Uncertain Justice

Chapter 46

With the blood still draining from the slit he'd made in the deer's throat, Miles made a decision to explore the valley on this side of the river rather than waste his time watching the scarlet pool collect beneath the carcass.

Slinging the crossbow over his shoulder once more and retrieving his walking stick, he tossed a coin in his mind and decided to hike to the base of the mountain that formed the eastern boundary of the little valley. It shouldn't take long and he wanted to get a different view of the valley.

He didn't think any of the meat-eaters he knew were in the forest could reach the deer as it hung from the rope thrown over a high branch. The biggest threat he'd seen was a bobcat a few days ago ... probably the same one that had gotten into his cache of venison last night. And that cat couldn't possibly be hungry after eating all he had of Miles' smoked meat.

§

The closest slopes of the mammoth eastern ridge were an easy hour's hike away from where he made the kill. Here the lower reaches of the mountain rose precipitously from the nearly flat valley floor. At the foot of the mountain, Miles saw a wide bench only a couple of hundred yards away and perhaps a hundred and fifty feet higher that would give him a good view over the entire river basin.

His heavy walking stick was worth its weight in gold, helping to steady him on the steep incline. The climb up the steep slope took the better part of fifteen minutes but when he finally got there, he found a spectacular view of the valley from a new perspective. He found a shady spot beneath a big fir and leaned comfortably against the trunk to survey the valley spread out before him from an eastern perspective.

The high mesa to the west dominated the scene. Rising at least four hundred feet above the river directly over the old stone house in the cavern, the massive wall offered no hope of escape. A professional climber might have made it to the top in a reasonable amount of time--Miles couldn't have climbed more than fifty feet or so up the vertical rock formation.

The mesa tailed off to the south, the land rising and the mesa subsiding down that way. The valley in that direction visibly narrowed until it was all but pinched out between the high mesa on the west and the high ridges behind him to the east. On the other hand, several low saddles in the eastern mountains down in that direction that might mark passes that would give him a way out of the valley.

In fact, he knew there was a pass somewhere down there. Zeb had ridden a horse into the valley and had led two others. There was no way they'd come in through the narrow gorge Miles had.

Horses couldn't make their way over that trail and Miles didn't want to go out that way either. The leap over the big gap in the trail still made him shudder whenever he thought of it. The way south was far more inviting.

To his right ... north ... the valley on the other side of the river ended below the entrance to that c***k in the rock wall where he'd entered the valley. On this side of the river, the grass and tree filled landscape disappeared around the shoulder of the mountain to his right. He'd never been up that way. It was one of the many areas he meant to explore ... someday.

In front of him the river was nearly two miles away, an easy half hour's walk but the stream was only visible in silvery flashes that showed through the treetops. The valley floor from this altitude seemed smooth and level but the view was deceptive. Actually, the valley was mostly gentle rises separated by equally gentle depressions and tiny vales that hid their contents until the observer entered there.

Water running off the mountain had gouged gullies that cut through the valley floor in places. The gulches were deep and steeply walled here on the high eastern slope, but they were broad and shallow where they emptied into the river. Years of winter frost and hot summers had heaved some ground up and depressed other areas.

Some of the valley was heavily forested, particularly to the south, but much of the forest nearby was broken by big grassy meadows between clumps of trees. He got to his feet in a smooth motion. He'd put off the b****y job of butchering the deer as long as he could.

It took almost as much time to descend the mountain as it had to climb because he detoured a little south, trying to find an easier route down. Quartering downward, he got onto a talus slope that extended for the last fifty feet down to the valley floor and as far south across the width of the ridge as he could see.

He stepped off, the loose shale shifting treacherously beneath his feet, making travel slow and awkward. He leaned on his walking staff, driving it into the scree and using it as an anchor as he scrambled down. He ran the last twenty feet, racing a small landslide that threatened to overwhelm him.

It took a couple minutes at the bottom for his breathing and heart rate to recover. Little slides kept coming down as the field of loose rock adjusted itself to the new equilibrium. He shuffled backward a couple of steps as a tiny stream of dirt and sharp rock shards touched his boots before dying away.

Turning every so often to watch the unstable slope behind him--rock kept tumbling down--he headed west toward the river to find the deer he'd left hanging upside down from a tree limb.

§

When he could hear the sound of fast running water over the rush of wind through the trees, he turned north and walked parallel to the river. Passing the ford, he began searching for the tracks he'd made setting out on the hunt a few hours earlier. Finding them about where he expected to, he followed them for a short distance until he started recognizing landmarks and he could set out cross-country to where he thought he'd made the kill.

He'd always had a good sense of direction he was able to navigate his way back to the same brush he'd used as a screen while he crept close to the herd. Seeing the tree up the slight rise where the deer hung waiting for butchering, he adjusted his course to go there more directly.

Abruptly, the deer's hindquarters jerked and bounced on the rope holding the kill to the limb. Miles stopped, confused.

There was a snuffling, coughing noise from the direction of the tree and then a wet tearing sound. The branch and its cargo of deer was dragged down again and then rebounded. One of the front legs was missing from the carcass when it came back up; the other hung by no more than a flap of skin and muscle.

Miles scrambled toward the tree. At the bottom of the knoll, he stopped short as a brown head rose above the brush to look in his direction. Miles was irritated. A damned bear had found the carcass and was helping itself to an unexpected banquet.

The brown tint of its fur didn't make him cautious enough...."black" bear are often cinnamon colored ... but the size of the beast's head should have warned him. No black bear grew this large but he was too annoyed to notice. He hadn't seen any bear in the small valley and hadn't thought to take precautions for them.

"Hey, bearrrr ... HEY, BEAR" he yelled to attract the attention of the bear and let the animal know he was human. Miles accompanied the yells with upraised arms, waving them in the air to make himself appear as large as possible to the bear.

He advanced a couple of yards until he was near a good-sized cottonwood and continued to shout at the stubborn animal. He dropped his canteen and leaned the walking stick against the tree so he could clap his hands and make more noise. He hung the crossbow across a convenient branch.

Black bear inhabit most areas of the United States but rarely come near human beings. Normally shy and unaggressive, the black bear should have been frightened and taken off for parts unknown. It wasn't, and it didn't.

The bear could hear the intruder well enough, but the breeze had freshened and the human was downhill and downwind ... he couldn't catch the man's scent. Bears depend more on their sense of smell than they do hearing and their eyes are comparatively weak. The bear stood on his rear legs to get a better view.

Miles froze. His next shout was strangled before it could get out. Rising some eight feet tall in front of him was a huge brown bear ... a grizzly. It had to weigh seven or eight hundred pounds. Stark terror turned his guts to jelly.

Miles swallowed, his throat suddenly sandpaper dry. The grizzly shouldn't be here. Except for a few in Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks, they had been wiped out in the lower forty-eight states long ago. A voice in his head gibbered wildly that he couldn't be seeing what he saw. Panic sharpened his senses but slowed his thinking.

The grizzly found Miles and watched him closely. Only thirty or thirty-five feet away, Miles was already well inside the feeding bear's comfort zone and in mortal danger. Black bears seldom fight for their kills ... brown bear always do and every carcass they come across is automatically theirs.

The big grizzly dropped to all fours and charged.

Brown bears' shaggy hides and lumbering gaits are fatally misleading. When they want to, grizzlies can run at speeds over forty miles an hour. The best human sprinters in the world can manage only half that, and for very short distances. Bears can sprint at top speed for a mile and more. The enormous grizzly covered the distance between the deer carcass and Miles in less than two seconds.

Miles had been fumbling for a grip on the pistol, but his suddenly clumsy fingers couldn't undo the loop of rawhide holding the weapon in the holster. When the bear charged, Miles abandoned any idea of getting the g*n out.

Only his reactions saved him. The only possible shelter was behind the tree where he'd just leaned his walking staff and other gear. He jumped to his right, ran to the thick trunk, and dug in his heels to stop behind it.

The bear detected Miles initial movement and altered its charge to cut off the human's escape. Miles had never intended to keep moving past the tree but the bear didn't know that. When Miles stopped short, it had the effect of a quick dodge and the bear didn't have time to change course again. He ran past, roaring his rage. He slapped the tree in passing, causing a violent shudder to travel through the thick trunk and upward to rattle the topmost branches.

Miles' hiking stick rocketed away from the tree trunk where he'd leaned it, slammed painfully into the outside of his right thigh, and rebounded up the slope to fall in the thick summer grass. The crossbow was launched into a high arc to come down twenty-five yards away. It may as well have been twenty-five miles.

Knocked sprawling, Miles staggered to his feet and scrambled uphill to drop on his knees beside the thick staff. With a flame-hardened point on one end, it was a crude spear he'd already used for fishing and it was his only weapon for the moment. His mind had dismissed the pistol. In his panic, he couldn't think coherently enough to look down to clear the problem with his holster.