was that the grizzly would have to go slower, too.
Another moment and Fargo was in among the pale boles and trembling leaves. Tightening his hold on the Sharps, he reined right, left, right again. Behind him the grizzly snarled, sounding terribly near. Fargo risked a glance and his blood became ice in his veins.
Brain Eater was almost on top of them, her slavering maw gaping wide to bite. Another instant, and the bear would sink her fangs into the Ovaro’s leg.
Fargo reined sharply aside. The grizzly, intent on the stallion, snapped and missed—and slammed into a tree with so much force that the slender bole shattered. Brain Eater pitched headlong. Roaring in baffled rage, she heaved onto all fours and resumed the chase.
Fargo had gained about twenty yards. It wasn’t much but if he could maintain the lead over the next few minutes, he could elude her. Bending low, he was finally able to shove the Sharps into the scabbard.
Brain Eater was a tornado in fur. Fueled by the fury of her fall, she came on more swiftly than ever.
Fargo broke out of the aspens. Below spread a rocky slope with scattered scrub brush. The peal of the stallion’s hooves on the rock was like the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil.
A band of talus edged the bottom. Only eight feet across it was nonetheless a peril. Talus was as treacherous for a horse as ice was for a person.
Fargo couldn’t go around. He’d have to try to cross and hope for the best. He angled toward where the talus appeared to be narrowest and was almost across when rocks cascaded from under the stallion’s rear legs and they buckled. Fargo expected to crash down but the Ovaro recovered and galloped into more woods.
Grizzlies had a justly deserved reputation for being tenacious. Brain Eater was a living example. She crashed through everything in her path. Obstacles were so much paper, to be shredded or barreled through.
Out of nowhere a gully appeared. Fargo raced along the rim, pebbles flying. Forty feet away the gully turned at a right angle. He had no recourse but to jump it. The Ovaro never broke stride. He nearly lost his hat when the stallion launched itself.
Brain Eater didn’t try to jump. Barreling headlong down one side and up the other, the bear shot out of the gully as if flung by a catapult. As it cleared the crest it roared.
Fargo was growing worried. The bear didn’t show sign of slowing.
The Ovaro came to the base of a steep hill and thundered up it. Fargo was elated to find he was gaining. He reached the crest—and drew sharp rein. He had misjudged. It wasn’t a hill. Erosion had worn the other side away, leaving a forty foot drop that overlooked a small lake.
Brain Eater charged up the slope.
Fargo had nowhere to go. Once again he was left with no recourse. A jab of his spurs, and the stallion bounded to the edge, and over. Kicking free of the stirrups, Fargo pushed clear. He cleaved the water in a dive that propelled him under. His hat came off and he grabbed it. Angling toward the light, he stroked and kicked. His buckskins and his boots hampered him.
A few more strokes and the sun was warm on his face. He sucked air into his lungs while treading water.
The Ovaro was swimming toward shore.
Brain Eater was at the bluff’s rim, staring down at them. Rearing onto her hind legs, she roared.
Fargo swam. He thought she might jump in after him but she stood there staring until his legs brushed the bottom and he wearily staggered out of the lake and sprawled on solid ground.
Brain Eater raised a giant paw and swatted the air as if it were his head, then dropped onto all fours and lumbered into the forest.
Fargo wouldn’t put it past her to circle the lake. Regaining his feet, he shuffled to the stallion. His boots squished with every step. He made sure the Sharps was still in the scabbard, forked leather, and fanned the breeze.
The dunking had soaked him to the skin. His buckskins were drenched. His saddle, his saddlebags, everything was wet. He needed to start a fire and dry out but that would have to wait. It wasn’t safe to stop until he put a lot of miles between Brain Eater and himself.
Fargo reflected on how Brain Eater almost had him. He owed his life to the Ovaro—yet again. He gave the stallion a pat. Later he would strip it and rub it down and see that the stallion had plenty to drink and ample rest.
Now that Fargo had seen Brain Eater with his own eyes, he had a better idea of what the people of Gold Creek were up against. He’d known the bear was big. He just hadn’t appreciated
Fargo wasn’t so sure that luring it to the meadow was a good idea. Cecelia didn’t realize the degree of danger she and her brood were in.
A low growl punctured Fargo’s reverie. He glanced behind him, thinking Brain Eater was after him again, but nothing was there. The growl was repeated, off to his right, and he swiveled, his hand swooping to his Colt.
It was a bear, all right.
But a different one.
13
Fargo drew rein. He remembered the two sets of eyes at the meadow. He remembered Mrs. Nesmith saying that the bear that killed her family wasn’t Brain Eater, but smaller. This one had a lighter coat, especially around the head and neck. It also had razor teeth and claws as long as Fargo’s fingers. When it growled again and moved toward him, he flew for his life.
He wanted to beat his head against a tree for being so careless. He’d been so deep in thought, he hadn’t noticed it until he was much too close.
This new bear was quicker than Brain Eater and was after them like a hound let off the leash after a coon. It roared as it charged. A raking paw nearly caught the Ovaro.
Fargo swore. Slicking the Colt, he twisted and fired. The slug drilled the ground in front of the grizzly. He thumbed back the hammer to shoot again but the bear veered and broke off the chase and disappeared into the undergrowth.
Some bears were scared of guns; the noise sent them scurrying.
Fargo didn’t stop. He had escaped two bears in as many minutes and he would be damned if he would push his luck. He stayed at a gallop until he was sure neither was after him.
It was a long ride to the meadow and his friends. The sun had been down for more than an hour when the glow of their fire told him he didn’t have far to go.
Rooster was the first to spot him, and came running with his rifle. “About damn time, pard. I was commencing to worry.” He cocked his head. “You and that horse of yours look awful peaked. And did it rain where you were?”
“I could use some coffee.” Fargo’s buckskins were still damp and uncomfortable in the growing chill of the high-country night.
Cecelia had his cup full and held it out to him. “Here you go,” she said as he dismounted.
“Where have you been, my good man?” Wendolyn asked. He was holding his teacup and saucer and was as impeccably dressed as ever in a hunting outfit that included a wide-brimmed hat with a high crown that he had told them was popular with big-game hunters in Africa.
Fargo hunkered by the fire for the warmth. He swallowed half the cup before he launched into a recital of his day. They listened with intense interest. No one interrupted. When he was done he drained the rest of the cup and promptly refilled it.
“So the two bears are sticking close to one another?” Rooster said thoughtfully. “Maybe the smaller one is her cub.”
“Too old,” Fargo said. Cubs stayed with their mothers for a year or so, two years at the most. The smaller grizzly looked to be twice that.
“Now and then a cub doesn’t want to go off on its own no matter what.”
“Then where this Brain Eater goes, the smaller one follows,” Wendy said.
