Grizzly Fury (10 page)

Rooster came over to Fargo. “I've been doing some thinking, pard.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Ain't you funny?” Rooster said. “But if this bear is as smart as he seems to be, he won't show himself during the day. He'll wait until night when most of us are asleep and he can sneak in close.”

“That's what I would do if I was him.”

“So when we're keeping watch tonight, we'll be in more danger than we were all day.”

“A lot more.”

“Well, damn,” Rooster said.

Fargo's turn was the last two hours before daylight. He woke feeling sluggish when Moose poked him with a finger as thick as a spike.

“Time to get up, sleepyhead,” Moose joked, whispering so as not to wake the others.

The men had spread their blankets in front of the lean-to. Cecelia and the children slept under it. Anything that came at them had to get through Fargo and the others first.

“Did you see or hear anything?” Fargo asked as he stretched and shook his head to try and clear it.

“It's been quiet as can be,” Moose said. He sank onto his blanket and lay on his back with his rifle against his side. “The only problem I had was staying awake.”

Fargo stiffly rose and stepped to the fire. The crackling flames cast a glow that lit the lean-to and the horses. All else was ink. The woods were a black wall. He could hear the gurgle of the stream but couldn't see it.

Sitting cross-legged, Fargo placed the Sharps in his lap and poured himself a cup of coffee. He needed it badly. His muscles felt sore, which puzzled him since he hadn't done anything strenuous. And his head was mush. It took two cups to bring him to where he felt halfway normal.

Occasionally a coyote or a wolf raised a lament to the heavens but otherwise the night was quiet.

Soon snoring came from the lean-to; Moose had fallen asleep.

Fargo refilled his cup and shook the pot. There wasn't much left. He must make more before dawn.

Far to the west a mountain lion screamed. It woke several of the horses. They pricked their ears and one stamped a hoof but after a while they dozed.

Half an hour went by and Fargo was close to dozing, too. Again and again he shook himself. Once he slapped his cheek. It was so unlike him. He attributed it to his feeling awful, and began to wonder if he was coming down with something.

Then, in the woods to the south, a twig snapped.

Fargo was instantly alert. Twigs didn't break on their own. Several of the horses had raised their heads and were listening, the Ovaro among them. He put both hands on the Sharps. Something was out there. But it didn't have to be a meat-eater. It could be a deer, an elk, anything. He added wood to the fire. The flames rose and the light spread a little farther but not far enough to reach the forest.

No other sounds came out of the dark. Fargo relaxed and sat back. He was about to drain the last of the coffee when he noticed that the Ovaro was staring to the west. He saw only darkness. The stallion was slowly moving its head, as if whatever was out there was circling.

Fargo rose and went over. “What is it, boy?” he whispered. He peered hard but still saw nothing.

The Ovaro nickered, and at the limit of the light, eyes appeared. Large eyes, gleaming with shine from the fire, fixed on their camp.

Fargo couldn't be sure they were a bear's eyes. But he pressed the Sharps to his shoulder and curled his thumb around the hammer.

The eyes blinked, and moved. Not toward him but toward the stream.

An animal come to drink, Fargo guessed. The eyes blinked again and were gone. He heard the thud of what might be hooves and then a splash.

The Ovaro lowered its head.

Fargo took that as a sign all was well and returned to the fire. He still had over an hour to go. He finished the last of the coffee and set his cup down. His stomach grumbled and he was rising to go to his saddlebags for some pemmican when eyes appeared to the south. He stopped and brought up the Sharps. Whatever the thing was, it was just beyond the ring of firelight. The eyes stared at him without blinking. He was sure this time.

It was a bear.

He aimed between the eyes but didn't shoot. It was a bear, yes, but was it
the
bear? Was it Brain Eater? He didn't think so. The eyes weren't high enough off the ground. It might be the other bear, the one that killed the Nesmith family. What was it the woman told him? The bear that attacked them was middling. The eyes staring at him were those of a bear that size.

The Ovaro nickered.

Fargo glanced at it, expecting to see it staring at the eyes to the southwest. But no. The stallion was staring to the
northwest
. He risked a quick look.

Another pair of eyes was fixed on him with baleful intensity. Larger eyes. Eyes that were much higher off the ground. Eyes that could only belong to one animal.

Brain Eater
, Fargo thought, and a tingle ran down his spine. He had a bear to the right of him and a bear to the left. If they charged he couldn't possibly drop both before they reached him. He swung the muzzle of the Sharps from one to the other. They went on staring, and it occurred to him that they weren't staring at him; they were staring at each other.

Suddenly Brain Eater made a
whuff
sound and its eyes were gone. Brush crackled.

Fargo turned toward the smaller bear. It, too, had slipped away. He let out the breath he had been holding and stood rigid with expectation but nothing happened. The night stayed quiet. Both bears were apparently gone.

Fargo lowered the Sharps and expressed his bewilderment with, “What the hell?”

 

Everyone shared his bewilderment. They sat around the fire eating their breakfast of oatmeal that Cecelia made and drinking coffee sweetened with sugar.

“Two bears?” Moose said, and slurped as he took a sip. “That ain't good.”

“I've done some research on these grizzlies of yours,” Wendy said, “and I was told they're not very social. It's unusual to have two bears roaming together—isn't that right?”

“Unless it's a mother and a cub,” Rooster said. “But this second bear seems a mite big to be a cub.”

“I've seen a dozen bears in a river at the same time after salmon,” Fargo mentioned. “They always give each other a lot of space. If one gets too close to another, a fight breaks out.”

“Why didn't these two fight?” Moose wondered. “You'd think the big one wouldn't want the little one anywhere around.”

“You men,” Cecelia said. “So what if there's two? It's the big one we're after. It's the big one the bounty is on. And now we know that it knows we're here.” She beamed. “It'll come back, and when it does, the money is ours.”

“Don't get ahead of yourself, woman,” Rooster said. “We have to kill it first.”

“Do you other chaps think it will come back?” Wendy asked.

All eyes turned to Fargo. By unspoken consent he had become unofficial leader, in part because he had more experience than any of them in the wilds, and in part because he had an iron edge about him, a force to his personality that they respected.

“I think it will come back,” Fargo answered. “The question is, when? We can't let down our guard.”

“What I don't get,” Moose said, and slurped some more, “is why the critter didn't attack us last night.”

“You and me, both,” Rooster said. “This thing has killed upwards of fifteen people. I figured it would attack us on sight.”

“A normal bear might but this bear isn't normal,” Fargo said.

“So what do you propose we do?” Wendy asked. “Go to our blinds and wait?”

“What else can you do?” Cecelia said. “You sure can't go traipsin' off after it and leave me and mine to fend for ourselves.”

“I'd never leave you alone,” Moose assured her.

“But it wouldn't hurt if one of us went,” Fargo proposed, “and since I'm the best tracker, it should be me. I'll try to find where Brain Eater went, and if I get a shot, I'll take it.”

“Just so you remember that no matters who kills it, we all get our share of the bounty,” Cecelia said.

“You and your bounty money,” Rooster told her.

Cecelia gestured at her three young ones, who were hungrily eating their oatmeal. “When you have kids, old man, then you can criticize.”

Moose stopped slurping to say, “You leave her be, Rooster—you hear me? You pick on her too much.”

“Thank you, handsome,” Cecelia said.

“Who are you talking to?” Moose asked.

“You,” Cecelia said.

“Oh. No one's ever called me that before. Mostly folks say I'm sort of ugly.”

“Not to me,” Cecelia said. “To me you're the handsomest man alive.”

“Gosh.”

Fargo had finished eating, and stood. “I'll head right out. If I can't pick up the trail I should be back by noon or so.”

“Be careful, pard,” Rooster cautioned. “You said it yourself. Brain Eater ain't normal.”

Fargo carried his saddle blanket, saddle and bridle to the Ovaro. He threw on the blanket and smoothed it, then swung the saddle up and over and bent to the cinch. He pulled out the picket pin and put it in his saddlebag. He was about to fork leather when Cecelia came over.

“Before you head out there's somethin' I need to say.”

“About?”

Cecelia gazed at the men at the fire, and her kids, and then at the deep shadows in the woods that had yet to be dispelled by the rising sun. “This hunt was my idea. I saw it as the best way to get the money I need.”

“You've made that plain,” Fargo said, impatient to be under way.

“You didn't have to go along with it. None of you did. But I'm powerful glad you did. Without all of you, this wouldn't work.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“That I'm grateful and I would take it poorly if anythin' was to happen to you.”

“Thanks,” Fargo said. Her sincerity touched him. He saw that she was slightly embarrassed by her admission so he grinned and said, “I'd hug you but Moose would try to beat me to a pulp.”

“He's a good man,” Cecelia said. “He doesn't have much between the ears but the good counts for more than that.”

“You have plenty between yours so the two of you will come out even.”

Cecelia held out her hand. “Like Rooster said, you be careful out there.”

“Always.” Fargo climbed on and held the Sharps in front of him. As he tapped his spurs he tried not to dwell on the fact that a man could be as careful as he could be and still end up in a bear's belly.

As the forest and the shadows closed around Fargo, so did a deep silence. Usually the songbirds started a new day singing in exuberance. Not one was singing today.

Fargo rode with every nerve tingling. Grizzlies were notorious for ambushing their prey. They were also cunning at concealing themselves. He searched in a loop. The ground was hard and there were plenty of pine needles to cushion the bear's great weight but he found a partial print and then broken brush, enough to tell him the giant bear had headed west.

Fargo went slowly, as much to keep from being jumped as to not miss any of the spoor. Tracking was often painstaking; with grizzlies it was more so.

From the spacing between prints, Fargo deduced that the griz had been moving at a fast pace. It made no attempt to hide its passage and for over an hour Fargo made good time. Then he crested a rise. Below spread a granite slope sprinkled with scattered pockets of bare earth. Dismounting, he checked the bare patches first but he didn't find a single print. It was possible the bear's claws had scraped the granite here and there but the nicks would be slight and hard to find.

His only other recourse was to descend to the bottom and search for sign there. He rode back and forth for half an hour, but nothing. It was as if the grizzly had vanished into thin air. He ranged farther and came on a smudge but he couldn't say whether the bear made it. He scoured the vicinity and found no other marks.

Fargo was getting nowhere. Frustrated, he returned to the granite slope. Maybe the bear hadn't come all the way down. Maybe it had changed direction again. He reined to the right and spent another twenty minutes looking, without success. Swinging around to the left, he discovered a large pine that bore fresh claw marks.

“Thank you, bear,” Fargo said with a grin. He examined them; they were wider and deeper than any he'd ever run across.

He went a little way and found where the grizzly had urinated. Dismounting, he tried to tell if the urine came from under the bear or from behind it. If from under, the bear was a male. Females usually squatted, and the urine was usually behind them. But there were no clear prints to go by.

Brain Eater had gone north for about a hundred yards and turned due west again. Shortly after, the tracks pointed to the south. To someone unfamiliar with bears it would seem the grizzly was wandering all over the place. Fargo knew better. Brain Eater was doing what bears always did; they followed their nose. Bears relied on their sense of smell more than any other faculty.

Fargo hoped Brain Eater found something to eat. A gorged bear would lay up after eating. Twice he lost the sign but found it again. The few tracks of the bear's whole paws were marvels; Bear Eater was as third again as big as most grizzlies.

Fargo was so engrossed in the spoor that when he flushed a gray fox, it startled him. It startled the fox, too; the animal bounded away and never looked back.

Noon came and went and Fargo had yet to catch a glimpse of his quarry. He was thinking of that when he came out of a stand of firs, and there, on a shelf not fifty feet above him, was Brain Eater.