THE FERAL STRUT

Chapter 57

She was standing, naked, in a washtub pouring water over her head when Gris let out a high-pitched snarl, like nothing she'd ever heard. She set the pitcher down and grabbed for a towel, just as the bear's head rose in the window, a bit more than an armslength away, catching the lamplight like a harvest moon.

They both started. The bear ducked.

She wrapped the towel around herself. Gris was immobile, except for the quivering of his muzzle, from which that uncannily high growl issued, along with a string of drool.

Then the bear's face rose again. It filled half the windowpane. Each ear was the size of a furry teacup, and the nose, nervously questing, was as big as the palm of her hand.

Then it disappeared. She dashed to the bedroom and struggled into her jeans and a sweatshirt. Then she grabbed the big Mag-Lite, a six-battery model like the cops used: a gift from Slim. He'd wanted to send up his dad's Browning 12-gauge pump, in case the mad bomber showed up, but she'd told him she hated guns.

Idiot, she thought.

She turned back to the kitchen and tripped over Gris, staggering into a fall that pitched her into the back of a chair—ka-bang. The flashlight rolled across the floor and hit the wall. Outside the bear woofed, a low, gruff, irritated sound.

Gris responded with a frenzied bark and flung himself at the door. The bear woofed again and she grabbed her dog and smacked him. Hard. He yelped.

"Shut up, damn you." She imagined the bear charging over to break down the door with a single swipe. There was a tremendous whang, metallic, and she retrieved the flashlight, then blew out the lamp.

She looked out the window and couldn't see shit. So she switched on the light. The bear was rolling the trashcan, one of those massive welded and riveted Forest Service models, around the yard, banking it into pines. It was empty. She'd been putting her trash in a big steel toolbox in the little barn. As if reading her thoughts, the bear left the can and sidled over to the side door of the barn, first prying with claws and then shoving a shoulder against it, that tore the latch out of the frame.

It disappeared inside. From inside came a sound like a ruined bell: it was going after the steel box. She'd slipped a half-inch bolt through the hasp, and spun a big nut on. She didn't think the bear could get through that.

Then she remembered the grain bin. There hadn't been horses kept at Elf Creek for years, but there was still some old grain in a wooden bin, that was lined with sheet metal. Right on cue, she heard wood splintering and the shriek of nails drawn from their rust-darkened holes, amplified by thin sheets of steel.

The bear must be hungry, to go to all that trouble for stale old horse feed. She shut off the light.

Okay— what now, she thought?

The radio. This early in the season, they didn't have a fire dispatcher on duty at night, but the Sheriff's dispatcher was listening to the Forest frequency.

"Teton County Dispatch, Elf Creek, Browne."

"Teton County— we copy, Browne. What is your ten-twenty?

"Elf Creek Guard Station."

"Ten-four. Do you have a street address?"

"What? No. It's off the Granite Creek Road, which is east of Highway One Eighty-Nine, Ninety-One, about ten miles southeast of Hoback Junction."

"Ten-four, please stand by while we establish your location."

And the bear knocks down the door and kills me, she thought.

"Dispatch, Browne."

"Brown, this is Teton County. Ten-six. Could you please stand by?"

Idiot! Slim is gonna hear about this, she thought.

She waited, waited, staring at the red light on the top of the radio. She could hear the bear dismantling the grain bin. Gris was leaning on her and whining into her face. The bath hadn't done a lot for his breath.

"Lie down." She cupped a hand on his neck and forced him to the floor.

Enough of this shit.

"Dispatch, Browne."

"Dispatch, Browne."

"Brown, this is Teton County. We have a ten-fifty and emergency traffic on another band, please stand by."

Dammit. "Copy. Holy Virgin clear."

What was a ten-fifty? Airliner crashing into the Tetons? There was supposed to be a list of ten codes in the bag with the radio, but it wasn't there.

She realized the racket outside had stopped.

She waited, waited.

Then she stood up and peered out the window, then switched on the light. The beam swept the bare dirt and pines, and printed a bright oval on the barn. No bear.

She switched off the light and waited. Gris was panting.

She went to the bedroom and got into her outdoor clothes, with down vest and wool cap. Cold outside. If the bear came in the back door, she'd go out the front, like a shot. She didn't think it would fit through the windows. Then what?

The truck. She got the keys off the nail by the door and put them in her vest pocket. Gris would follow her and hop in. Right. She could probably get it started and haul ass before the bear could get in. What if it jumped into the back?

The image— of her and Gris charging down the Elf Creek Road with a pissed-off grizzly in the bed of the truck— made her giggle. Gris stuck his raggedy snout in her face and licked her cheek. Charnel breath.

That made her laugh out loud. She leapt up, gasping, tears springing up.

"Stop, Omigod. Stop it."

Hysterical, she thought. Take deep breaths.

"Browne, this is Teton County Dispatch."

She went to the radio, trying to steady her breathing.

"Dispatch, Browne."

"What is your message, Browne?"

"Uhh. Grizzly bear sighted at Elf Creek Guard Station. Could you let the Game & Fish know?"

"Ten-four. Is morning soon enough?"

"I guess so. The bear's gone."

"Ten-one. You're breaking up."

"That's affirmative, Dispatch."

"Copy. Thank you. Teton County clear."