Grizzly Fury

“It’ll be a couple of hours yet,” Fargo said. “We’ll finish the coffee and hunt cover to wait it out.”

“What then? Do we go after the bear on foot?”

“I don’t think we’ll have to,” Fargo replied. “When she’s ready she’ll come for us.”

“Tigers do the same thing,” Wendy said. “They turn on you, and the hunter becomes the hunted.” He closed his eyes and touched the bandage on his head.

“You all right?”

“I keep having dizzy spells. They don’t last long but they’re a nuisance.”

Fargo had problems of his own. His hip was stiff and his leg so sore he could barely stand to put his full weight on it. “We’re not in much shape for bear-killing.”

“We have to outthink the monster. You know these animals better than I do. Come up with an idea that will give us an edge.”

“That’s a tall order,” Fargo said. But he put his mind to it as they sat sipping coffee and listening to the distant rumble of thunder.

The wind picked up, bringing with it the scent of moisture. The sky darkened and the thunder grew louder.

They collected all the weapons and saddles and what was left of their supplies and put everything under a spruce. Its thick limbs would ward off most of the rain. For their own shelter Fargo chose a hollow overhang by the bank of the stream. As the first drops fell, they hunkered with their backs to bare earth.

Lightning speared the sky and thunder shook the ground. The firmament opened and unleashed a torrent, the rain so heavy they couldn’t see more than a few feet.

Fargo felt an occasional cool drop on his face and the lash of the wind but otherwise he was snug as a bedbug in a quilt.

The stream flowed faster, its surface pockmarked. A piece of wood went floating past, and shortly after, a frog.

Wendy had his arm across his chest and his elephant gun across his lap. He began trembling and rubbed his hands together.

“You cold?”

“Like a block of ice,” the Brit confirmed.

Fargo frowned. The temperature hadn’t fallen more than a couple of degrees. He wondered if infection was setting in. It was common with animal bites, and often fatal.

“When we are back to Gold Creek, the first thing I am going to do is take a hot bath,” Wendy said. “I may stay in the tub for a month.”

“You’ll be the talk of the town,” Fargo joked. “Most men don’t take but one bath a year and keep it as short as they can.”

“I’ve noticed that about you Yanks. Moose, God rest his soul, had an atrocious stink. And those Blackfeet had a peculiar smell about them, as well.”

“That was the bear fat.”

“I beg your pardon?” Wendy said.

“Some tribes rub bear grease in their hair to make it shine. One uses red clay. In the Southwest there’s a tribe that’s fond of smearing their hair with pulp they dig out of a cactus. Another uses buffalo shit sometimes.”

“My word. That’s barbaric.”

“By your standards,” Fargo said.

“Here now,” Wendy said. “By any standard, to use buffalo excrement in one’s hair is despicable.”

“Some use piss.”

“I’m beginning to suspect that you’re making this up. No one in their right mind would do that.”

Fargo was about to say that people made do with what was on hand when he sensed movement in the rain. He looked, and a tingle ran down his spine.

Something was coming toward them.

Fargo stayed still. Whatever it was, odds were it hadn’t seen them. Wendy went to speak and Fargo put his finger to his lips and then pointed at the vague shape in the rain. All they could tell was that it was big.

The thing stopped in front of the hollow.

Fargo placed both hands on his Sharps. Whatever it was, it knew they were there.

Wendy motioned at his elephant gun and at the creature and pantomimed shooting it.

Fargo shook his head.

Wendy silently mouthed the words, “Why not?”

As if to answer him, the rain parted and the Ovaro stuck its head under the overhang.

“I’ll be damned,” Wendy said.

Fargo’s joy was boundless. Reaching up, he patted the stallion’s neck. “It’s good to see you again.” The stallion nuzzled him and he scratched around its ears and under its jaw.

There was more movement, and a second and third horse clustered at the opening.

“Our lucky day,” Wendy beamed, patting one.

Thunderstorms in the high country swept in swiftly and just as swiftly swept off to the east. Already the rain was slackening and the lightning flashed less.

Fargo stayed put until the drizzle dwindled to random drops. Emerging, he led the Ovaro and another horse over to the spruce. Wendolyn brought the third. When Fargo bent and picked up his saddle blanket, he said, “Going somewhere?”

“Bethany,” was all Fargo had to say.

Two hours of daylight remained, enough for them to sweep in a wide circle. The rain washed away any tracks the girl made but Fargo had to try. Twilight was falling when he reined toward the meadow.

“I kept hoping Brain Eater will have another go at us,” Wendy said.

“Be careful what you hope for.”

Gathering enough dry wood to last the night took a long time. For supper they had coffee and beans. Fargo was ravenous and had two helpings. He was spooning up the last of the sauce when Wendy cleared his throat.