下载掌阅APP，畅读海量书库
立即打开
It’s too quiet here. Not a peaceful quiet, but the kind that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Slade Wilder drew his horse to a halt. He didn’t travel this trail often, only when he rode for pleasure, but he knew the area like the back of his hand. About five feet ahead and off to his left was an avalanche area where rocks, both large and small, precariously blanketed a steep slope. The stones periodically broke loose and rained hell on anything in their way. Slade always practiced caution as he passed over this section of trail, but never in his memory had being here given him the heebie-jeebies. It’s almost as if something terrified is watching me . Some people would laugh at that notion, but he never had, especially not in a wilderness area. Any woodsman knew that a sixth sense did exist in both animals and humans, and to make light of it was foolhardy.
He studied the path ahead, which had been chiseled into the mountainside by human hands and then worn to a curvy ribbon by countless human and equine feet. Bordered on the north side by rocks, the narrow track gave way on the right to a sharp, boulder-strewn decline where lofty pines, still skirted by a thin crust of snow in mid-April, struggled for purchase to remain upright. One stone about a foot in diameter lay at the trail’s center, surrounded by a scatter of smaller rocks. It was due to recent shifting, Slade knew, because the debris hadn’t been there when he’d ridden up the mountain earlier. Normally he’d hear squirrels chattering and birds singing, but right now even the wind seemed to be holding its breath.
Slade couldn’t recall ever having felt this uneasy here. Acutely aware of everything around him, yes, but never edgy. His family’s ranch, which he now operated, rested about a mile away at the base of this peak. As a youngster he had played in these woods with his friends. Later as a teenager he’d pitched a tent under a tree, gathered tubers and berries, cooked his supper over an open fire, and stayed the night alone. This whole mountainside had been an extension of his backyard. Heck, he’d even lost his virginity under one of those pine trees.
Slade released a breath and refocused on the present. The rockslide had apparently frightened all the wildlife in the immediate area, so he assumed it had happened just before he got within earshot. He pictured chipmunks sitting motionless on tree limbs, deer frozen in their tracks, and other creatures hiding in their burrows. While shifting in the saddle, he realized that his Wrangler jeans had gone damp with sweat where his thighs pressed against the leather. All his mental alerts still jangled. With over sixty years of wilderness experience under his belt, he knew better than to ignore his feelings. They had saved his ass more times than he could count, allowing him to live long enough to get arthritis and so much silver in his dark brown hair that he was tempted to dye it.
Even Bogey, Slade’s trusted red roan, felt tense beneath him. The gelding didn’t like the vibes he was getting, either, Slade guessed. When a woodland went this quiet, both man and beast paid attention.
Keeping his mouth closed, Slade drew in a breath. It was then that he smelled it. Fresh blood. It was faint but unmistakable, a metallic scent, and made his skin pebble with goose bumps. Next he caught the almost imperceptible scent of black bear, which he’d always likened to a wet hound that had wallowed in something rotten. Online environmentalists claimed that bears didn’t stink, that they smelled like the berries and other things they ate, which might be true at a zoo or rescue site, but it wasn’t in the wild. A bear was an opportunistic diner, an omnivore that fed on both vegetation and meat, the latter sometimes carrion that stank to high heaven. The odor clung to them.
He studied the rocks that blanketed the mountainside. Nothing alarming . All the boulders looked firmly reseated. Then he saw a glisten of crimson on the side of one slab. He homed in with his gaze. Something blackish brown protruded from under the stone. It was the front paw of a bear.
Just then Slade’s dog, Pistol, burst from the forest onto the trail. He’d been off chasing a squirrel or rabbit and still wore a goofy grin. Of undetermined lineage, the canine had the coat of a collie, the coloring of a Rottweiler, and the agile build of an Australian shepherd. He had appeared on the porch six years ago, the scraggliest and skinniest pup Slade had ever seen. He hadn’t wanted a dog. In fact, he’d sworn years before that he would never have a dog again, but he hadn’t had the heart to call Animal Control. He’d never once regretted the decision. Pistol was the best all-around canine friend that Slade had ever had, adept at herding cows, friendly with horses, smarter than some men, and beautiful now that he received proper care. The dog skidded to a stop by Bogey’s left knee, swung around, and bristled.
“Yep,” Slade said. “You smell bear. Heel up. Don’t get all crazy on me and go into those rocks. You’ll get us all killed.”
Pistol aligned his shoulder with Bogey’s front leg. After swinging out of the saddle, Slade gave the gelding a comforting pat, then snapped his fingers and pointed at the ground to make Pistol sit before he approached the steep bank. Crawling up into that jumble of rock would be foolish. Instead he remained on the trail and moved eastward. Then he turned and saw the hindquarters of the bear. She lay on her side, rear legs sprawled. Definitely a sow. Her teats were swollen with milk. Now he understood the faintness of her scent. Well over half her body was buried.
A full-time rancher and a seasonal outfitter and hunting guide, Slade had been raised on wild game and homegrown beef, so he didn’t think of himself as a tenderhearted man, but he hated to see a dead mama sow. Her offspring might not survive without her. Black bears normally bore litters of one to six cubs, typically two, sometimes more, and it was only April. Snow, bluish white in the shadows, still defied the advent of warmer weather. Sows were probably just now emerging with cubs from their dens.
He sighed and turned in a full circle, watching for any sign of movement. Then he studied all the nearby trees. Frightened cubs often shinnied up a trunk and held on until their mother told them it was safe to get down. Sadly he saw no babies. Not that he knew what he’d do for them. He supposed he could call the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife. Until cubs grew older, they needed their mother’s milk.
He strode back to his horse. Bogey snorted and flung his head. Pistol whined. “Now I know why you didn’t spook, Bogey. You smelled the blood before I did and knew she was dead.”
Bogey chuffed and flared his nostrils. Slade gave him a scratch along his poll before swinging up into the saddle. The horse didn’t like the smell of bear, whether it was alive or not. “Heel, Pistol. Let’s circle the area before we head home. See if we come across those babies.”
Slade spent the better part of an hour combing the vicinity. Mostly he watched his dog. Pistol had a sharp nose and found some scents that interested him, but nothing was fresh enough to excite him. If the cubs had stayed near their mother’s body, Pistol would smell them.
Heading downhill through the forest, Slade picked up Flotsam Trail again about a half mile south of the rockslide. He was in no particular hurry to reach the ranch, but his pleasure in the ride had diminished. He couldn’t get the possible fate of the dead sow’s offspring out of his mind. Damn . At this time of year, they’d be so little, and by now their tummies would already be panging with hunger. The thought saddened him.
And also made him think of Vickie, his one and only love. Ignoring the advice of nearly everyone in their hometown of Mystic Creek, she had once rescued a cub. Now that Slade was older, it was funny how memories popped into his mind, as shiny as new pennies. Images of her holding that baby on her hip played on his mental screen like a video clip. She’d been a little gal with an unruly mane of curly auburn hair and arresting green eyes. He’d been so besotted that he would have laid down his life for her.
Slade tried to school his thoughts. It was nuts to be thinking about Vickie now. For all he knew, she could be dead. He hadn’t seen or heard from her in almost forty years, and good riddance. If she were with him, he’d still be looking for that dead sow’s cubs, and then if he found them, he’d be trying to convince her that caring for them was a bad idea. Nope . He was better off alone. A woman messed with a man’s head, led him down a merry path, and then ran off with a big chunk of his heart.
Screw all of that . He would have been a rotten husband anyway, and probably an even worse father. He’d cared too much about horses, cows, and bull busting in his younger days. He’d probably still be following the rodeo circuit if his body hadn’t given out on him. Losing Vickie had left him free to grab life by the tail and hang on for the ride. In his wild days, it had been a rough one.
On a bridle path, Pistol liked to take the lead, and he was three horse lengths ahead of Bogey when a high-pitched shriek rent the afternoon air. Still lost in the past, Slade jolted to awareness and drew back on the reins as he attempted to place the sound. Spooked by the noise, Bogey hopped sideways. Slade almost went one direction while his mount went the other. He grabbed for leather and quickly righted himself.
Pistol let out a bark and pointed like a bird dog. “No!” Slade said. “Heel up. Whatever that is, it doesn’t want company.”
Black fur rippling as he ran, Pistol circled to stand by Bogey’s left front leg. Slade was still trying to determine where the noise had originated when another scream echoed through the trees. His stomach muscles snapped taut. It was like nothing he’d ever heard, the cry laced with terror and what had to be pain. Pulse accelerating, he urged Bogey farther downhill. It had to be an animal, Slade reasoned, only for the first time in his life he couldn’t identify a species by the sound it made. He reined Bogey to the right, heading toward a copse of underbrush canopied by pine boughs. Within seconds he heard another wail and then came the sound of thrashing in the woodland brush. Slade saw a flash of yellow about fifty yards down the slope. Cougar was his first thought. But as he trained his gaze on the spot, his stomach felt as if it dropped to the ground and bounced back up into his throat. A blond bear cub. Just as Slade realized what it was, it flipped head over heels in the air, slammed back to the earth, and shrieked again. He also heard the rattling of metal chain.
“Damn it! Down, Pistol! Down!”
Whining and trembling with eagerness, Pistol lowered his rump to the dirt. Slade dismounted, tied Bogey to a small tree, and then pushed through the brush to get closer. The cub was a blur of golden fur, frantically trying to free its right front foot from the jaws of a coyote trap. Slade’s blood boiled. What kind of idiot set a trap so close to a trail? It was a wonder that Pistol hadn’t stepped in it as they came up the mountain. If the steel jaws of a leghold trap snapped closed at just the right angle, bones could be fractured or crushed. The last thing Slade needed was a crippled dog.
As he drew closer, the baby panicked. Not wanting to make the cub hurt itself any worse, Slade retreated to a less threatening distance. He scanned the area, looking for the tracks of a sow or other cubs. His trained eye saw nothing. He also sniffed the air, hoping not to catch a whiff of an adult bear in the vicinity.
He finally concluded that the cub was alone. Otherwise the mother would be facing off with him to protect her trapped offspring, a turn of events that Slade preferred to avoid. Now the question he had to ask himself was, where was the mother? Sows wandered away from their cubs sometimes, and vice versa, but normally a mother and her babies stayed within earshot of each other. This cub was making enough noise to wake drunks on Sunday morning.
Less than a mile up the mountain, a dead sow lay mostly buried in a fall of rocks, and Slade couldn’t help but think this had to be her baby. Normally a cub remained near its deceased mother as long as it could, but maybe the rockslide had frightened this one so badly that it ran. The explosion of sound must have been deafening. The hail of huge rocks would have made the ground tremble. This little fellow, being so young, could have gotten so turned around in the forest that he couldn’t find his way back. Now he was in trouble. Leghold traps were treacherous. Slade hated the damned things.
He tried to think of some positive outcomes for the cub if he released it, but in reality there was only one, that another sow in the area with nursing cubs would adopt him. That was a long shot. Some sows would accept a nursing baby planted by humans in their birthing dens, but once they took their cubs out into the world, they grew protective and cautious. Even the appearance of a lost cub could get their hackles up. Slade could understand why. Most cubs of nursing age had their own mothers, who might strongly object to the interference of another sow.
After considering his options, Slade walked back to where Bogey and Pistol waited and drew his cell phone from his pocket. He texted his foreman, Wyatt, who kept his phone on him at all times, set to vibrate. “On Flotsam Trail, about a half mile up. Bear cub in trap. Bring men, blankets, and first aid.” He pressed SEND . Then as an afterthought, he sent a postscript. “Vet wrap, too.”
Slade questioned his own sanity as he led his horse and dog farther down the trail. If he turned that cub loose, what were the odds that it would find a kindhearted sow to feed and protect it? Slade knew that was a fairy-tale ending. The baby would probably die out in the wild by itself. Slade stared hard at the rifle he always carried in a saddle sheath when he rode in a wilderness area. No matter how he mentally circled it, he knew a quick death for the baby was far more merciful than starvation. But, damn it, he’d never sighted in on a young creature and pulled the trigger. Newborn animals were helpless. They needed to be protected so their species could thrive for generations to come.
Most humans had an inherent soft spot for babies, he assured himself. He wasn’t alone in his feelings. He sighed and resigned himself to the fact that he didn’t have it in him to put that cub out of its misery, not when there was a chance, no matter how slight, that it might survive.
While waiting for his men to arrive, Slade felt as if every second lasted an hour. The cub continued to bleat and moan, and every sound made Slade’s heart twist. He wished the poor thing would stop trying to get loose. With every jerk, the trap would do more damage to its leg. But the cub kept struggling.
In the distance Slade heard the roar of a ranch ATV. By the sound of the engine, he determined that it was the Honda Pioneer side-by-side, which resembled a golf cart but had stouter framework, a higher undercarriage, a lot more power, and tires that could crawl over most woodland obstacles. He was glad Wyatt had decided against using horses. The Honda covered ground faster. The thought no sooner crossed Slade’s mind than he saw a blaze of red through the trees.
Despite profound deafness, Wyatt Fitzgerald, Slade’s foreman, was nothing if not attuned to the needs of animals. Most men would have held the gas pedal to the floorboard and slid to a stop where Slade stood, stirring up a cloud of dust. The blond foreman, hair presently covered by a brown Stetson, had more sense. Over the years he’d become more conscious of the effects of sound than most hearing individuals. He knew the roar of an engine at full throttle would terrify a trapped cub. The instant he saw Slade, he slowed to a stop and turned off the ignition.
Slade waited for the men to exit the ATV. Wyatt swung out first. He was tall with a body tempered like steel from hard work. In his younger days Slade could have given the younger man a run for his money, but now he counted himself lucky just to be in decent physical condition. Tex, nicknamed after his home state, piled out next. A wiry old fellow in a faded red shirt and dusty Levi’s, he carried the first aid case and a roll of vet wrap. Wyatt’s younger brother, Kennedy, also a blond, emerged last, one of his cheeks bulging with what Slade guessed was food, his arms cradling a bundle of blankets that Slade suspected had been filched from the trunk at the foot of his bed. It seemed to Slade that Kennedy’s main occupation in life was eating. When it was the eighteen-year-old’s day to cook, more grub went into his mouth than ever reached a platter.
Wyatt, who appeared to walk slowly with a well-oiled shift of his hips, covered ground faster than the other two men. A talker only when necessary, he merely arched an eyebrow in question when he stopped in front of Slade.
Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, Slade said, “He’s over there. I moved off a ways to give him some space.”
Tex and Kennedy arrived just then and flanked Wyatt. They looked like two mismatched bookends, Tex measuring in at just over five feet, Kennedy lofty and muscular like Wyatt. The youth’s larynx bobbed as he swallowed. The smell of cheese-flavored Doritos drifted to Slade’s nostrils.
“How d’ya know that cub’s a he?” Tex asked. Half the time the old fart pretended to be senile, but he was sharp as a scythe. He’d obviously caught every word Slade had just said even from a distance. “Kinda hard to tell without lookin’, ain’t it?”
“Can’t see that it matters,” Slade replied. “He looks like a boy to me. I could be wrong.”
“It matters,” Tex insisted. “Girls ain’t as feisty.”
The cub screamed just then. Everyone but Wyatt flinched.
Slade said, “Tell that to a sow with her dander up, Tex.”
“Point taken.” Tex, who always wore a green baseball cap to cover his bald head, spit tobacco juice, narrowly missing Bogey’s hoof. “And speakin’ of which, are we gonna do somethin’ damn fool stupid, like try to save that cub? Its mama hears all the racket it’s makin’. She’s probably off in the woods watchin’. She’ll shred us up like party paper if we get too close.”
“Confetti,” Slade corrected. “And no worries about the mother. She’s dead, half-buried in an avalanche farther up the trail.” Slade made sure he faced Wyatt as he repeated that and then continued talking. “Her cub probably won’t survive without her, but I couldn’t bring myself to shoot him. If we can free his foot and doctor him as best we can, at least he’ll have a fighting chance.”
Wyatt nodded. “If the weather stays warm, he might make it.” He enunciated each syllable carefully and paused for an instant between words. Three years ago when Wyatt had first hired on at the ranch, his speech had bugged Slade, but he’d grown accustomed to it now. The foreman pursed his lips. “He may not know what to eat. It depends on how long he’s been foraging with his mother.”
Tex elbowed Wyatt to get his attention. “He ain’t got no chewin’ teeth yet. They don’t cut ’em ’til later in the spring. And just so you know, cubs may snack with their mamas all summer, but they nurse straight into autumn until they go back to the den. Even with a belly full of forage, that cub will still need his mama’s milk.”
Wyatt’s blond eyebrows snapped together in a scowl. “What’s your point, Tex?”
“That rescuing him from a trap is a harebrained idea,” Tex retorted. “With his mama gone, he’s as good as dead anyhow.”
“But he isn’t dead yet!” Kennedy protested. “At least we can give him a chance. I know I’d want one.”
“We need to put a bullet between his eyes,” Tex grumped. “It’s the only kind thing to do.”
“My rifle’s in the boot,” Slade replied. “I couldn’t do it. I’ll leave the dirty work to you, Tex.”
“Dad-blame-it!” Tex kicked the dirt with the toe of his riding boot. “You know I can’t shoot a baby.”
“So who’s going to shoot it, then?” Slade asked.
Silence swooped down over the men. Slade let that do the talking. Then he led the way to the cub. As they drew closer, the cries of terror and pain from the small animal intensified. Slade stopped about twenty feet away. The pathetic mewling of the baby made his throat tighten. He looked more closely at the trap, and anger surged within him. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”
“What?” Kennedy asked. “Do you see his mother?”
Slade worked his throat to swallow. “No.” He turned to make sure Wyatt could read his lips. “That trap has teeth. I didn’t get close enough to notice that earlier.”
“Teeth?” Wyatt repeated. His blue eyes flared with outrage. “Those are against the law. They don’t even make them in this country anymore.”
“No, they don’t,” Slade confirmed, “but that doesn’t mean people don’t still have them. You can pick them up in antique stores.”
Wyatt’s jaw muscle rippled. “I’ll shove it down that trapper’s throat once I get it off that cub.”
Slade shook his head. “You’ll never find him. No legitimate trapper would risk his license by using an illegal device.”
Kennedy, who had apparently seen pictures of traps with teeth, turned as white as a motel room towel. “Why would anybody do something so cruel?”
“For the fun of it. Maybe hoping to get a dog or a deer.” Slade made fists and slowly relaxed his hands. “There are sick people in the world, son.” He met and held Wyatt’s gaze. “You have a way with animals that I lack. Never thought I’d say that, but it’s true. I hope you have a plan, because I sure as hell don’t.”
Wyatt turned to study the frantic cub. He didn’t move for so long that Slade almost nudged his shoulder. The cub needed help now, not sometime next week.
“He’s terrified of us,” the foreman said. “The less he sees of us, the better. Kennedy, go with Tex. Use the trees for cover and circle around. Stay close, because I’ll need you both. Make sure you’ve got the first aid kit and vet wrap with you, Tex. Stand ready.” Wyatt swept off his hat and tossed it on the ground. Then he turned and grabbed a Pendleton blanket from the stack in his brother’s arms. “Get going, both of you. Be as quiet as possible.”
Kennedy and Tex left with a shuffle of feet, circling away from the cub before they turned back into the trees. Wyatt pivoted to face Slade. “I need you to walk right behind me. I mean almost at my heels, and don’t talk unless you have to.”
Slade rarely talked unless he had to. It was a waste of breath.
Wyatt unfolded the blanket and gave it a snap. Then, still gripping the wool, he turned toward the cub, stretched his arms out to his sides, and lifted the upper edge of the cover to just below his eyes.
“That’s your plan?” Slade asked. “To hide behind a blanket? Shit. It’ll only make you look bigger and scare him more.”
Wyatt didn’t argue the point, which gave Slade pause. Then he realized the foreman hadn’t heard a word he said. He sometimes forgot about Wyatt’s deafness. That was easy to do, because Wyatt compensated for his hearing loss so well. He spoke differently, but then so did Tex, and Slade probably did, too, at times.
Slade fell in behind the younger man. They moved toward the cub as slowly as snails, and with every step, Slade wanted to say, This is ridiculous. But he just thought it instead. Without warning, Wyatt stopped, Slade didn’t, and their bodies bumped together. Then, with a thrust of his arms, Wyatt threw the blanket. It caught air. The tiny cub, no longer lunging against the chain, stared up at it as if the sky had just busted loose from heaven and was about to fall on him. Innocence, Slade thought. Babies were born possessing it, and then brutal reality robbed them of it.
The broad expanse of wool landed on the tiny bear like a deflated parachute silk. During that one instant of stillness while the cub tried to figure out what had happened, Wyatt sprinted forward and made a tackle dive, landing on his belly and wrapping his arms around the wriggling lump under the wool. Moving with the same impressive speed that he exhibited during branding season, the foreman wound the blanket around the baby and then held him fast to the ground.
“Boss, come get his foot out!” he ordered. “Tex, Kennedy— now! ”
Slade jumped in without hesitation. Through the thick weave, he groped to find the trap. When he located it, he lifted that section of blanket so he could see to open the jaws. Only he saw no levers. “Damn it!”
The other two men ran up.
“Kennedy!” Wyatt yelled. “Grab his trapped leg! Hold it as still as you can!”
The youth knelt beside Slade and got a firm hold on the baby’s spindly appendage. Slade had never used traps, but until that moment, he’d believed he at least knew how they worked. The new leghold traps had a tab at each side of the jaws that released the hinges with simultaneous pressure, but this old contraption had nothing. Slade knew there had to be a release mechanism, but he didn’t have time to search for it. “Hold on tight, Kennedy. I have to pry it open.”
That proved to be harder than Slade thought. The cub mewled and struggled, wiggling so much that Slade couldn’t get a good grip on the steel jaws. A prong pricked his finger, and pain shot to his wrist.
“Get ready, Tex. The second I get this off, you’ll have to doctor the foot as fast as you can.”
Tex dropped to his knees and opened the white case. Slade cut another finger. Blood smeared his hands, some of it his own, some the bear’s. Finally the trap gave way. The cub shrieked with the release of pressure. The awful sound rang in Slade’s ears and crawled like cold fingers down his spine.
“Help me hold him!” Kennedy cried.
Slade dropped the trap and grabbed for the baby’s leg. Wyatt readjusted the blanket to keep the bear from scrambling free. Tex captured the injured foot. “God help us. One of his toes is cut almost off.”
“Remove it,” Wyatt ordered. “Quick and clean. Hurry, Tex. I’m losing my hold on him.”
Tex, who’d once worked with horses at a Kentucky racetrack, jerked out his pocketknife, sterilized it, and did as he was told. Then he grabbed a squeeze bottle and squirted antiseptic into the open wounds to clean them.
“Hurry,” Wyatt said again. “Wrap it up to stop the bleeding.”
“Just hold fast.” Tex grabbed a bottle of something else and dribbled the creamy contents over the cub’s foot. “Numbin’ agent. It’ll take the edge off.” He pressed a large gauze pad around the foot and then grabbed the vet wrap, sticky and stretchy bandaging used on horses that normally held fast to an animal’s leg for at least a couple of days. He finished by cutting the material and tucking the end under a fold. “There!” he said. “Turn him loose and get back. Those little claws are razor sharp.”
Wyatt released his hold on the wriggling lump. The cub hobbled around under the wool, unable to find his way out. Kennedy surged forward to grab a corner of the blanket and flip it off the tiny animal. When the cub glimpsed daylight again, he tried to run and tumbled head over heels into a bush. Then he wheeled around to face them. Slade couldn’t help but admire his spunk. He was so tiny that his mama could have still carried him in her mouth, but he was ready to fight for his life.
“He’s pretty as a gold nugget,” Tex observed.
“He’s the cutest thing I’ve ever clapped eyes on,” Slade agreed. “You think he’ll ever grow into those ears?”
Wyatt, who’d sprung gingerly to his feet, spoke directly to the cub, which had shrunk back against the foliage. “Remember what your mother ate, little bear, and go home to the den at night so you can stay warm.”
Slade hated to think of all that the cub might face. “We’ve done all we can,” he said, mostly to comfort himself. “It’s time we get out of here so the poor little guy can recover from the fright and get his bearings.”
“I’ve never seen a yellar black bear,” Tex said. “He’s gonna be a sight to see when he grows up. I like them dark markin’s on his back and face.”
“Yes, he’ll be gorgeous,” Slade agreed. “If he makes it.”
Kennedy stared solemnly at the baby. “He’s so itty-bitty. Why can’t we give him puppy formula or something?”
Gaze fixed on his brother, Wyatt said, “It is illegal to feed black bears, Kennedy.”
Kennedy gave Wyatt an imploring look. “But he might die.”
“I know, but it isn’t for us to decide what’s best,” Wyatt replied. “If he survives, he’ll grow huge. He could weigh two hundred and fifty pounds, possibly more. And if he’s been fed by humans, he won’t be afraid of them when he’s hungry. That would be big trouble for him and dangerous for people.”
Kennedy sighed. “It just seems so wrong to leave him out here with nothing to eat.”
Slade agreed. “I’ll call ODF and W,” he said. “Maybe they’ll come get him and take him to a shelter.”
“But even if they decide to help, he’ll be long gone by the time anyone gets here!” Kennedy argued. “And how the fuck will they catch him?”
“Watch your mouth,” Wyatt said. “You know how Mom feels about language like that.”
“Everybody my age says it!” Kennedy argued. “Hell, Wyatt! Everyone your age says it, too.”
Wyatt grinned. “I have never heard a single person my age say that word.”
Kennedy rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”
The cub bleated and limped away into the underbrush. All of them watched until he vanished.
“If he lives, we’ll recognize his tracks if he ever comes on the ranch,” Kennedy observed. “He only has four toes on his right front foot.”
“There’s a good name for him, Four Toes,” Tex said. Then he whacked at the dust on his jeans and added, “I guess that’s it, then. We done our good deed for the day. I got a nice wrap on the foot. He lost some blood, but he ain’t gonna die from that.”
Slade wondered if it wouldn’t have been kinder to shoot the cub, but he kept the thought to himself. It had been his decision to call Wyatt for help. At the time it had seemed like the only thing to do. Now, what was done was done, and there was no point in second-guessing himself.
“You boys go ahead and take off,” he said. “I’ll be slower getting back down the mountain on horseback.”
Wyatt shook out the blanket, refolded it, and fetched his hat. “See you there, boss.”
•••
Slade got back to the ranch by four in the afternoon. Kennedy unsaddled Bogey and promised to rub him down so Slade could call the Department of Fish and Wildlife before the offices closed. Slade walked away, thinking that the boy was starting to come around, no longer acting sullen all the time and griping when he had to work. After sitting on the porch steps, Slade placed the call on his cell phone. He got straight through to a man named Wilson, which he took as a good sign, but things went downhill from there.
Wilson listened to the story and said Slade couldn’t be sure that the cub he found belonged to the sow killed in the avalanche. Slade hadn’t seen the blond cub with the sow prior to the rockslide, and the baby in the trap was nearly a mile from the accident site.
“I searched the area around the avalanche,” Slade said again. “My dog’s got a good nose. There were no cubs anywhere near the carcass.”
“I understand your frustration,” the man said.
“No, I don’t think you do. I’m no stranger to bears. I’m certain it’s orphaned. It’s injured and too young to survive on its own.”
“I know you believe that, sir, and I commend you for helping the cub and treating its wounds. Normally I would advise against that, but it sounds as if your man did a great job. A trap with teeth would have done a lot more damage by the time we got someone out there.”
“It did enough damage as it was.”
“I’m sure it was awful,” Wilson commiserated. “And now you have a vested interest in the cub’s survival. You have to see our side of this, though. People rescue newborn animals from the wild all the time when it isn’t necessary. And just because you didn’t see the mother doesn’t mean she’s dead or not in the vicinity.”
“The mother is buried under a pile of rocks,” Slade said flatly. “I saw her. I looked for cubs. I found none. The only cub in the area was the blond one.”
“You don’t know that for a fact. Black bear sows will share their territory with other female bears, especially daughters. They don’t hang out together, but they encounter each other. It’s possible for two sows with cubs to be in the same area, and it would be tragic if we took a cub away from its mother. Black bear rescue shelters have made great strides in releasing orphaned cubs back into the wild, but the attempts aren’t always successful, and the failures end sadly. The cubs either die or are returned to a shelter. If possible they’re then placed in zoos or wildlife observatories. If not, they remain in shelters for the rest of their lives. Do you think that makes for happy bears?”
Slade rested the back of his head against the porch post and closed his eyes. The punctured tips of his fingers still ached, which made him wonder how badly the cub’s foot must hurt. “Ideally all bears would live in their natural habitat. But looking at the flip side, bears don’t have it so bad in zoos, and their presence educates children and adults about their species.”
“Zoos and observatories are fabulous alternatives, but there are twenty-five to thirty thousand black bears in Oregon alone, Mr. Wilder. How many rescue facilities do you think there are in the continental United States?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
Wilson sighed. “I don’t know the exact number, but I do know there are black bears presently in custody that haven’t found homes yet, and their numbers continue to grow.”
Slade could see where this was going. Four Toes wasn’t going to be rescued, and nothing he said would change that. He wished he had seen the baby with its mother prior to her death, but he hadn’t, and he couldn’t blame the state for refusing to remove a cub from its natural environment without absolute proof it was necessary.
By the end of the conversation, Slade believed Wilson was a good man who had a very difficult job. Feeling heavy of heart, he wasn’t happy to see Kennedy, blond hair ruffled by the breeze, walking from the stable to the house. He knew the kid was hoping to hear good news.
“What did they say about Four Toes?” Kennedy asked when he was still twenty feet from where Slade sat. “Are they going to rescue him?”
Wishing he were a gifted liar, Slade found himself searching for a way to sugarcoat the facts. Only that wasn’t possible, so he gave it to Kennedy straight, and the kid walked away with slumped shoulders. After a few minutes Slade followed him. There were evening chores to be done, and sitting around feeling frustrated would accomplish nothing.
Two hours later as Slade forked hay over a back pasture fence into feeding troughs for his horses, he caught a flash of gold at the edge of the woods. He froze with the handle of the pitchfork gripped so tightly in his hands that his knuckles ached. The cub. The ranch proper was bordered by fenced pastures that stretched on all sides to the surrounding forestland. About a half mile into the trees, Slade’s land merged with state or federal holdings. How in the hell had that baby found its way through all that rugged terrain to reach the ranch?
Pistol, always Slade’s companion, growled low in his throat. Slade let go of the pitchfork to fondle the canine’s silken ears, which stood up halfway and then curled over. “Don’t be a tough guy, Pistol. He’s only a baby.”
The cub mewled. It was probably the way he would call to his mama, only she wasn’t around. Only Slade could hear him.
“Damn it, Four Toes, don’t do this to me,” Slade murmured. The heart-wrenching sounds that drifted through the twilight rang with urgency. “Go away.”
Slade nearly parted company with his skin when Wyatt spoke from behind him. “He’s been out there a couple of hours, boss. He must have followed you back.”
Slade turned to meet Wyatt’s gaze. “Why would he do that?”
Slade’s question went unanswered for a long moment. Then Wyatt stepped forward to rest his arms on the top fence rail. The green background of a forested hillside contrasted vividly with his blue eyes and blond hair, which wisped over his collar in the evening breeze. He kept his gaze trained on Slade’s face. “We all helped him, but you were the last to leave. He probably watched you from a hiding place.”
“He was terrified of us.”
“Maybe we seem less scary to him than being out there alone.” Wyatt shrugged, the flex of his shoulder muscles visible through his shirt. “I don’t have answers, boss. All I can say for sure is that he’s here. He’s little, hurt, all alone, and hungry. Do you really think it’s so strange that he sees us as his only hope?”
“Don’t say that.”
“Whether I say it or not, it’s the only explanation.” Wyatt shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Kennedy told me what the state guy said. The man had some good points. You couldn’t be sure Four Toes was the dead sow’s cub. Not then, anyway. Now it’s a different story. If Four Toes had a mama out there, he wouldn’t be here.”
Sometimes Slade didn’t like to have another man studying his face. His feelings were private, and he was afraid his expressions might reveal too much. He broke eye contact with Wyatt and stared across the field.
“I didn’t come out here to push you into doing something you feel is wrong,” Wyatt went on. “I just want you to know I’ll support you in any decision you make.”
“That’s a comfort.”
“What?”
Slade released a rush of breath and turned so Wyatt could read his lips again. “I said you’re a pain in the ass.”
A grin slanted over the younger man’s mouth. “You’re going to help him. Aren’t you?”
“If I don’t, he’ll just come closer and keep me up all night. Sounds like he’s saying, ‘huh, huh, huh?’ So innocent, so bewildered. Makes me want to cuddle him up and rock him to sleep. He’s such a cute little guy. In pain. Probably scared. Definitely hungry. It’d take a harder man than me to ignore him.”
“You could wear earplugs. Now that we know for sure his mother’s dead, you can call the state again in the morning.”
Slade shook his head. “I still have no actual proof that he’s orphaned. It’ll be the same answer tomorrow as it was today, and for good reason. The state has to draw the line somewhere.”
Wyatt sighed. “If you don’t feed him, I’ll have to. Otherwise Kennedy will, and with him on probation, I can’t let him get in trouble again. I promised my folks.”
Slade held up a hand. “I clean up my own messes. I just don’t know what to feed him.”
Wyatt smiled. “I found a recipe online for cub formula at a black bear rescue site. Kennedy drove to town to get all the stuff.”
Slade shook his head and chuckled. “How did you know I’d decide to feed him?”
Wyatt lifted his shoulders again. “I didn’t. Like I said, if you don’t, I’ll have to. If my brother breaks the law, any law right now, and gets caught, he’ll go to prison for ten years.”
“We won’t get caught, not way out here.” Slade rubbed the back of his neck. “Not now, anyway. Three years from now maybe, but Kennedy’s probation will have ended by then, and I’ll never say he had anything to do with it.”
With a frown Wyatt asked, “What will happen in three years?”
Slade peered through the gloom that heralded nightfall. “That bear out there will be a big boy by then, and he might lumber into town to take a nap on someone’s porch.”