prologue

Jawbone was stumbling now and then, but Mister Skye didn’t mind. The ugly old horse still had a great heart and was as eager as he always had been. Skye was hunting high in the Birdsong Mountains this November day, and on the trail of two elk whose hoof prints unwound in the rain-dampened earth.

Except for a dusting of snow on the craggy peaks, there was little sign of impending winter. The snow and cold of the uplands had not yet driven the elk and deer down the long shoulders to warmer and safer habitat. A sharp wind cut into Skye’s leathers, chilling him, but he had endured harsh winds and rain and snow and cold for half a century, and he could endure this wind too. But it made his bones ache.

Skye led an empty packhorse with a sawbuck saddle on it. If he killed an elk, he could carry most of it back to his wives and his lodge far below by quartering it and loading some of it on both horses. If that happened he would walk. He wouldn’t mind that, either, because he would be bringing good meat to Victoria and Mary, his two Indian wives, and there would be some to give to the elders and the widows in the Kicked-in-the-Bellies winter encampment on Sweet Grass Creek.

He rode easily, his old mountain rifle cradled in his arm, ready to use. He knew the two elk were not far ahead, in this sheltered upland valley. Most of the timber was well below.

He didn’t see the bear until it was too late. The giant, humpbacked grizzly had been denning, clawing its way into a steep hillside to prepare for its hibernation, but now it backed out of the hole, swung around, eyed Skye and his horses with small pig eyes, and didn’t hesitate. It lumbered down, amazingly fast for so big an animal, an odd hiss slipping from its mouth, and Skye suddenly had no time at all. Skye swung the octagon barrel of his rifle around, but the bear rose up on its hind legs, even as Jawbone screeched and sidled away and the packhorse broke free and fled.

The blow knocked Skye clear out of his saddle, and another caught Jawbone and raked red furrows along the old horse’s withers. Jawbone reeled sideways, stumbled, and then fell on Skye, who had landed on his shoulder. Skye yanked his rifle around, pointed, and fired. The rifle bucked, slammed into his ruined chest, but it caught the huge brown grizzly in the shoulder, plowing a red furrow into the caramel-colored hair.

The grizzly paused, snapped at the wound on his shoulder, where blood was swiftly rising into the hair, and then whined. It paused and licked its wound, mewling and crying like a child, sobbing and licking. It sat on its hind legs, upright, furiously working at its wound, unable to slow the blood or subdue its pain, its sobbing eerie and sad.

Skye watched from the ground. Jawbone had clambered off of him and stood, head down, shaking with his own pain. Cruel red lines gouged his flesh. Skye’s own shoulder ached, and he bled from a few places. He had no wind in him, and his arms didn’t work, and he had trouble breathing. He couldn’t lift his rifle even if he needed it again. He would need to make his old body work, or he would perish here. He would need to return seven or eight miles to the Crow camp, and he would need to do it without help, for there was none.

The bear, still whimpering, limped toward its almost completed den and pushed into the hillside. Skye knew it wouldn’t come out until spring. Skye lay helplessly on the grade, staring at the blue heavens, which had mare’s tails corduroying it now. The weather would change soon, maybe for good. He tried to inventory his body. He had a few scratches but those six-inch, lethal claws had only scraped him. They smarted but weren’t bleeding. Wind eddied into the slashes left in his leather hunting coat. His pain made him faint, but he was used to pain. A half a century in the North American wilds had brought him more than his share of pain, but also inured him to it. But he could not lift his arms, or twist his body, or get himself to his feet.

He knew that time would help. He eyed Jawbone, who stood with legs locked, head low, going through his own torment. The blood on Jawbone’s withers had stopped flowing and was coagulating in the cold. He couldn’t see the packhorse, but it wouldn’t be far away. Time, little by little, restored some control of his limbs to him, and he rolled onto his side. It was then that he saw his bearclaw necklace lying in the grass. It had been given to him when he was young, a sacred symbol among his Absaroka People of his bear medicine. His brothers were the grizzly bears, and during the whole half century he had never shot a grizzly, nor had one ever attacked him, until now. Maybe his bear medicine had finally failed. This ornery old grizzly male had come at him, and he had shot it. And now the medicine bond between Skye and the bears had been shattered. Skye gathered the remnants of the necklace. The giant gray claws had been separated by blue trade beads, and the whole ensemble had never failed to win admiration and respect among those who examined it. He picked up the beads and claws that had scattered when the necklace was torn from his chest, and these he tenderly folded into his coat pocket.

That was oddly disturbing to him. It was an ending, a shattering of an ancient bond that had made the grizzly bears his brothers and sisters, his spirit helpers in time of need. He lay quietly another while, but the wind was picking up, and he knew he would either get up now or not ever get up. He found his rifle and used it for a crutch, slowly pulling himself to his feet. He stared around the serene upland valley, its grasses brown now, its aspen bare-limbed, the gray rock and tawny earth naked to the elements. He saw his packhorse grazing downslope, dragging its lead line, undamaged.

Jawbone limped close and gently pressed his muzzle into Skye’s chest. They were a pair, and they had survived yet again.

It would be a long walk back to the winter camp, but Skye knew he would make it, would have to make it. There would be no elk roasting over the fire this night.