Grizzly Fury

Fargo wished he could shove the Sharps into the saddle scabbard so he’d have both hands free for riding. He was half tempted to twist in the saddle and fire but common sense checked the impulse. To hit a moving target from a galloping horse was more luck than anything. Even if he hit it he might not kill it, and wounded grizzlies were fiercely vengeful.

Woods loomed. Not daring to slow, Fargo plunged into them. Spruce were all around him. Limbs whipped past his face and snatched at his buckskins. His cheek stung and his shoulder was jarred. Then the trees thinned and Fargo was in the open again. But not for long. A belt of aspens spread before him.

Fargo steeled himself. Aspens grew close together. So close, threading a horse through them was a challenge. He’d have to constantly shift and turn, and ride slower. The only consolation, if it could be called that, was that the grizzly would have to go slower, too.

Another moment and Fargo was in among the pale boles and trembling leaves. Tightening his hold on the Sharps, he reined right, left, right again. Behind him the grizzly snarled, sounding terribly near. Fargo risked a glance and his blood became ice in his veins.

Brain Eater was almost on top of them, her slavering maw gaping wide to bite. Another instant, and the bear would sink her fangs into the Ovaro’s leg.

Fargo reined sharply aside. The grizzly, intent on the stallion, snapped and missed—and slammed into a tree with so much force that the slender bole shattered. Brain Eater pitched headlong. Roaring in baffled rage, she heaved onto all fours and resumed the chase.

Fargo had gained about twenty yards. It wasn’t much but if he could maintain the lead over the next few minutes, he could elude her. Bending low, he was finally able to shove the Sharps into the scabbard.

Brain Eater was a tornado in fur. Fueled by the fury of her fall, she came on more swiftly than ever.

Fargo broke out of the aspens. Below spread a rocky slope with scattered scrub brush. The peal of the stallion’s hooves on the rock was like the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil.

A band of talus edged the bottom. Only eight feet across it was nonetheless a peril. Talus was as treacherous for a horse as ice was for a person.

Fargo couldn’t go around. He’d have to try to cross and hope for the best. He angled toward where the talus appeared to be narrowest and was almost across when rocks cascaded from under the stallion’s rear legs and they buckled. Fargo expected to crash down but the Ovaro recovered and galloped into more woods.

Grizzlies had a justly deserved reputation for being tenacious. Brain Eater was a living example. She crashed through everything in her path. Obstacles were so much paper, to be shredded or barreled through.

Out of nowhere a gully appeared. Fargo raced along the rim, pebbles flying. Forty feet away the gully turned at a right angle. He had no recourse but to jump it. The Ovaro never broke stride. He nearly lost his hat when the stallion launched itself.

Brain Eater didn’t try to jump. Barreling headlong down one side and up the other, the bear shot out of the gully as if flung by a catapult. As it cleared the crest it roared.

Fargo was growing worried. The bear didn’t show sign of slowing.

The Ovaro came to the base of a steep hill and thundered up it. Fargo was elated to find he was gaining. He reached the crest—and drew sharp rein. He had misjudged. It wasn’t a hill. Erosion had worn the other side away, leaving a forty foot drop that overlooked a small lake.

Brain Eater charged up the slope.

Fargo had nowhere to go. Once again he was left with no recourse. A jab of his spurs, and the stallion bounded to the edge, and over. Kicking free of the stirrups, Fargo pushed clear. He cleaved the water in a dive that propelled him under. His hat came off and he grabbed it. Angling toward the light, he stroked and kicked. His buckskins and his boots hampered him.

A few more strokes and the sun was warm on his face. He sucked air into his lungs while treading water.

The Ovaro was swimming toward shore.

Brain Eater was at the bluff’s rim, staring down at them. Rearing onto her hind legs, she roared.

Fargo swam. He thought she might jump in after him but she stood there staring until his legs brushed the bottom and he wearily staggered out of the lake and sprawled on solid ground.

Brain Eater raised a giant paw and swatted the air as if it were his head, then dropped onto all fours and lumbered into the forest.

Fargo wouldn’t put it past her to circle the lake. Regaining his feet, he shuffled to the stallion. His boots squished with every step. He made sure the Sharps was still in the scabbard, forked leather, and fanned the breeze.

The dunking had soaked him to the skin. His buckskins were drenched. His saddle, his saddlebags, everything was wet. He needed to start a fire and dry out but that would have to wait. It wasn’t safe to stop until he put a lot of miles between Brain Eater and himself.