Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Page B
Authors: Louis L’Amour
Tags: Usenet
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saw Joe Mack. With a roar, it started for him. He let go his third arrow as the bear leaped over a log. For an instant the bear’s throat had been clearly visible, and this time his aim was good, but the bear kept coming.
Wheeling, he grabbed a limb and hoisted himself up. The bear lunged against the tree, his long claws raking Joe Mack’s leg, ripping his pants and pulling the moccasin from his foot.
Joe Mack climbed higher and then looked down. The bear was clawing at the tree, breaking the lower dead branches in a fury to reach him. Joe Mack notched another arrow, and as the bear started to climb, he shot the arrow down the wide red maw into the bear’s throat.
Its shoulders were already covered with blood from the previous wound, but it clawed after him, shaking the tree until Joe Mack was hanging on desperately. Choking, the bear tried to climb. Joe Mack prepared another arrow but lost it when he had to grab wildly at the tree to keep from being shaken loose.
He clung to the tree, getting a good grip on a higher branch and pulling himself up.
The bear’s efforts seemed to weaken. It dropped back on its haunches and then reared again as Joe Mack moved.
Then it fell back, struggled to rise, and finally lay still. Joe Mack waited, watching. At last, very carefully, he crawled down the tree. He poked at the bear with the end of his bow. There was no reaction.
First he retrieved the dropped arrow and then the one buried in the bear’s side. Arrows were hard to come by and would be needed. Then he looked carefully around.
The land about was bleak and harsh. A small stream raced among the rocks nearby, a little ice along its fringes. The pines were ragged and storm torn, growing sometimes from the naked rock.
From under straggling birches he gathered dry sticks and built a small fire, concealed by the trees around. Then he went to work on the carcass of the bear.
It was a long, tiresome job, and his strength was not what it had been. He peeled back the hide and began gathering the fat, taking the best cuts of meat. Over the fire he roasted some, eating it as he worked.
What he would have given for a good cup of coffee!
A cold sun was disappearing behind an icy ridge. The wind crept down the canyon and prowled among the trees, finding leaves to rustle and branches to rattle in the cold. Joe Mack worked on into the night, warming his cold hands by the fire, building a rack on which to dry meat and smoke it. Clearing a flat place he staked out the great hide and began to scrape it clean of fat and fragments of meat.
Out in the night, a wolf howled. From somewhere further off, another replied. They smelled the bear’s fresh blood, and they would be coming. He stood his bow and his arrows close at hand. Firelight flickered on the pines and the stark, bare branches of the birch. He warmed his cold fingers. Would he ever be warm again?
He built his fire up, and when it had burned down he moved the ashes and lay down upon the warm earth. Then he slept a little, awakening in an icy dawn. The water of the creek was so cold it made his teeth ache, but he drank and drank again.
The wolves were not gone. He glimpsed them from time to time, swift gray shadows among the trees, waiting for what they knew would be theirs. “I will leave some,” he said.
Later, standing beside the bear’s skull, he rested a hand upon it. “I beg your pardon, Bear. It was with no anger that I killed you. I needed your meat. I needed the fat from your ribs.”
He roasted more meat and ate it, and ate great pieces of the fat. This he would need to survive.
At last he began gathering what he could carry of the meat, packing away what he had smoked and dried. He worked on the hide and finally gathered it up to carry along. It would be heavy, but now he could be warm, warm.
On the third day he went away, leaving the bear’s head in a fork on the tree, and the carcass for the wolves. He walked away between the raw-backed ridges that gnawed
Wheeling, he grabbed a limb and hoisted himself up. The bear lunged against the tree, his long claws raking Joe Mack’s leg, ripping his pants and pulling the moccasin from his foot.
Joe Mack climbed higher and then looked down. The bear was clawing at the tree, breaking the lower dead branches in a fury to reach him. Joe Mack notched another arrow, and as the bear started to climb, he shot the arrow down the wide red maw into the bear’s throat.
Its shoulders were already covered with blood from the previous wound, but it clawed after him, shaking the tree until Joe Mack was hanging on desperately. Choking, the bear tried to climb. Joe Mack prepared another arrow but lost it when he had to grab wildly at the tree to keep from being shaken loose.
He clung to the tree, getting a good grip on a higher branch and pulling himself up.
The bear’s efforts seemed to weaken. It dropped back on its haunches and then reared again as Joe Mack moved.
Then it fell back, struggled to rise, and finally lay still. Joe Mack waited, watching. At last, very carefully, he crawled down the tree. He poked at the bear with the end of his bow. There was no reaction.
First he retrieved the dropped arrow and then the one buried in the bear’s side. Arrows were hard to come by and would be needed. Then he looked carefully around.
The land about was bleak and harsh. A small stream raced among the rocks nearby, a little ice along its fringes. The pines were ragged and storm torn, growing sometimes from the naked rock.
From under straggling birches he gathered dry sticks and built a small fire, concealed by the trees around. Then he went to work on the carcass of the bear.
It was a long, tiresome job, and his strength was not what it had been. He peeled back the hide and began gathering the fat, taking the best cuts of meat. Over the fire he roasted some, eating it as he worked.
What he would have given for a good cup of coffee!
A cold sun was disappearing behind an icy ridge. The wind crept down the canyon and prowled among the trees, finding leaves to rustle and branches to rattle in the cold. Joe Mack worked on into the night, warming his cold hands by the fire, building a rack on which to dry meat and smoke it. Clearing a flat place he staked out the great hide and began to scrape it clean of fat and fragments of meat.
Out in the night, a wolf howled. From somewhere further off, another replied. They smelled the bear’s fresh blood, and they would be coming. He stood his bow and his arrows close at hand. Firelight flickered on the pines and the stark, bare branches of the birch. He warmed his cold fingers. Would he ever be warm again?
He built his fire up, and when it had burned down he moved the ashes and lay down upon the warm earth. Then he slept a little, awakening in an icy dawn. The water of the creek was so cold it made his teeth ache, but he drank and drank again.
The wolves were not gone. He glimpsed them from time to time, swift gray shadows among the trees, waiting for what they knew would be theirs. “I will leave some,” he said.
Later, standing beside the bear’s skull, he rested a hand upon it. “I beg your pardon, Bear. It was with no anger that I killed you. I needed your meat. I needed the fat from your ribs.”
He roasted more meat and ate it, and ate great pieces of the fat. This he would need to survive.
At last he began gathering what he could carry of the meat, packing away what he had smoked and dried. He worked on the hide and finally gathered it up to carry along. It would be heavy, but now he could be warm, warm.
On the third day he went away, leaving the bear’s head in a fork on the tree, and the carcass for the wolves. He walked away between the raw-backed ridges that gnawed
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