It is a horrible, cruel thought, a primal terror that lasts only a second before I feel the reassuring weight of the gun in my hands. My mind taps images of my bear spray and knife, tiny pats of reassurance. I am fully armed. So is Dalton. As for Storm, she has seen what we do, and thank God, she does not leap at the beast. Does not even growl. She just slips forward enough so her head brushes my leg. She recognizes that we are not in danger. Just this other man. This stranger.
As the man’s companions shout instructions, Dalton says, “Shut the fuck up.”
He doesn’t yell it. The words still reverberate through the clearing. The only one who doesn’t turn our way is the bear itself. To it, Dalton is just more noise.
“Everyone, just shut the fuck up and stay calm,” Dalton says. “You’re only pissing it off, and it already seems plenty—”
A growl sounds, and Dalton’s head snaps up. That growl doesn’t come from Storm. It doesn’t come from the grizzly. It comes from behind the man … and I follow it to see a second bear. A juvenile, probably a yearling, already bigger than Storm.
With that we see the problem. The very big problem.
Last summer, I came between a black bear and her cub. That’d given everyone near heart failure, but we’d avoided bloodshed by getting that cub back to its mother. Also, black bears are only modestly protective of their cubs around humans. Grizzlies are a whole other situation.
The settler found himself between the two, and before he could rectify that, the mother reacted. It’s pure luck that she hasn’t attacked already, maybe because her cub isn’t a baby. She’s ready to do it, though. Just waiting for this settler to give her an excuse. Which means he can’t go for a weapon, can’t step aside, can’t do anything except wait for her next move.
“Fucking settlers,” Dalton mutters, loud enough for them to hear. “You’re as bad as our residents, and at least they have the excuse that we don’t let them into the forest. Hell, even most of them know you don’t shout and wave your arms at a grizzly. That’s for black bears, who might actually be intimidated. Does she look intimidated?”
“Eric?” I murmur. “Maybe this isn’t the time for the bear-aware lecture?”
His grunt says it’s never not the time to teach idiots how to behave in the wild. I glance at the mother grizzly. She’s fixed in place, huffing and popping her jaw. Signs of stress. She’s aware that her baby isn’t in immediate danger, but it isn’t safe either.
“She’s in a holding pattern,” he says. “Hasn’t made up her mind yet, and you’re damned lucky there.”
“I don’t think he feels lucky right now,” I whisper, my gaze shifting to the poor man, who doesn’t dare even open his mouth to respond.
“Well, he is, especially with all that racket these other morons were making.”
I look at the other two men. One is twenty, dark-haired and bearded. It’s Felicity’s friend, and it takes me a moment to name him. Angus. He?
?s holding a hunting knife. The third man is older, maybe in his late forties. He looks similar enough to Angus for me to suspect this is his father. He holds a hunting rifle aimed at the bear. It’s a .308—I don’t need to look closer to know that. Edwin’s settlement only has .308s, so their guns will all use the same ammo.
“We were trying to distract her,” Angus says.
“Moses is between the mother and her cub,” the third man says. “We hoped that by getting her attention, he’d have a chance to move.”
Dalton grunts, granting them a point. “Could work. Could also just piss her off. Please tell me he has a weapon on him.”
“No,” the third man says. “He put down his bow and pack, and his knife is in that.”
“Fuck.”
“You have a gun,” Angus says. “Shoot her.”
“Yeah, you get a look at that baby bear? Not such a baby. If I shoot his momma, he’ll attack. Also? This isn’t a guaranteed grizzly-killing gun. I’d need to hit her just right.”
“Then maybe you should have a bigger gun.”
“I should say the same to you.” Dalton nods toward the rifle.
While it might make sense to carry bigger-caliber guns for just this situation, that would mean lugging around a larger gun everywhere we went on the very off chance we’d need it.
Anders actually does carry a .45, which would do the job. He’s terrified of a grizzly encounter. Yet in his four years in Rockton, he’s only seen two and didn’t come within a hundred feet of either. For him, the gun is comfort and reassurance. For us, it’d be dead weight.
“Should I take out the spray?” I ask.
I’ve used bear spray against smaller predators. Getting it, however, means holstering my gun.
Dalton considers and then shakes his head. “Same problem. Maybe even worse. Spray Momma Bear, and she’ll start screaming, and that’ll set off Junior. Shooting would be better.” He pauses. “For us, at least.”