Page 42 of Untamed Coast

The cub looked up, noticed them, and bolted back toward the mother. The sow stood on her hind legs, head raised, sniffing the air.

Marco had seen bears stand up like this before, but always from a distance. He’d always thought they looked like a man in a bear suit—particularly early in the season when they were skinny and hungry. This close, it was a whole different story.

Marco knew he needed to keep vocalizing, keep the bears calm. “Their sense of smell is really keen. They can supposedly smell a carcass up to twenty miles away. She probably smelled us before she heard or saw us. Let’s just stand here for now and keep talking. We don’t want to end up between her and the cubs, so if the cubs come near we should just back away slowly. Keep an eye on them, but don’t make eye contact.”

“Marco, let’s get out of here. Shouldn’t we run?” Bill’s voice wobbled.

“Nope. Just hold our ground and keep talking.” Marco held his reassuring tone, hoping it was convincing—to both Bill and the sow.

Bears can run over thirty miles an hour. She’d be on us in a flash.

The sow walked into the trail directly ahead. The two cubs followed in the grass behind her. She turned and took a couple steps toward the men, then stood up on her hind legs again, facing them, nose in the air.

She was enormous, maybe half again taller than Marco. Her paws were the size of baseball gloves, with knife-sharp claws protruding several inches from her toes. Her odor was strong, like an old wet dog who’d tangled with a skunk, musty with a bit of vinegar.

One of the cubs scampered up behind her and peered cautiously around her side at them.

The bear spray shook in Marco’s hand as he tried to aim at the sow’s face.

If she charged, he’d have only a second.

Chapter 32

-... .-.. ..- ... - . .-.

Radioville, AK

1938—Joe Baxter

Joe brought the ax down hard.

The log cracked, splitting into halves.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and stacked the pieces onto the new row of firewood. They would rest here for a year or more, drying and seasoning before they were ready for use.

A gust of wind blew in from the water. Joe turned into it, enjoying the cool breeze on his face. He picked up the ax and pounded the next log, splitting it on the first strike.

The drone of a boat motor echoed off the nearby hills—approaching. He dropped the ax and walked around to the other side of his house to investigate.

A fast-moving sportfishing boat—white with a forest green stripe—rounded the corner of a neighboring island headed directly toward him. Joe didn’t recognize the boat. He put down his tools and walked to the beach.

The boat neared the island. Looked like Fellows at the helm. It continued toward his beach, faster than it should and jerked to a stop as the bow pushed into the sand.

Fool. Has he ever steered a boat before? Where’d he snag this contraption, anyway?

“How bout this new boat of mine?” Fellows shouted.

Joe slapped the bow of the shiny boat. “Buy that with our money?”

Fellows climbed over the side, his leather dress shoes sinking into the soft sand. “Had to figure a way to get myself here and back without depending on the supply boat.” He glanced down at his shoes, then continued as if nothing had happened. “Plus, it’s better if I ain’t seen stopping here all the time.”

Joe wondered if Fellows ever stopped to actually think. “Not gonna need to drop anchor here anymore. We’re done—leastwise for now.”

He’d better have the dough.

Fellows was not making eye contact, which made Joe feel uneasy. He hoped Fellows wasn’t here without the cash. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep Sam Worlson under control.

Fellows reached into the cockpit and retrieved his briefcase.