As we cleaned and oiled the shovels to put them away, I announced, "The burial will be tomorrow morning an hour past dawn. Pass the word to everyone. As soon as it's done, I'd like Richard, Mitch and Larry to saddle up with me and try to find where Shane was attacked. There's a man-eating bear close by, and it needs to be killed before it attacks anyone else."
Before going home to eat supper, I went to Morgan's cabin and spoke to him. "Tomorrow after the funeral, will you ask Jesse and Vernon to begin plowing the garden plots? I'll ask Tony Osmond to get Barlow and Able Jones to start with another team. The ground is dry enough and should turn well. When they're far enough ahead, Tony can start behind them with the disk and harrow. Glen and his boys should be available, too. I expect to be gone at least all of tomorrow maybe two days; I'm taking a crew to the area Shane told me he was going to hunt. We need to find the bear that attacked him." Morgan agreed, and after speaking to Tony, I headed home.
Shane's funeral was a somber and sobering affair because it vividly pointed out how precarious our daily existence was. We'd gotten past the zombie threat, and no renegade humans had found us at our new homesite, but then a damn'd wild animal attacked and mangled the best male friend I'd ever had. Kira held a position above all others as friend and lover.
After testimonials, prayers and several hymns, more than enough help stayed to fill the grave. As soon as the hastily carved marker was driven into place, the four of us saddled up and headed out. I had mixed emotions about the task at hand. On one hand, our mission was to ensure the safety of all our survivors; on the other hand, a less noble feeling drove me. I wanted that damn'd bear dead as my personal revenge for it killing my best friend.
It was about forty degrees as we rode up ridges and descended into valleys. I recalled details of when I'd first learned Shane was injured. The packhorse and both of his weapons were missing. Had the other horse been killed? Had Shane wounded or even killed the bear before escaping to make his way home? Questions, but no answers. Speculating would do nothing; we'd learn the details only if we found the site where Shane was attacked.
The sun rose in the sky and was nearly overhead when I looked across the valley we were moving downward to and saw movement. A pair of black bear cubs wrestled on the steep hillside. Three other sets of eyes focused after I waved my left arm overhead then pointed at the cavorting black balls of fur. I raised my binoculars. Farther up the valley to our right, a horse lay on the ground, its halter tethered to a sapling in front of it. The carcass of a deer was tied across its back on the pannier. The horse's head moved; it appeared to be alright.
We dismounted near the packhorse and tethered our mounts. The packhorse struggled to stand before Mitch and Larry removed the deadweight from its back. They gave the animal water and grain while Richard and I got our bearings and made a plan.
Huddled closely, I told our party, "The cubs up the ridge indicate the mother is likely nearby. She could be dead... or wounded and pissed off. We'll go up the hill thinking the latter, and knowing she might charge out of the underbrush at any second. Stay alert. If she charges, shoot and keep firing until she's on the ground and bleeding out. She'll likely be so close there won't be time to aim, so point at the center of her chest and shoot. Let's go, and don't hurry."
We fanned out six to eight feet apart and advanced up the steep grade to where we'd seen the bear cubs. Richard and I were in the middle, Mitch on my right flank, Larry on Richard's left flank.
We couldn't avoid making noise as the four of us clambered upward toward the top of the ridge. Trees and bushes provided handholds while loose rock and dirt let our footing slide away. At the sight of us, the pair of cubs stared, froze, and then scampered off out of sight.
In another minute, I saw Shane's M4 on the slope right in front of me. Ahead was a relatively flat space on the hillside. Slightly below the flat there was a groundhog hole. Dark brown blood stained the surrounding dirt, and a deep scuff mark led downward into the hole. As we rose above the flat space, blood was strewn around a large area. Shane's .45 caliber Glock lay a few feet ahead of me. Three bullets were missing from the magazine.
Suddenly, a mighty and ferocious roar bristled the hair on my neck. It was so close, it sounded like it was almost on top of us. From our left, another loud outcry followed seconds later. It was louder that the first and approached that of a human screaming from pain and fear. I froze in place and stared in the direction of the angry bear noises. As if appearing out of thin air, the female black bear charged, running low on all four legs. Her first leap from twenty feet away spanned half the distance to us. Mitch was slightly downhill behind me and
