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The grizzly came barreling out of the trees at a dead run, a big silvertip, seven hundred pounds of muscle, hide, hair, claws, and teeth.

Later, when he had the time to think about it, the man with the lake blue eyes wondered where the bear had come from and what had stirred it up so. There was no cub nearby, not that Skye Fargo had noticed, and he was a man who noticed just about everything. He’d seen no claw marks on the trees, nor anything else to signal that a bear was in the vicinity.

Fargo had walked down to the little stream for a quick wash before making camp. He’d laid his rifle aside, and there was no way of getting to it. Maybe the bear was upset because it had been about to catch a fish for its supper, and Fargo had gotten in the way.

Not that it really mattered what had riled the bear. What mattered was that it was madder than hell and had its eyes set on Fargo.

There was nowhere to run, and no time for running even if an escape route had been available. Fargo didn’t even have time to pull his pistol. He could have dropped down and pretended to be dead, hoping the bear wouldn’t kill him immediately, but the grizzly was too angry to care if he was dead or alive. It was going to punish him no matter what condition he was in.

So when the bear was within a couple of feet, Fargo jumped to the side. The bear had worked up such a head of steam that it almost went right on past him and into the water, but it managed to lash out with one huge paw and swat Fargo in the back.

Fargo heard his buckskins tearing and felt the searing burn of the claws as they raked his shoulder and upper arm. Then he was flying through the air.

He landed about ten yards away from where the bear was making a turn at the edge of the stream. Grabbing for his pistol, Fargo discovered that it was gone. The grizzly’s blow had jolted it from the holster, and Fargo couldn’t see where it had landed.

The only defense Fargo had left was his Arkansas toothpick, the sharp bowie knife that had saved him from more foes than one. But not from anything as ferocious and enormous as the bear that was coming at him now.

The grizzly’s head swung from side to side and its eyes seemed to glow with its hatred of Fargo, but at least it wasn’t coming as fast as it had the first time. Fargo had a little time to think of what he might do.

Thinking, however, didn’t help. The bear was simply too big, too strong, too fast. Fargo had no time for planning. He had to act.

When the grizzly came so close that Fargo could smell its meaty breath, he jabbed it in the muzzle with the knife.

The bear jerked in surprise. It didn’t appear hurt, any more than Fargo would have been hurt by a wasp sting. And it didn’t get calmer. If anything it was more agitated than before.

Fargo felt the warm blood running from the places where the claws had sliced him, and pain lanced through him. He kept the knife ready.

The bear came at him again. Fargo jabbed it in the muzzle and jumped aside.

The grizzly roared and turned toward him, baring its sharp teeth, saliva flying, but Fargo didn’t retreat. Instead he jumped forward, ducked to the side, grabbed a handful of the bear’s fur, and pulled himself up onto its back.

For a moment the bear didn’t move. Then it hurled itself erect on its hind legs, throwing its front paws and head straight toward the clouds as it roared at the sky.

Fargo tightened his hold on the bear’s rough fur. The animal’s rank smell engulfed Fargo as he laid his head against it, trying to grip with his legs as well as his hand. He didn’t have much luck, so he put the knife between his teeth and held tight with both hands.

The bear tried to shake him off as if he were some troublesome insect, and Fargo clung like a tick. He wondered if anyone had ever ridden a bear before. Anyone who had lived to tell about it, that is.

Not having any luck at bouncing Fargo from its back, the grizzly headed for the trees at a bouncing lope. With every jarring step, Fargo felt the blood pump out of him.

Fargo thought about letting go and sliding to the ground, but he knew that if he did that, the bear would round on him and attack again. He decided to wait to see what the bear had in mind.

It had decided to rake him off by rubbing against a tree.

Fargo had a couple of choices. He could try to get off the bear and into the tree. If he did that, he’d have to hope the bear didn’t decide to come after him, but his other choice was to hang on, hope the bear didn’t crush him, and then try to kill it.

Killing the grizzly with a bowie might have been possible, but Fargo didn’t have the strength left to try. He was weakened by loss of blood and by the painful blow the bear had given him. He decided to climb the tree if he could reach a limb.

He could. Before the bear even had a chance to start rubbing, Fargo managed to grasp a sturdy branch and pull himself into the tree. He was able to clamber off the bear’s back and up the trunk for eight or ten feet before the bear was quite aware of what was happening.

Blood dripped down from Fargo’s wound and got the bear’s attention, eliciting a furious growl as the bear started up the tree.

But the limbs were too small to hold the grizzly’s weight, and the trunk was too thin to allow its claws much of a purchase. The bear slid to the ground and shook the tree. By that time, Fargo was sitting on a limb with his legs wrapped around the trunk. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The grizzly didn’t give up easily. It roared and grumbled, walked away and came back, bumped the tree and lashed it with its claws, sending bark flying.

Fargo closed his eyes, leaned on the trunk, and held on tight.

After what seemed like a very long time, the grizzly gave one final roar, looked up at Fargo with burning eyes, and shambled back into the trees.

Fargo stayed where he was for another half hour, until he was convinced the bear was gone for good. Then he climbed down the tree.

He was surprised by how weak he was, especially his arm, and he wondered how much blood he had lost. His buckskin shirt was soaked with it.

When he reached the ground, his knees were wobbly. He walked unsteadily to the stream and looked around for his pistol. When he found it, he replaced it in the holster.

Fargo peeled off his shirt and inspected it. It was badly torn, and so was the skin on his back and shoulder. The nearest doctor was back in Portland, which Fargo had left the day before after leading a group of pilgrims there from Saint Louis. He was on his way back east, hoping to find some work along the way at one of the forts, scouting, maybe, or providing game for food.

Now, he thought, he’d be lucky to survive. He’d once known a man who’d been mauled by a grizzly, and the bear had scalped him.

“Did it better than any Injun could,” the old mountain man had told Fargo, taking off his hat to show him the white line of scar that ran along one side of his head. He still had his hair, or most of it, though it was a little patchy. “All the hair just flopped over to one side and hung there. I was lucky my partner was around. He kilt the bear and sewed my hair back on. Did a mighty nice job of it, too.”

Fargo washed off as best he could in the stream. If the old mountain man had survived, so could he. The cold water sent shivers down his spine and then blasted him with pain when he washed the wounds.

He knew that a grizzly’s claws were as likely to kill a man later on as they were when they first scored his flesh. Fargo had seen more than one wounded man come down with infections and fever from which they never recovered. He had some whiskey in his saddlebags if he could get back to his horse. He could pour the whiskey in the wound, and that would help. He hoped.

Fargo started back to where the big Ovaro stallion was waiting for him, watching the trees in case the bear returned.

Even if it did, however, there was nothing Fargo could do against it. He was weak as a newborn.

He got almost to the horse before he fell. He was barely able to get up, but somehow he did. He located the Ovaro and got the whiskey out of the saddlebags.

He knew that when he poured it on the wound, he was likely to pass out, but he didn’t figure he had much choice. He uncorked the bottle and took a hefty swallow. Then, without hesitation, he doused the wound.

The pain was like being burned with hot irons. Fargo fell to his knees, his head spinning. The bottle fell from his hand, and he pitched forward. He raised his head once, but he lacked the strength to do so again.