Of all the animals in the wilderness, grizzlies were the most feared by whites and Indians alike. Tremendous in size, with extremely wide heads, massive shoulders, and prominent humps that set them apart from their black cousins, grizzlies were the masters of their domain. Even panthers and wolverines gave them a wide birth. Sometimes rising to over eight feet in height when they stood on their hind legs, grizzlies were endowed with terrible claws over four inches long. A single swipe could disembowel a grown moose or decapitate a man.
Nate felt his mouth go dry as the grizzly started out across the plain, its huge head swinging ponderously from side to side, lumbering clumsily along, giving no hint of the startling speed of which a grown bear was capable. It was fifty yards away and as yet had not noticed them. If they didn’t move it might keep on going. Grizzlies had notoriously poor sight. Their sense of smell, however, was exceptional. Hopefully the wind wouldn’t carry their scent to it.
The monster abruptly halted and sniffed.
“What do we do?” Burke whispered.
“Don’t move and don’t talk,” Nate advised. He saw the bear look toward them and gulped. Burke’s bay was swishing its tail. The grizzly was bound to notice. Sure enough, a second later the beast took a heavy stride in their direction while continuing to test the wind.
“The Lord preserve us!” Burke breathed.
“When I tell you to, ride like you’ve never ridden before,” Nate directed. “Head westward and don’t look back.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll try and get the bear to chase me. After I lose it, I’ll fire shots so you can find me again.”
“What if it catches you?”
“My wife’s name is Winona. Follow the setting sun until you come to a lake. The Shoshone village is on the south side. Let her know what happened.”
“Your sacrifice won’t be necessary,” Burke declared. “I have a better idea.”
“Such as?” Nate asked, and was flabbergasted when the minister unexpectedly turned his horse toward the bear, held his bible aloft, and shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Begone, foul beast! In the name of Our Lord Jesus I command you to leave us be!”
The grizzly uttered a fearful roar and charged. “Damn!” Nate snapped, and swiftly gave the bay’s rump a solid smack that sent the horse racing into the trees with Reverend Burke clinging to the saddle for dear life. Clutching the rope lead, Nate angled to the northwest and waved the Hawken to attract the bear. “This way!” he yelled. “Come after me, you mangy varmint!”
Loping faster than a man could run, the grizzly bore down on the horses.
In a twinkling Nate was wending among fir and spruce trees, a wall of branches momentarily screening him from the attacking monster. Ordinarily Pegasus could handily outdistance one of the giant bruins, but now the pack animals were slowing the stallion down. Burdened as they were with more supplies than was practical for a horse to carry, the pair was doing their best but still going nowhere near fast enough to escape the pursuing behemoth.
A branch plucked at Nate’s beaver hat as he skirted a pine and crossed a narrow clearing. To his rear arose the loud crackle of underbrush, telling him the grizzly had entered the trees. His only hope was to stay ahead of the beast for the next two or three hundred yards. Provided he succeeded, the grizzly would tire and give up the chase. If not...
The forest was a blur. Nate had to constantly change direction to avoid trunks, logs, and boulders. Once the tip of a limb snagged his chin but his beard spared him from being cut. The ground sloped uphill, so he bore to the right until he came to a dry wash between two hills. The level stretch enabled him to urge the horses to go even faster.
At the west end of the wash, where it broadened out into a lush valley, he galloped madly toward a stand of aspen, the nearest available cover. A quick glance showed the grizzly just bursting from the woods.
Did he dare risk a shot?
No, he decided, because the odds of killing a grizzly with a single ball were slim. No less a personage than the famous Meriwether Lewis, of Lewis and Clark fame, had first chronicled the difficulty of slaying grizzlies in the journal he kept on his trek to the Pacific Ocean in 1805. When the men of the expedition initially encountered the gigantic brutes, they treated the grizzlies much as they would black bears from the States. But the first bear they shot for its meat and oil took ten balls before it dropped—five through the lungs. Another grizzly was shot eight times as it tried to chase down and slay some of the members of the expedition. From then on Lewis and Clark treated the monsters with cautious respect.
Nate reached the aspens and darted into them. The grizzly was still in heated pursuit, rumbling continuously deep in its immense chest. Nate battered branches aside with the Hawken as he made for a field beyond the stand. The foremost pack animal bumped into a tree and stopped, catching him unawares, and he was nearly pulled from the saddle. With a frantic jerk on the rope he got the horse moving again.
Puffing noisily as its great feet struck the ground in steady cadence, the bear barreled onward.
Past the aspens Nate gave the stallion its head. He was strongly tempted to let go of the lead so he could escape, but he held on, his arm straining almost beyond endurance. The grizzly crashed into the stand and Nate swore the ground shook. The bear roared in frustration, the tightly spaced trunks slowing it down as he had planned.
More forest lay sixty yards ahead. To the right of the woods was a boulder-strewn hill. He made for the woodland, and was halfway there when over the top of the hill rode two warriors who promptly stopped on spying him. There was no time to determine if they were friendly or not. Already the grizzly had exited the stand and resumed the chase with renewed vigor.
Nate was beginning to think he would have no choice but to halt and fire. He could see the pair of warriors moving down the slope to intercept him. Perhaps they were hostiles intent on picking him off while he was preoccupied. One of them held a bow, and in the hands of a skilled warrior an arrow could slay a foe from a hundred yards off. He heard the warriors commence whooping and hollering and slowed just enough for a good look.
They were Shoshones.
Elated, he saw them angling toward the bear, not toward him. An instant later he recognized the duo as Drags the Rope and Beaver Tail. The former he had met on the very day he’d met Winona, and he was a close friend. Beaver Tail was a younger man barely out of his teens who had yet to count coup on a foe.
What in the world were they doing? Nate wondered. Both were beaming and lashing their war ponies with their leather quirts, clearly trying to reach the grizzly before it could overtake him. He saw Drags the Rope nock an arrow to his bowstring and Beaver Tail heft a lance. With a start he realized they were going to try and slay the monster.
Nate looked over his right shoulder to discover the bear had heard their clamor, spied them, and halted. Nate was in the clear. All he had to do was keep on going and there was no way the grizzly could harm him. The Shoshones would keep it occupied, although in the process both of them might lose their lives. Hauling on the reins, he jumped down and hastily tied the lead rope to a bush, then remounted and raced back.
Already the warriors were clear of the hill and sweeping toward the waiting bear. The monster seemed to sense their intent. It growled and swung a stupendous paw as if inviting them to try their best.
Drags the Rope raised his bow, sighted, and let the shaft fly when forty feet from the grizzly. Streaking true to his aim, the arrow sliced into the bear’s shoulder below the neck, sinking in all the way to the eagle feather fletching.
The grizzly vented a roar of rage and twisted its head to snap at the protruding feathers. Its jaws closed shy of the shaft. Thwarted, growling ferociously, it glowered at the onrushing Shoshones, then charged.
The warriors continued to close. Riding expertly, horse and rider as one, Drags the Rope cut to the right and sent a second arrow into the slavering brute. The bear slanted toward him, covering the ground with astounding speed.
It appeared certain the grizzly would be on him in seconds.
Beaver Tail whooped and galloped straight at the monster. He whipped his arm overhead, straightened, and tensed to hurl his lance into the bear’s side. But the beast heard the pounding of his mount’s hoofs. It whirled to face him, its jaws wide, its glistening teeth exposed.
Swerve aside! Nate wanted to shout. Evidently the young warrior had no intention of doing so. He saw Beaver Tail grin, saw the lance leap from the Shoshone’s hand and strike the grizzly in the chest, then watched in horror as the young warrior tried to turn his horse too late. The bear, ignoring the lance imbedded in its body, took two quick steps and arced its right forepaw into the horse’s head.
Blood sprayed from the war pony’s crushed skull as the animal staggered, then toppled, hitting the ground on its right side. At the last instant Beaver Tail tried to leap to safety but the horse came down on his leg, pinning him. He drew a knife and twisted to defend himself from the approaching bear.
The grizzly halted and cocked its head regarding the young warrior intently. It placed a front leg on the dead war pony and started to step over the horse to get at Beaver Tail.
Yipping like a coyote, Drags the Rope galloped in close and unleashed a shaft into the monster’s neck. The bear spun and roared, then sprang at Drags the Rope’s mount, its paw flashing. The horse was struck on the flank, lost its balance, and fell. Drags the Rope jumped clear, drawing another arrow from his quiver as he did. The grizzly, paying no attention to the war pony’s wild thrashing as it tried to stand, moved toward him.
By then Nate was there, riding Indian fashion, using his legs to guide the stallion, the Hawken tucked tight against his right shoulder, the hammer cocked, his finger on the trigger. He came in at a gallop, and when only four yards separated Pegasus from the growling monster he fired, aiming at a point in front of the bear’s right ear. The grizzly whirled and tried to rip open Pegasus with its great claws, but at a jerk of the reins and a jab of Nate’s heels the stallion bounded aside.
Roaring hideously, the bear gave chase, traveling a dozen yards before it abruptly stopped and began shaking its huge head as if perplexed. It took a few lumbering steps, then tottered unsteadily, swiped a forepaw at the air a few times, and collapsed, sinking slowly to the grass with its front legs outstretched and its head coming to rest between them.
Nate turned Pegasus and drew his left flintlock. The bear was motionless but it might only be dazed. Of all the creatures in the wilderness, grizzlies were the hardest to kill. Single shots rarely sufficed, even in the head, because their brains were protected by exceptionally thick skulls plus two large muscles that covered the sides of the forehead and served to stop or deflect any shots. The common phrase “hard to die” had in fact been coined by Meriwether Lewis in regards to the fierce beasts.
He drew within ten feet, aimed the flintlock, and fired. The barrel belched smoke and lead, and he saw the ball smack into the bear’s head near the ear. The mighty animal didn’t budge. Nate cautiously rode nearer, tucking the spent pistol under his belt and drawing the second flintlock just in case. Sliding from the saddle, he warily stepped up to the monster and touched the barrel to its brow.
The grizzly was still motionless, its eyes open but unblinking, pink drool flowing from its partially open mouth. Blood trickled from the two holes in its head as well as from the arrow and lance wounds. There could be no doubt the bear was dead.
Nate exhaled and straightened. That had been too close for comfort. Had the bear been a shade faster, it would have knocked down Pegasus and had him at its mercy.
He heard footsteps and a hand clapped him on the back.
“Well done, Grizzly Killer! How many does this make now? Seven or eight?”
Turning, Nate looked at the smiling face of his close friend and smiled too, although not as broadly. By all rights he should be glad to be alive and savoring the thrill of triumph, but deep down he was bothered by the incident. He had never taken satisfaction in killing except when it was absolutely necessary, such as for food for his family, for clothing, or for beaver pelts to make a living. He wasn’t one of those mountaineers who went around shooting animals for the sheer hell of it. And although he would kill in self-defense, he regretted having to take the life of a creature that was only acting according to its given nature. “Four,” he said in perfect Shoshone. “I think this makes four.”
“Wait until I tell everyone! No member of our tribe has ever killed so many brown bears and lived to talk about it. Touch the Clouds will be jealous.”
“It was luck,” Nate said. Touch the Clouds, the foremost Shoshone warrior, a giant of a man with muscles of steel, was another good friend. As with every Shoshone warrior, Touch the Clouds prided himself on the honors he earned on the battlefield or in fights with wild beasts, and had counted more coup than every Shoshone except their aged chief, Broken Paw. But the giant had only slain one grizzly, and even then had nearly lost his life when the bear tore his back open. It was well known among the tribe that Touch the Clouds was envious of Nate’s widespread reputation as a slayer of grizzlies.
“You are too modest,” Drags the Rope said, and nodded at the dead bear. “Only a man with courage and skill could have done as you did.”
From off to the left came a shout. “If you are finished congratulating him, we have another visitor!” Beaver Tail interjected.
Nate glanced at the young warrior, who was still pinned under his horse, and saw Beaver Tail point to the south. Pivoting, he spied the reason for the Shoshone’s concern. Standing at the edge of the trees was another bear.