25

Skye Fargo had been close to death so many times, he’d lost count. He stared into the grizzly’s gaping maw as his face was about to be devoured and figured he might as well shout now that he had nothing to lose.

Off in the trees, Abe Foreman laughed.

Almost instantly, the grizzly huffed and pulled back and swung toward the oaks and cottonwoods. It commenced to sniff and turn its head from side to side.

Fargo realized the bear had caught the outlaw’s scent. The smell of the horses, probably, too. For the moment he was forgotten as the bear took a few steps toward the vegetation.

Abe Foreman wasn’t laughing now.

The grizzly slowly advanced, growling. It was suspicious, and not pleased that its meal had been interrupted.

Fargo wondered what Foreman would do. If he stayed put, the bear was bound to find him. If he fled, the griz might give chase.

Abe Foreman chose the latter. He burst from cover on his sorrel, lashing the reins in a panic, making for the prairie.

For a few heartbeats the grizzly just stood there. Then, with a rapidity that was startling, it erupted into motion and was off after the sorrel in an incredible burst of speed. Over short distances grizzlies were as fast as any horse alive, even faster on occasion, and this was one of them.

Abe Foreman was almost to the prairie when the grizzly overhauled him. He screamed as a forepaw swiped at his mount’s flank. The sorrel screamed, too, a shrill whinny and then another as its rear leg was splintered by a powerful blow.

Abe dived clear as the sorrel pitched forward. His foot became entangled and for an instant it appeared he would go down with his horse but he kicked clear and landed on his shoulder and rolled.

The griz was more interested in the sorrel. It lunged, clamping those iron jaws on its quarry’s neck below the ears. The horse kicked and neighed, attempting to rise. Claws raked its side, its throat. Scarlet sprayed in a mist, until, with a wrench of its gargantuan frame, the grizzly bit down and simultaneously broke the sorrel’s neck.

Abe Foreman was scrambling on his hands and knees toward the trees. His face was pasty with fear. When he gained the first tree he slid behind it and sat with his back to the bole, quaking from head to toe.

The bear began to eat the sorrel.

Fargo had a reprieve but for how long? Heedless of the torment, he resumed twisting his wrists and pulling against the ropes but all he succeeded in doing was making his wrists bleed worse. He tugged and tugged, his senses swimming from the agony, and wasn’t aware he was no longer alone until he heard an oath and was struck a jarring blow to the jaw.

“You son of a bitch. This is all your fault.”

His ears ringing from the punch, Fargo shook his head to clear it.

Abe Foreman was red with wrath. Beyond, the sorrel lay with its head attached by a shred to its neck. The grizzly was nowhere to be seen.

“Where did the bear go?” Fargo asked.

“I’m about to splatter your brains,” Abe informed him. “That griz is the least of your worries.” He gestured. “It wandered off and I am going to get this over with.”

Fargo was nearly exhausted from his struggles. He didn’t pull away when Abe gripped his chin.

“Rufus is dead because of you. Now my horse is, too. I’m not waitin’ any longer. I’m doin’ you in here and now.”

“Hoby wanted a bear to kill me,” was all the protest Fargo could muster.

“The boy ain’t here,” Abe declared. “It’s just you and me and pretty soon it will be just me. I’ll take that Ovaro of yours and head for Texas and Hoby Cotton and his brothers can go to hell.”

A drop of blood fell onto Foreman’s boot and he looked down and grinned. “There’s about to be a lot more of that in a bit.”

“If my hands were free . . .” Fargo said, but didn’t finish the useless threat.

Abe slowly drew his revolver and slowly cocked it and slowly pressed the muzzle to Fargo’s temple. “Beg me not to.”

“That will be the day.”

“Tough hombre,” Abe scoffed.

Fargo waited for the inevitable.

“You know,” Abe said, and lowered his six-shooter. “On second thought I shouldn’t do this quick. I should shoot you to pieces.” He aimed at Fargo’s leg, then laughed and aimed at Fargo’s arm. “Which should it be? Your knee or your elbow?”

Out of the corner of an eye Fargo caught movement in the brush. That something so immense could move so silently never failed to amaze him. “Which would you like to lose?”

“I’m not the one trussed up like a lamb for the slaughter,” Abe said.

“You’re the one who made the mistake, though.”

“And what mistake would that be?” Abe scornfully asked.

“You haven’t done much hunting, have you?”

“Some when I was a boy. Get to the damn point.”

“My point,” Fargo said, “is that if you were a hunter, you’d know that some meat-eaters like to circle their prey and come on it from behind. Wolves will. Coyotes sometimes.” He paused. “Bears like that trick a lot. Grizzlies more than blacks.”

“That griz is gone and good riddance.”

“It probably smelled you,” Fargo guessed, “and stopped eating the horse to stalk you. To a griz, one kind of meat is as good as another.”

“You think you can think like a bear? You’re even more loco than Hoby.”

Fargo stared past him. “See for yourself.”

Smirking, Abe Foreman turned. The smirk died and terror bloomed and he let out with a, “No! Not me! Go away!”

The grizzly had stalked in the open and was moving toward them with its head lowered and its ears flattened, a sure sign it was about to attack.

“Do you hear me?” Abe cried, and snapped a shot that kicked up dirt in the grizzly’s face. “Go away!”

With a tremendous roar, the bear charged.

Abe screamed and spun and ran. He had no chance, none at all. The bear was on him before he took ten steps. Whirling, he fired wildly. Even when the bear bit down on his wrist and he was being hauled to earth, he squeezed off shots.

The rope around Fargo’s right wrist suddenly jerked, and the next thing he knew, he was hanging by his legs and his left arm. One of the wild shots had severed the other rope.

Fargo’s back was to the bear and the outlaw. A screech raised the short hairs at the nape of his neck. The crunch that followed, and the blubbering, balled his gut into a knot. Girding himself, he looked over his shoulder.

Abe Foreman was on his back, his arms and legs weakly pumping. The griz had a paw on his chest, pinning him, and was almost casually ripping and tearing at his belly.

Abe looked at Fargo and opened his mouth to scream, and died.

Fargo turned away. The horrendous meal seemed to take forever. At last the crunching and chewing stopped and he swore the bear belched. He was hoping it would leave or go to the horse. Instead, he heard it come up behind him. Something wet touched the small of his back and it was all he could do not to recoil from the contact. Warm breath prickled his skin and he felt its tongue.

Not that again, Fargo thought. But the griz licked him only once and walked off. Its breathing and its footfalls faded and there was the splash of water. He looked, and said under his breath, “Thank God.”

The brute was leaving. It had crossed the creek and was leisurely melting into the trees.

Fargo let a couple of minutes go by to be sure. Twisting, he bent nearly in half and reached for his boot, and the toothpick. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite do it. He settled for prying at the knots on his left wrist with his fingernails. He was at it for so long that he began to think they would never come undone but they did.

Once both arms were free, he clutched at his leg and pulled himself high enough to slid his hand into his boot. The rope around his legs hindered him and he had to jiggle his boot and push but he succeeded in sliding the toothpick out. The rest was easy.

He tried to let himself down slowly but his grip on the rope slipped and he thumped onto his shoulders and collapsed, weary to his marrow. He closed his eyes, tempted to rest. Heavy footfalls changed his mind. He snapped alert and sat up, prepared to battle the griz with nothing but the toothpick if he had to. Only it wasn’t the grizzly.

“Hey, big fella,” Fargo said happily as the Ovaro nuzzled him.

Using the stallion for support, he got to his feet. The outlaws had shoved the Henry in the saddle scabbard. On a hunch he moved to his saddlebags. In the second was his Colt.

Providence or luck, Fargo didn’t care. He was alive. He pictured Hoby Cotton’s smiling face and said through clenched teeth, “I’m coming for you, boy.”