Grizzly Fury

Neither bear appeared.

Two more days and nights wore on their nerves. They never knew but when one or another of the man-killers would come bursting out of nowhere to rip and rend.

The next morning dawned clear and brisk. Wendy had the last watch and woke everyone.

Fargo cast off his blanket and stood. He needed coffee but first he went to the stream. Kneeling, he dipped his hands in the cold water and splashed it on his face. Usually that was enough to jar him awake. He did it several times and wiped his face with his sleeve. As he went to rise he glanced to one side.

There was a moccasin print in a strip of mud. The print had not been there the day before because he had knelt at the exact spot.

Fargo examined it. The imprint was smooth and clear; it had been made in the past hour. He placed his hand on his Colt and stared across the stream at the wall of vegetation.

Rooster came shuffling up, and grumbling. “My old bones don’t take to lying on the ground as good as they used to. I should have brought extra blankets.” He stopped. “What has you looking like a dog on point?”

Fargo pointed at the mud.

“Damn,” Rooster said, and squatted. “He was spying on us, I bet.”

Fargo nodded.

“And where there’s one there are more. The question is, how many?”

“The question is, which tribe?” Fargo said. Given where they were, it could be one of two, either the Blackfeet or the Bloods. Neither were fond of whites.

Rooster knew that, too. “This ain’t good. They won’t like us being here.”

The rest took the news uneasily except for Wendolyn.

“I say, why the long faces? These savages won’t bother us, will they? Not with all the guns we have.”

“Hell, English,” Rooster said. “That’s just it. They might attack us to get our guns.”

“Or our horses,” Fargo said. The Blackfeet, in particular, esteemed horse stealing highly, almost as high as counting coup on an enemy.

Wendy patted his elephant gun. “If they try they will regret it.”

“Ever fought Indians?” Rooster asked.

“I can’t say as I have, no.”

“Then don’t act like you know what you’re talking about. At short range their bows are as lethal as that cannon of yours. And they can loose arrows a damn sight faster than you can shoot.”

“I still say they’ll think twice. And if they attack we’ll give them bloody hell.”

Cecelia had her arms around her kids. “What about us? You men they’ll kill and scalp. But what do they do to women and children? Take them captive?”

“The kids they might,” Rooster said, and let it go at that.

“Oh,” Cecelia said.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” Moose said. “I’ll pick them up and break them over my knee like I done to a Sioux once.”

“As if we didn’t have enough to worry about with the bears,” Rooster muttered.

Fargo was sipping coffee. “I could try to talk to them. Find out what they’re up to.”

“How would you go about it?” Cecelia asked.

“By going off into the woods alone. If they’re still around, they might show themselves.”

“Or they could stick arrows in you from ambush and put your hair on display in a lodge,” Rooster said.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Cecelia said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Moose scowled. “If he wants to we should let him. Why are you worrying about him, anyhow?”

“He’s one of us,” Cecelia said.

“Well, you shouldn’t so much. Your kids and me are who you should worry about.”

“What are you goin’ on about? Naturally I worry about you and my kids.”

“I’m just saying,” Moose said.

“Well, you’re bein’ silly. We can’t afford to lose Skye, not when we still have Brain Eater to kill.”

“Don’t forget that other bear,” Rooster said.

Wendy grinned and patted his rifle. “Bears and savages. I must say, this is more exciting than I dared hope it would be.”

Rooster squinted at him. “Tell me something, hoss.”

“Anything, my fine friend.”

“Are all Brits as loco as you?”

14

The forest was quiet save for the distant screech of a jay. Fargo glided from cover to cover, his ears pricked, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

Only a fool took the Blackfeet or their allies, the Bloods, lightly, and Fargo wasn’t a fool. They were fierce fighters.

He suspected they were somewhere near, spying on him and the others, which was why he had crawled from the back of the lean-to to the stream and quickly waded across into the woods while the others stayed at the fire to try and draw attention.

Something moved up ahead. Fargo crouched and brought the Sharps to his shoulder. A doe appeared, followed by a fawn with spots, and he lowered it again.

Fargo hoped to God he could avert bloodshed. He harbored no animosity toward the Blackfeet or Bloods, or any other tribe, for that matter. He’d as soon get along with all of them. But he was white and some tribes hated whites for the same reason some whites hated Indians: the color of their skin. It was a stupid reason to hate, but if there was one thing as common as air, it was stupidity.

Fargo frowned. He was letting himself be distracted. Moving on, he crept past a high pine and several oaks. Beyond rose a low knoll. He was about to climb it when he heard a thud from the other side.