Free The Lawless by William W. Johnstone Page A

feet before sliding back to the flat, shingle showering around him.
    â€œHe’s gone,” Cobb yelled, making his way out of the arroyo. “We’ll find him another day.”
    It was only then that Quinn saw how ashen was the man’s face and the pain in his eyes. The front of Cobb’s shirt was a bloody mess.
    â€œI’d better get you home, You look all used up.”
    â€œAn angry bear can do that to a man.” Cobb collapsed and Quinn had to help him into the saddle.

C HAPTER S IXTEEN
    For a week, Frank Cobb hovered between life and death, Kate at his side constantly. Jazmin Salas, whose father had been a respected village healer, prepared various potions and salves from herbs, trees, and cactus that seemed to help Cobb’s pain.
    On the eighth day after the bear attack, his fever broke and that night Kate was able to feed him a little beef broth.
    As Quinn’s worry about Frank faded, he and Trace had other concerns. They had discovered bear tracks and scat their side of the Brazos—once not a hundred yards from the cabin—and an abandoned bed in a clump of wild oak that the bear had made comfortable with a mattress of leaves and tree bark. They found no sign that the animal had eaten recently, even ignoring some rotten tree trunks it would normally have torn apart to feast on carpenter ants.
    â€œChances are that it’s not the same bear,” Trace said.
    â€œIt’s the same bear,” Quinn said. “He’s got Frank’s bullet in him and he followed us here.”
    Trace looked into his brother’s eyes and saw a glint of fear that couldn’t be explained away as just the teenager’s vivid imagination.
    â€œAll right. We hunt him,” Trace said. “If he’s been shot already, he’ll want to hole up and he’s got a comfortable bed right here.”
    â€œDon’t tell Ma, Trace,” Quinn said. “She’s already worried enough about Frank.”
    Trace nodded. “We won’t tell her until we kill your bear.”
    â€œFrank calls him Ephraim.”
    â€œThat was the name the old mountain men gave to a big male grizzly.”
    Quinn pulled a face. “This bear is a lot more dangerous than any grizzly.”
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    Because of the overcrowding in the cabin, Trace and Quinn spread their blankets outside. The nights were not yet too cold and made for comfortable sleeping weather.
    An hour before dawn, Trace shook Quinn awake and held a forefinger to his lips.
    Quinn rolled out of his blankets and grabbed his rifle. When they were out of earshot of the house, he said, “If he’s in bed, we can shoot him while he’s asleep.”
    Trace smiled and his teeth gleamed white in the waning moonlight. “Not very sporting, is it?”
    â€œThis isn’t sport,” Quinn said. “This is kill or be killed.”
    â€œThis bear really has you spooked, young brother,” Trace said, still smiling.
    â€œYou’ll see, Trace. You’ll see.”

    The bed was empty, but the feral, musky smell of the bear hung in the air. Trace kneeled and placed his hand on the leafy mattress. “It’s still warm. Damn bruin heard us coming and lit a shuck.”
    Quinn’s hands were white knuckled on his Henry. “He’s close. I can sense him.”
    â€œLook.” Trace held out his hand palm up, showing a smear of blood from the base of his thumb to his middle finger. “Frank shot him all right. He’s still bleeding.”
    From somewhere among the shadowed trees, came a growl, low, menacing . . . and close.
    Trace lifted his rifle into a firing position. “Where the hell is he?”
    â€œI don’t know. His growl is coming from everywhere,” Quinn said.
    The two young men stood together, their rifles at the ready. A thin dawn light filtered through the trees, but shadows still lay like inkblots on the land—dark, mysterious, and hinting of unseen