she sat staring sadly into space. Every now and again she would sniffle and say, “Ma.”
While the Ovaro drank, Fargo prowled the bank and scanned the woods. He couldn’t shake a persistent feeling the bear was close. He tried to tell himself it was nerves.
Wendy had wet a handkerchief and applied it to the gash on his head.
“Any dizziness this morning?” Fargo asked.
“Hardly any. All I needed was a good night’s rest. Which reminds me. It was damned decent of you to let us sleep.”
“You can return the favor tonight if we don’t make it to Gold Creek.”
A mile along they rounded a bend and came on a small shack, with a mule tied to a sapling. A sluice sat near the water.
As they passed the sluice the door opened and out strode an unkempt barrel of flab holding a shotgun.
“What the hell are you doing on my claim?”
“Passing through,” Fargo said.
The man had the shotgun halfway to his shoulder when he blinked and said, “Wait. I know you. I saw you in town. You’re that scout. The one who found the Nesmith family.”
“That was me,” Fargo confirmed.
“They were decent folks.” The man lowered his shotgun. “Sorry for pointing this at you but a man has to protect his own.”
Fargo was too tired to dally. “Be seeing you.” He put another bend behind them, and suddenly stopped. “Damn it. I have to go back.”
“What on earth for?” Wendy asked.
“To warn him,” Fargo said. “If the grizzly is following us, he’s in danger.” He handed the elephant gun to Wendy so he could run faster. The shack door was open. Apparently the man had gone back in. “Mister?” he hollered. He got no answer. He went around the sluice and was almost to the shack when he saw red drops on the ground.
Stunned, Fargo stopped and placed his hand on his Colt. It couldn’t be, he told himself. He hadn’t heard a scream or a shout. He sidled to the left to see past the corner.
The shotgun lay in a scarlet pool. Drag marks led toward the trees.
Fargo heard a crunch. Shadows cloaked a huge shape that was tearing and biting. He backed away. When he was past the shack he whirled and flew along the creek. The Brit and the girl were still on the Ovaro, talking. He grabbed the elephant gun.
“What’s wrong?” Wendy asked in alarm.
“Ride like hell.”
Bewildered, Wendy gripped the strap to his ammo pouch, and paused. “It’s Brain Eater, isn’t it?”
“Don’t stop until you reach town.” Fargo was tired of running. “I’ll hold her here as long as I can.”
“What kind of bounder do you take me for?” Wendy said indignantly. “I’m staying to help.”
“Think of her,” Fargo said with a nod at Bethany.
“Why must it be you?”
“Go!” Fargo said.
Wendy angrily declared, “I am against this. I’m not a coward.”
“Never said you were. Hold on to her.”
“What?”
“Hold on to Beth,” Fargo said, and gave the Ovaro a hard slap. The stallion broke into a trot. Wendy looked back and scowled as they disappeared around a stand of cottonwoods.
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.
