Десмонд Бэгли - Landslide

I didn’t hear a thing — but he did. He stirred and turned his head, waving it from side to side like a cobra about to strike. He made snuffling noises, sniffing the wind, and suddenly he growled softly and turned away from me, looking in the other direction. I thanked the years of experience that had taught me how to keep matches dry by filling a full matchbox with melted candle wax so that the matches were embedded in a block of paraffin wax. I ripped three matches free from the block and got them ready to strike.

The bear was backing slowly towards me and away from whatever was coming towards him. He looked back at me uneasily, feeling he was trapped, and whenever a grizzly feels like that the best place to be is somewhere else. I stooped and struck the match and dropped it on the powder trail, which fizzed and flashed into fire. Then I ran like hell to the other fire, shooting into the air as I went.

The bear had lumbered into action as I broke cover and was covering the ground fast heading straight towards me, but the bang of the shotgun gave him pause and he skidded to a halt uncertainly. From behind the bear I heard an excited shout. Someone else had also heard the shot.

The bear turned his head uncertainly and started to move again, but just then one of the shotgun shells in the first fire exploded, just as I ignited the second fire. He didn’t like that at all and turned away growling all the time, as I sprinted to the third fire and dropped a match on it.

Bruin didn’t know what the hell to do! There was trouble — man trouble — coming up on one side and loud unnerving noises on the other. There were a couple more shouts from the other side of the bear and that almost decided him, but just then all hell broke loose. Two more shells exploded one after the other and half a second later it sounded as though a war had broken out.

The grizzly’s nerve broke and he turned and bolted in the opposite direction. I added to the fun by stinging his rump with a charge of buckshot and then began to run, following close in his rear. He charged among the trees like a demon out of hell — nearly half a ton of frightful, ravening ferocity. Actually, he was not so much frightful as frightened, but it’s then that the grizzly is at his most dangerous.

I saw three men looking up the slope, aghast at what was coming down on them. I suppose to them it was all teeth and claws and twice as large as life — and another tale would be told in a bar-room if they lived to tell it. They broke and scattered, but one was a little late and the bear gave him a flick in passing. The man screamed as he was slammed into the ground but luckily for him the bear didn’t stop his rush to maul him.

I went past at a dead run, my boots skidding on the slippery ground. The bear was moving much faster than I could and was out-distancing me fast. From ahead there was another shout and a couple of shots and I spun round a tree to find a guy waving a shotgun at the departing bear. He turned and saw me coming down at him fast and took a sudden snapshot at me. The hammer of his shotgun fell on an empty chamber and by then I was on to him. I took him in the chest with my shoulder and the impact knocked the feet from under him and he went sprawling, aided by a clout behind the ear I gave him as I went on my way. I had learned something from that bear.

I didn’t stop running for fifteen minutes, not until I was sure no one was chasing me. I reckoned they were too busy looking after their casualty — when a bear clouts you in passing there are steel-like claws in his fist. I saw my friend bounding down the hillside and became conscious that the mist was lifting. He slowed up and slowly ambled to a stop, looking behind him. I waved and took another direction because that was one bear I wouldn’t like to meet for the next couple of days.

Almost as I had stumbled on the bear I came across the man staring into the haze and wondering what all the noise was about. I had no time for evasive action so I tackled him head on, first ramming the muzzle of the gun into his belly. By the time he had recovered from that I had my hunting knife at his throat.

He eased his head back to an unnatural angle trying to get away from the sharp point and a drool of spittle ran down from one corner of his mouth. I said, ‘Don’t make a noise — you’ll only get hurt.’

He nodded, then stopped as the knife pricked his Adam’s apple. I said gently, ‘Why are you hunting me?’

He gurgled, but didn’t say a thing. I said again, ‘Why are you hunting me? I want an answer. A truthful answer.’

It was forced out of him. ‘You beat up old Bull Matterson. That was a lousy thing to do.’

‘Who said I beat up the old man?’

‘Howard was there — he says so. So does Jimmy Waystrand.’

‘What does Waystrand know about it? He wasn’t there.’

‘He reckons he was and Howard doesn’t say he wasn’t.’

‘They’re both liars,’ I said. ‘The old man had a heart-attack. What does he say about it?’

‘He don’t say nothing. He’s sick — real sick.’ Hatred looked at me out of the man’s eyes.’

‘In hospital? Or at home?’

‘He’s at home, so I heard.’ He managed a grin. ‘Mister, you’ve got it coming to you.’

‘Old Matterson had a heart-attack,’ I said patiently. ‘I didn’t lay a finger on him. Would a little matter of a thousand dollars have anything to do with me being chased all over these woods?’

He looked at me with contempt. ‘That don’t matter,’ he said. ‘We just don’t like strangers beating up old men.’

That was probably true. I doubt if these loggers would set out on a manhunt like this on a purely blood-money basis. They weren’t bad guys, just fools who’d been whipped up into a frenzy by Howard’s lies. The thousand dollars was merely icing on the cake. I said, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Charlie Blunt.’

‘Well, Charlie, I wish we could talk this out over a beer, but I regret it’s impossible. Look, if I was such a bad guy as Howard makes out I could have knocked out your people like ducks at a shooting-gallery. People have been shooting at me but I haven’t shot back. Does that make sense to you?’

A frown wrinkled his face and I could see he was thinking about it. I said, ‘Take Novak and those other guys — I could have slit their throats quite easily. Come to that, there’s nothing to prevent me from slitting yours right now.’

He tensed and I pricked him with the knife. ‘Take it easy, Charlie; I’m not going to. I wouldn’t hurt a hair of your head. Do you think that makes sense, either?’

He gulped and shook his head hurriedly. ‘Well, think about it,’ I said. ‘Think about it and talk about it to those other guys back there. Tell them I said old Bull had a heart-attack and that Howard Matterson and Jimmy Waystrand have been feeding them a line. Talking about Jimmy, I don’t think much of a guy who’d beat up his own father — do you?’

Blunt’s head made a sideways movement. ‘Well, he did,’ I said. ‘All you have to do to prove I’m telling the truth is to ask Matthew Waystrand. His place isn’t too far from here — not so far that a man couldn’t walk over and get at the truth for once. Talk about that to the other guys, too. Let you and them decide who’s telling the truth in this neck of the woods.’

I eased up on the knife. ‘I’m going to let you go, Charlie. ‘I’m not even going to sap you or tie you up so you won’t set the other guys on my trail again. I’m just going to let you go as you are, and if you want to raise a holler that’s your privilege. But you can tell the other guys this — tell them I’ve had a bellyful of running and not hitting back too hard. Tell them I’m getting into a killing mood. Tell them that the next man I see on my trail is a dead man. I think you’re very lucky, Charlie, that I picked you to take the message — don’t you?’