“The beast of the northern gorge,” Dara said slowly, “is a serious enemy.” “A worthy one,” Radmila answered, “for a man who dares claim a place beside you, Mother.” Her eyes never left Max.
Max stood still, showing neither fear nor surprise. He had known this moment was coming. He had been waiting for it.
“I accept,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “But if I’m hunting that animal, I need weapons. You took mine. You provide yours.”
Radmila gave a contemptuous smile. “We don’t hand our bows to outsiders.” “Then give me a spear, a good knife, and rope,” Max said. “Long and strong.”
Dara nodded. “Give him what he asks for. Let dawn decide the rest.”
An hour later Max stood at the north palisade. In his hands was a heavy spear with a broad leaf-shaped point of dense bone lashed on with sinew.
At his belt hung a rough iron knife, likely forged from an old truck spring or some other scrap metal found in the woods years ago. Over his shoulder was a coil of stout hemp rope.
Radmila stood nearby, watching him test the balance of the spear. “The northern gorge is two hours from here,” she said coldly. “Follow the creek until you hit the cliffs.”
“That’s his ground. He isn’t sleeping. He’s hungry. And he can smell blood a long way off.”
Max did not look at her. He just spun the spear once in his hand, checking the grip. Primitive, yes. But solid enough.
“I’ll be back before dawn,” he said, and stepped into the dark.
The northern gorge met him with dead silence and the smell of rot. It was a narrow cut between steep rock walls. The trees here grew twisted and stunted from cold wind and lack of light. Bones of small animals littered the ground among rotten logs.
Even the air felt different. Heavy. Damp. Tainted with death. Max moved slowly, scanning.
A rogue bear is not just a large predator. It is a killing machine stripped of caution and driven by pain. It does not stalk like a cat.
It comes straight through whatever is in front of it. He needed the right place for the fight. Somewhere the animal’s physical advantage would be reduced.
About half a mile into the gorge he found it. A narrow passage between two giant boulders, no more than five feet wide.
Beyond it, the ground rose sharply in loose scree. It was almost a natural funnel. Nature had already built most of the trap. He just had to finish it.
He got to work. First he examined both boulders. The one on the right had a deep crack about six feet up.
He uncoiled the rope. Tied a sliding loop at one end, strong enough to hold under a violent jerk but not jam permanently. He cast it over a stone spur above the crack and fixed it there.
Then he ran the free end through the crack, creating a crude pulley, and dropped it down.
Next he turned to the spear. The bone point was sharp enough, but against a bear’s hide and muscle it might just snap. Max drew the knife.
With quick, precise cuts he sliced through most of the sinew holding the point to the shaft, leaving just enough that it would break free under a hard lateral hit.
The shaft without the point became a thick, sturdy stake. He sharpened it further with the knife and drove it into the ground at a forty-five-degree angle.
The tip pointed directly into the gap between the boulders. He drove it deep and braced the butt against the base of the left rock. A boar spear in principle, old as history.
Simple. Reliable. Now came the hardest part. He had to get the bear to come to him.
He did not go looking for the animal. He made the animal look for him.
He took the knife and made a shallow cut on his left forearm. Warm blood welled up and ran down his skin. In cold night air, the smell of fresh human blood carries fast.
For a hungry rogue bear, it was a dinner bell. Max took his place behind the planted stake. The free end of the rope was in his hands.
The loop lay on the ground in the center of the passage. He did not have to wait long. About twenty minutes later, from deeper in the gorge, came a heavy crashing sound.
Not the careful snap of a branch under a cautious animal. This was brush being flattened by mass. Something large was coming straight through.
Then came the smell. Wet fur. Old blood. Rot. Out of the dark emerged a huge shape.
The bear was enormous. Even on all fours it looked like a moving wall of muscle and rage. Patches of fur were missing, exposing scarred skin.
Its right ear was gone. Thick saliva dripped from its open jaws. Small bloodshot eyes fixed on Max.
The animal let out a low, vibrating growl that shook pebbles loose from the rock. It did not study him. It did not hesitate.
It charged. Three hundred pounds of fury became six hundred, then more, as momentum built. Straight into the narrow passage. Max did not move.
He stood still, gripping the rope, looking directly at the thing trying to kill him. The whole plan came down to milliseconds, physics, and geometry.
It depended on the bear doing what a rogue bear always does. Coming straight through. The animal hit the gap at speed.
Its right forepaw landed squarely in the loop. Max yanked the rope with everything he had…
