By Lincoln Reed
Hayden DuPont peeled away the bear’s gut and poked his head into the morning air. Mushy fur sagged as Montana wind sliced through the beast’s opening. Intestines and fluids dripped. DuPont’s breath plumed. Relief flooded his chest.
Alive.
Naked and caked in dried blood, he crawled from the bear’s protective womb and toddled toward a gurgling stream where he crashed to his knees and plunged numb fingers, gray with frostbite, into crisp water. DuPont scooped small handfuls, slurped, and grimaced as the chilled liquid swished down his dry throat. He tested dead skin at the ridge of his nose. His watery reflection’s blueish hue told the worst. He exhaled into the embrace of wilderness peaks layered in snow like the white icing of his wife’s wedding cake. Wind whistled in the tenor and cadence of his son striding toward a pond with a fishing pole over his shoulder.
DuPont returned to the campsite where the corpses of his dead companions stiffened next to their scattered gear. He dressed, pulled his buffalo jacket tight, and spent the next hour working to start a fire. Wind smothered each promising spark. As the hours dwindled toward dusk, DuPont’s frostbitten fingers worsened. He struggled to grip his Bowie knife but managed to cut away meat from the dead bear. He chewed, swallowed, and heaved.
He caught his breath and thought of his wife and son. Starvation might speed his release, but it was man’s duty to rage against death, to keep the eternal flame alight.
As he prepared to take another bite, a howl resonated. Two wails responded.
The former Confederate shuffled toward his Henry rifle. He weighed it in his hands and studied its chamber. Empty.
In a frantic burst of energy, DuPont rummaged through the camp. The howls returned, closer now. When he managed to find ammunition, the act of picking up small objects proved too difficult. Each bullet slipped through his useless fingers. He cursed and tossed the gun aside.
When he looked up, five wolves appeared at the tree line, menacing frames adorned with gray fur. The largest of the pack advanced, its ravenous stare challenging DuPont. It wanted the bear. He had seen this appetite before when guarding Union prisoners during the war—an unquenchable spirit that simmered within those who straddled the edge of death.
A guttural growl arose in the wolf’s throat.
DuPont again reached for the Bowie knife. It dropped from his grasp as the wolf crept forward with ears peeled back.
The predator sprang. Jaws snapped.
A gunshot reverberated.
The wolf reeled and crumpled.
Roland Chadwick, Deputy U.S. Marshal, entered the clearing and fired off two more shots at the pack of wolves. With their leader fallen and a stranger encroaching, the pack retreated, their sharp yaps decaying into the bitter silence of unending timber.
Bundled with hefty furs and garbed for winter travel, Chadwick pivoted the rifle side to side until convinced the wolves had gone. Next, he approached the target of his search.
Anger chiseled DuPont’s bloodied face. Chadwick glanced at the state of the outlaw’s hands. No one would have blamed him if he took the rifle and shot DuPont between the eyes. It would have been justified. DuPont was a wanted fugitive, a murderer, and a thief. However, seeing the once-proud scoundrel in this sad state, Chadwick took pity.
He studied the campsite’s scattered pans, torn canvas, and blemished snow. The carnage told a tale. Stirred from its sleep with ravenous hunger, a winter bear had invaded their camp like a demon. The grizzly mauled DuPont’s gang, its claws snapping spines and gashing throats. The corpses of the men were mute testimony to the bear’s spree and its fall: it had killed, but it had not feasted. Its own corpse, wrenched open and smelling of decay, spoke of a man looking to his last refuge from the cold.
“Afternoon, Hayden.” The deputy marshal reloaded his rifle, set it aside, and pointed toward the lifeless campfire. “May I?”
DuPont glared as Chadwick gestured at the dead bear. “Bad omen, winter grizzly.”
Chadwick ignited a fire and soon an orange hue hugged the darkness dwelling beneath the thick mass of pine. DuPont huddled closer to the fire as Chadwick cut away meat from the grizzly and cooked it. The scent of charred dinner jolted the marshal’s tired bones. During the manhunt for DuPont, he hadn’t eaten in days. Even so, he offered the first portion to the outlaw.
DuPont drew back his lips in a grimace. Chadwick shrugged and tore a bite with his teeth. “Funny taste, you marinating it and all. But pickings are slim. And I’m not one to complain.”
Chadwick once more extended the meat toward DuPont. This time, the man accepted, holding the meal between his forearms as he ate.
Chadwick tossed another log on the fire. “You believe in Providence?”
DuPont grunted.
“See, when I was prisoner in Andersonville, you Rebs gave little food,” Chadwick said. “Thousands of us Union men, all starving. Would have killed for a scrap of bread.”
“You say’n God wants you to kill me?”
Chadwick grasped DuPont’s Bowie and cleaned it. “I think He wants peace on earth. With you locked up, I reckon He’d be one step closer.”
“What I done, God can’t forgive.” The outlaw’s hoarse whisper settled into a cough. He wheezed, nodding toward the landscape of everlasting sky, where stars sparkled beyond campfire smoke and mountains towered in primeval glory. “The closest I’ll ever get to heaven, nearest I’ll be to my wife and son.”
Chadwick swallowed his final bite of meat. The outlaw wouldn’t survive the journey back to a jail, and the marshal’s ammunition stores had run low.
DuPont coughed once more. “The eternal flame. That’s Providence. Keeps us men alive, killing each other. When I die, it’ll just infect you… maybe another. You’ll never put it out.”
“That may be true.” Chadwick readied the Bowie knife. “But I’ll leave that to Providence.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
We are neither all good nor all evil. I really like your Chadwick stories!
Great story, brilliantly detailed. Wow.
*shudders a bit*
The detail on the bear insides… ICK!!
XD
Well-done!
Wow. Intense, sad, and thought-provoking…