The four-inch knife was razor sharp. Maybe if she could slash the beast across the nose it would give up-
The grizzly stopped, peering at her with its massive barrel head cocked to one side. Its tongue came out like a red flag, sweeping over its nose.
You could see its mental processes working behind the little piggy eyes: Smells like fresh meat. Injured, bleeding, helpless. Worth the trouble, yes-no? Yes. Go for it. Yum!
Then it slouched back on its haunches, preparing for an upward lunge at the prize temptingly just out of easy reach. She swiped the air with the knife and shouted:
“Come on, you piece of fuzzy dogshit! Come get what Uncle Mike gave your second cousin once removed! I am a bear killer! Haakaa päälle!”
• • •
The monstrous humpbacked brown shape was unmistakable, Old Ephraim his every own self. Even these days grizzlies weren’t common in the open sagebrush country Cole had grown up in, but he’d hunted black bear, and he’d talked to men who’d tackled Old Eph. Their advice had been heavy on the don’t try it alone, but needs must.
Whung!
The crossbow kicked back against Cole’s shoulder. He’d been aiming for the spine; the grizzly had its back to him as it reared on its hind legs towards the shouting pilot brandishing her pathetic little cheese-knife. Even with the x3 scope on his Special Forces model that was a chancy shot at a hundred yards and uphill. It hit the bear, he’d have put the next bolt into his own head if he’d completely missed that big a target with a scope and time to take careful aim and nice still air. But it struck just to the left of the backbone, slamming into the beast’s massive body and probably smacking a rib loose along the way.
The bear staggered and twisted under the impact before it whirled to find what had struck it, bawling in rage with every hair bristling. Even the end cap of the twenty-inch bolt disappeared into the dark fur. This was an Army model built to drive through armor, not a hunting weapon; it had a thick steel prod made from salvaged leaf spring across the business end, and it could send a heavy shaft out at three hundred and fifty feet per second. He’d had a three-edged broadhead in the groove and more in the quiver, rather than just the standard-issue pile-shaped points. Men-at-arms in plate weren’t the most likely targets in the mountains and the slashing effect made for a quicker kill.
One of the good points about being in the Special Forces was that you had wide latitude to tailor your gear to the mission.
For an instant the bear spun in place, convinced that something had bitten it. Then its nose went up for an instant, it caught his scent, the head went down and the whole mass headed his way in a shambling avalanche of fur, fangs and claws. Cole’s hands were steady as he reloaded, but his mouth was a little dry, and he didn’t waste any time admiring the first shot or wishing it had been two inches to the right and dropped the beast with a severed spinal cord. Instead he pumped frantically at the lever set into the forestock. Six seconds was the standard rapid-fire rate for cocking a GI crossbow; he managed to cut it to four, with another two to slap the next bolt from his belt-quiver into the groove under the holding clip and bring the weapon back to his shoulder.
Even so the beast’s roaring muzzle was shockingly close through the scope. Old Eph could move faster than a galloping horse over short distances. They were nearly as quick as tigers for all their size. Cole let his breath out as his finger gently squeezed the trigger, with the crosshairs on the base of the beast’s neck. Then he turned and ran full-tilt along the path he’d picked out beforehand, slinging the weapon across his chest and cinching it tight as he went.
There was no need to look back. He knew exactly what was there, and he could hear its guttural bawling roars of pain and rage as it galloped. It was undoubtedly going to bleed out, but it would have plenty of time to catch Cole in a straightaway run first.
Up ten yards of steep rocky slope, and he could hear stones spurting from under the grizzly’s paws. A forty-foot Douglas fir had fallen against a rock-face years ago, its trunk bleached white and hard as bone. He leapt onto it and ran along it at speed, preparing to jump to a ledge in the nearly vertical slope of dark basalt beyond. Even if it could walk on something this narrow, there was no way the log would carry its weight. Heavy animals were cautious about falling, since they hit a lot harder than men if they did.
The grizzly cast caution to the winds and tried to follow him up the tree-trunk anyway.
Cole pitched off with a yell as the far tip of the trunk broke away where it rested against the cliff. He curled himself into a ball around his crossbow as he fell ten feet or better, landing loose. Rocks punched at him as he landed and bounced and rolled, including one with stunning hurt over the kidneys and several glancing blows on his head; luckily the hood of his battle-smock took a little of it. Behind him the bear was scrabbling at the wood before it followed him in a slide that was half-fall, but he didn’t waste any time looking at it or feeling his hurts.
Instead he came out of the roll running, leaping for a handhold in a rock-fissure. He went up four feet in the first jump, scrambled as much again as he grabbed frantically for plants and knobs of stone, then nearly fell again as something heavy slammed into the cliff below him. His hands clamped on a wrist-thick pine rooted in the cliff’s face and jerked him upward. Instinct made him pull his feet up too, which was fortunate as something hit his right boot hard enough to tear the hobnailed heel half-loose.
The glancing impact of the bear’s claws nearly twisted him free of his grip. Operating on reflex he used the momentum of the blow to swing himself upward and did a loop-over he couldn’t have duplicated on a base gymnasium’s equipment if he’d practiced for months. Pain jagged at his groin as he got one leg across the trunk of the pine and levered himself upright to stand on it.
“Got you!” he gasped down at the frenzied animal, almost inaudible even to himself beneath the bear’s rasping battle cry.
Adrenaline fizzed through his body, and now his hands shook a little. The raving face of the bear was below him with the fletching of the second bolt just visible at the base of its neck. The open mouth sprayed blood and slaver, and it tried to scrabble up after him again. The claws swiped a foot beneath his boots.
“Here’s where weighing half a ton and not having fingers is a drawback, Eph,” he gasped. “Christ, if I ever get grandkids they’ll never believe this one and they’ll roll their eyes every time the old fart has one too many after dinner and trots it out.”
He braced himself against the rough rock behind him, took several deep slow breaths, and began to reload the crossbow. The bear was moaning now as well as roaring, blood coughing out of its open mouth in gouts. He felt a slight twinge of pity, which was easier now that he was more or less safe.
“Sorry, Eph,” he said, slipping in another bolt.
It was dying, but there was no point in letting it suffer. You could get killing angry at a man who plain chose to be an evil son-of-a-bitch, but a beast just. . did what it did according to its nature. There was nothing personal in it, any more than there was in bad weather hammering a wheat-field ready to harvest or hoppers eating bare the pasture your sheep and cattle needed.
“But better you than me, and the brass will want that pilot alive to question,” he finished, snuggling the butt into his shoulder and aiming downward.