…it must be pa! Pa had come hunting for them! He slapped his small heels against the stallion’s side and started forward. But, the big horse hung back, seemingly reluctant to go on.

Could it be Indians?

Hardy rode more cautiously. Suddenly, somewhere ahead, a horse whinnied, and there was a flurry of movement near the fire.

Hardy walked the horse a little closer. He could see two saddles, some pack saddles, and a coffeepot on the fire, and there was a smell of bacon.…

“Set right still,” a voice said, “or I’m likely to fire. Now you jest walk that horse right up to the fire an’ le’s have a look at you.”

Hardy tried to speak, but his throat was tight. He walked the horse forward, and suddenly he heard the voice say, “Hell, it’s a couple of kids!”

“They come from somewhar,” the other man said. “That means thar’s folks about.”

“Here? At this time of year?”

“Well, look at ’em.”

One of the men was lean and somewhat stooped; he had a hard, angular face and small cruel eyes. He walked forward, looking at Big Red. “Jud,” he exclaimed, “would you look at that horse now? Man’s there’s a
hoss!
”

“He belongs to my pa,” Hardy managed to say.

“Well, mebbe. Whar is your pa, boy?”

“He’s…he’s back on the trail. He’s hunting us.”

The other man was shorter, barrel-chested. He walked slowly up to them, studying the stallion. “You mean he don’t know whar you be? How’d that happen?”

Betty Sue wakened and was staring at the men, wide-eyed. She felt tense in Hardy’s arms, as if frightened. Well, Hardy reflected, so was he. There was something about these men…

Hardy explained briefly how their wagons had been burned, how they had started on west. Once he started talking, he told them about the Indian, then about the grizzly.

“Aw, come off it!” The shorter man scoffed. “A grizzly’d kill you quicker’n scat. No horse can match up to a grizzly!”

“Red wasn’t afraid. He fought him.”

“Reckon he did, at that,” the taller man said, “He got clawed along the ribs.” The man reached a hand up for Red’s bridle, and the stallion jerked his head away.

“Don’t you pull away from me, damn you!” The tall man lifted a hand to strike Red, but the stallion swung away and Hardy said “Don’t you dare strike my horse!”

“Take it easy, Cal,” Jud said, more quietly. “You’re likely to lose ’em all. I figure we better let those kids have some grub an’ sort of study on this a mite.”

“I don’t like any horse actin’ up with me. What he needs is a taste of the club.”

“Cal’s just a-talkin’, boy. Now, why don’t you two git down? We got us some grub here, an’ in the mornin’ we can sort of figure out what to do. Mebbe we can find your pa for you.”

Hardy didn’t like the looks or the sound of these men, and he wanted nothing so much as to ride away, but the two men were standing too close. One of them was all poised for just such a move, so though he didn’t want to, Hardy slid to the ground. He would wait until the men were asleep, then they would slip away.

The man called Cal started to reach again for the bridle, but Red pulled back, eyes rolling. “Let me stake him out,” Hardy said. “He knows me.”

“You jest do that, youngster.” Jud looked past him, shaking his head at Cal. “Your little sister, she can jest stay here with us. No use her wanderin’ around in the dark, out yonder.”

When he had picketed the stallion, Hardy went up to Red and rubbed him gently on the shoulder. “Looks to me as if I got us into trouble, Red. You be careful now. Maybe we can get away from them.”

He walked tiredly back to the fire. Betty Sue was seated on a rock near the fire, her eyes big and staring.

Jud looked over at her. “Now how old would that one be, boy?”

“She’s three,” he said, “just past three.”

“Don’t seem reasonable,” Cal offered, “you two out here alone like that. You say your pa is huntin’ you? How d’you know that?”

“I just know it. That’s the way pa is.”

Cal chuckled. “Chances are he figures the Injuns killed you. He ain’t huntin’ you, boy.”

“That’s not true!” Hardy was near to tears. “He is so hunting us!”

Hardy ate some food while the two men talked, muttering together in low tones. Finally Jud brought them a blanket. “You two roll up in that. We’ll have us a talk in the mornin’.”

Cal glanced over at them. “An’ don’t do any wanderin’ about camp. I got a mighty touchy way with a gun. I might mistake you for an Injun.”

When they were covered up near the fire, Betty Sue whispered, “I don’t like those men!”

“Ssh!” After a moment Hardy said, “I don’t like them, either!” Then he added, his lips close to her ear, “Maybe we can slip off.”

With the best intentions of staying awake, he fell sound asleep. He had been tired for such a long time, and now for the first time in days he was under a blanket. In the night he woke up, hearing a low murmur of voices.