Dead Trouble (10 page)

‘Some. Hope to keep it that way or make it even better. Chasing a bear in these hills wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.’

‘Never know just how it could pay off,’ the South African said enigmatically and when Deke looked at
him quizzically he only winked. ‘Like I said, man – humour me, eh? Who knows what we might find.’

‘Where’re the tracks?’

‘Up and over the crest. Might’ve even crossed the river,’ Pete said, winking. ‘Let’s take a look.’

There was something more to this than just a chance meeting in the wilderness, Cutler decided. And he wished he knew where the Samburu had got to go.

The tracks led down to the river but Deke doubted the bear had crossed: the water was too deep. Deke explained the difference between a black bear – which was the most likely quarry – and a grizzly, not usual in this country.

‘A black’ll rip your head off just as quickly as a grizz, Pete. But he’s smaller as a rule, not so easy to rile, and his footprints are distinctive.’ He squatted beside some fairly large prints, not all that distinct in the mud or further along the bank in looser soil. ‘A grizzly’s claws are hardly ever less than two inches long. But a black’s are no more than an inch and a half. The toes are the giveaway. The grizzly’s toes on the front feet are in a near-straight line. But a black’s have a definite curve – like these here. The hind foot on a black has a wedge in the instep too, and a rounded heel, but the grizzly has no instep and the heel is pointed. There’ll be other sign, too.’

Deke stood, arms akimbo and looked around. He pointed to a pine tree.

‘There. Bears like to rub against pines and they take the bark off. Higher up and here, down at the bottom, he’s torn strips of bark off to get at the syrupy sap. There’s a little blood here.’

‘Not too badly hurt to fight, I hope!’

‘You’ll get your fight, Pete, if you ever catch up with him. See that deadfall yonder? All smashed up. He did that, looking for ants in the rotting wood. Hurt or not, he’s still got plenty of strength left.’

‘Big?’

‘That I can’t say for sure but I’d guess maybe three hundred pounds. Did you see him at all?’

Pete shook his head and turned to the silent Samburu, who had now reappeared, and spoke rapidly in some strange language. Sam squatted, and with a slim ebony finger drew an outline of a bear in the sandy soil. Deke studied it briefly.

‘If this is accurate—’

‘It will be. Sam’s got a hawk’s eyes.’

‘OK. See? No hunched shoulders? No hump or dished-in face profile – both of which are
characteristics
of a grizzly. This is definitely a black – straight-face profile, no long-haired ruff …’

They followed the tracks up the slope and across the face and Deke began to recognize landmarks. He suddenly turned to van Rensberg.

‘What’s your game, Pete?’

Dutch Pete blinked his puzzlement. ‘Game?’

‘Yeah. We didn’t come quite this far the other day but I’ll bet my eye teeth these are the same tracks we saw then. We’re following that same bear who was favouring his right hind foot. So why the hell have you brought me up here when you knew all along the bear who made those tracks was long gone?’

‘Well, I needed help to look for some …’

Before Pete could continue, the Samburu let out a
wild cry from up the timbered slope. They jerked around – to see a red-eyed, slavering bear lumbering out of the bushes above, raging after the running warrior, coming at them all like the lead boulder in an avalanche.

Dutch Pete van Rensberg gave a crazy-sounding war cry and leapt to his feet, assegai in both hands. Still yelling he ran to meet the bear while the Samburu veered sharply, robe flying behind, lion-mane wafting in the wind of his passage, skidding as he almost fell.

Deke Cutler slipped in getting to his feet, too, and then whipped out his six-gun, wishing he had his rifle. But there was a
clang
and his wrist jarred as Sam’s
spear-blade
knocked the pistol from his hand. He shook his head at Deke, the lion-mane jerking from side to side. There were beads of sweat on his black face as he pointed to Dutch Pete.

The man had confronted the bear, eager for the battle, crouching, assegai thrusting several times. The animal had given van Rensberg his full attention now, slapped at the long blade of the spear. It cut the paw
and he gave a strangely feminine yelp as he withdrew his leg quickly. Van Rensberg’s rugged face was aglow with excitement. He hunched down, wide shoulders knotted with tension, his free hand out to one side as a kind of balance to the right arm which held the short spear about midway along the shaft. The bear was
limping
and as it turned upslope – where Pete had worked so that he was slightly above the animal – Deke saw the cloud of flies and yellow pus in a long shallow
bullet-wound
in the right haunch. This would have accounted for the limp that had showed up in the lie of his tracks. Someone had taken a shot at him, winged him, but thought better of chasing after the animal to finish it off. He had likely gone to ground to literally lick his wounds, been disturbed by the trackers.

Now he was no doubt feeling plenty of pain from the infected wound and he was every bit as dangerous and killing-mad as an enraged grizzly twice his size.

‘It’s suicidal, Pete!’ Cutler yelled, scooping up his Colt. The Samburu looked narrowly at him, long spear raised, and Deke was suddenly aware that the warrior was prepared to kill him in order to give van Rensberg his wish of fighting a bear with only the assegai.

‘He’s gonna get killed!’ Deke told Sam angrily. ‘The damn fool doesn’t savvy what bears are like when they’re good and mad! They can be worse than any goddamn lion, I’ll bet!’

Sam’s dark eyes were unwavering, as was the
spear-point
. It was lined up on the centre of Deke’s chest.

‘You’re both plumb loco!’ Cutler snapped, shaking his head slowly as he watched Dutch Pete dodge and thrust.
‘He’s getting ready to lunge
!’ he yelled warningly.

Van Rensberg had fought enough animals in this manner to recognize the attack attitudes of the bear’s body. He jumped down the slope as the bear hurled itself at the place where he had been a moment earlier, claws raking. But they only raked air and then the animal squealed like a pig as the assegai blade sank half its length into his side. Blood spurted and the bear clawed at the sharp metal that was tormenting it. Pete staggered as the claws struck the withdrawing blade and almost tore the weapon from his grasp. He slipped and slid down the slope. In a blurred movement, faster than the blink of an eye, the wounded bear jumped and landed partly on van Rensberg, knocking him sprawling.

The big South African grunted, recovered, but his spear arm swung wide. The weapon fell from opening fingers but Pete closed them swiftly, just managing to wrap them around the end of the shaft as the bear’s claws ripped through his shirt – and his flesh. He roared in pain as blood flowed, going down to one knee, and the bear stomped down, making its own snarling, roaring, chest-deep sounds. It swiped with a foreleg and van Rensberg, fighting to get up, was struck on the right shoulder. The force of the blow hurled him, spinning, across the face of the slope. He fell awkwardly and lost his grip on the assegai.

Deke Cutler was astonished to see the Samburu throw himself between the bear and the injured van Rensberg, jabbing with his own spear, but only in weak, short strokes so that the razor-sharp blade barely
penetrated
the black bear’s skin beneath the matted hair of coat: irritating but not deeply wounding. He was giving
Dutch Pete every chance to make his kill….

Cutler shook his head slowly, hardly believing what he was seeing.

The thrusts must have been deep enough to hurt, for the bear reared and stumbled as it swiped at the tall black man. Claws caught in the red robe and tore it half off the lean ebony body. Sam had his panga slung on a strip of rhino-hide around his narrow waist but made no attempt to use it, even as slavering jaws reached for him.

Deke thought,
To hell with this!
and raised his six-gun. But even as more claws ripped the Samburu across the ribs, exposing the whiteness of bone, he swung the long-handled spear and Deke was forced to duck and jump back. By the time he had righted himself, Dutch Pete had made his move.

With the Samburu writhing and screaming now as the bear’s fangs sank into his skinny left shoulder, spear flailing wildly but ineffectually, van Rensberg, bleeding and cut badly, too, thrust the assegai deep under the arch of the bear’s ribs. The animal bellowed, rearing, beating and tearing at the short shaft. Dutch Pete, crouched, twisted, teeth bared, withdrew the blade and as the bear staggered and made to slash with a wicked set of scything claws, stabbed deep again, throwing all his weight on to the spear.

It sank completely into the bear and the jerking, writhing animal hurled Pete down the slope so that his tumbling body knocked Cutler off his feet. The bear ripped and tore at the bloody shaft. Wood splintered. The animal took a single staggering step downhill, tried to stay balanced but lost out and fell with a crash that Deke later swore shook the whole damn mountain.

He dragged the bloody and barely conscious van Rensberg out of the way, seeing Sam’s frail-looking body jerking loosely as the bear rolled over him. The animal, amazingly, climbed to its feet, started to run in wild, widening circles, trying to withdraw the splintered shaft and blade. Blood was everywhere, drenching the matted coat, spewing from the chomping jaws, until the bear dropped to its knees and toppled on to its side, snorting, jerking as it tried to get up, until, finally, its great bloody head flopped loosely on the neck and with one final belching exhalation, it died.

Deke did what he could for the two men from Africa – and it was little enough. They were both slashed and cut deeply, though the Samburu was in the worse
condition
by far. He was conscious but didn’t make a sound, his eye-whites now yellow, the dark pupils staring but seeing something far from this Red River hillside. Deke tore up his robe into strips.

‘Sam? Is he – OK?’ grated van Rensberg, biting back on the surges of pain that wracked his body.

‘No. He’ll die if we don’t get him to a doctor. You’re not in very good shape yourself.’

‘I’m … fine.’ Dutch Pete strained and struggled until he could see the bear’s body. He grinned through bloody lips. ‘I – did – it….’

‘Thanks to Sam. He damn near died for you. May yet.’

Van Rensberg nodded solemnly. ‘Faithful unto death.’ But there was no levity in his quote. ‘A fine – warrior.’

‘A fine
man
,’ Deke corrected him. ‘I’ll have to get help from Shoestring.’

‘No – wait. There’s an army patrol out of Fort Montague – camped at the Salt Fork, just downstream a’ways. There’ll be a – medic there …’

‘How do you know about the army camp?’

‘Saw it. Leave me here with – Sam. The doctor’ll come …’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it. Army doctors ain’t always
obliging
. Maybe I better get a buckboard from Shoestring.’

‘Eh, man!
He’ll come
! Now get a move on, eh? Sam’s dying!
Go
!’

Deke hesitated only briefly and then left all the rags he could – having torn up his spare shirts and
neckerchiefs
in an effort to bind the terrible wounds – and his water bottle and rifle. Not that either man was fit enough to shoot but it seemed a likely precaution to take.

Then he hurried to the grey, glanced at the
westering
sun, and spurred away to the east, towards the Salt Fork, hoping van Rensberg knew what he was talking about.

It wasn’t unusual for the army to patrol the Red River, but it was unusual for them to be this far up. In the past they had stuck mainly to the downstream areas, on the Texas side, in a show of power, but it seemed strange to him that Dutch Pete of all people should know the location of a soldiers’ camp when local settlers weren’t aware of it.

The soldiers were right where Dutch Pete said they would be – camped on the Salt Fork of the Red. But not where just anyone could see them.

Cutler reined down at first, knowing he was nearing
the river junction, looking around for some sign of the army. There was movement in the timber and a soldier rode out on a long-legged black, his Trapdoor Springfield rifle across his thighs. Deke noted that the big hammer was already cocked.

This man was a corporal, a little older than Deke and chewing tobacco. He nodded then spat a brown stream to his left.

‘Howdy. Lookin’ for somethin’ – or someone?’

Cutler reined down, hipping slightly to the left so he could reach his six-gun fast if he needed to: an old precaution that had helped keep him alive through his Texas Ranger years.

‘Looking for your commanding officer, matter of fact, corp.’

‘Oh? Who would that be now?’

‘You’d know better’n me, I guess. It’s urgent. There’re two men tore up by a bear upstream about three miles, a little less, I believe you’ve a medic with you.’

The corporal looked all round and spat another tream, shrugging.

‘You see anyone else?’

‘C’mon, forget the delays! I need that doctor.’ Cutler moved on the last word and the soldier’s rifle was only barely lifted off his thighs when he gaped, staring down the muzzle of Deke’s cocked six-shooter.

‘Hell al-doubledamn-mighty! How’d you do that?’

‘The sawbones, goddamnit! Those men are bleeding to death!’

Cutler reached across and yanked the rifle from the man’s hands, uncocking the weapon. The corporal’s
face tightened and he looked suddenly worried.

‘Hey! I’m in trouble if the lieutenant knows you took my gun off me.’

‘Climb down, corp – and do it slow and easy.’

The soldier didn’t like taking orders but he complied. And while he was easing down in the stirrup, Cutler unloaded the Springfield, pocketed the big shell and tossed the gun across.

‘Lieutenant doesn’t need to know. But you lead me in or he’ll know when he hears the shot.’

The corporal frowned and climbed back into his saddle.

‘What shot?’

‘When I shoot you in the leg.’

There was no more delay. The soldier led Cutler through the timber and along a winding trail through a thicket, then into a draw where a company of soldiers were camped. Lieutenant Craig was young and when he heard Cutler’s name he stiffened.

‘
Deke
Cutler? Texas Rangers?’

‘Not any longer. Running the Shoestring spread with another ex-Ranger, Durango Spain.’

Craig nodded soberly. ‘Of course – and who are these men who were attacked by a bear?’

Deke told him and the man was suddenly galvanized, snapping at the corporal:

‘Fetch Doc Lansing! Tell him to bring a full medical kit – and detail four men to escort us to the injured. It’s Dutch Pete and Long Sam!’

Cutler was surprised at the sudden burst of efficiency amongst the lounging soldiers – Dutch Pete’s name seemed to mean something here. They were on the
trail upstream in fifteen minutes.

It was a gory job, treating the injured, but Cutler rolled up his sleeves and helped the doctor cleanse and sew the terrible wounds on van Rensberg and the unconscious Samburu warrior. Lansing showed no surprise at seeing them and Deke had a notion that he already knew both men.

There was something strange going on here, he allowed to himself. Mighty strange
….

There had been no time wasted getting here and Cutler had had little chance to speak with Doctor Randy Lansing. Helping the medic, their verbal exchanges had been limited to brief commands, asking for the iodine, or fresh sutures.

The escort soldiers stood around marvelling at the bear’s carcass with the broken spear still protruding.

It was getting dark by the time the doctor sat back on his hams, mopping sweat from his face with a soiled rag.

‘They gonna make it, doc?’ Deke asked.

Lansing pursed his lips, looked from one to the other of the wounded men now swathed in bandages, sleeping from heavy doses of laudanum.

‘Dutch Pete’ll be all right, quite heavily scarred, but I guess he won’t mind that. The Samburu…? Well, I don’t know. If he was a white man he’d be dead already. But just look at the build of him! Skin and leather and bone. Nothing to him. Yet he has a fighting spirit stronger than any I’ve come across – and I’ve doctored Apaches, Comanches and Sioux, whose warriors are certainly not noted for their fraility. It’s amazing, but I suppose he led a hard life in the Dark Continent.’

Cutler looked steadily into Lansing’s weary face.

‘You know Pete and Sam before this, doc?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘C’mon, doc! This is Deke Cutler, remember? Don’t answer my questions by asking another! We’ve had too many drinks in the sutler’s bar for that!’

Lansing sighed.

‘You’re right, of course, Deke. But I can’t say anything. It’s up to the lieutenant, I guess.’

‘There’s some mystery here, Doc. Pete got me up here on a pretext of tracking down a wounded bear – one we’d found sign of days earlier …’

‘Well, you certainly succeeded in flushing him out this time.’

‘Don’t try to get off the subject, Doc. Pete was as surprised as I was when the bear attacked: neither of us expected to find it so close.’

Lansing remained silent, started to pack a pipe. Cutler shook his head slowly.

‘Well, OK. There’s something going on I don’t know about and you don’t want to tell me. Maybe you can tell me how come a sawbones as good as you, one who’s just sewed together a couple of men I’d’ve said I’d be
burying
before sundown, can’t do more for Durango Spain.’