Bearstone by Hobbs Will

Author:Hobbs, Will [Hobbs, Will]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers
Published: 2008-06-20T04:00:00+00:00

For two days they rested in their campsite by the meadow. When Cloyd recovered his strength, they set out for the mine. Past the upper meadow where Cloyd had been caught by the cloudburst, Walter reined in his mare and motioned the boy and his string of pack-horses alongside. “That canyon there,” he pointed, indicating a steep-sided cleft in the mountains across the river, “that’s Snowslide. The Pride of the West is on up it a ways. Won’t be long now.”

They forded the river and angled away from it up Snowslide Creek. Cloyd took a last look up the Pine River and knew at once he’d found what he’d been looking for. A single peak rising alone and high above the others had just come into view, a sharp peak riding alone in the turquoise sky. “What’s that?” he called to the old man. “That mountain over there.”

“That one yonder? Why, that’s the Rio Grande Pyramid. Looks like one, don’t it? That’s where the Rio Grande River gets started—flows off the other side. That’s quite a mountain, all right. Supposed to have been a grizzly and two cubs sighted on it about ten years ago.”

“Grizzly bears?”

“That’s right. Used to be plenty in this country, but that was some years ago. Of course we still have black bears.”

“But this man saw three grizzly bears?”

“Says they was huntin’ marmots just above the tree line. Most folks think he saw a big cinnamon, which is a black bear when he’s brown. The last grizzly bear proven in the state of Colorado—or south of Wyoming, for that matter—was killed near here in 1954. It’s on display in a museum up in Denver.”

Cloyd fingered the smooth bearstone in his pocket. He wondered if it might really represent a grizzly, as Walter had suggested. He remembered that the old Utes especially honored grizzlies. “Do you think there’s any more grizzly bears?” he asked.

“Don’t know—most likely not. It’s been a bunch of years since that fellow saw ’em, if that’s what they were. But if he was right, and nobody’s killed ’em since, the cubs’d be in their prime now.”

“Do you think somebody probably killed them?”

“Not that anybody’s heard about. But if a fellow was to kill one, he might not let on since they’re protected now.”

“What’s that mean, ‘protected’?”

“On account of being endangered. That means there’s so few of ’em that if anybody kills one, there might be none left, so it’s against the law.”

For several hours they rode up Snowslide Canyon, crossing many of the wide, grassy paths among the sun-whitened hulks of spruces ripped from the edges of the slides high above. At the bottom of one of the avalanche chutes, the old man and the boy found a big log and set out biscuits and canned pork for their midday meal. Walter pointed out the knee-high trees dotting the grassy route of the slide. “When they get just a bit bigger, the slide’ll knock ’em down. They never quit trying, though. It’s like building your house on a railroad track.

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