daylight left, enough to set up before dark.
The slope leveled and ahead lay shadowed forest. Fargo was watching a hawk circle when Wendy brought his buttermilk next to the Ovaro.
“I say, old chap, mind if I have a few words with you?”
“Old?” Fargo said.
“A figure of speech on my side of the pond,” Wendy said. “It doesn’t mean you’re really old.”
“What’s on your mind?” Fargo asked when the Brit didn’t go on.
“Mrs. Mathers,” Wendy said. “I didn’t say anything back at the saloon when all of you asked me to join your little expedition.”
“Is that what you call this?” Fargo said.
“I call it inspired lunacy but lunacy nonetheless,” Wendy said. “I understand it was her idea and all, but really, she is putting herself and her children in great danger.”
“We know that.”
“Yet you and the others went along with it.” Wendy slid a hand under his cap and scratched his head. “And that’s the part I don’t understand. Going along with her, I mean. It’s insane.”
“We know that, too.”
“You could have told her no,” Wendy said. “Maybe not that big lump of muscle. She has him eating out of her hand. And maybe not the old man. He has a crust on him but she cows him, I suspect. Which leaves you, and you don’t strike me as the timid sort. You could have stood up to her and shot this whole enterprise down.”
“She needs the money.”
“Is that all? Then why don’t we send her back and I’ll give her my share if we bag the brute?”
“That’s considerate of you.”
“I don’t need the money. I’m not here for the bounty, as I’ve already explained. I’m here for the sport of the hunt and nothing more.” Wendolyn motioned. “So what do you say? Do we make her go back?”
Fargo grinned. “I’d like to see anyone make Cecelia Mathers do something she doesn’t want to.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You can ask her if you want but I know what she’ll say.”
“Stubborn, is she?”
“Practical,” Fargo said. “Without her and the kids, this won’t work.”
“What makes you so certain?”
They were almost to the forest. A squirrel scampered in the upper terrace and a robin warbled.
“Have any of the hunters gotten close enough to get off a shot at Brain Eater?” Fargo asked, and answered his own question. “No, they haven’t. This bear stays away from anyone who is after it.”
“Are you saying it’s smart enough to tell the difference? Exceptional, if true.”
“I’ve never heard of a bear like this one,” Fargo said.
“In Africa once an elephant went rogue. He raided villages in the dead of night and hunted people like we’re hunting this bear. And when warriors went after him, he avoided them just as this blighter has been avoiding us.”
“I saw an elephant once,” Fargo mentioned. “It was with a circus.”
“Ah. Then you know how gigantic they are compared to these puny bears.”
“A griz is a lot of things but puny isn’t one of them.”
Wendy patted his rifle. “My beauty will prove otherwise. It’s custom-made, you see, to my specifications by Holland and Holland of Bond Street.” He proudly ran his hand along the barrel. “Most big-game guns are four bore but mine is a two. It’s the most powerful firearm there is short of a punt gun.” He opened a pouch that was slanted across his chest and held out a shell.
“Good God,” Fargo said.
Wendy smiled. “It weighs half a pound, to your Yank way of measure.”
“How much does the rifle weigh?”
“Twenty pounds.”
Fargo’s Sharps weighed about twelve and that was considerable for a rifle.
“It can drop a bull elephant in its tracks but it has its disadvantages,” Wendy said. “The smoke, for one. After I shoot I can’t hardly see. It’s like being in a fog.”
“What’s the other?”
“The recoil,” Wendy answered, and touched his right shoulder. “If you’re not braced for it, it can spin you around or knock you on your backside.” He smiled wryly. “Or break your shoulder.”
“That’s some gun,” Fargo said.
“It has to be. I’ve gone after cape buffalo and hippopotamus and rhinos, as well as elephants. All are a lot bigger than your grizzlies.”
“It’s not the size—it’s the teeth and the claws.”
“Even there, I’ve hunted lions and tigers and other big cats. I know what to expect.”
Fargo looked at him. “No,” he said. “You don’t.”
10
The meadow was a five-acre oval bordered on the north by a stream and to the west, south and east by a crescent of woodland, mostly spruce with a few oaks.
“Not bad,” Rooster declared after they had drawn rein in the center. “The griz will have to come into the open and we’ll have clear shots.”
“Exactly as you wanted,” Wendy said.
Fargo had to admit the spot was perfect. “We have a lot to get done before dark. Let’s get to it.”
Moose helped Cecelia down and she bustled about overseeing her brood and setting up the camp to her satisfaction.
Each of them stripped their own horse. Fargo took a picket pin from his saddlebag and pounded it into the ground. He preferred a pin over a hobble; in an emergency he could pull it out and ride like hell that much faster.
Abner, Thomas and Bethany collected firewood while Cecelia kindled a fire. She took a coffeepot to the stream and filled it. She also filled a pot for the stew she was making.
The aromas made Fargo’s stomach growl. The smell would also serve as a beacon and bring in any bear that caught a tantalizing whiff.
Over an hour of daylight was left, and Rooster and Moose had just sat down to rest, when Fargo proposed they build a lean-to.
“What in the world for?” Rooster demanded. “I don’t mind sleeping on the ground.”
“It’s not for us. It’s for them.” Fargo nodded at Cecelia and the children. She was stirring the stew, and glanced up.
“No need to go to all that trouble on our account.”
“It will give you someplace to run to if the bear comes. He won’t charge you if he can’t see you.”
Cecelia gazed at her offspring. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have one, at that.”
They had brought an ax and Moose took it on himself to chop down saplings and cut the limbs they needed. A thicket provided the brush for the sides. When they were done it was eight feet long and four feet deep.
Although Rooster had complained, he walked around it and declared, “A damned fine job if I say so myself.”
The long day in the saddle had given them all an appetite.
There wasn’t a drop of stew left in the pot when they were done. Fargo had two helpings plus four cups of scalding hot coffee. Leaning back, he patted his belly and said contentedly, “You’re a good cook, Cecelia.”
“It’s not all I do good,” she said, and she looked at Moose and winked.
Moose blushed.
“Tomorrow we start on the blinds first thing,” Fargo announced. He wanted them in position and ready as early as possible.
