Part 2
The bullet cut a furrow across Cinder’s left shoulder and buried itself in the lodgepole above my head. Bark burst over my face. He recoiled with such force that the rope, still caught beneath one forepaw, snapped tight against the fork in the trunk.
The upper wrap broke.
My right arm came forward without warning, dead from the shoulder down. I fell against the remaining line as Cinder spun toward the truck, jaws open and blood brightening the dark fur along his back. Clay worked the bolt and tried to settle the rifle for a second shot, but Ben hit the barrel from underneath.
The shot went into the canopy. Clay turned on him, and for a second they stood chest to chest in the headlights, Clay holding the rifle between them while Ben clamped both hands around the fore-end.
“You hit him, too, and this becomes murder,” Ben said.
“It became murder when you tied him up.”
“Then don’t make it worse.”
Cinder lunged three strides—not a charge carried through, but enough. Ben shoved Clay toward the driver’s side, and both men scrambled behind the doors. The pickup reversed before Clay had fully climbed in, spraying mud as it struck the far rut and slewed sideways.
Clay leaned out once with the rifle. Ben dragged him back by the coat, and the truck disappeared downhill with one headlight bouncing wild through the trees.
Their retreat was not mercy. Clay would decide whether to run or circle back as soon as fear stopped choosing for him.
My right hand had begun to answer me again. I flexed the fingers, felt pins and heat race through the palm, and reached across my chest for the wrap that remained. The broken upper line had loosened one turn, but my left wrist was still trapped behind the trunk and both ankles were cinched together.
Cinder swung his head from the road to the clearing. Blood ran down his left foreleg. The bullet had scored muscle rather than entered the chest, but the torn flesh was bleeding freely.
I kept my movements low and slow. “All right,” I murmured, not as an order and not because I expected the words to mean anything. Hearing my own voice helped me measure my breathing.
The pack lay two feet beyond my boot. The main zipper gaped open, and a roll of gauze had fallen against a root. My knife was gone, but the first-aid pouch held trauma shears if I could reach it.
I stretched until my fingers caught a shoulder strap and dragged the pack close. The trauma shears were missing; Ben must have taken them during his search.
Above me, Cinder huffed and stepped back to the rope.
He did not look at my face or at my trapped hand. His attention fixed on the blood and grease worked into the orange braid. He planted a paw on the loose end, took one taut crossing in his teeth, and pulled hard enough to shake the tree.
The turn across my waist lifted away from the bark.
I shoved my right hand under it before he released. The pressure crushed my knuckles, but I turned my palm sideways and peeled the line down over my hip. Cinder pulled once more, worrying the same scented section, and the slack traveled through the knot at my left side.
That was all the help chance gave me.
He abandoned the rope and moved toward the elk remains uphill, leaving me with one free hand, a loosened chest wrap, and a knot I could finally reach. I worked it by touch, pinching each bend until the blood made my fingers slick. Twice I lost the small pocket of slack and had to begin again.
The knot rolled at last. I freed my left arm, then worked two tight half hitches away from my ankles.
When the final loop came free, I stayed on my knees. Standing too quickly would make me noisy and unsteady, both bad choices near a wounded grizzly. I listened for the pickup, for a siren, for any sign that dispatch had reached the drainage.
Only the creek answered. Training required distance from a conscious, wounded grizzly: mark the location, withdraw, and return with a veterinarian and immobilization equipment.
Then Cinder stumbled.
He had reached the lower edge of the carcass site when his left foreleg folded. He caught himself, stood breathing hard, and tried again. The wound was no longer a narrow red line; blood had soaked a hand-wide patch behind the shoulder and was dripping from the elbow.
The shot had cut more deeply than it first appeared.
I opened the first-aid pouch with shaking fingers. There was no way to bandage a free-ranging grizzly by hand, and I knew it. What I could do was get close enough to judge whether the bleeding was arterial, leave a compressed roll where he might press against it, and back away if he gave me any warning at all.
If he crossed the creek, a tracking team might lose him before shock—or another encounter with Clay. I took two gauze rolls and moved uphill at an angle, never placing myself between Cinder and an escape route.
He lowered onto his chest before I had covered half the distance. His head remained up, ears rotating, eyes following me with the flat attention of an animal deciding how much threat he could tolerate. I stopped, crouched, and placed one gauze roll on the ground.
“That’s as close as I need,” I said quietly. It was not true. I could not see the wound through the dark fur from there, and the blood kept falling. I picked up the second roll and took one more step. Cinder bared his teeth…
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