Grizzly (8 page)

Hoarsely, he said, "No hanky-pank in the office."

She bit the skin on the back of his hand gently.

"Still afraid?" she asked.

"Ask me that tonight," he said.

She bit a little harder. "That's a date."

The beast, well-fed and drowsy, was becoming uneasy.

There was a new rhythm to the movement in the forest. The hated smell of men and machines was stronger, and the beast's keen ears heard the rustle of activity along the many trails on this side of the mountan.

The cave seemed more like a trap now than a retreat, so the beast abandoned it.

Despite his great size, the beast could move through the trees like a whisper, leaving little or no trace of his passing. At intervals, he would stop and mark the trees with his tearing claws, reaching up as high as he could to make the bark-shredding sign that this was his territory. Vaguely, he realized that while others of his kind would observe such markings, the two-legged ones ignored them.

Suddenly, there was more than hunger within him. He had fed well, and did not have the urge to eat again.

But his own version of anger began to swell inside his chest. He began to form a vague emotion toward the two-legged ones that might be described as hatred.

As he moved, the beast tried to stay at the high elevations he preferred. But as he cut more and more trails that bore the spoor of men, he turned away from them, and this forced him downward, gradually, until he was in the thickest part of the forest.

There, he drank from a stream, and watched with amusement as three trout sped toward the safety of a submerged rock pile.

The beast had no more interest in fish.

The two rangers moved slowly up along the stream's edge. The sun reached here, and they were both sweating. Dark moisture stained the small of their backs.

The deep odor of balsam and blue spruce filled the air. In the woods themselves, the humus which had fallen from the pines would be so thick it would be like wading in pillows to walk upon it. But along the edge of the rapidly cascading stream, the ground was relatively clear, except for the last growths of wild sarsaparilla and glacier lily. Inside the forest itself would be long strands of grizzly hair, a lichen that grows, parasitically, from the trees, like Spanish moss in the deep south, and springing overnight from the forest floor giant mushrooms would open their white umbrellas.

The mountainside was a feast of beauty, one that Gail Nelson never tired of enjoying.

But today's hike was not for pleasure. She, and the other ranger, Tom Cooper, each carried rifles. Gail's was a .308 caliber Winchester with the short barrel and a lever action. It was a good brush gun, thanks to the short length which was less likely to foul in undergrowth, and the heavy slug would clip through most branches without being turned aside. Tom had his old sporterized Springfield '03, with a four-power Redfield scope on it. It was more of a long-range weapon than Gail's, so between them, they were well armed.

They stopped on a point where gravel jutted out into the stream bed.

"Damn," gasped the girl. "You can never find a bear when you need one."

"We're in Area Three," Tom said, trying to keep his voice steady and failing. It had been a hard climb. "I don't think he's come down this low."

"We could be walking right past him," Gail said. "The woods are so thick he could be twenty yards away and we'd never see him."

"I don't think so," Tom disagreed. "We'd see some sign, hear him—maybe even smell him. This time of year, they're pretty gamey."

"Maybe," she said. "I'll give you this much, it's hard to believe he's down here, because my hot little feet have stepped on every square inch of this forest floor."

"Tired?"

"Beat."

He looked at his watch. "Why don't you take a break? I want to check out Powder Ridge, but it doesn't need both of us."

"It's a deal," Gail said gratefully. "Remind me to do you a favor some time."

"How about tonight?" he suggested. "We missed last night because of all the excitement."

"Is that a proposition?" she asked.

"Do you want it to be?"

She gave a little chirp of laughter and said, "You bet your sweet patootie."

"I'll be back in fifteen, twenty minutes," he said. He turned and hurried up the trail. Because he knew that if he didn't leave right now, Powder Ridge might never get checked out.

Gail leaned back against a rock and smiled.

Well, why not? It had been a long summer during which she had been a very good girl. Well, almost very good. There had been that young mountain climber from England. But on the job, she had been the model of proper behavior.

The season was over. It wouldn't hurt to loosen up a little.

Besides, with what had happened to those girls yesterday, you suddenly realize that nobody guaranteed you seventy years and smooth sailing all the way. It could come to a horrible, bloody end around the next corner. Have some fun while you can, Gail baby.

From her helicopter ride with Don Stober this morning, she remembered there was a waterfall just around the next curve of the stream. That might be pleasant, listening to it while she waited for Tom.

Slowly, she made her way up along the edge of the stream. The sun was warm and golden. It was good to be alive on a day like today.

The beast had never smelled perfume before. Those two he had taken yesterday had been in the woods for almost a week, and the strong soap they'd used for bathing left a fatty, animal-like odor on their bodies.

But this one exuded a scent of something like the glacier flowers he had nibbled in the spring and summer. The slight odor excited the beast, and he followed carefully, stalking without sound and without hurry.

The waterfall was bigger than it had seemed from the air. It cascaded down almost twenty feet, dancing and shimmering like a liquid curtain. The pool beneath was deep and crystal clear. In its depths, Gail could see one Dolly Varden trout that must have weighed almost twenty pounds. These "bull trout," as the old timers called them, made good eating and better sport in catching. It was too bad fishing wasn't allowed in the park. She would have liked to cast a lure down toward the bottom and watch the trout to see if it appealed to him.

She checked the safety on her rifle, and leaned it against a boulder. The waterfall, just feet away, whispered an invitation to her.

She resisted it. She would just slip off her boots and soak her feet for a moment.

The water was cold, but exhilarating. Funny. A cold shower was a turn-off, good only for waking up in the morning, or damping down too-horny boy friends who wanted everything, all at once and too fast.

But the thought of a cold shower under a mountain waterfall . . . that sent a little tingle up her back.

Of course, she couldn't. Tom would be coming back any moment.

She splashed her feet in the water, and the big trout gave her a cool look, speculating on whether or not those white things dangling into his pool might be good to eat.

They splashed again, and he moved closer. So close that his sleek side brushed against Gail's toes, and she gave a little shriek and leaped back.

Behind her, in the bushes, she heard a sound that was a mixture between a sigh and a low snort.

Tom! As in Peeping! He hadn't gone up to Powder Ridge after all.

She felt a warm glow spreading across her lower body.

Why not? It had been coming for a long time. What better place than here, in the beauty of this secret glade, with its dancing waterfall? It would be a far better memory than the sweaty sheets of a furtive motel.

She slipped out of her clothing quickly, making an obvious point of ignoring the bushes behind her. She was proud of her body. Once, a photographer who claimed he was from
Playboy
offered her two hundred dollars for a nude session. Being photographed that way gave her a tiny thrill of excitement, but it vanished when he put down his camera and grabbed for her with both hands. She had wrapped a robe around her, grabbed her clothing, and fled down the hall of the oflfce building to a toilet where she'd changed, left the robe, and slipped out without her model's fee. A call to the magazine revealed the man was an imposter, an all-too-common happening, the nice lady on the magazine's staff sighed. By the time she'd decided to report the "photographer" to the police, he had vanished from the "studio" which turned out to be rented by the week to anyone with thirty dollars.

But she still liked to be looked at, and it pleased her to think of Tom watching, her now. She hoped it would thrill him too. Maybe he would join her under the waterfall.

The sun caught the highlights in her tawny blonde hair, giving it a golden, almost honey-like color. She lowered her jeans without embarrassment; she was a natural blonde, all the way, and for some odd reason this was almost as exciting to those few men she had known as the fact of her nakedness.

She piled her clothing on the boulder, near the rifle. She could sense eyes upon her. She smiled, and stepped into the rushing water, feeling gingerly along the bottom to avoid the sharp rocks that waited there.

The cold water struck her shoulders and back with a chilling impact that made her cry out in delicious near-pain. She found, to her surprise, that there was a kind of cavern behind the cascading water, and she slipped back into it while she got her breath. The water, in front of her, made a shimmering wall, half transparent, half opaque.

Gail sensed movement, and her body tingled. Goosebumps broke out, from a combination of the chill air and anticipation of what was to come.

A shadow moved to, then through, the dancing wall of water.

She gave a giggle and said, "You sure got undressed quick."

The big Dolly Varden trout swam in agitated circles. This pool, which was his home, had its rhythms and cycles, but all were known to the killer trout, who defended its waters against all other male Vardens. The sight or scent of blood was nothing new to the fish; many final battles had been fought in the pool, between fish or small mammals such as muskrat or water shrews.

But now the pool was being flooded with a torrent of crimson that clouded the water with its swirling tendrils. It flowed—almost cascaded—from the ledge where the waterfall beat against the surface of the stream, coming in gushing torrents until the Dolly Varden flicked his tail and sped downstream to a place where the water was still fresh and clear.

There are still many who believe that the insolent chariots sold by Detroit can go anywhere and surmount any terrain. This attitude may come from the first years of automobile driving, when cars were indeed able to take to the woods and follow deer paths. But those early Model A Fords, those Tin Lizzies, had high road clearance, and weighed only a quarter of present-day vehicles. Nor did they carry such rock-snagging undergear as mufflers, torsion-bar suspension or low-slung oil pans. One old-timer who passed on in 1924 had actually stipulated in his will that his Model A be buried with him because, in his own words, "I ain't never got into a hole that she couldn't get me out of."

While the main roads in the park were of decent asphalt construction, many of the dirt roads going up to the remote camp sites were more like dry creek beds, filled with ruts, rocks and exposed tree roots. A Model A might have sputtered its way up them with little difficulty, but even an off-road jeep had trouble here and there.

As for the visitors, in their new street cars, they would ignore the advice of the rangers to park at the lower level and pack in their gear, and try to make it on four wheels. Except for a cleanup crew who patrolled the roads every few days, some of the trails would soon have resembled junkyards, having become a graveyard of abandoned mufflers.

On one such trail, a long blue Cadillac was clawing its way up the steep slope, lurching from one rut to the next, bottoming out with sickening crashes of metal against rock and hard-packed earth. On its gleaming imitation leather top, a huge green plastic baggage carrier strained at the tightly stretched shock cords that held it to the luggage rack. These cords, gaily striped with metal hooks at each end, had been intended to lash down loads on a motorcycle rack or to attach a suitcase to the trunk of a sports car. Lashed around the big baggage carrier, they were strained to their utmost endurance.

Inside the Calllac, a heavy-set man clutched the wheel and mashed his foot to the floor. He was afraid to lose momentum. Once stopped, he would spin out trying to move the car again, and there wasn't room to turn around. Nor could he back down that winding trail. He was committed.

But, he thought, as he smashed over another hump in the road, the Caddie would never be the same again.

"Hang on!" he shouted, as the car reached what looked like the crest of a hill.

The twelve-year-old boy beside him had been hanging on for quite a while now. He was afraid they were going to crash into a tree.

The road widened as they topped the grade, and his father hit the brake to keep from passing the camp site. As usual, he forgot that the Caddie had power brakes, and its nose dipped and slammed into the ground, and he and his son were thrown forward into the dash-board.

"Goddamn it!" yelled the man, glaring at the boy as if it were his fault. "Lousy power brakes!"

He turned into the camp area. As he pulled up onto the sod, the car bounced up and down as if it were mounted on a pogo stick.

They got out. The man walked around the car, inspecting it. There were enough dents to make him grit his teeth, but the big blue Caddie was apparently unharmed otherwise.

He pushed down on the hood and let go.

The car tried to become a yo-yo. It leaped up and down as if alive.

"Stinking shocks are gone," mumbled the man. He glared at his son. "Well, Fred, how about it? Are you waiting for the sun to go down? Get that luggage rack untied."

The boy climbed up onto the hood and began to struggle with the shock cords. They were drawn too tight for his twelve-year-old fingers to pry free.