Chapter One
Crushed to earth beneath the giant, grizzled paw, the green April grass shoots quickly sprang back. But the brittle blades from last autumn lay fragmented and lifeless, dwarfed in the fresh ten-inch-long depression-the track of a boar grizzly.
The Bear River Range above Bailey Creek was a remote kingdom, still capped with snow on its peaks and in its timbered shadows. And the eight hundred pound silver-back grizzly was its crowned ruler. He lumbered across the gentle, forested slope, over fallen Douglas fir and between the live ones whose tips pricked the lightly clouded sky. A chipmunk raced across the dampened trail, its tiny, striped body a flurry. The bear scarcely noticed it as he passed. His little reddish eyes concentrated on a grassy, sunlit patch in a saddle a hundred yards ahead.
Soon the bruin entered the sunny clearing. Standing with a soft, chill breeze off the snow banks playing in his matted fur, he tested the air. His nose was greeted only by the scent of Douglas fir, crushed grass, and molding duff, disturbed by his careless paws.
On the other side of the saddle, just before the shadows of the fir woods, a large log lay rotting, its belly embedded in a carpet of grass and fir needles. The bear's eyes were feeble, as bears' eyes are, but his nose was incredibly keen. He smelled the decaying wood, identified the gray shape as a log, and moved forward purposefully.
On top, the log was pitted and sprinkled with moss. The bear rooted into it with his nose, and it broke apart easily. Settling himself back on his hind feet, he sank the long claws of his right forefoot into the wood, and grunting, he heaved to the side. With a soft crackle, the wood came apart, and large chunks rolled down the slope and came to rest among the new grass and fallen fir cones.
With a satisfied grunt, the bear made a quick survey of the black wood ant colony and large white eggs he had uncovered. Then his long, mottled tongue went to work, picking up ants and eggs and pulling them into his black-lipped mouth. He made swift work of the meal, then reared back his great head to search for survivors. There were two ants fleeing along the side of the log toward safety, and he lowered his mouth to take them in.
Suddenly, the breeze shifted. He was poised to devour the ants when his keen nose caught something new. He whipped his head up, and his ears shot forward. He swung his shaggy head this way and that, searching the trees downslope, from where the breeze now came.
With a thrust of his forelegs, the bear came erect, his huge body standing nearly seven feet high. He watched the trees below, listened, whiffed the air currents. And then the breeze changed again, from the southwest once more. But the big bear needed only that few seconds' confirmation. Turning from the rotted log without a backward glance, he started down the slope, stepping easily over the downed timber and saplings in his path.Young Jose Olano stretched lazily and let his dark eyes cruise the surrounding land. It was spring along Bailey Creek. Days grew longer, and songbirds were returning from their retreat to the south. Meadowlarks serenaded each other from the tops of sage, and sparrows flitted about the branches and bright new leaves of quaking aspen and serviceberry. A bluebird flew past, its wingbeats carrying it along with the motion of a wave. Up, then down it sailed until it seemed it would brush the sage, then up onc__more. In the valley, the tiny, scattered buildings of Soda Springs dotted the sagebrush flats. There, too, spring green painted the land, and the colors of April softened the hard lines of farms and ranches that dotted the hills around the town. Jose watched these sights with the sun warming his shoulders and a gentle breeze playing in his wavy black hair.
Jose Olano's Basque blood made his skin dark, and his eyes black like deep wells, with jet brows hanging over them. Fierceness gleamed in those eyes, yet softness surrounded them. His sharp nose overhung a proud mouth, his hair hung just past his collar, flowing loosely, like streams of hot molasses.
He dressed in the manner of the humble: a faded, gray wool shirt, baggy black pants, patched in several places, and battered leather shoes, their laces spliced repeatedly. Dirt smudged his face and hands, soiled his shirt. But out here there was no one to care about such things. Jose was sixteen years old that April-sixteen for one month now.
Over the grassy hill to his left, he could hear the tinkling of a brass bell and the occasional bleating of sheep. His sheep. Well, in a way. At least he was their guardian, for this, his first year as watcher of the flocks. The sheep actually belonged to Ben Trombell, who lived in Soda Springs. Trombell was a wealthy man-at least as wealthy as any Jose knew. He owned sheep in Nevada, and, since one month past, in Soda Springs. He prided himself on being the first man to bring woollies" into the area.
Ever so slightly, the wind changed, and the new grass bent about Jose's feet. He walked over to a smooth-topped boulder and sat down, pulling a stalk of grass from between his teeth and tossing it carelessly to the earth. Reaching over the edge of the boulder, he grasped the neck of a battered guitar and lifted it onto his lap. He hadn't checked his flock for a couple of hours, for a feeling of laziness had overcome him. But the sheep sounded content, and he wanted to hear music. Even his own music. As pathetic as it might sound, only he and the sheep would hear. And the birds. As for them, Sing along with me!" Jose invited exuberantly. If they didn't wish to, they could leave.
He strummed a few discordant bars. He started to turn the ivory-colored keys to change the pitch, but then he shrugged. Who was he to say how a guitar should sound? If he didn't like it he would just sing louder and drown it out. After all, the voice was what he wanted. Any human voice, even just his own.
He began to sing the fine songs of the old country, Euskal Herria-the Basque homeland. He thought of his mother and father, both long dead now. By this time their graves would grow tall with grass and rose bushes. What would they think if they knew where he was now, in the land of dreams? America. The Territory of Idaho. A faraway land so different from his own, yet a place with beauty at every turn. From the fir-covered mountains above him and far across the valley to the sprawling sage- and grass-covered vista and sparkling Bear River below. And last, to the rocky perch where he sat, surrounded by grass, trees, and the nodding heads of bluebells and yellow fritillary. What a land. What a dream!
The vibrant chords stopped as Jose's hands and voice stilled, and tears filled his eyes. Tears for many reasons. Tears of sadness and of joy. He missed his home in San Sebastian. He missed his parents, his sisters, his brother. But he was happy, very happy, to be here in the employ of Ben Trombell, sheep baron. To be in the middle of a world bigger than life, where opportunity waited around each turn.
But Jose's life lacked one element that would make it perfect. He ached to learn the ways of the wild lands. Sure, he lived his life outdoors. But he didn't want to just live there-he wanted to feel at home. He wanted to become competent as a hunter, a woodsman. Back in Guipuzcoa, his home province in Spain, there had been an old hermit who lived up in the hills, keeping to himself. Ixidro Ibarra was his name, and Jose had always wanted to meet him, to learn his ways. He had no desire to totally forsake civilization, but he wanted to have the choice. To go to the mountains when he wanted to or to stay in town with equal comfort.
There was one big problem with remembering his homeland. He couldn't think of home without remembering the bear. He could never get past that. The bear. That huge bear with its great, humped back, and the huge white patch on its chest. It seemed to Jose like that bear was larger than a horse. And it was, to a boy of five.
He remembered finding the dead cow. He remembered standing in awe at the mass of maggots that writhed in its ribcage, making a strange rushing sound, filling the air with a gagging stench. And he remembered his first look at the bear.
The bear saw him at a distance. It had probably smelled the dead cow a lot farther away. But when it saw movement, it came toward him at a lope. And Jose, only a child, nearly froze in his tracks. But he knew he had to run. He ran and hid in the hollow log where he had hid from Alfredo before. He hid and waited to die.
After a while, he heard footsteps nearby, then heard the bear breathing outside the log. It pushed the log around for a while, enough to scare the poor little boy nearly to death, but no more. And then all was silent. It was hours before Jose decided the bear had returned to the cow.
Jose had nightmares for years after that. And even when the nightmares faded, he still saw that bear when he thought of home. If only he could become a mountain man, he would fear no bear. He would fear nothing.
Jose began to strum the guitar again, absently. The wheels of his mind churned, and he thought of South America, where he had first traveled at the age of eleven, after leaving his homeland. There he joined his brother, Alfredo, and they thought they had found a home. But Alfredo was a wandering spirit, and the American West beckoned and beckoned. One November day found them on a ship bound for Texas. Then Texas led to Nevada, where the gracious Ben Trombell took them under his wing.
Alfredo and Jose knew nothing about sheep. The Basques who lived along the Bay of Biscay, like Jose's family, were either merchants or fishermen or something that supported the two professions. But Alfredo and Jose couldn't speak English well enough to get any other work, so with the flocks they stayed. Alfredo did, anyway.
Jose was the fortunate one. Trombell had felt him too young to stay out with the herders, and he took him to his Nevada home as a maid, of sorts. Sometimes a cook. An errand boy. The advantage was that from the age of eleven on Jose was forced to speak English. Few of his kind had yet come to America, and for a while Jose felt very alone. But after a year of trying to communicate with Trombell, he could hold his own in the English tongue. After two years, he felt comfortable. He even learned to read in English, through diligent hours of work, and one day Ben Trombell told him he spoke English better than many Americans he knew. That pleased Jose immensely.
As Jose lived with Trombell, his employer constantly taught him about sheep. When they bred, when they lambed. How to castrate the young rams. What price their wool brought. The difference between a Suffolk, the black-faced Irish breed, and a Rambouillet, the big white one known for its fine wool. Jose had never seen a Suffolk. Trombell swore the Rambouillet was the only breed worth having.
Suddenly, Jose laughed as his mind went back to a time three years past. He was barely thirteen. Ben Trombell had taken him to visit Alfredo and the other herders with the flocks. Trombell had told Jose how to catch a sheep. All you must do, he said, was run after one for several minutes. Soon it would give itself up and fall to its knees to be devoured or disposed of however its captor saw fit. Jose thought of himself as a smart boy, for a thirteen-year-old. He thought Trombell was playing a joke on him, but the man acted so serious he didn't tell him he thought so. Still, he knew dogs that were much smaller than sheep, and he couldn't catch them. Why would sheep be any different? After all, they had four legs, too. But he would give it a try, just to please Ben.
They got a sheep away from the flock, and Jose set out after it. The sheep dodged this way and that, trying to lose him, leading him through the brush. Suddenly, to his surprise, the sheep, now ten yards ahead of him, fell to its knees. It was so abrupt Jose didn't have time to stop or evade it. He ran right into and over the sheep, falling onto his face in the dirt, and the sheep flipped over and landed on its side. When the sheep realized what happened, it started to struggle to its feet. But Jose jumped up and tackled it. Holding its trembling body beneath him, he gasped for air.
Jose looked up to the sound of laughter. Ben Trombell, Alfredo, and the other herders were practically doubled over at the sheep wagon, laughing hysterically. Jose's face flushed hot. For a moment, he felt embarrassed, as if the brunt of some big joke. But when he thought of how he must have looked, running after that sheep and then sprawling over it, a smile broke over his face. Then he, too, began to laugh until tears ran down his cheeks.
Somehow, Jose had thought those carefree days would last forever. He had lived with Ben Trombell in Nevada for nearly four years. But he was soon to find he had learned far too much of the English language and about the sheep business to remain an errand boy for long.
One day, after supper, Ben Trombell stopped Jose abruptly when he tried to rise and clear the dishes. I've bought a ranch up north, son. In a place called The Soda Springs, in Idaho Territory. It's cattle country and mining country, but I want to be the first to experiment with sheep up there. I need a man I can trust, a man who knows sheep, a man who knows English. But it'll be a small flock for now. I need only one tender, and Alfredo would have to stay here. I'd like you to go there with me. But I'm asking, not telling. You're old enough to join the herders here, if you'd like. But if you go with me, we'll send for Alfredo, too, when the flock grows."
That was the essence of what Trombell said, and Jose hung his head. Ben was like a father to him, so he couldn't refuse. The next thing he knew, on March 31, 1883, he was seated beside Trombell on a train bound for Idaho Territory.
A strange sound suddenly reached Jose's ears, wrenching him from his reverie. The sheep bleated loudly-bleated frantically, the way they did when coyotes ran in their midst. With an oath, Jose dropped the guitar and reached alongside the boulder again, this time to bring up an 1866 Winchester rifle. The brass frame was tarnished and the screws a little loose. The wood was scratched and a bit warped by the weather, and the butt plate was missing, but to Jose, who knew next to nothing about firearms, any gun was as good as the next.
He ran across the hill as fast as he could through the scattered sage. As he neared the far side of the hill, the bleating of the sheep grew louder, a sound of terror. Breathing in gasps, he reached the downslope of the hill, and below him saw sheep running in all directions. Several flew past, almost running into him, oblivious to his presence. Two lambs struggled to rise, knocked down in the stampede.
His head pounding with excitement, Jose scanned the open swale and the brushy forest edge where aspen grew thickly before giving way to fir. Suddenly, he saw the brown blur, heard the deep-throated roar in the trees below, one hundred yards away. Cold fear gripped his heart, and his face went nearly as white as the stampeding sheep. He had never heard such a horrible noise. And only once, long ago, had he seen an animal of such awesome size that moved so swiftly. Terror nearly overcame him.
Grizzly!
The bear cleared the trees, running almost straight at him, hot on the tail of a ewe. A huge right paw slashed out, and the sheep hurled through the air like a down pillow to land crying at the base of a lone fir tree. The bear closed the distance in a bound, and its eight hundred pounds smashed full force on top of the sheep as its teeth sank into its skull. All Jose could see under that bear was a five-year-old boy.
The bear lay on top of the sheep only for a moment. Then it stood again, poised like a spring on all fours, and swung its head back and forth, looking for other game. It whirled half about, its gaze terrifyingly intense. Blood dripped from its lips and from its matted neck.
Jose suddenly realized the Winchester's crescent butt was pressed against his shoulder. The rifle was aimed, cocked. Sweat trickled into his eyes and off his chin. His finger twitched. The rifle's barrel belched flame and jumped in his hands. He didn't hear the shot. For a second, he wasn't even sure he had pulled the trigger.
But the huge beast whirled, facing him sixty yards away. He could hear its heaving breaths. Foam and blood dripped from its mouth. It stared at him, and he stared back, frozen. His mouth was so dry he couldn't swallow-the only dry place on his entire body. He jerked the trigger, but nothing happened. He cursed and jacked out the empty shell casing. Again he brought the rifle up. He fired.
The rimfire .44's two hundred grains of lead had no visible effect on the bear. Had it scored? The bear took a step forward. Jose jacked in another round, fired again. This time the bear jerked and snapped at the front of its shoulder as if stung by a bee. It roared horribly and shook its head, showering the grass with pink foam and sheep's blood. With fierce eyes staring, the bear charged across the swale toward the trembling Basque boy, its ears laid back flat against its head. Four bounds, then it stopped. Only forty yards away now. Its eyes staring fiercely, the bear emitted the most terrifying roar Jose could imagine. In horror, he stared at the bloodshot eyes, nearly dropping the rifle.
He chambered a fourth round-fired. A fifth-fired. With another roar, the bear turned and raced downhill. Jose kept jacking the Winchester's lever and firing, no longer aiming but unaware of that fact. His mind had ceased to operate when his frantic heart took over.
The bear ran down the coulee, bits of mud and sod flying up behind it as its claws tore into the ground. At the bottom of the slope, it turned left to keep from running into a tangled patch of fir overgrown with maple and serviceberry. Jose ran after it, and as he came to the place where the bear turned, he saw it standing two hundred yards away, licking the front of its chest vigorously. At that moment, it looked over its shoulder for his pursuit.
On the left lifted a steep, sage-covered slope leading to the flat where Jose had sat earlier. On the right loomed a dark wooded area that revealed nothing past its secretive veil. Emitting one last snarl, the bear disappeared with a crash into the black timber and tangled brush. Jose's heart plummeted. Three hours till sundown, and a wounded grizzly stalked free, in heavy cover. He knew little about bears, but someone had told him of their vindictive tendency. They said one would creep back around in the dark on an assailant to take its revenge. That left no option to poor Jose, and his hands began to shake uncontrollably with the thought of what lay ahead.
Like a fly on the trail of the black widow, he must go into those treacherous woods after the wounded, grizzled beast-alone . . .
Chapter Two
With trembling fingers, Jose Olano reached into his pants pocket and withdrew five more .44 shells. It was the last of them. He fumbled two of them through the tarnished loading gate. The third one slipped from his fingers and dropped into the dark soil. He looked down at it with a sick, empty feeling, his face pale and running with sweat. When the next one also fell, he cursed and forced back hot tears. Gritting his teeth, he pressed the last cartridge into the magazine.
Stooping, Jose retrieved the two shells. With his jaw set and his throat tight, he pushed them in with care after the other three. Then he levered out the empty shell casing from the chamber. He eased down the hammer to prevent an accidental discharge, then stood gripping the stock and forearm of the rifle until his knuckles turned white.
A single tear finally rolled through the dust on his cheek, and he pursed his lips and bunched his jaw. He had tried so hard to hold back those tears. He looked slowly about, up the hill to his left, then back up the path he had just run. He hoped desperately to see Ben Trombell bringing him supplies. Or someone else-anyone. Fear gripped him so strongly now he couldn't get enough air, although he breathed far faster than he should. His feet didn't want to move. Or maybe he hadn't tried. Was there anyone in this gigantic, lonely world who could help him?
No. No one. He must meet the bear alone.
Again, he glanced toward the sun. Twilight lurked not far away, so down the narrow path he started, crowded by the hill on his left and the black woods on his right.
With a gasp, he drew up short. In the damp trail before him he saw the track of the beast for the first time. The biggest track he had ever seen. In awe, he knelt before it and placed his left hand inside. The print dwarfed his hand, and the marks of its claws stretched out three inches beyond the ends of the toes. He swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut.
What dastardly stroke of luck had brought him to this dangerous, hostile land? Why must he face this incredible beast alone? These were not his sheep. They belonged to Ben Trombell. Let him come and protect them. He didn't pay enough for Jose to go clawing through these tangled woods, with a foe mightier than ten men hidden somewhere in wait.
Inside, Jose laughed bitterly. Only minutes ago he had been pondering his great fortune here in this land of opportunity in the gracious employ of Ben Trombell. Now he almost cursed the man who had been so kind to him.
With that thought, he clenched his jaw. He was a Basque. And a man, too. Ben Trombell had hired him to protect the sheep, and he would not quit now. It was better to die. Besides, as he had recognized earlier, if he did not kill this beast, what would stop it from coming after him later, in the dark? Then it would be hopeless. Anyway, if he were indeed to die, he preferred to die in the daylight to dying in the dark.
Standing up from the paw print, he started on, his knees still shaking, and soon he reached the spot where the bear entered the timber. He'd never learned to follow a trail, but the brush grew so thick here a creature as large as the grizzly could never enter without leaving signs even a city slicker could read. Jose found the bear's entry point. Claw-ripped sod marked it, and broken branches, one of them as big as Jose's wrist. Dark blood smeared the leaves. At least now he knew the bear was wounded and would be weakened, however slightly. Making the cross on his chest, Jose pushed through the bushes.
The sun was still up, but soon the woods grew gloomy. The trunks of the firs were so big and plentiful that little direct sunlight filtered in among them this time of the afternoon. But in spite of the shade, brush and stunted aspens grew here in abundance. Jose could walk easier than in the heavy brush at the forest perimeter, but the undergrowth concealed what lay ahead, even twenty yards away.
Jose's wide eyes searched the shadows for the bear. He had long since quit watching the forest floor, relying on movement instead of any trail the bruin might have left. Its spoor meant nothing to him. No bird nor beast made a whisper. And no wind. The woods offered only the noisy cracking of branches beneath Jose's feet, and these sounds of his own passing he couldn't even hear.
He moved slowly, the rifle pressed to his chest. His head pivoted this way and that. He breathed through his mouth, and his jaw hung slack, except when he tried to lick his lips, which he didn't do often; he found his tongue so dry it almost stuck to them.
His eyes began to hurt from strain. He had gone one hundred yards into the woods. It would be impossible to find his way back out the path he came in, if he needed to. His breaths continued rapid-his heart pounded in his chest and in his ears. And his ears rang, partially from the noise of his own rifle shots, partially from the silence of the moment.
Jose walked aimlessly. He had no idea where the bear hid. He found himself in a tight corridor of firs, and a strange, dark odor blew to him. An odd, musky smell mingled with that of decaying flesh. His scalp prickled with apprehension. Unconsciously, he cocked the Winchester. It made a cold, metallic sound-yet a comforting sound, too. As he moved between the big firs his breath stilled. Without thinking, he was holding it, listening for any sound.
Without warning, a giant brown paw slashed from behind the tree to his right, scraping the bark and narrowly missing his head. Jose reeled back, trying to bring the rifle up. The weapon exploded in his hands. He felt himself going down, tripped by a tree root. He hit the ground hard on his back, knocking the wind from him, but he still clutched the rifle. Through blurry eyes, he looked up, prepared to see the grizzly falling upon him.
But there was nothing.
Then, farther up the tree, he heard an angry chattering. Bewildered, he looked up through the interwoven branches to see a red squirrel on a limb, scolding him excitedly. It had been transformed by the magic of a boy's imagination into a bear's paw.
The front of Jose's pants felt warm, and he looked down. They were wet. He didn't want to laugh, but he did, hysterically. He laid his head back in the damp duff and let his laughter take him until finally he lay sobbing, his forearm shielding his eyes from this hated forest.
The frightened squirrel had moved far up the tree by now-luckily for it. Jose would have shot it if he could, for the scare it had given him. But then he guessed the feeling would be mutual, if squirrels reasoned that way. The little rodent's heart probably beat right then at twice its normal rate after the sudden shot that had thundered through the woods.
If only Jose knew how to track an animal! And more importantly to shoot better! The bear might have already been dead then. But Jose wasn't a mountain man. Maybe he never could be. What was he doing out here?
Jose sat up and wiped his tears with his shirt sleeve, streaking his face. He reached up and roughed the back of his hair, shaking fir needles loose. Some of them fell down the back of his shirt, but he didn't care. He began to push to his feet with the butt end of the rifle against the ground.
A mighty roar shook the trees to their roots. Jose's heart skyrocketed as he whirled to his left and fell again. He glimpsed the mighty mass of bone, muscle, and fur that towered over him. He saw the yellow teeth bared and the amber claws set to destroy him.
And then the beast fell upon him, nearly half a ton of frenzied hate, before Jose could rise or defend himself. He lifted his arm to protect his face and felt a tremendous force upon it. He screamed and opened his eyes. The scream was enough to startle the bear into letting go of his forearm. But now the huge, black mouth came at his head. He smelled the most horrible stink of his life, a stench of warm, rotting flesh that must rise from the depths of the bear's innards.
Jose reacted instinctively, bringing up his right fist to smash the bear in the end of its nose with all the might he could muster. It was like striking a peeled green squash-moist but unyielding. Yet the huge beast fell back, not from the force, but in pain, and gave a horrible roar.
Jose rolled away and struck a tree trunk. Frantic, he clawed against the furrowed gray bark, fighting to his feet. He turned to run but felt a blow to his right side. Its force sent him hurdling through the air like the sheep he had seen earlier. A fallen log, one end suspended about three feet off the ground against another trunk, caught his fall, ripping the air from his lungs, and he felt something give way in his side. He fell across the log and tumbled over the other side, landing on his back.
With desperation, he pushed to his knees, gasping for air through burning lungs. He looked across the trunk into the pig eyes of the grizzly, eight feet away. It roared again, canting its head to one side, and Jose saw with a falling of his heart the rifle lying in the duff at the bear's feet. He also glimpsed the front of the bear's chest and neck, matted darkly and glistening with blood.
He eyes shot this way and that, searching for some weapon. There were no rocks, but a gray branch about four feet long and three inches around jutted from the tree trunk. He glanced back up at the bear. It stared at him and swept its great claws across the ground before it, sending pine needles and bits of mud flying. Then, with another deep-throated growl, it struck the rifle, launching it through the air to land ten feet down the log from Jose, on the opposite side.
Suddenly, the bear clamped its jaws and charged. As it did, Jose grasped the dead branch in both hands, in spite of the horrible pain in his left forearm, and threw all his weight against it. The wood cracked and gave way, and he fell forward against the log. Before he could recover, the bear threw itself on him, its right paw across his back, its left front leg burying his head, its teeth seeking a hold in his side.
Thanks to the bear's awkward position, Jose was able to wrench free, and he felt the flesh rip away across the small of his back. He cried out in pain and lost his hold on the club. As the bear came up on its back feet to dive over the log, Jose dropped to his side and rolled. The bear arrived on the other side of the log as Jose rolled from underneath it. No time to rise! Like in some twisted nightmare, he crawled toward where the rifle had landed. When he placed his weight on his left hand, he heard a strange crackling noise, then pain exploded through him and he almost fell. He glanced down at the awkward slant of his forearm. Then, to the side, he heard a roar and the scraping of bark. The bear coming back over the log! He felt the shaking of the earth as the beast's weight slammed the log against it.
Three feet from the rifle Jose lunged, landing on his chest. With the rifle barrel now in grasping range, he felt both huge paws close on his hips. The bear tried to get its mouth over his back, and its teeth skimmed his shirt but didn't sink in. It ripped back with both paws, and he felt tremendous pain along his hips. With a cry, he fell forward and down. It was just enough to loosen the bear's hold and enough so his fingers touched the cold, precious steel of the rifle barrel.
He tried to clutch the barrel with both hands, but the left one wouldn't close. He felt a crushing weight on the small of his back, and claws sank into his skin. He couldn't roll over to face the grizzly. All breath rushed from him, and he felt hot blood flood into his face. Complete desperation surged through him. He couldn't breathe! He couldn't move!
Everything became still. It seemed his senses had stopped working. He heard only a loud, persistent ringing, as if someone had fired a cannon next to his head. Even the growls of the bear seemed a faraway, imaginary thing in an unreal world.
Suddenly, he felt warm wetness on the top of his head, then warm breath, and even though he faced the other way the fetid odor rushed over him. He dropped his head just as the teeth clashed behind him, and then, more by reflex than by thought, he brought his head sharply back up.
The force of his skull smashing into the bear's nose made it rear back. Jose rolled onto his back with the rifle in his right hand. He brought it high and struck the bear, and the already weak stock broke over the top of its skull. The bear roared, spraying Jose's face with hot spittle.
Seeing his last chance, Jose shoved backward, attempting to get under the log back to the other side. But on this end the log bellied nearer the ground, and at the moment when he thought he had bought brief salvation, he wedged beneath it. His head and arm were on the opposite side with the rifle, his chest tight against the wood, his lower body entirely exposed to the bear's fury.
With one dying hope, Jose opened the lever of the Winchester then slammed it shut. He screamed as he felt the bear's teeth sink in below his left knee with a crackling sound. With a groan, he stuck the barrel of the rifle back under the log and pulled the trigger. The bear released his leg and let out a roar. Its claws clutched, ripping him from under the log, pulling him toward it again.
As he cleared the log, he jacked in another round, and when the bear's face came at his, he stuck the end of the Winchester into its chest and fired again. The bear drove forward against the rifle barrel and nearly rammed its splintered stock through Jose's wounded side, tearing an agonized scream from his throat. Jose felt and smelled the warm, putrid breath flood over him, and he knew his fight was over. He had no more to give, and with a whimper he gave himself over to the beast.
The huge, warm muzzle touched Jose's mouth, its foulness turning his stomach. He felt the claws of both feet dig into him at either side of his neck. And then he felt the massive slump of the bear on top of him, and the breath rushed from him again.
The bear emitted another growl, but the power had gone from the mighty voice. The next one was even softer. Jose blinked his eyes open just as the bear's great head fell against his face, its mouth dripping blood and saliva. In horror, he pushed with his good hand against the side of the great head, and it lolled to the other side, the tongue dropping out. Its red pig eyes were open, and like in a dream Jose watched them lose their sight. Slowly the pupils dilated, and when very large, almost hiding the irises, their growth ceased. The bear drew in one more deep breath, as if settling down to sleep, and then a final sigh seeped from its bloody nostrils, and it was dead. Its muscles quivered for a time, and the side of its mouth twitched as if trying to open.
The two giant paws rested on Jose's shoulders, their pads like sandpaper where his shirt had been torn away. Its entire weight rested on him, and he could feel the tremendous body heat and the hot, sticky blood that oozed onto him from its chest. The bear smelled of the musky odor Jose had scented earlier-the smell of carrion, dust, tree sap, urine, and raw animal scent like weeks-old sweat, all churned together.
Jose was smart enough to know he was hurt badly, but just how badly he had no idea. He realized he must get out from under this weight, just so he could breathe freely. But how? He looked about him, but from this position he could see little. On one side, the underpart of the log and a few bushes beyond; on the other, the massive head. Turning back to the log, he reached his right arm underneath it and pulled. He felt himself budge. He tried to move his left arm, but it was unwilling. He laid down his head, sucking air. Fortunately, he had fallen in moist earth and vegetation, which gave a little beneath him. The claustrophobic terror which gripped him began slowly to give way to a dull shock and pain in his entire body.
Jose forced himself to stay alert, and for the next twenty minutes he squirmed and fought and prayed. The loose vegetation beneath gave him an edge, and at last he lay with his chest and abdomen free and breathed in the sweet smells of the forest. Squirrels chattered through the woods now, he noted with a weak smile. And a warbler twittered overhead. Flies began to swarm around him and the bear, buzzing annoyingly. He swatted at them a time or two, but the attempt to chase them off was futile, so he gave up. He lay there and breathed and wondered what he would do next.
He had already tried again to move his left arm, once he freed it of the bear's weight. It was broken. And he knew the rest of him was a mess, too. He had to get to the creek to wash himself, then somehow bandage his wounds.
After ten minutes' rest, Jose started to pull his legs free from beneath the bear. That should have been the easy part, but blood loss and the struggle had sapped his strength, and it took him half an hour to finally wrench himself free. When he tried to move his left leg, the only time he tried, the pain was almost unbearable, and he grew dizzy. He could hear the soft crackling of bone ends as he tried to ease it back in place. It was obviously broken, and he recalled feeling almost relieved as he pulled it past the bear's ribcage. Perhaps his own struggle from under the bear's awesome weight had set it for him.
With all his might and tears streaking his face, Jose pushed his injuries from his mind and reached out to grasp the base of a chokecherry. He would get to Bailey Creek if he had to drag himself all the way.
What seemed hours later, he opened his eyes and looked through the trees at the western sky. Sunset was near, and the air in the woods was cold on his half-naked body. His broken arm and leg throbbed. He was weak from loss of blood. He had moved one hundred yards from the fallen grizzly in the past half hour. Five hundred yards remained down to the creek. He wouldn't make it, and he knew it, and with a ragged sigh he sank into unconsciousness, his face resting in the mountain soil.
Chapter Three
The horse was a winner-lean and long muscled, with a coat the color of morning sunshine and a flowing white mane and tail. Small ears and muzzle, big eyes, deep chest, short back, muscular legs and solid feet, the animal embodied perfection. That horse was not up for sale, but Robert McAllister had to have it. So he stole it.
McAllister was a gaunt-looking man-a man whose sun-bronzed skin stretched drum-tight across wide, sharp cheekbones, a large-muscled jaw and cleft chin. Though not ugly, neither was he handsome. His eyes were too stormy, his brows too heavy and ragged, his skin too ruddy and wind-blown. His face and piercing eyes resembled a wall of sandstone, with two voids where patches of overcast sky showed through. And no softer were the bristly mustache and the dust-colored whiskers peppering his jaw. Scars marked his face and long, calloused hands, and his nose was crooked-the features of a fighter.
At two o'clock in the afternoon, the ranch yard twenty miles northeast of Soda Springs was quiet. Robert McAllister lay in silence in the grass and sagebrush a hundred yards away and watched the house. Drapes were drawn against the spring sun, and nothing moved. In the corral behind the barn, the big yellow horse stood dozing, head drooped. Now and then it whipped a fly with its tail or flicked an ear. Otherwise, it made no move.
Patiently, McAllister waited. He had learned patience from the Shoshones, lying for hours in sun or biting cold, unmoving. He watched the horse, admiring the smooth, powerful flow of its muscles, the way the sun shone off its coat, the curves of its intelligent head.
He had been relieved of his own horse by thieves, three days ago in the freighting town of Blackfoot. Afoot, he had trudged along the lonely trail between Blackfoot and Soda Springs. Then along came the rider on the big yellow horse, a gentleman, by his mode of dress, with silvery gray hair and neatly trimmed muttonchop whiskers. He wore a striped gray wool suit and side-buttoned shoes with a deep shine only thinly obscured by a film of dust. A flat-brimmed gray hat of finest beaver felt perched atop his head, and a brand-new Winchester Sporting rifle with checkered pistol grip and forearm rested across his thigh.
McAllister wasn't a man who bowed to the so-called upper class. Facts be known, he detested them-them and what their greed was making of his beloved wild country. Bringing in their towns and railroads. Killing off the game, wiping out millions of acres of forest. He avoided those with means, but in this case he made an exception. When the man spoke, he hid his disdain and replied as politely as he knew how, hoping for a longer look at the palomino horse. He had to admit the fellow certainly had taste in horses, and he was proud of that fact.
The horseman, who introduced himself as J.B. Trace, stopped beside McAllister and lifted off his hat, wiping his sweaty forehead with a red silk handkerchief and letting his dust sift down over McAllister's already powdery clothes. He replaced the hat and spoke with McAllister, mostly of the horse.
McAllister looked the animal over while he rested beside the road. It was a Kentucky horse, Trace said, descended from ancestors well known for endurance and speed. McAllister commented and asked questions and politely nodded his head. He was like the big tomcat, glancing now and then at the little girl's pet canary, its stomach growling, its cunning mind planning its next move behind a mask of indifference.
When Trace at last bade him farewell and trotted along the road, McAllister had already made his decision. He wanted this horse. It was not so much anything Trace had said, but more the judgments he had made on his own. And if Robert McAllister wanted a horse, he got it-one way or the other. So with his saddlebags and rucksack slapping against his leg, and a Sharps carbine in his left hand, he started at a ground-eating lope after the rider.
McAllister's legs and his insides knew the meaning of endurance-knew how it was to run for hours on end, non-stop, tracking quarry or outdistancing pursuit. The weight of his rifle, the bags, even the rucksack was nothing to McAllister, who lived and hunted every day in the wild lands. He wore moccasins with thick rawhide soles, perfect for running, and his legs, like pistons, moved effortlessly.
It was only three miles from where J.B. Trace left McAllister until he reached the man's spread. McAllister stayed out of sight, following by track alone. When at last the pointed roof silhouettes of the ranch came in sight, he went forward at a crouch, hiding in the sagebrush where he could see both the house and the corrals. His keen eyes instantly picked out the yellow horse, unsaddled in a corral beside a barn, eating contentedly from a pile of hay.
McAllister lay low in the sagebrush to watch for activity. He wanted to get an idea who lived in the house. If he had to, he would spend part of the night here on the ground, using his back for a mattress and his belly for a blanket. That would give the horse a chance to rest, and he could ride him away under cover of darkness, without fear of being seen.
But an hour later his plans were changed by Trace. The front door of the house creaked open, and Trace stepped into the sunlight. He scanned the yard, then patted his belly and stepped off the porch, walking toward the barn. McAllister tensed. Would he saddle the yellow horse and leave again? He held his breath. He couldn't wait here forever. If Trace rode away, who could tell when he would be back? McAllister would just have to leave on shank's mare-his own two feet.
Trace went inside the barn, and after what seemed an eternity he came back out leading a saddled bay. McAllister's breath caught. Was Trace really going to ride out without the palomino? The luck seemed too kind.
But sure enough, Trace climbed onto the bay, and saying something to the yellow horse as he passed, he rode out of the yard toward the eastern mountains. McAllister just lay there, pressed to earth, the new grass pricking him softly in the throat. This was too perfect to be true.
Still, his caution made him wait another twenty minutes, peering closely at the house. When nothing moved, he crawled forward, dragging himself by his elbows, pulling his scant belongings with him. He went slowly, peering from the house to the corral. Twenty feet from the horse, it finally noticed him and whinnied, trotting to the corral bars for a better look. McAllister crept behind a pile of logs and waited, watching the house through a hole between the logs. When no one moved after ten minutes, he continued to the corral.
He spoke to the horse in a soothing voice. He reached a hand out for its inspection, and it sniffed cautiously, then touched it exploringly with its lip. At last, it allowed McAllister to raise his hand and scratch the bridge of its nose and its forehead and big round jaw.
With that introduction, McAllister climbed between the rails and stood before the horse, talking softly all the while. The horse seemed to have no fear. It nuzzled his chest as if looking for a treat and allowed him to rub its neck and chest.
In the barn, he found a saddle and bridle and two heavy wool blankets. He hefted them and carried them outside, resting them over the top pole of the corral. The horse offered no fight when he put the bridle on. It took the bit like it was sweetened with sugar. The same went for the blankets and saddle. He tied his rucksack and the saddlebags behind the cantle, slid his Sharps carbine into the boot.
At last, McAllister stood in the shadow of the barn's eaves and studied the house, the yard, the grassy land. Nothing moved except the ever-present meadowlarks whistling cheerily from sagebrush perches.
Turning to the horse, McAllister took its reins close to the bit and slid the corral bars to one side, allowing a place just wide enough for them to slip through. He led the horse on out and went slowly away from the yard, watching for the rancher.
He led the horse for half an hour before mounting, not wanting to make his silhouette any taller than necessary. When far away from the ranch, he turned to the horse and again spoke softly. He patted its powerful shoulder and caressed its flank, and then he placed his foot in the stirrup, letting it feel his weight. The horse stood perfectly still, twitching its ears.
McAllister was pretty sure of this horse by now, but a man didn't take chances on a strange horse. To prevent the horse from being able to buck or run before he was settled solidly in the saddle, he cheeked it, taking the cheek band of the bridle in his left hand and turning its nose toward him. This had the added advantage, in case the horse did try to move forward, of making it come nearer to its rider, its momentum almost swinging him into the saddle.
In this case McAllister swung aboard with no fight. To the horse, he was just as much its master as the true owner. With a smile, he touched his heels lightly to its ribs, and they moved out at a long walk.
Sitting on the horse's back was like riding a dream. It moved smoothly, surely, cradling him far above the grassy ground. Its ears pricked alertly forward, then swung to the side alternately, keeping it constantly aware of its surroundings. Its long, powerful muscles rippled as it moved, the sun running along them like melted butter.
A shadow swung across the ground before them, and McAllister raised his eyes to search the sky. A large, dark bird soared overhead on wide, graceful wings. It was close enough to see golden light play off its head as it turned and caught the sun's rays.
A golden eagle.
McAllister felt his heart catch in his chest. What a beautiful work of art the Creator had placed in that sky! A raptor with dark eyes that could see a rabbit on the run a mile away. A bird with long, gleaming talons that spoke death to any poor creature it set its predator's eyes upon-talons that could snap a man's forearm like a twig.
Light played on the bird's head as McAllister watched it. It tipped its tail and swung to the left, turning its head this way and that to watch the ground below. It swung back to the right again, straight over him.
McAllister sighed, and a feeling of warmth stole into his heart. Oh, to be that eagle! To soar free in the heavens, unbound by any limits of earth or sky. To brace the sun and high, buffeting winds undaunted, to float effortlessly, to know and see all.
He imagined himself as that eagle, doing as he pleased, in fear of no man, no beast. Challenging the updrafts of Hell's Canyon of the Snake River or the daunting winds of the high plains. Swooping down at breakneck speeds only to catch himself and rise again effortlessly. That was the way to go. The eagle knew the meaning of freedom. It was free from the fetters of the world, making its own way. It was not banned from Earth, however. It could come back as it pleased, then sail away once more into its dreams-and McAllister's . . .
As he gazed, another one appeared from the north-the first one's mate. It never ventured too close, but its slow circles paralleled the first one's. Why couldn't people be that way? Why couldn't a man and woman pair up but still enjoy their freedom? The male eagle wasn't tied down. He soared as he always had. But McAllister had seen men who were fool enough to marry, and happy as some of them might pretend to be, it was plain who ruled their roost. McAllister chuckled to himself, causing the horse to turn its head curiously and look at him from the corner of its eye. He patted its neck. At least he and the eagles and this horse were free, and being on top of the palomino was the next best thing to flying on wings of his own.
The Creator had found McAllister the wrong body when he put him on this earth. Of that he was sure.
As he watched, the two birds, on some silent signal, began to flap their wings, and within minutes they melted into the blue expanse. McAllister rode on.
Not far ahead lay the town of Soda Springs, once a stopover for travelers on the Oregon Trail. McAllister had spent plenty of time in the surrounding mountains. Long ago, he had been stationed there as a trooper at Fort Connor. It had been years, but he had heard it was now a peaceable valley. Unlike the last warriors, the Apaches down south, the Shoshone and Bannock had stopped fighting. Those red eagles had been killed or caged.
Yet Soda Springs was no longer simply a stopping place on the Oregon Trail, tucked insignificantly away in its little corner of the world. Now it was a tourist destination, where travelers came from all over the globe to enjoy its summer climate and effervescent springs. No longer his kind of place. It didn't matter anyway. With this horse, he couldn't stay. Too many people would recognize a horse of that caliber, and he would be a wanted man. He must head for Wyoming Territory, where he might find safety.
The flat report of a rifle racketed across the prairie, and McAllister spun in the saddle. Behind him, not more than three hundred yards away, came five horsemen on the run, rifles in their hands. McAllister's heart leaped in his chest. But a grin lightened his whiskered face, revealing a missing eye tooth. Those horses couldn't catch him. He was a horseman in the truest sense. Not only a proven rider but an excellent judge of le cheval. He had carefully chosen the Kentucky mount beneath him and felt certain it could have no rival in the valley. Had he been a gambling man, he'd have put his money on this horse.
McAllister slammed his heels into the horse's ribs, and it broke into a gallop. The big horse was rested and ready to show off. Even with him holding back a touch on the reins, it quickly left pursuit far behind. McAllister didn't need to look back, but he did, and the riders lagged five hundred yards behind. He grinned and let out a whoop.
Across the valley they charged until they had gone two miles. Then McAllister began to pull the horse in, pacing it. Had it been up to the horse, it might have run all afternoon, to the point of collapse. But a slower lope was called for now, a pace that would eat miles and leave the mediocre horses and their riders only a memory. There were few animals in that country like the Kentucky mount; there was little need for serious race runners in a community that consisted largely of farmers and ranchers. But McAllister had need for one.
On bore the afternoon, and the sun slipped toward the far horizon. The next time he looked back, the horsemen were gone, so he slowed the palomino to a gentle trot. He came to a narrow wagon road with a farm nestled beside it, hogs rooting and chickens scratching in the yard. The smell of new bread taunted him-a homey smell, comforting in an odd sort of way, though McAllister had no memories of home that were comforting.
The farm fell behind as he rode off into the sagebrush, leaving the road. He kept to the edge of the foothills, where junipers and an occasional fir thrust up like sentinels. They went at an easy trot toward the ridges of the Bear River Mountains, visible beyond the sagebrush- and juniper-covered hills on his right.
Soon they passed a small horse ranch with seven or eight animals grazing nearby. McAllister looked at them thoughtfully. When his pursuers reached this place, they might trade horses. And even though his was by far the better animal, it had already traveled a long road and might be overtaken by fresh stock. "Well, boy. Guess we better take 'em with us," he said to the horse, and he turned it toward the herd.
But as he did, two horsemen appeared from behind the ranch house, walking their animals slowly toward the herd. They were three hundred yards away, but both looked his way and waved a greeting. McAllister waved back. The two riders came toward him at a trot, and for a moment McAllister held his ground. He didn't want to seem rude by ignoring range manners and not greeting the men. They would surely think that suspicious, in an era when few strangers might be encountered in a day. An unhurried traveler would stop to chew the fat and exchange lies. Yet he didn't want them to recognize this horse or hold him back long enough with aimless talk for the other riders to catch up. He looked back in the direction from which he had come. There was no movement, but he couldn't take any chances. With a shrug, he continued on at a canter. When he looked back later the two men were riding back toward the horse herd.
He traveled perhaps another two miles. A large round ridge squatted above the sage ahead of him, and beyond it lifted a cloud of dust. Soon, the buildings of Soda Springs began to appear in the distance, their roofs reflecting the descending sun. Where the cloud of dust rose, he made out the herd of cattle creating it, moving through the outskirts of town.
Soon, he came to a spring bubbling from the earth. Still in sight of several scattered houses, a mile away on the outskirts of town, he stopped the horse and climbed down to fill his canteen and sip of the water. It tasted of soda, like others from which he had drunk in that area. He remembered two of them: Steamboat Springs, named for the peculiar sound it made like a high-powered steam engine, and Beer Springs, which some claimed tasted like flat lager beer. He didn't care for the taste himself, but it sort of set the mouth watering, and he was hungry as a vulture in the Garden of Eden anyway.
He rustled up a hunk of jerked venison from deep in a saddlebag and gnawed off a bite. Tasteless and old-and dusty now, after being lost in the dark of his gear for untold days. As he gnawed on the jerky and let the horse rest, he scanned the road for movement. Soda Springs, touted as a resort in national and international magazines and journals, would be coming into its popular season. He must be on the lookout for tourists venturing out to this spring. He had no desire for anyone who might identify him later to see him on the stolen horse.
But he saw no travelers, leisurely or otherwise. The only movement discernible was the varicolored form of a hawk that soared high above the sage on seemingly unmoving wings. With the water tasting as it did, McAllister emptied his canteen, and he mounted the horse again and rode on. There was plenty of sweet water in the mountains ahead without settling for something that tasted like it should have been draining into a privy.
Warily, he searched for a way to skirt the town. Civilization at this point meant only trouble, for this horse would be recognized. It looked like he could avoid the main part of town by leaving Soda Creek, the stream he was following, and veering sharply to the east. That would put him on a fairly straight path toward the town of Montpelier, then on to Wyoming or the Utah line.
He didn't know why he turned around. Maybe it was that sixth sense developed in him from years riding the wild country. But turn he did, just in time to see a group of riders closing on him rapidly. One of the horses, a paint, stood out glaringly in the group. It was one of those he had seen grazing near the ranch house. So his pursuers were on fresh mounts. And the two cowboys must have joined them, for now there were seven instead of five.
With an oath, he whirled in the saddle and kicked the horse into a gallop. The animal was still game, and it charged along the stream bank, straight toward Soda Springs. The race was not so one-sided now, for McAllister's horse had put many miles behind and the others were fresh. He turned to look back, and although the distance had initially stretched out between him and the posse, it appeared the palomino had reached the limit of its speed, and the other horses were staying with him now.
The town's first scattered shacks were only half a mile away. He couldn't see any way around the edge of town and back toward the mountains without a significant detour, so he kept the horse pointed toward town.
The horse breathed loudly now. Its eyes were wide and its ears flat against its head, as if held there by the wind whipping at their faces. He had thought it before and now he yelled it out, by way of encouragement to the horse. You shore got bottom, you son of a rattlesnake. Get me outta this, an' you'll have a week's rest an' a mountain o' clover comin'!"
He turned in the saddle. He knew now if he didn't reach the river and the mountains soon he could lose this race. The riders were less than half a mile behind.
He flew past the first house, whose startled occupant stood up from her garden work to gaze as he passed. The shacks and cabins became more regular, and up ahead he saw a girl playing in front of one. He thought about stopping and snatching up that girl as a hostage. He wouldn't hurt her, just use her until he reached safety and then let her go. But he swore at himself reproachfully and stared at the tow-headed child as he galloped past. He was ashamed that thought had entered his head. He had never hurt a child, physically or emotionally, and he wasn't about to start now. Some places a man just had to draw the line.
There was no way to avoid the main part of town now. McAllister saw that with a sinking heart. As Soda Creek veered off, he kept going, right into Dillon Street, the town's main thoroughfare. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of a run-in with a horse or wagon, he yelled as loudly as he could as a warning but didn't check his speed. He couldn't afford to. Fortunately, the street was almost empty. He galloped along it at full speed, now and then veering to miss a wagon or a tied-up horse. And then he was out of the bowels of Dillon Street, and the buildings of Upper Town swiftly began to fall behind him. Those of the lower town were far off to the right, and ahead sagged the remains of old Fort Connor, most of its logs stripped away for cabin walls, firewood, or fences.
He rode like the wind, pushing the big palomino for all its worth. Somewhere ahead lay the Bear River. He hadn't remembered it being so far, but time plays tricks on the memory. He didn't remember the foothills looking so damn desolate, either. Few trees to hide in, just bare sagebrush hills with isolated hillsides and draws full of brush and short hardwoods. Even the closer mountains were bare. That would be the work of the cussed railroad, logging for ties. They always stripped the country bare. But he was Robert McAllister. Trees or none, he would find a way to lose the posse.
The horse's sides heaved mightily now, its breaths sucking in and out in great, ragged gasps. It stumbled once, seemingly on nothing, but caught itself. It ran right through a stand of tall sage. Its legs and neck sawed back and forth with its movements like a machine, but less smoothly than before-a machine running out of steam.
Then ahead McAllister saw the tips of trees that marked the river. Two hundred more yards. If he could make it across, then up through the desolate foothills to the far timber the railroad hadn't been able to reach, he would be free. Not a white man alive could catch Robert McAllister in that terrain. The Shoshones had taught him how to vanish like a wisp of smoke.
Although the big horse's breaths came in gasps, it didn't seem horribly weakened yet. The animal had the staying power of a wolf, the best of its many virtues at the moment. He just hoped they made the river. That was his only chance. He still had enough of a lead on the posse that if he could make the river he might escape with not only his life but the prized horse besides.
The sage flats dropped out from under foot abruptly as they neared the river, and the horse stumbled and barely caught itself. Glancing off to the right, McAllister grimaced at the black basalt outcrop, only yards away, that fell off sharp to the river. If they had come out there, they would never have made it. They would both have broken their necks and more in the fall to the river's shore.
Where they did come down, it was steep, but not bad in comparison, and it lacked the rocks. Leaning backward, the horse steered down the hillside, dodging left and right to miss the big clumps of sagebrush in their path. McAllister bore down on the stirrups and held on, staring at the river. It was at its mightiest with spring run-off-sixty yards wide at this point, maybe four or five feet deep and running swiftly.
He gazed downriver, searching for some place to make a getaway, some way to throw the posse off. A quarter mile distant the river bent north after a tall, rocky bank shouldered into the stream. If he could make it to the other side of that bend, he would be out of the posse's sight momentarily. He might elude them then, use his trickery to slip up some unlikely looking draw.
But first he had to make it across the river while he still had time. Ahead of him was an island, twenty feet into the river. Willows too thick to negotiate wove together its entire length, and he steered the horse toward it. If he could get on the other side of the trees, they would offer him some protection from the posse's rifle fire as he tried to swim the river.
With a startling gush of ice cold water, they plunged into the river, sending spray in every direction, soaking McAllister up past his knees. After the initial plunge and upsurge of water, McAllister saw the river wasn't deep here, for the horse was able to stay on its feet, and it lunged across the water to the island. As they reached it, McAllister spun to check for the posse, and they still were nowhere in sight. He had made it! In seconds the mass of willows would cover his escape, and the other bank looked very near him now.
But he didn't see the other horse. There was no way to avoid the collision.
He was concentrating on the far bank of the river and what lay in-between. He was worried about the depth of the river, and how the palomino would take it in its weary state. The horse was crashing through the willows on the point of the island, the only crossable place along the entire forty yards of overgrown land, and it was doing fine. He had no reason to look at the willows. But suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a brown horse appeared, coming out of the thick willows to their right like it hadn't a care in the world. It stopped before him, too startled to move even if there had been time.
McAllister had just a split second to see a young girl of perhaps fifteen on the horse's back, her eyes wide and mouth opened as if to scream.back to the Books page