Rather than go all the way down to the creek and then up the next mountain to the meadow, they crossed a spiny ridge and wound along a switchback to a bench that brought them to within a quarter of a mile. A short climb and they were there.
“He’s long gone by now,” Rooster said. “But lookee here, hoss.”
Grizzlies ate plants as well as the flesh of anything they could catch, and Brain Eater had treated himself to some yellow violets. In the process he had torn at the ground to get at the roots, and there, as clear as could be, was the entire track of a forepaw. Fargo looked, and whistled.
“Know what you mean,” Rooster said. “It gives me goose bumps.”
Climbing down, Fargo sank to one knee. Typical grizzly tracks for a mature male were ten to twelve inches long and seven to eight inches wide. This track was nearer to twenty inches long and fifteen to sixteen inches across. He held his spread fingers over the print; it dwarfed his hand.
“Jesus,” Rooster breathed. “The thing is a monster.”
Fargo nodded. He had never seen griz tracks this huge. Hell, he’d never heard of griz tracks like this.
To the west the sun sat perched on the rim of the world. The shadows around them were lengthening.
“Looks like we camp here for the night and go after Brain Eater at daybreak,” Rooster said.
Fargo took a picket pin from his saddlebags and pounded it into the ground using a rock. Rooster hobbled his horse. They stripped both animals and Rooster set about gathering firewood. Fargo half filled his coffeepot from his canteen and after kindling a fire, put coffee on. He shared his pemmican and they sat chewing as the day gave way to the gray of evening and the gray gave way to the black of night. Above them a multitude of stars sparkled.
A coyote yipped but otherwise quiet reined.
“Peaceful, ain’t it?” Rooster said. “Almost makes me forget what we’re up here for.”
As if they needed a reminder, from out of the nearby woods rumbled a menacing growl.
4
Fargo was on his feet in an instant, the Sharps pressed to his shoulder.
“It can’t be,” Rooster said, rising. “He should be long gone by now.”
The growl came again, louder and longer, and from the sound, the bear was moving.
“He’s circling,” Rooster said.
Fargo thought he glimpsed the gleam of eyeshine in the trees. “When he rushes us go for the heart or lungs.” The skull was a poor target. The bone was inches thick.
The growling suddenly ceased.
Fargo and Rooster peered hard into the blanket of ink but minutes went by and no sounds or movement betrayed the beast’s presence.
“Strange he hasn’t come at us,” Rooster whispered as if afraid his voice would provoke an attack.
Fargo stayed silent and focused on the woods.
“Maybe it wasn’t him,” Rooster said. “Maybe it was something else.”
It had sounded like a bear to Fargo, and while the northern Rockies had more bears than any other part of the country, the odds of it being another were slim.
For more than ten minutes they stood in tense expectation of a roar and a charge that didn’t materialize. Finally Fargo lowered his Sharps and scratched his chin.
“Makes no sense.”
“Could be he was warning us off,” Rooster speculated.
Fargo doubted it. Why would a man-killer scare off prey? “We’ll take turns keeping watch.”
“I’ll take the first watch,” Rooster said. “I couldn’t sleep anyhow, after this.”
They sat with their rifles across their laps and resumed their meal.
Fargo filled his tin cup and sipped the hot coffee. He debated saddling up and lighting a shuck. But if the bear followed and came at them out of the dark, they’d be easy to take down. At least here they had the firelight to see by, and the fire itself was a deterrent.
“Wait until Moose and the others hear we saw it and heard it,” Rooster said. “They’ll think we’re bald-faced liars. Moose claims Brain Eater never makes a sound but then Moose likes to claim he knows things he doesn’t.”
Fargo was raising the cup to his mouth when from up the mountain came a loud whoof.
Rooster put his hand on his rifle. “You hear that? It was him again.”
They listened but the sound wasn’t repeated.
“At least he’s moving away from us,” Rooster broke their silence.
“Or wants us to think he is,” Fargo said. Long ago he had learned not to underestimate the innate cleverness of the bruin clan. They were intelligent and unpredictable and deadly.
“We could light torches and go after him,” Rooster proposed.
“Nothing doing,” Fargo said. They couldn’t track and keep alert for the bear, both.
“What’s a little risk when there’s five thousand dollars at stake?”
Rooster was grinning but Fargo could tell he was serious. “My life is worth more to me than money.”
“When you get my age you’ll think different. I ain’t as spry as I used to be. My scouting days are over and all I got to show for it was a watch the army gave me and a pat on the back for a job well done.”
“So that’s why you’re here.”
“It’s hell growing old,” Rooster said. “With my half of the five thousand I could get me a small place in Missouri. An acre or so with a house. I’d hunt and garden some and in the evenings I’d sit in my rocking chair and watch the sun set.”
“Never took you for the rocking chair type.”
“Neither did I. Truth is, pard, I’ve had my fill of the wilds and its dangers.” Rooster sat back and a dreamy expression came over him. “I’d like a peaceful life for a change. I’d like to get up in the morning knowing no one will try to lift my scalp or shoot me or I won’t be gored or torn to bits.”
“There’s no guarantee it will be us who gets the bear,” Fargo said.
“That’s a cruel thing to say.”
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“Too late. They were up before you got here and now with you to help me, they are higher than ever.”
“Damn, Rooster.”
“I know. But I can’t help myself. I’ll do anything to earn that bounty. Anything at all.”
Fargo wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “Be careful you don’t get yourself killed.”
“We all die, hoss. It’s only a question of when.”
Now and then a wolf howled and coyotes yipped and for a while an owl sat in a tree and hooted at them, but otherwise the night was peaceful.
Fargo sat up the last half and woke Rooster by poking him with his boot as a pink tinge heralded the new dawn. They had coffee and pemmican and were in the saddle and on the move before the sun rose. For over an hour they roved in ever wider circles around their camp but they didn’t find so much as a smudge.
With Fargo in the lead, they headed up the mountain. He looked for tracks, as well as claw marks on trees. Bears were fond of leaving sign for other bears but not Brain Eater, apparently. At midmorning they drew rein on a crest overlooking a spectacular vista of virgin wilderness.
“The damn critter is a ghost,” Rooster griped. “Moose was right about that much.”
From their vantage they could see back down the mountains to Gold Creek. The buildings were mere specks in the haze.
“What now?” Rooster asked.
“It’s pointless to keep on,” Fargo said. The bear could be anywhere. To go on searching would be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, only this needle didn’t stay still and finding it could take months, if it ever happened at all. Reluctantly, he turned the Ovaro toward the far-off specs.
By nightfall they reached the creek and made camp. Again they took turns sitting up but the night was quieter than the one before and the grizzly didn’t pay them a visit. They followed the creek and eventually came to Ira Stoddard’s cabin. The swarm of bear hunters was long gone.