Grizzly Fury

“Or get off a shot,” Fargo said. Most meat-eaters did the same. They snuck as near as they could to their quarry before they pounced.

“You reckon this bear is gun savvy?”

“I’ve seen it before,” Fargo said. Bears and other animals were shot at or saw a man use a gun and equated firearms with danger and stayed away from those who carried them.

“We got us one smart bear here.”

“So everyone keeps saying.”

Fargo penetrated another hundred yards but didn’t find more prints. The pines rose in a series of slopes to a phalanx of firs. Above the firs reared a stark spire. “How about we go up and take a gander at the countryside?”

“I don’t have nothing better to do.”

The climb took two hours. Their horses toiled up steep inclines and they skirted deadfalls and rock outcroppings to finally reach a stone shelf. Drawing rein, they climbed down.

Fargo cast his eyes over nature in all her splendor. Peaks that slashed the clouds. Mountains abundant with timber, split by gorges and ravines. From that height the creek was a thin blue ribbon that contrasted with the greens and browns of the woodland. To the east a pair of bald eagles soared.

Rooster breathed in deep. “God, I love the wilds. Once they’re in your blood, you can’t ever get them out.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” Fargo said. He could no more take up city life than he could give up whiskey or women. About to turn to the Ovaro, he gave a start.

High on a mountain to the north was the green rectangle of a meadow. A creature was crossing it. Even at that distance, its bulk and ambling gait and color left no doubt what it was.

“Brain Eater,” Fargo said.

Rooster turned and blurted, “I’ll be damned! God, he must be huge.”

Fargo looked at him. “What do you say?”

“We go for it,” Rooster said eagerly.

They mounted and headed north. Fargo didn’t push. It wouldn’t do to exhaust their mounts to reach the meadow any sooner. Given all he had learned about Brain Eater, they had a long hunt ahead.

Rather than go all the way down to the creek and then up the next mountain to the meadow, they crossed a spiny ridge and wound along a switchback to a bench that brought them to within a quarter of a mile. A short climb and they were there.

“He’s long gone by now,” Rooster said. “But lookee here, hoss.”

Grizzlies ate plants as well as the flesh of anything they could catch, and Brain Eater had treated himself to some yellow violets. In the process he had torn at the ground to get at the roots, and there, as clear as could be, was the entire track of a forepaw. Fargo looked, and whistled.

“Know what you mean,” Rooster said. “It gives me goose bumps.”

Climbing down, Fargo sank to one knee. Typical grizzly tracks for a mature male were ten to twelve inches long and seven to eight inches wide. This track was nearer to twenty inches long and fifteen to sixteen inches across. He held his spread fingers over the print; it dwarfed his hand.

“Jesus,” Rooster breathed. “The thing is a monster.”

Fargo nodded. He had never seen griz tracks this huge. Hell, he’d never heard of griz tracks like this.

To the west the sun sat perched on the rim of the world. The shadows around them were lengthening.

“Looks like we camp here for the night and go after Brain Eater at daybreak,” Rooster said.

Fargo took a picket pin from his saddlebags and pounded it into the ground using a rock. Rooster hobbled his horse. They stripped both animals and Rooster set about gathering firewood. Fargo half filled his coffeepot from his canteen and after kindling a fire, put coffee on. He shared his pemmican and they sat chewing as the day gave way to the gray of evening and the gray gave way to the black of night. Above them a multitude of stars sparkled.

A coyote yipped but otherwise quiet reined.

“Peaceful, ain’t it?” Rooster said. “Almost makes me forget what we’re up here for.”

As if they needed a reminder, from out of the nearby woods rumbled a menacing growl.

4

Fargo was on his feet in an instant, the Sharps pressed to his shoulder.

“It can’t be,” Rooster said, rising. “He should be long gone by now.”

The growl came again, louder and longer, and from the sound, the bear was moving.

“He’s circling,” Rooster said.

Fargo thought he glimpsed the gleam of eyeshine in the trees. “When he rushes us go for the heart or lungs.” The skull was a poor target. The bone was inches thick.

The growling suddenly ceased.

Fargo and Rooster peered hard into the blanket of ink but minutes went by and no sounds or movement betrayed the beast’s presence.

“Strange he hasn’t come at us,” Rooster whispered as if afraid his voice would provoke an attack.

Fargo stayed silent and focused on the woods.

“Maybe it wasn’t him,” Rooster said. “Maybe it was something else.”

It had sounded like a bear to Fargo, and while the northern Rockies had more bears than any other part of the country, the odds of it being another were slim.

For more than ten minutes they stood in tense expectation of a roar and a charge that didn’t materialize. Finally Fargo lowered his Sharps and scratched his chin.