“Fine by me.” Rooster leaned on his saddle horn. “I’m only here because you came and you’re my pard.”
“Cecelia Mathers wanted me to be hers.”
“That gal ain’t right in the head,” Rooster said. “Bringing her kids here to hunt a griz. What does she think? Brain Eater will walk up and drop dead at her feet?”
“I suspect she has a partner by now.”
“Is that so? Who?”
“Moose.”
Rooster started to laugh.
That was when a mournful wail pierced the night, causing the Ovaro to prick its ears and prance and Fargo to draw his Colt.
“It came from thataway,” Rooster said, pointing at the woods. “And up yonder a piece.”
Fargo continued along until he came to a gap in the trees. In the dark it was nearly impossible to make out but there was no doubt it was a trail, and that it was wider than a game trail would be. “Someone must live back in here.”
“There are a few folks who live off by themselves,” Rooster said. “They don’t like it near the creek because people are going by all the time.”
Fargo clucked to the stallion. Trees blotted out what little starlight there was. An unnerving quiet fell, and when the Ovaro stepped on a twig, the crack was like a gunshot.
“That griz could be ten feet away and we wouldn’t know it,” Rooster said.
“Hush, damn it.” Fargo’s ears were pricked for the slightest sound. He gave a mild start when a tree limb brushed his shoulder. Another almost took his hat off but he ducked in time. Fortunately the trail ran straight for the most part or he’d be dodging trees right and left.
A low moan was borne out of the gloom.
“Did you hear that?” Rooster whispered. “It’s the same female. Can’t tell how old she is but I’d say not very.”
Fargo could have hit him. He’d never known the old scout to be so gabby. Especially at times like this, when they risked losing their hides and a whole lot more.
The trail opened into a clearing. Across it stood a squat block that must be a cabin. The moans came from inside, or so Fargo thought as he warily approached. His saddle creaked as he dismounted and then he was at the open door, his back to the wall. The Colt’s hammer made an audible click.
Rooster darted to the other side of the door. He was holding his Sharps. “You or me first?”
“You cover,” Fargo said, and plunged inside. He immediately took two quick steps to the right so he wasn’t silhouetted against the night. He realized it was pointless, as it wouldn’t matter to the grizzly if he was or he wasn’t. Grizzlies relied on their other senses as much as if not more than their eyes, their noses most of all.
The interior was a black well. Fargo had a vague impression of furniture. Crouching, he waited for his eyes to adjust.
More moaning came from somewhere deeper in.
“Who’s there?” Fargo called out.
The moaning stopped.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Fargo said. “We heard someone scream. We’re from Gold Creek.”
For long moments there was no reply. Then Fargo heard a peculiar scuffling, as of shoes being dragged across a floor.
“Who’s there?” he said again, and it hit him that the scuffling wasn’t a shoe; it was a body. Someone was dragging herself toward him.
Fargo heard raspy breathing. “Say something,” he said. “How bad are you hurt?”
The feel of a cold hand on his own made Fargo jump. He nearly squeezed off a shot in reflex.
“Help me.”
It was a woman. Her appeal was made in a whisper fraught with pain.
Fargo reached out and felt cloth and then wet on his fingers. “Is there a lamp?”
“Table,” the voice said.
“Where?” Fargo asked, glancing about.
“To your left. Be careful you don’t step on me.”
Fargo carefully stood and just as carefully inched forward. His toe bumped something. Reaching down, he discovered her arm. He moved around her and groped the empty air. Suddenly his knee banged with pain and he grit his teeth to keep from swearing. He had found the table.
The lamp was in the middle but Fargo had nothing to light it with. He called to Rooster, asking if he did.
“I’ve got some lucifers in my saddlebags. I’ll be right back.”
Fargo located the woman again. “Hang on. We’ll have light in a minute.”
“Did you see them anywhere?” she asked, with a peculiar hiss between each word.
“Who?”
She sucked in a deep breath as if she needed the air to speak. “My husband and my boy. They ran out to help when the bear attacked me.”
“Brain Eater,” Fargo said.
“No.”
“A different bear?”
She sucked in another breath. “Folks say Brain Eater is big. Maybe the biggest bear ever. This one was middling.” Again there was a hiss after each word and sometimes between each syllable.
Fargo’s questing fingers ran along her arm to her hand. She gripped his fingers so hard, her nails dug into his skin.
“We’ll get help,” he promised.
She didn’t respond.
Boots thudded and Rooster returned. He struck a lucifer and held it aloft.
“The lamp is on the table,” Fargo said.
A rosy glow filled the room. Its light bathed the woman, and Fargo’s gorge rose. He tasted bile and swallowed it back down.
“God Almighty,” Rooster breathed.
She had been torn to ribbons. Red furrows ran down her arms, her chest, her legs. In some places she had been clawed to the bone. Her left ear was missing and her left cheek had been shredded, which accounted for the hissing. Her right eye was emerald green. Her left eye wasn’t there.
“Ma’am?” Fargo said, gently squeezing. “It would help to know your name.”
Her right eye remained fixed on the rafters.
“Ma’am?” Fargo touched her good cheek. When she didn’t blink or say anything, he felt for a pulse.
“Is she?” Rooster said.
Fargo nodded. He closed her right eye and stood. “She said it wasn’t Brain Eater.”
“There’s another bear?” Rooster said skeptically. “Do you believe her?”
“I’m inclined to.”
“Why?” Rooster asked.
Fargo pointed at her head. “She still has her brains.”
7
They buried her at first light. They buried the remains of her husband and son, as well. The husband’s throat had been torn open but otherwise he didn’t have a mark on him. The boy had been mauled.
“They’ve both got their brains, too,” Rooster observed as he and Fargo were filling in the shallow graves.
Fargo searched for sign and found tracks in the dirt near a rickety chicken coop. The bear had left the chickens alone. It hadn’t touched a milk cow in a plank shed, either. Only the people.
Kneeling, Fargo studied the print of a forepaw. It was considerably smaller than the tracks of Brain Eater.
“I’ll be damned,” Rooster said, looking over his shoulder. “So there are two. What the hell is going on here?”
Fargo was as perplexed as his friend. It was rare but not unusual for a grizzly to turn into a people-killer. But for two grizzlies to do so at the same time in the same area was unheard of.
“Do we go after it?”
“We sure as hell do.”
For the first mile it was easy enough. The bear had made a beeline for the high country. It plowed through thickets rather than go around them and once it stopped to claw at a tree. But then they came to a rocky slope and the tracks disappeared.
Fargo and Rooster roved back and forth for more than an hour and couldn’t find so much as a partial print. Several times Fargo climbed down to examine patches of bare earth but it was always the same; nothing. They met at the top, and Rooster swore.