Grizzly Fury

Fargo turned and sprinted back. He slowed when he neared the shack so the bear wouldn’t hear. That was when he realized, to his shock, that he had forgotten to grab the Sharps. He drew the Colt. The crunching had stopped. He cautiously peered around the corner and almost swore out loud.

The grizzly was gone. Incredulous, Fargo crouched and glided toward the spot where he had last seen it. Any movement, however slight, caused him to freeze: the twitch of a leaf, the flutter of a butterfly, the flight of a sparrow. He smelled the blood before he saw the remains. An arm was severed, a leg mangled. The sternum had been opened like a breadbox, exposing the ribs and the organs underneath.

Fargo was astounded by how much damage the grizzly had inflicted in so short a span. It had to be there somewhere but for the life of him he couldn’t spot it. He looked behind an oak barely wide enough to hide a broom and realized how foolish he was being. He went another ten feet, and halted in consternation.

Down the stream, the day was shattered by the scream of a girl in mortal terror.

26

Fargo flew. Beyond the cottonwoods was a straight stretch but no Ovaro or the pair on him. In his mind’s eye he saw them fleeing for their lives with the man-killer after them.

Worry gnawed at Fargo like a termite at wood. He ran until his chest was ready to burst. Stopping, he doubled over and sucked in deep breaths. He would rest for a minute and go on.

The forest was quiet. He marveled at how quickly the bear had circled the cabin and gone after the Ovaro. It was pure luck the grizzly hadn’t spotted him or caught his scent.

The ache lessened and Fargo ran. He kept thinking he would spot Wendy and Bethany around each bend but he didn’t. When his exhausted body couldn’t take the punishment anymore, he stopped. He was caked with sweat, his lungs in torment. Sinking to a knee, he listened in vain for some sound that would tell him the Brit and the girl were safe. When he recovered sufficiently, he set off again.

A copse of alders blocked his view. He was almost to them when he heard a grunt. Darting to his left to a log, he flattened on the other side. Not a moment too soon.

Brain Eater came out of the alders. Her head was down and she was rumbling in her chest. Dried blood splotched her coat. She went a short way past the log and stopped. Raising her nose to the breeze, she sniffed. Then she sniffed the ground.

Fargo’s gut churned. She had caught his scent. If she found him he was dead. The Colt was a man-stopper but all it would do was annoy her.

Brain Eater turned in a circle, still sniffing. She looked south and she looked north. Growling, she lumbered off at a brisk clip, her hump rising and falling with every dip of her enormous body.

Fargo figured she would go as far as the shack, realize her mistake, and come after him. The moment she was out of sight he was up and through the alders. He paced himself, his lungs be damned. It was life or death and he was fond of breathing.

He took pride in his stamina. Not that long ago he’d taken part in an annual footrace that drew some of the best runners in the country, including an Apache girl famed for her fleetness. He didn’t win but he came close, and now he called on all his ability to get as far from the griz as he could.

He fretted about the Ovaro, and Beth and the Brit. He hadn’t heard shrieks or shots but he hadn’t heard any when the man at the shack was killed, either. The stallion’s tracks reassured him.

Fargo ran until his legs were mush and his lungs were on fire. Gasping for breath, he shuffled to a boulder close to the water and sat. His hands on his knees, he waited for his body to stop aching. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he was stranded afoot with no food and miles to cover to reach town.

A distant grunt warned him that Brain Eater had taken up the chase.

Fargo rose and made to the south. She would overtake him long before he reached Gold Creek. With just the Colt and the toothpick, killing her was next to impossible.

He could slow her down, though. He swept the ground for a suitable stick and found one about a foot long and as thick as his thumb. He drew the Arkansas toothpick and sharpened one end as he ran.

By the position of the sun he had seven or eight hours of daylight left. Enough to rig several traps. Maybe a deadfall, too, although that would take a lot of doing.

The grizzly was smart but he was smarter. He must believe that more than he believed anything if he was to have any chance at surviving.

From a fork high in an oak Fargo watched to see what would happen.

Grizzlies were sharp-eyed brutes. Brain Eater spotted his bandanna. She stopped and gazed warily about and sniffed. She walked up to it and sniffed some more. She put a front paw on it, unaware that it was stretched over a hole and held in place with small rocks, and that under it was the sharpened stick, embedded deep. She tried to draw back but her own weight worked against her. She yowled as the tip pierced her paw.