Margaret Brownley (10 page)

Libby had learned from her experience at the miners’ boardinghouse that the best defense against unwanted attention was to ignore it. She kept her head lowered and her gaze firmly planted on the back of the horse’s head. She didn’t look up until Mr. St. John veered away from the river and urged his gelding across a narrow channel to a more secluded area.

“Drat, wouldn’t you know?”

“What is it?” she asked.

“The trail is under water. We’ll have to go around.” He surveyed the rocky incline and dismounted. “We’ll have to go the rest of the way by foot. You’d better stay here.”

She watched him rub his leg. “If you can make it I can.” And to prove her point, she dismounted without his assistance.

He frowned but didn’t debate the point. “If we go slowly we should be all right.” He held out his hand.

She laid her hand in his and felt a slight tug deep inside as his fingers wrapped around hers. He led her up a narrow trail that cut through the chaparral. It was an easy climb, with rocks and half-buried roots providing convenient footholds.

Halfway up, he released her hand and glanced around. His hand was posed, ready to grab his gun or knife should the need arise. Eyes sharp as a wolf’s he searched out each bush and rock before grabbing her hand again. “Let’s go.”

He pulled her along a deer path and they soon reached the top of the incline. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

He returned moments later carrying his gold rocker, his Hawken rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Do you want to rest some more before we continue?” he asked.

She shook her head, but she did need to relieve herself. “How much farther do we have to go?”

“Not far. My claim is just beyond that bend.”

She turned to look in the direction he indicated. “I have to…” She nodded in the way that they had both come to understand. It struck her as strange that already they had devised an unspoken code by which to communicate.

“Don’t go beyond that oak.” He pointed to a tree a short distance away. “I’ll head toward my claim.”

She walked dutifully toward the tree, but not wanting to be seen from the river, she decided to move farther away from the main path. Spotting a grove of trees in the distance, she followed a muddied channel down a gentle slope.

A squirrel eyed her momentarily before scampering up a tree. A single ouzel was busily turning over tiny pebbles and decaying leaves along the bottom of a narrow gully, looking for insects.

Libby inhaled deeply. The air was fresh and scented with pine. She reached a knoll where the trees parted, allowing a breathtaking view of the snow-covered mountains beyond. She was so engrossed with the lovely scenery, she wandered farther away from the trail than she meant to. It wasn’t until she caught a glimpse of the now distant river through the trees did she realize how far away she’d roamed. The baby gave a firm kick, and she was all at once reminded of the reason she’d wandered from the trail. After a quick glance around, she ducked behind a clump of wild berry bushes.\

She had just started back when a low menacing growl startled her. A snarling bear stood no more than ten feet away.

Falling back on her posterior, she let out a bloodcurdling scream.

She was still screaming when Mr. St. John came bounding through the trees, his face deathly white. “Mrs. Summerfield!”

She pointed to the bear, which, strangely enough, hadn’t moved. He took one quick glance at the animal before rushing to her side.

“The bear can’t hurt you. It’s caught in a trap.” He knelt by her side and placed a steady hand on her trembling shoulder. “Calm down before you go stirring things up inside.”

“Would you stop worrying about what I’m stirring up?” Although she fought for control, her voice sounded high and strained. “I could have been mauled.”

“I told you the bear is trapped. You’re lucky. Maybe next time I tell you to stay close at hand, you’ll listen to me.”
“If you knew the bear was here, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know. By right grizzlies should be in hibernation by now.” His expression grew tight. “It’s the miners. It’s got to be. They’re making bears too nervous to hibernate.”

“I don’t care whose fault it is, the bear pretty near scared the life out of me.”

He arched an eyebrow as he looked pointedly at her waist. “Let’s be glad that it didn’t. From now on, you will do exactly as I say. Is that clear?”

She folded her arm across her chest and glared at him.

The bear let out a deafening roar. With a cry of alarm, she accepted Mr. St. John’s outstretched hand and scrambled to her feet. Clutching his arm she eyed the bear with a wary look. “Are you sure it’s secure?”

“That trap is strong enough for a full-grown grizzly.”

  She withdrew her hand and glanced around. Do bears travel singularly or in pairs?

“It’s just a cub,” he said. “Probably born in early summer.”

At this declaration, Libby’s fear immediately melted into compassion. “Oh, no. Poor thing.”

“Save your sympathy,” he said. “It probably weighs close to five hundred pounds. Come on, we’d better leave before company arrives.”

“You’re not going to leave it to die, are you?” Libby was scandalized by the thought.

“One thing you learn pretty fast in this neck of the woods is not to go messing around with another man’s trap.”

“But you said it’s a young one.”

He made a quick check of the surrounding area. “Which means there could be a big one somewhere nearby.” He grabbed her by the arm. “Let’s go before we both live to regret it.”

No sooner had he spoken than a sound unlike anything she’d ever heard rose from the nearby woods.

“Drat!” Mr. St. John pulled his rifle from his shoulder holster, spun around, and took aim.

Eyes wide with fear, Libby glanced back. A full-grown bear was less than a hundred yards away and closing in fast.

Without warning, the bear stopped in its tracks, rose on its hind legs, and clawed the air with its powerful paws. The massive beast stood twelve feet tall.

Logan prepared to fire, but he knew he had little chance of doing much damage.

The convex-shaped head of the grizzly made it a difficult animal to kill. The beast had only three vulnerable parts: the ears, the spine, and the heart. A bear could live a long time with a bullet in the heart. Logan knew the names of more than a half dozen dead men to prove it. One of them his father.

Keeping his finger firmly on the trigger, Logan weighed his options. His chances of bringing the animal down were slim, but there were few alternatives.

They could try running, but between Mrs. Summerfield’s awkward bulk and his own stiff leg, the odds were undeniably in the bear’s favor. Also, in the bear’s favor was the fact that Mrs. Summerfield was clinging to his arm in such a way, it was all but impossible for him to take aim. He tried pulling away from her clutches to no avail.

“We could climb a tree,” she cried.

“There’s only one tree that’s grizzly-proof, and it doesn’t grow around here.” He measured the distance behind him. “Head toward the river and yell for help. Don’t make any fast movements. Once you’re out of sight you should be safe.”

“What about you?”

He gave her a rough shove. “Go!”

The bear dropped on all fours and advanced. Logan aimed for the ear, fired, and missed.

“Mr. St. John!” Libby yelled behind him.

“Go!”

“I can’t! My foot’s caught.”

Logan fired. Again he missed, but he came close enough that the bear stopped. With a mighty growl the massive animal rose and tottered on its thick hind legs.

In an effort to divert the bear away from Mrs. Summerfield, Logan circled slowly. As predicted, the bear followed his progress until its back was turned to her. Logan then lifted his gun and aimed, waiting for the precise moment to fire. He waited too long.

Libby watched in horror as the bear swiped at Mr. St. John’s arm with one mighty paw, sending him flying in one direction, the rifle in another.

Fearing he was dead, she screamed. Her loud piercing voice seemed to confuse the bear, but the reprieve was only temporary. Seconds later the bear pawed the air and moved closer to Logan’s prone body.

“Mr. St. John!” she shrilled.

She frantically searched for a weapon. She grabbed a rock and heaved it at the grizzly, hitting the animal on its hefty rump. The bear stopped just short of Mr. St. John and turned on all fours to face her. She pelted the animal with rocks in an attempt to drive it away.

“Mr. St. John!”

Her high-pitched shrieks brought Logan staggering to his feet.

“Do something,” she cried. “Quick!”

He pulled out his Colt Walker and aimed for the spine. The bear took an unexpected step to the right, and the bullet missed its mark, barely grazing the thick tough hide. But it was enough to make the bear lose interest in Libby and change directions. With a thunderous roar the massive animal turned toward him.

Libby held her breath as Mr. St. John aimed and fired. Much to her horror, the bear advanced.

Seeing that Mr. St. John was in trouble again, Libby heaved another rock. This one sailed past the bear and hit the mountain man on the forehead.

Undaunted, she found her target with the second missile, hitting the bear squarely on its rump.

The grizzly swayed back and forth on its hind legs, then dropped down. Again it turned in her direction. Behind the bear, Mr. St. John shook his head as if to ward off dizziness and took aim.

“Hurry!” she cried.

The animal ran straight toward her. In a desperate attempt to save her baby, she bombarded it with rocks while Mr. St. John fired. Confused, the bear suddenly veered off in another direction and lumbered away, whimpering like an injured child.

Trembling, Libby sank to her knees.

Mr. St. John dropped his weapon and wiped his hand across his bloodied forehead. He stood, picked up his hat and staggered toward her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded and wiped away her tears. Thank God they were both still alive. “I think so. What about you?”

“How do you think I feel? I’ve been battered by a bear and thanks to your terrible aim, knocked senseless by a rock.”

“I’m sorry,” she squeaked out.

He pulled out his revolver and pointed it at her foot. “Hold still!”

Her eyes widened. “Please Mr. St. John! Don’t shoot!”

Ignoring her plea, he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the locking mechanism and the trap fell away. He slid his gun in his belt and dropped to one knee to carefully lift her leg from the steel clamp. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“If you’re through shooting at me, I am!” she gasped. Her heart was beating so fast she feared it would jump out of her chest. Lord Almighty, what would be next?

”We better get out of here. As long as its offspring is trapped, you can bet that bear will be back. Next time we might not be so lucky.”

She laid her hand on his arm. “It’s only a cub,” she whispered.

“Mrs. Summerfield—“

“Please.”

With a shrug of surrender he limped toward the imprisoned bear. He raised his gun, aimed at the trap, and fired.

The cub jumped back and pulled free. With a high whining sound, it lumbered away on all fours, looking like a dark furry ball as it disappeared among the tall pines.

“That was a very kind thing you did,” she said.

“I’m always kind,” he said. “Providing it’s prudent.” He knelt on his good leg to check her ankle. He gently worked the boot off her foot and pressed his fingers around the reddened skin. “It’ll be tender for a day or two. Better not walk on it.” He slipped one arm around her shoulder and another beneath her legs and lifted her to his chest. “Hold on.”

She worked her arms around his neck, even as she protested. “I can walk.”

“The question is, can you run?”

She glanced worriedly over his shoulder. “Do you really think the bear will come back so soon?”

“No, but the trapper might.” He carried her away from the area and it wasn’t until they had reached the trail leading down the rocky incline to his horse that he stopped to rest. He set her on a fallen log and sank down on the ground to rub his leg.

“How did you know that a bear will turn in the direction of its attacker?”

She gasped when the full implication of what she’d done hit her. “I didn’t know. I was only trying to chase it away.”

He arched a brow. “With a rock?”

“The Good Book tells the story of a boy who brought down a giant with a tiny stone. Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”

“It worked,” he agreed and grimaced. “My head’s killing me.” He gingerly touched the red bump on his forehead. “Too bad your aim isn’t as good as your throw.”

She sniffed. “We can’t all be perfect.”

“I suppose not.” He rubbed his sore shoulder and massaged his leg.