by Jon Sharpe
Fargo had a thought. “We can go that one better. We’ll shoot a deer and bring it here to bleed out.”
“What’ll that do?”
Rooster grinned and snapped his fingers. “I get it, hoss. It’s the blood. Grizzlies can smell blood from a mile off.”
“They can?” Cecelia said. “Then why not kill two deer and bleed them? Or even three?”
“What do we do with all that meat?”
“Leave what we don’t eat to rot.”
“No, we dry it and smoke it for jerky,” Fargo proposed.
Between the blood and the venison, he reckoned it just might work.
Rooster excitedly rubbed his hands together. “This is the best idea we’ve had yet. Let’s get to it at first light.”
With the rising of the sun they split into hunting parties. Bird Rattle and his friends went off in one direction, Moose and Wendy in another, Fargo and Rooster yet a third. Usually they saw a lot of deer but by midmorning they hadn’t seen one. When Rooster drew rein in disgust, so did Fargo.
“Figures,” the old scout complained. “There’s never a deer around when you want to shoot one.”
Fargo was about to say that the others might be having better luck when he spied gray coils winding skyward over a mile away and half a mile lower down. “Smoke.”
“Got to be whites. Redskins are smart enough not to let folks know where they are. Should we have a look-see?”
The smoke was thinning by the time they crossed a ridge that overlooked a picturesque valley.
“Yonder, near those trees,” Rooster said, pointing. He rose in his stirrups. “Do you see what I see?”
Fargo did. Shucking the Sharps from his saddle scabbard, he gigged the Ovaro. They descended through heavy timber to the valley floor.
The Ovaro nickered.
“Side by side,” Fargo instructed. “You cover left, I’ll cover right.”
“I’ll watch our backs too.” Rooster’s horse shied and he had to calm it.
The valley was as quiet as a cemetery. Other than a butterfly there was no sign of life. A strong breeze rustled the grass.
“It can’t have been long ago if the fire’s still going,” Rooster said.
“No,” Fargo agreed.
“The damn thing could be anywhere.”
A patch of grass seemed to bulge and Fargo jerked his Sharps up. But it was only another gust.
“You’re twitchy, pard,” Rooster said, and chuckled.
“I’m fond of breathing,” Fargo said. The smell of the smoke was strong. So was another smell that was becoming all too familiar.
The fire was down to charred wood and glowing embers. Beside it lay a coffeepot on its side and an overturned frying pan. Packs had been torn open and the contents strewn about. A sack of flour had burst, spraying flour over what was left of a man who lay sprawled facedown. His clothes were in shreds but enough remained to show he had been wearing overalls with suspenders.
“It’s one of those would-be bear hunters,” Rooster said. “I can’t recollect his name but he makes his living as a store clerk.”
Part of the clerk’s head was missing. Gore oozed from the empty skull.
“Brain Eater,” Rooster said.
Fargo thought he was referring to the dead man’s head.
Then a gigantic shape lumbered out of the woods and growled.
16
“Shoot her!” Rooster cried, snapping his Sharps to his shoulder.
“No!” Fargo said. “Not yet!” He hoped the grizzly would rise onto her rear legs and give them a better shot at her vitals.
Rooster didn’t heed. His rifle boomed. Blood sprayed from the she-bear’s head and she recoiled. But the slug had only grazed her. Opening her maw, she let out with a tremendous roar.
“Ride!” Fargo bawled.
Rooster hauled on his reins but his horse had only begun to turn when Brain Eater slammed into it with the impact of an avalanche. The horse squealed and crashed down. Rooster tried to shove clear but his leg was pinned. He pushed at the saddle as his horse, kicking wildly, sought to rise.
Fargo raised his rifle. He didn’t have much of a shot; the grizzly’s flank was to him.
Brain Eater sank her teeth in the horse’s neck. The horse shrieked, and there was a crunch. With a powerful wrench Brain Eater tore the stricken animal’s throat out and swallowed a chunk of flesh.
Rooster was still frantically trying to free himself.
“Lie still!” Fargo shouted. The bear might ignore him if Rooster pretended to be dead.
Instead, Rooster groped in his pocket. He found a new cartridge and fumbled at inserting it. He wasn’t looking at the grizzly.
Fargo fired just as Brain Eater’s mouth closed on Rooster’s head. Rooster screamed and tried to pull away. His eyes fixed on Fargo in terrified appeal, and then there was another, louder, crunch as Brain Eater ripped the top of his head off.
Transfixed, Fargo saw the grizzly stick her snout into the hole in Rooster’s head, and slurp. Rooster’s brain oozed out and she gobbled it down in quick gulps. Then she stepped back and turned—toward the Ovaro.
Self-preservation broke Fargo’s spell. Rooster was gone and if he stayed and made a fight of it, he was as good as gone, too.
Brain Eater exploded into motion.
Fargo fled. The stallion galloped toward the far end of the valley with the giant grizzly pounding in pursuit. Teeth gnashed; the bear was biting at the Ovaro’s tail. Fargo twisted and fired at the grizzly’s broad skull. He hit it, too, because a scarlet furrow blossomed. His slug, like Rooster’s, failed to penetrate.
But Brain Eater did slow and shake her head as if she were trying to clear it.
Fargo galloped on. When he glanced over his shoulder the grizzly had stopped. He didn’t. Not until he was in the trees.
Brain Eater was tearing at the dead horse. She ignored Rooster. Apparently the only part of a human she liked to eat were the brains.
Fargo stared at his friend, thinking of former times. “Damn.” Yet another he had lost. At the rate things were going, by the time he reached old age he wouldn’t have any friends left.
He had a decision to make. He could tuck tail and ride off, leaving the grizzly free to go on killing, or he could try to stop the slaughter once and for all.
Dismounting, Fargo tied off the reins. He could get closer on foot than on horseback. He reloaded and stalked along the tree line toward the bear. She was so intent on her feast, she’d forgotten about him.
Fargo moved from cover to cover with the speed of molasses. Any faster, and the movement might give him away.
Brain Eater was standing side-on. Fargo had a good shot if he could get close enough.
The grizzly gnawed at an eye socket. She seemed to like eyes as much as she liked brains.
Fargo raised his Sharps but didn’t shoot. Not yet. He needed to be certain. He skirted a small blue spruce and stopped dead.
Brain Eater was staring in his direction.
Fargo broke out in a sweat. Had she or hadn’t she seen him? He was too far from the Ovaro to reach it if she came after him.
Brain Eater resumed feeding. But something in the way she stood warned Fargo that she was suspicious and was keeping her eye on his vicinity. He took a step and she raised her head.
Fargo froze.
The grizzly raised her muzzle and sniffed. Shifting, she resumed filling her stomach.
Fargo flattened. She couldn’t see him now so it was safe to move faster. Or so he thought until he heard a growl and raised his head high enough to see over the grass.
Brain Eater had stopped feeding and was holding her head high, scenting the wind. Blood dribbled from her mouth and gleamed red on her throat.
Fargo crabbed to an oak. Keeping it between him and the bear, he slowly stood and brought the Sharps to his shoulder. He was close enough.
Brain Eater was still testing the breeze.
I’ve got you now, Fargo thought. He aligned the front
sight with the rear sight and placed his finger on the trigger.
All he had to do was cock the hammer.
Another growl sent a ripple of consternation down Fargo’s spine. It didn’t come from in front of him. It came from behind him. He took his cheek from the Sharps and looked over his shoulder.
It was the other bear, the male, the one the Blackfeet called Little Penis.
Even as Fargo set eyes on him, Little Penis charged.
Fargo had no time to shoot and nowhere to run. Instead he jumped at a low limb, caught hold, and pulled himself into the tree. He barely made it. Claws raked his boot. He scrambled higher. The male reared and bit at Fargo’s leg, and missed.
Fargo gained a new hold, rising out of reach. Little Penis didn’t like that. He roared and clawed at the oak and might have gone on clawing at it if not for crashing in the brush.
Suddenly Brain Eater was there.
The grizzlies stared at one another and Little Penis sank onto all fours.
Fargo tried to aim at her but branches were in the way. He carefully shifted to find a better position.
Brain Eater came to the tree. She looked up, tilting her head to see him. She sniffed the air and the male sniffed her and she turned to him and they rubbed heads.
Fargo still didn’t have a shot.
Brain Eater uttered a low whine and moved off into the timber. Little Penis went on sniffing, and followed.
Fargo waited several minutes after the sounds of their passage faded before he risked descending. Bears sometimes circled back on prey, although in this instance he suspected they had something else on their minds.
Once he was on the ground, Fargo ran. He was covered with sweat and puffing when he climbed on the Ovaro. The smart thing to do was leave, to get as far from the two grizzlies as he could. Instead he rode down the valley to Rooster.
Fargo scanned the slopes above. He didn’t expect to see the bears but he did. They were climbing side by side. As he watched, they stopped and rubbed against one another and then moved into a dense growth of firs.
“True love,” Fargo said, but he didn’t laugh. Climbing down, he went through Rooster’s pockets, then dragged the body into the shade and covered the old scout’s remains with branches and rocks and dirt. He also salvaged what he could from Rooster’s saddlebags. He tied Rooster’s Sharps on the Ovaro with his bedroll.
A dry blood trail led him to the man who made the fire: another bear hunter. The man had lost an arm and a foot and half his head was gone. So was his brain.
The sun was on its westward incline when Fargo reined the Ovaro to the northwest. He wasn’t going after the two grizzlies alone. One, yes, he could handle, but to tackle two was to ask for an early grave.
Twilight was spreading its colorless blanket over the wilds when Fargo reached the meadow. The others were already back.
Moose and Wendy were by the fire with Cecelia and the kids. The Blackfeet were at their own fire near the stream. He wearily climbed down. Without saying a word he knelt and helped himself to coffee and gulped half the cup.
Everyone stared. The Blackfeet came over and waited for him to say something.
It was Moose who glanced into the woods and said, “Where’s Rooster? Did you leave the old goat behind?”
“He’s dead,” Fargo said.
“I’m sorry,” Cecelia said. “I know him and you go a ways back.”
“Breaks Heads?” Bird Rattler asked.
Fargo nodded. “She and the male are together.”
“As if the one ain’t problem enough,” Cecelia said.
Moose nodded. “They could stay together for days or weeks. It’ll be that much harder for us.”
“Twice the challenge, eh, mates?” Wendy said with a happy grin.
Fargo was refilling his cup. “Rooster wouldn’t think so.”
“What do we do?” Cecelia asked. “How do we kill two bears when we can’t kill the one?”
All eyes fixed on Fargo again. “Could be they’ll lay up for a while,” he guessed. “They have Rooster’s horse to eat so they won’t be in a hurry to go anywhere. We can go back there tomorrow and end this.”
“All of us?” Moose said, and shook his head. “I’m staying with Cecelia.”
“No,” she said.
“I won’t leave you and the kids alone.”
“You don’t take part, we’re not entitled to any of the bounty.”
Fargo spoke up. “You each get your share whether he comes or not. It will be safer for you if he stays.”
“I won’t be coddled,” Cecelia said.
“I’d be too worried,” Moose said.
“What can happen? The bears are miles from here.” Cecelia looked at Bird Rattler. “Are there any other of your people hereabouts?”
“No.”
“There you have it,” Cecelia said to Moose. “We’ll be perfectly fine. You go off with these others and do what you have to.”
“But—” Moose began, and she held up a hand.
“I won’t have a man who uses me as an excuse.”
“It’s not—” Moose started again, but this time she covered his mouth with her palm.
“Prove to me you’re worth a damn. Go off and help kill Brain Eater and that other one if you have to and get us the money we need.” She removed her hand. “You hear me?”
“Whatever you say,” Moose said.
“That’s settled then.” Cecelia smiled sweetly. “It’s getting late. I’d better start on supper.” She collected her kids and ushered them toward the lean-to.
“You know,” Wendy said, “I’ve hunted elephant and rhino. I’ve pitted myself against tigers and jaguars. But there’s nothing on this earth half as formidable as a woman with her dander up.”
“Does that mean you’d be scared of her if you was me?” Moose asked.
“In a word, my good man, yes.”
Moose sighed. “I sure could use a drink right about now.”
“We all could,” Fargo said.
17
Buzzards covered the horse. They tore at the flesh with their beaks and swallowed the meat whole. A red fox sat on its haunches nearby. Twice it had approached but the vultures hissed and flapped their wings and the fox timidly retreated.
“I don’t see no bears,” Moose said.
They were on the ridge Fargo had crossed the day before. Sunlight bathed the valley. Only the thickest of the timber was in shadow. A yellow finch was conspicuous. So was a jay high in a pine.
“Where did you see the fearsome blighters last?” Wendy asked.
Fargo pointed at the firs on the opposite slope. “Going into those trees.”
“They might still be there,” Moose said.
“You’re the expert on bears,” Wendolyn said. “Do we wait for them to come out or do we go in after them?”
Bird Rattler and his friends had not uttered a word the entire ride. But now the venerable warrior cleared his throat and said, “Go in.”
“Catch them napping, as it were?” Wendy said. “I like the idea.”
Fargo didn’t. Something was bothering him but he couldn’t put his mental finger on the cause.
“Piikani go there,” Bird Rattler said, and pointed at the west end of the fir belt. “White-eyes go there,” and he pointed at the east end.
“Piikani?” Wendy said.
“It’s what the Blackfeet call themselves,” Fargo explained. The names that whites called most tribes weren’t their real names. The Apaches were the Shis-Inday. The Comanches called themselves the Numunu. The Crows were the Apsaalooke.
“It’ll take us half the day to get up there,” Moose observed.
“Stay here if you want,” Wendy said. “Personally, I like going into the bush after dangerous game. It adds to the thrill.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t go.”
Wendy ran a hand over his elephant gun. “At last I can put my beauty to the test.”
They agreed that each group would start into the fir
s when the sun was at its zenith. Then they separated and began their climb. The terrain was rugged, their ascent arduous. Still, Fargo and his companions reached the fir belt half an hour before they were to move in. “We’ll rest a bit,” he announced. Shucking the Sharps, he sat with his back to a boulder, plucked a blade of grass, and stuck it in his mouth. From where he sat he could see the buzzards and the fox.
Wendy breathed deep of the rarefied air, and smiled.
“I daresay I like this country of yours. These mountains stir the very soul.”
“They’re just mountains,” Moose said.
“That’s like saying the ocean is just water. Look about you.” The Brit gestured. “These noble crags and lofty heights are a testament to the grandeur of creation. They would inspire a poet to rapturous verse.”
“Raptu-what?”
“The hand of an artist is everywhere. Don’t you feel it?”
“I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about,” Moose said.
The Britisher appealed to Fargo. “Surely you understand. Explain it to him, if you would.”
“I don’t need him to,” Moose said. “I ain’t dumb. You got your head in the clouds.”
“I doubt you comprehend at all,” Wendy said.
Moose bunched his fists. “Keep talking to me like that and so help me, I’ll pound you.”
“Talk a little louder so the bloody bears will know we’re here.”
“They already do.”
“Is that true?” Wendy asked Fargo.
“Odds are,” Fargo said.
“Then how do we sneak up on them?”
“We don’t.”
“Is this like tiger hunting? Do we go in and make a lot of noise and drive them toward the Indians? Or do the Indians drive them toward us?”
“Drive a grizzly?” Moose said, and laughed.
“We go in and hope we get off a shot before they claw us to bits,” Fargo said.
“You make it sound as if we’re depending entirely on luck.”
“Now the foreigner gets it,” Moose said.
Wendolyn muttered something about Yanks, shouldered his elephant gun, and walked away.
Moose chuckled. “I reckon I hurt his feelings.”
“Go easy on him. That elephant gun of his could come in handy.”