Wendy looked at her and smiled. “I’d almost forgotten about you, child. Now there are the three of us but only one horse.”
“We’ll look for yours,” Fargo said. He picked up the elephant gun and had Wendy climb on the Ovaro. Then he handed up the rifle and went to lift Bethany.
“No,” she said. “I want to be with you.”
“I need my hands free.”
“I like you,” she said.
“It’s for your own good.”
“Please.”
Fargo looked at the Brit, who shrugged.
“I remember Fanny saying that you have a way with the ladies.”
“Who’s Fanny?” Bethany asked.
“A friend.” Fargo held her on his left hip and the reins in his right hand and followed a trail of crushed grass and brush. It went for almost a mile, to the crest of a ridge. There, the tracks diverged. The hoofprints went on down the mountain toward the creek while the bear’s tracks bore to the south into heavy forest. “Your horse got away.”
“Good for him.”
Bears were fast over short distances but lacked stamina. Fargo imagined that Brain Eater was holed up somewhere, resting and licking her wounds. That reminded him. “I know you hit her when you shot.”
“Yet she didn’t go down.” Wendy ruefully regarded his elephant gun. “I’ve dropped bull elephants and cape buffalo with one shot but not this bloody bear.”
“Grizzlies are tough,” Fargo said.
“If you ask me, this one is damn near indestructible.” Wendy gazed at the timber. “Do you think she’s had enough or will she come after us?”
Fargo looked at Bethany. “I wouldn’t relax just yet,” he said.
24
That evening they camped at the base of a cliff. To one side was a pile of boulders twenty feet high. To the other was the game trail they had followed down. That was likely how Brain Eater would approach, so Fargo sat facing the trail with the Sharps close to his right leg and the elephant gun close to his left.
Wendy was in no condition to shoot. The Brit had been nauseous and dizzy most of the day and now lay with his head propped on a rolled-up blanket, gazing glumly into the fire.
Bethany was curled up asleep under another blanket, only her hair showing.
Fargo added several pieces of wood to the fire. For supper they’d had pemmican and a few swallows of water. His canteen was only a third full so he hadn’t made coffee. “You should try to get some sleep.”
“I hate this,” Wendy said. “I feel next to helpless. It shouldn’t all be on your shoulders.”
“By tomorrow you might feel better,” Fargo tried to encourage him.
“I hope so.” Wendy hesitated. “I haven’t said anything but I’ve been blacking out for short spells, half a minute or so. My mind shuts down and then I’m conscious again. I don’t know what to make of it.”
Fargo hid his concern. The Brit needed a doctor and the only sawbones in five hundred miles was in Gold Creek. Even if they pushed hard it would take two days to get there. “Just take it easy.”
“I can help keep watch at least.”
“No,” Fargo said. All they needed was for Wendy to black out when Brain Eater was stalking them.
“I tell you, I—” Wendy’s chin dipped to his chest. His chest rose and fell rhythmically in the measured breathing of deep sleep.
Fargo swore. They were in a bad way. Little water, not much food, one of them hurt severely and the other a small girl, only one horse between them and a killer bear somewhere near. “Can it get any worse?” he asked the air. He knew the answer.
The night crawled. Several times Fargo got up and paced.
Along about four in the morning he was overcome with drowsiness and his head lolled. He told himself that he must get up and move around, but the next he knew, he opened his eyes and squinted in the bright glare of the morning sun. It had been up a couple of hours.
Wendy and Bethany were still asleep.
Fargo stretched and stood. Birds were singing. Far below the blue of the creek stood out against the green of the woodland. Reluctantly, he woke the Brit. He had to shake him a while before Wendy’s eyes fluttered open.
“Is that you, Yank? I was having the most wonderful dream.”
“How do you feel?”
“Too soon to tell.”
Bethany jerked at Fargo’s touch, then sat up. She scratched her hair and looked around and said, “Oh.”
Fargo passed out more pemmican for breakfast. When they were done he boosted Wendy onto the Ovaro and swung Bethany up.
He slid the Sharps into the scabbard and held on to the elephant gun.
The slope below was treacherous. Fargo picked their way with care. The stallion, as sure-footed as it was, experienced a few slips and slides. He was glad when they reached the bottom.
Fargo gazed over his shoulder—and his blood became ice.
A giant form was silhouetted on top of the cliff. It was in shadow and the head and neck were indistinguishable from the dark block of body but there was no confusing it for an elk or some other animal.
Brain Eater wheeled and plunged into the forest.
It happened so fast, Fargo half wondered if he’d imagined it. But no, she was shadowing them. He continued on down. That she hadn’t attacked was encouraging. She might hold off until dark.
Wendy kept passing out. The next time he did his arm slipped from around Bethany and she would have fallen had Fargo not caught her. He set her down and walked with her hand in his.
In a while Wendolyn straightened and frowned. “Sorry.”
“When you need to stop and rest, say so.”
Fargo checked behind them so many times, he got a crick in his neck. Brain Eater didn’t show.
Miles to the south, gray smudges against the blue sky marked where tendrils of smoke rose from town.
Fargo wondered if he would ever see it again.
Another night washed dark and chill over the vastness of the northern Rockies. The carnivores emerged and the timberland echoed with their roars and cries.
Fargo camped beside a spring in a sheltered nook.
Uncomfortably close brambles hemmed it on three sides. He didn’t like the spot but they had been without water all day.
Now he had coffee on to brew. Wendy was on a blanket with an arm over his eyes. Bethany swirled a stick in the spring.
“I feel bloody awful,” Wendy lamented.
“By midnight tomorrow we’ll reach Gold Creek.”
Wendy placed his arm on his chest. He was drawn and haggard and ungodly pale. He’d refused a bite to eat, saying he was too queasy to keep it down.
Bethany stood and threw the stick into the darkness. Coming around the fire, she surprised Fargo by plopping into his lap. “Tell me a story.”
“A what?”
“Ma always told us a story before we went to bed. I’d like to go to sleep so tell me one.”
Fargo was taken aback. Most of the “stories” he knew would get belly laughs in a saloon but weren’t fit for children.
“You must know one,” Bethany said. “A fairy tale would be nice. Ma liked fairy tales.”
Fargo racked his brain. He recollected his mother had told a few when he was young but he would be
