Grizzly Fury

They decided to send for the best bear hunter in the territory.

His fee was a hundred dollars but that was money well spent if they could be rid of the grizzly.

The bear hunter came. He brought his own dogs, four of the largest and meanest-looking hounds anyone had ever seen. He spent an evening drinking and boasting of his prowess and the next morning he and his mean-looking hounds rode off after the bear.

No one ever set eyes on the hunter or his dogs again. About a month after the bear hunter disappeared, two men going up the creek to their claim happened on a dead mule. Its throat had been ripped out. Its owner, or rather, parts of him, lay nearby. He had a hole in the top of his head as big around as a pie pan. And no brain.

Another hunt was organized. Every last man who lived in or around Gold Creek was required to report with a rifle and be mustered into what the town council called the Bear Militia. They took to the field with high hopes. Every square foot for miles was scoured. They didn’t find so much as a fresh track.

The hunt was deemed a success. They told themselves that their show of force had scared the bear off—that they were shed of it once and for all.

The next morning the parson rode out to visit an elderly woman and her husband. The woman was sickly and the parson paid daily visits to bolster her spirits. Their cabin was less than a quarter of a mile from Gold Creek. He knew something was wrong when he saw that the door hung by a hinge. Clutching his Bible, the parson made bold to poke his head in. He promptly drew it out again, and retched.

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?”