Nate King was enjoying the first good sleep he’d had in days when distant noises invaded the comfortable mental cocoon in which he was wrapped. Sluggishly struggling up through a misty veil, he lay listening to faint screams and shouts and wondered if he was awake or dreaming. Then it hit him where the noises were coming from, and he shoved his blanket off and stood.
Trees blocked much of the valley floor from view. Nate moved to other side of the glade but still couldn’t see the village. He did not hear war whoops mingled with the others’ cries, which told him the village wasn’t under attack from a hostile war party. It had to be something else.
It had to be Scar.
Nate started toward the bay but thought better of saddling up. He was too far off to be of help. It would take him a couple of hours to get there, and by then the rogue would either be dead or long gone. He was better off waiting until daylight.
Sitting back down, Nate shook the lukewarm coffeepot to gauge how much was left, and poured half a cup. Leave it to the damn griz to spoil his rest. He should turn back in, but he was fully awake and would only lie there twiddling his thumbs.
Taking a sip, Nate leaned back on his parfleche pillow and contemplated how best to put an end to Scar’s rampage. So far the man-killer had made a fool of him. He had to think of a way to lure it in close enough for a clear shot. With some bears, hanging a buck carcass near trails they frequented did the trick. But he doubted Scar would fall for so plain a ploy.
Nate had to admit old Hototo had been right about one thing. Scar was different from other grizzlies. He was more fierce, more brazen, more intelligent. Exactly how intelligent was hard to say, but Nate suspected the deformed brute might be the most deviously cunning griz he had ever gone up against.
From time to time there appeared certain animals that broke the mold in which their kind was cast. Animals that defied explanation. Animals endowed with almost human intellect.
Nate recollected a tale told by Jim Bridger about a wolf that plagued the early trappers. Instead of avoiding humans like most wolves, this one had gone out of its way to make the trappers’ lives miserable. It had raided their traps and taken prized beaver. It ran off or killed their horses. It destroyed their supplies. Bridger and his friends tried everything they could think of to slay it, but nothing worked. The lupine demon always outwitted them. Then, one day, by a sheer fluke Bridger returned to camp early and saw the wolf tearing apart their packs. He made a spectacular shot, one he said he could never repeat if his life depended on it, and ended the wolf’s inexplicable rampage.
Scar was a lot like that wolf. The death of his mother had launched him on a vendetta the likes of which was unheard of in the annals of the Rockies. Killer bears cropped up now and again. Grizzlies and black bears sometimes developed cravings for human flesh, and hunted humans as they did other game. But none could hold a candle to Scar. If what the Utes had told Nate was true, Scar was in a class by himself. His campaign went beyond hunger. Raw, unbridled vengeance drove him. A bloodlust that would never be satiated this side of the grave.
There had to be a way to stop him, Nate mused. Finding it was the challenge. He thought about some of the other grizzlies he had slain, and how he had gone about it, in the hope of hitting on a method that would work with Scar. Bit by bit drowsiness set in, and Nate was no closer to a solution when he drifted off.
How long he slept, Nate was unsure. Suddenly a sound penetrated his slumber, and he opened his eyes to find a gigantic shape looming over him. He grabbed for his pistols, but the grizzly’s mouth clamped onto his right arm and he was shaken like a child’s rag doll. His arm snapped like a dry twig and blood spurted over his face and neck. “No!” he screamed, clutching at his Bowie. He had to live! He had to hold Winona in his arms again, and hear Evelyn’s hearty laugh. As the Bowie slid clear, the bear’s teeth sheared into his face. Nate threw himself backward and felt his skin rip. He thrust blindly at the furry form above him but couldn’t drive the grizzly off. Then a paw streaked out of nowhere, catching him on the side of his head, and he was sucked into a whirlpool from which there was no return.
Nate’s eyes snapped opened and he sat up. Perspiration soaked his buckskins, and his heart hammered in his ears. He’d had another nightmare. Wiping a sleeve across his face, he exhaled in relief. It had seemed so real, he could still feel the bear’s teeth tearing at his flesh.
“Damn me, anyhow!” Nate exclaimed. A check of the sky showed dawn was an hour off. Rather than try and get back to sleep, Nate got the fire going. The light and the warmth were welcome. So were the two cups of scalding hot coffee he treated himself to.
Shortly thereafter Nate was in the saddle and making for the river. He forded it above the village, which he reached just before sunrise. He heard wailing long before he saw the women in mourning or the four blanket-covered bodies laid in a row near what was left of a lodge. A warrior was on his knees in front of the bodies. The rest of the tribe stood at a respectful distance, sorrow hanging over them like a cloud.
What with the pre-dawn gloom, and the fact that the warriors’ back was to him as he rode up, Nate failed to recognize who it was until he dismounted. The jolt was like a physical blow. “No!” he breathed in dismay.
Hototo materialized beside him, as downcast as everyone else. “Star At Morning and her three daughters are no more,” he signed.
“Question. More killed?”
“Only them,” the old warrior responded, and nodded at the grieving husband and father. “He has been like that for a long time now, but no one wants to disturb him.”
Neota was bent over the blanket covering his wife, her bloody hand clasped in both of his. His hair was loose and had spilled over his face, hiding his features. His shoulders were moving up and down, but he made no sound.
Nate was flabbergasted. Of all the lodges in the village, how was it that Scar had selected theirs? It had to be coincidence. The grizzly couldn’t possibly know Neota was the one who had requested his help in bringing the reign of terror to an end.
“We will commit them to the next world when the sun has risen,” Hototo revealed. “To the third heaven where all Utes go.”
“Has anyone gone after the bear?” Nate inquired.
“No,” Hototo tiredly signed. “Scar has done what no other enemy ever could. He has broken our spirit. We will spend the day in mourning and tomorrow move our village to a valley far to the north.”
“That will not end the killing. Scar will follow you.”
Hototo frowned and replied, “What else would you have us do? Stay here and live in dread?”
“So long as you are here, Scar will stay in this area. And I will have a better chance of finding him and killing him.”
“It has been two sleeps since you left us,” Hototo noted, “yet Scar still lives and our people yet suffer.”
The suggestion that Nate should have already disposed of the grizzly bothered him. Did the Utes think he was some kind of miracle worker? he wondered. He was set to point out that it was hardly fair to blame him for the deaths of Star At Morning and the girls, when Neota rose, looked around, and strode purposefully toward them.
“You have come at the right time, Grizzly Killer. When the sun is overhead, you and I will ride out together after the slayer of my family.”
The last thing Nate needed was to be partnered up with someone whose turbulent emotional state might get them both turned into maggot bait. But how could he tell that to Neota? The answer: He couldn’t. Luckily, Hototo unwittingly spoke up for him.
“Is that wise, Neota? You are too upset to think clearly. Would you have Scar kill you as he has your loved ones?”
“More than I have ever wanted anything, I want him to try,” Neota signed.
“You would throw your life away.”
“Without my wife and daughters it has no meaning,” the Ute leader responded. “I will gladly embrace death. But not until I have justice for their loss. Not until Scar is no more.”
Hototo glanced at Nate, his expression saying as plain as any sign language that they must not let Neota go through with it. But what could Nate do? “I will wait by the river,” he signed, and led his animals off.
A formal ceremony was held on behalf of the departed, but Nate did not attend. No one had invited him. Many tribes did not permit outsiders to witness the disposal of their dead. The Apaches went so far as to always conduct their ceremonies in the middle of the night.
Nate had been surprised to learn, on first coming west, that while some tribes buried their dead, just like whites, many more did not. The deceased were hoisted onto raised platforms and left there for the elements to whittle on until there was nothing left but bones and tattered clothes. Or they were placed in crannies up in the rocks and covered with brush and stones. Or, in a few tribes, they were burned.
Nate sat at the water’s edge and listened to the beat of drums and the chants of the mourners. The whites had no name for this river, just as much of Ute territory was unmapped and unnamed. In that respect the Utes were more fortunate than other tribes. The Shoshones and Crows were not pleased that the white man had overrun their lands in search of prime beaver plews, and even less happy that almost all the beaver, as well as the mountain buffalo the whites relied on heavily for food, had nearly been wiped out.
Nate’s friend and mentor, Shakespeare McNair, was of the opinion that one day hordes of whites would swarm west of the Mississippi River to claim the prairie and the mountains as their own. When Nate scoffed, McNair reminded him of all the eastern tribes who had been displaced or exterminated.
“Our kind always want to know what is over the next hill, and to lay claim to it once we find out what’s there,” McNair had said. “We like to explore, but we like to conquer even more. We’ll never rest until we have the whole world at our feet.”
Nate hoped his friend was wrong. He loved the mountains and the prairies, and loved even more the freedom that came from being able to live as he pleased. If more whites came flocking in, they’d bring with them their laws and politicians, and the wilderness would go all to hell. It would be the end of not only his way of life but of genuine freedom itself.
West of the Mississippi the only sovereign power was a man’s sovereign will. His freedom was absolute. Until someone experienced it, they couldn’t truly comprehend how wonderful it felt. Gone were society’s shackles. Absent were the dictates of a thousand and one petty laws.
Nate could no more forsake his freedom than he would give up life itself.
A bustle of activity was taking place in the village. Some of the Utes were moving in solemn procession toward a hill to the west. Not all were going, and among those who had stayed behind was one who was striding toward the river, and Nate. It was the young hothead, Niwot, who couldn’t be much over sixteen, if that.
Rising, Nate greeted him with a curtly signed “What do you want?”
“Perhaps you do not know, but I was with Neota when he visited your wooden lodge,” the youth replied.
Nate knew, all right. Winona had related every detail of their visit. Including the young warrior’s interest in their daughter.
“I would like for you to give this to Blue Flower,” Niwot signed, and sliding his right hand up under his left sleeve, he removed a bracelet of blue beads. “I made this for her as a token of my pledge to court her when she is old enough.”
Nate checked an impulse to slug the upstart in the face. He had to remind himself that whites’ ways were not Indians’ ways, and that by some tribal standards Evelyn would soon be of marrying age. “I thought you were mad at me over the death of your brother?”
“What does that have to do with taking your daughter as my wife?” Niwot rebutted. “I want her, not you.”
Nate’s right fist involuntarily clenched, but he willed his fingers to uncurl. “My daughter is too young for marriage.”
“Now she is,” Niwot signed, “but in three or four winters she will be old enough. I will ask her then to come live with me.”
“You have it all planned out.”
“She is pretty, your daughter, and worthy of her Shoshone name. She will grow into a fine woman any man would be proud of.” Niwot gazed to the northeast. “She is smart, too, that one. I can see it in her eyes. She speaks the white tongue and the Shoshone tongue, and in the short while we were at your lodge, she learned some of our tongue, too.”
Was Nate hearing correctly? Niwot admired Evelyn for her intelligence? “Do us both a favor and pick a Ute girl.”
“My mind is made up, Grizzly Killer. Give this to her.” Niwot wagged the bracelet.
The young warrior’s arrogance was galling. “Give it to her yourself,” Nate signed roughly, “when she is old enough to have suitors.”
Niwot, surprisingly, did not become angry. “How old will that be?”
“Sixteen winters,” Nate signed. “Five winters from now.” He was confident the young Ute wouldn’t wait that long. And even if Niwot did show up, Evelyn might be gone. She had vowed to leave for the States the day she turned sixteen.
“That is a long time,” Niwot conceded. “But I can be patient. We will talk again, Grizzly Killer.”
Nate watched the young warrior walk off. He was still angry, but his anger was tempered by the realization that when he was Niwot’s age, he had been cocky and headstrong too. With a shrug he dismissed the incident. He had more important things to think about—namely, putting an end to Scar’s gore-drenched spree.
A procession was winding among the lodges. Neota was at the head, a portrait in misery if ever there was one. One man beat a handheld drum in slow cadence while mourners keened and wailed.
Nate sat back down facing the river. Picking up a stone, he chucked it out into the current. He had known Star At Morning only a short while, but he had liked her, liked her a lot. To think that just yesterday she had been in the full bloom of life, bursting with beauty and vitality, and now she was a cold corpse that would soon rot and decay.
Here one minute, gone the next, Nate reflected. The ways of the world could be bitterly cruel. He counted his blessings that his wife, daughter, and son were hearty and hale. Losing any of them would crush him. He would much rather he were first to go than have to shed tears over their graves.
The village grew as quiet as a graveyard. Nate leaned back on his hands and idly scanned the mountains to the south. Movement on a low ridge a quarter-mile off drew his attention. A large animal was meandering across it. An elk, he assumed, until it occurred to him the color of its coat was all wrong. As he looked on, it halted, and he saw it in full profile.
Nate couldn’t believe his eyes. Only one animal was that size and that shape: a grizzly. And since no other griz would dare intrude on Scar’s domain, it had to be the Ute-slayer himself. Heaving to his feet, Nate saw the bear paw at the ground as if digging. Maybe it was after pikas or other rodents. In which case it might be occupied for a while, giving him time to get there.
Pivoting, Nate dashed to the bay and yanked out the picket pin. He swung onto the saddle, lashed the reins, and plunged into the river. There was a ford a hundred yards downstream, but every second was crucial. The water rose only as high as the bay’s brisket, and in less than a minute he was across and galloping hell-bent for leather toward the ridge.
Nate raced into a belt of cottonwoods and on through into thick pines. A thick carpet of needles muffled the drum of the bay’s hooves. He lost sight of the ridge and prayed Scar would still be there when he could see it again. For once luck was with him. When the bay broke from the trees a hundred yards from the bottom of the ridge, Scar was still digging away.
Nate jerked the Hawken to his shoulder and just as quickly lowered it again. At that range and that angle, the odds of hitting a vital organ were slim.
On up the slope Nate sped. Scar suddenly stop digging. He thought the rogue glanced around at him, but he couldn’t be sure. Scar bolted, barreling into the woods as if shot from a cannon.
Nate slapped his legs against the bay, spurring it on. Bears were faster than horses, but in the forest Scar couldn’t attain his top speed. All Nate had to do was keep the griz in sight until it tired. Another factor in Nate’s favor was that for all their speed over short distances, grizzlies lacked stamina. The bay had a good chance of outlasting the bastard.
In a flurry of driving hooves and flying clods of dirt, Nate reached the crest. Scar was sixty to seventy yards off and moving like a runaway carriage. Bending to avoid low limbs, Nate pushed the bay to its limit. Every few seconds he caught a glimpse of Scar’s hindquarters. The bear had gained a little ground, but not enough to lose them.
The chase went on for the better part of a mile. Nate kept waiting for the bear to show signs of fatigue, but Scar held to a steady pace. Then the bay swept over a rise and below was a talus slope—and no Scar. Hauling on the reins, Nate brought the bay to a sliding stop. To the west grew weeds and barely enough trees to hide a goat. To the east were dense firs.
Nate rode east. Again and again he craned his neck for some sign of the monster. Again and again he was disappointed. Five minutes of headlong travel persuaded Nate he had blundered. The bear must have gone west.
“So close,” Nate said softly to himself, slowing the bay. As if in answer, from out of the vegetation came a loud grunt. Reining up, he scoured the woods and spied a patch of brown fur several hundred feet off, traveling to the southeast. A few more seconds and he clearly saw the rogue’s huge hump.
Scar was moving at a plodding walk, evidently unaware that Nate had caught up. Nate’s first impulse was to gallop after the brute, but he held back. Here was a golden opportunity to get within rifle range. He mustn’t squander it.
Waiting until Scar was almost out of sight, Nate slowly followed. The wind had died to a whisper, so he needn’t worry Scar would pick up his scent. So long as Nate hung far enough back, Scar couldn’t hear him either.
Long minutes dragged by. Nate needed the bear to stop so he could sneak close enough for a shot. But Scar trudged tirelessly on, his shoulder muscles rippling with every ponderous step.
So long as they were moving through thick forest Nate was reasonably safe from detection. But presently the woodland thinned and Scar headed up a grassy slope toward a broad shelf. Nate didn’t dare show himself. Champing at the bit like a thoroughbred, he bided his time.
Just as Scar was on the verge of going over the shelf, he halted and sniffed. Afraid the bear would bolt again, Nate inwardly swore. But he need not have worried. Scar had caught the scent of something, sure enough, but it wasn’t him. Angling to the southwest, the bear was soon out of sight.
Nate counted to thirty before riding on. He was taking a risk, but as the old saying had it, better safe than sorry. At a point a few yards below the shelf, he halted and rose in the stirrups. Beyond was an aspen grove, the leaves shimmering brightly in the sunlight. From its depths issued a series of grunts.
More wary than ever, Nate rode into the grove. The aspens grew so close together, they limited his range of vision. Scar might be fifty yards ahead or might be fifteen. And to make matters more perilous, the wind had increased and was shifting.
Nate drew rein every ten yards or so to look and listen. The grunting had stopped, which might mean the griz was out of earshot—or about to jump him. The bay had its ears pricked, but it wasn’t acting unduly agitated.
Suddenly a jay squawked to the southwest. The undergrowth crackled as a distinctive silhouette broke from cover and lit out like its backside was on fire.
Scar knew Nate was there. It was no use trying to sneak up on him. A jab of Nate’s heels spurred the bay to a gallop. He rode with reckless disregard for their safety, determined Scar wouldn’t get away. The bear was running full out again and soon had gained on them, but not enough to lose them.
“Not this time, damn you,” Nate declared.
Clusters of dense brush randomly barred Scar’s path, but he went through them as if they weren’t there.
Nate could see the grizzly a little more clearly, enough to tell the rogue wasn’t quite as huge as he thought. He kept hoping Scar would glance back so he could get a good look at the hideous visage the Utes had gone on about, but Scar wouldn’t oblige.
A steep slope marked the end of the aspens. Scar took it on the fly. He was heading up the mountain, as he had the day before. Nate wondered if he was making for the same ravine. But no. For soon Scar changed direction to the southeast, with heightened urgency, as if he had a specific destination in mind and was anxious to reach it before he tired.
About thirty yards was all that separated them. Several times Nate had a clear shot at the bear’s backside and hump, but both were too thick with muscle to waste lead on. A broadside or head-on shot was best.
Scar came to a boulder-strewn tableland and vanished around one twice as big as he was. Beyond were dozens more, a veritable maze in which the grizzly could lose himself.
Nate brought the bay to a stop. No sane person would go in there but he had come too far to give up. Throwing his left leg over the saddle, he slid down. Caution demanded he proceed on foot. On horseback he would make too much noise. Gliding to the nearest boulder, he pressed his back to it. The only sound was the wind, but Nate was willing to bet every dollar he ever earned that the bear was in there somewhere, waiting for him. Thumbing back the hammer, he stalked into the boulder field.
Nate rounded a second boulder, then a third. He was almost to the fourth when he thought to examine the ground and was rewarded with as fine a set of prints as he could ask for, perfectly outlined in *he dust. Renewed hope surged in his breast. Scar had finally made a mistake. The tracks would lead him right to where the griz was hiding.
Scarcely breathing, Nate wound deeper and deeper into the labyrinth. The distance between the prints showed him Scar had still been moving fast, but a little farther on the silvertip had stopped and shifted to see if Nate was still after him. From there the tracks bore to the right, between a large pair of boulders. Nate started to follow, then paused. A feeling came over him, a certainty that Scar was just beyond, poised to pounce. Slanting to the left, he went around instead. He had only a few yards to go when a great head reared skyward and a roar broke the stillness.
Instantly Nate fired. Expecting Scar to charge, he skipped backward, dropped his rifle, and palmed both flintlocks.
A gurgling growl, the rattle of rocks, and quiet fell again.
Nate crouched with his pistols extended, braced for the bear’s rush. But it never came. As it began to dawn on him that the bear must have fled, he crept past the twin boulders to check for sign of blood. What he found was the answer to his prayers.
The boulders were perched on the rim of a cliff. Two hundred feet below, dashed among jagged rocks, lay the terror of Ute territory.