had powerful ways to protect themselves.
So, as he rolled and scratched in the first gray light of dawn, his mind turned to the juicy, easy food he had discovered, and his crafty mind began to form a plan of action.
Don Stober whirled the helicopter through the still morning air. With him, as observer, Gail Nelson scanned the forest below with field glasses. She had insisted on taking her regular shift in the chopper patrol against Tom's wishes.
"Nothing," she reported. "Not a thing is moving."
"It's early yet," he said. "Keep your eyes open."
"I will," said the young ranger. "How awful for those poor girls."
"They won't be the last," Don said grimly. "Not unless we luck into finding that bear."
"How can you say that?" she said. "It was just an accident."
"He's tasted blood," he told her. "From now on, he'll be a killer. Until we kill him."
He shoved the yoke to one side and the Hughes chopper banked violently and slipped around the edge of a steep cliff.
Although only two camping areas had been closed off, the word of the killings spread through other areas, and by mid-morning, a mass exodus from the woods had begun.
Back-packers streamed down from the low-slope areas they'd been exploring. In more congested areas, tents were struck—often by cutting the tie ropes rather than waste time in pulling up the stakes.
The rangers, most of whom had only managed to grab an hour or so of sleep, were anything but popular this morning. The general attitude seemed to be that they were somehow responsible for what had happened.
It would take days to restore the camp sites to their original condition.
But, somehow, that didn't seem very important just now.
To a ranger, the rifle is an enemy except for authorized practice and licensed hunting. To a man, they have come upon too many wounded and slaughtered animals abandoned by careless hunters, many taking game out of season, to appreciate the loudly declared right of every citizen to bear arms. Many citizens should not even be allowed to drive a car, let alone aim a high-powered weapon.
But the rangers on the sides of the mountain this morning all carried rifles, and chambered in them were soft-nosed, expanding 30.06 220-grain slugs, which hit with more than two tons impact and blew up inside the body of the target. Even this was considered lightweight ammunition when going up against an enraged bear.
Today, the rifle was a welcomed tool . . . an implement that might save a ranger's life before the day was over.
Not all campers had fled the park. Some welcomed the "adventure."
In one high country site, near the edge of R-Three, two young back-packers sat, sipping beer, and listenlng to a transistor radio.
The announcer said, "Today there's news of another tragic accident—this one in the National Park. Most years, we hear of unnecessary deaths caused by careless campers. This year has been free of such mishaps. But now a double death has been caused up near the timber line by what appears to be a rogue bear. Two young women were slain by a berserk bruin, and the official opinion is that they may have appeared to threaten a bear cub and were killed by the angry mother. Search teams are on the move, and the hopes are they will either capture or kill the bear shortly. Private sources say the young women were so badly mutilated that the evidence points toward a dangerous animal—a killer bear, using all its cunning and wiles to destroy the enemy . . . man."
Tom Cooper, riding Tex, paused near the edge of the clearing.
He addressed the two young men. "Hey, guys. Didn't you get the word about evacuating this area?"
"We just got in," said one camper. "You mean about that bear?"
"Yeah. I know it's a hassle, but we've got to move everybody out of this area until we bring that rascal down. He's killed two girls already."
"Hell," said the other camper. "Bears don't hurt you unless you mess with them. We hiked all the way up here and we just spent an hour pitching our
So, as he rolled and scratched in the first gray light of dawn, his mind turned to the juicy, easy food he had discovered, and his crafty mind began to form a plan of action.
Don Stober whirled the helicopter through the still morning air. With him, as observer, Gail Nelson scanned the forest below with field glasses. She had insisted on taking her regular shift in the chopper patrol against Tom's wishes.
"Nothing," she reported. "Not a thing is moving."
"It's early yet," he said. "Keep your eyes open."
"I will," said the young ranger. "How awful for those poor girls."
"They won't be the last," Don said grimly. "Not unless we luck into finding that bear."
"How can you say that?" she said. "It was just an accident."
"He's tasted blood," he told her. "From now on, he'll be a killer. Until we kill him."
He shoved the yoke to one side and the Hughes chopper banked violently and slipped around the edge of a steep cliff.
Although only two camping areas had been closed off, the word of the killings spread through other areas, and by mid-morning, a mass exodus from the woods had begun.
Back-packers streamed down from the low-slope areas they'd been exploring. In more congested areas, tents were struck—often by cutting the tie ropes rather than waste time in pulling up the stakes.
The rangers, most of whom had only managed to grab an hour or so of sleep, were anything but popular this morning. The general attitude seemed to be that they were somehow responsible for what had happened.
It would take days to restore the camp sites to their original condition.
But, somehow, that didn't seem very important just now.
To a ranger, the rifle is an enemy except for authorized practice and licensed hunting. To a man, they have come upon too many wounded and slaughtered animals abandoned by careless hunters, many taking game out of season, to appreciate the loudly declared right of every citizen to bear arms. Many citizens should not even be allowed to drive a car, let alone aim a high-powered weapon.
But the rangers on the sides of the mountain this morning all carried rifles, and chambered in them were soft-nosed, expanding 30.06 220-grain slugs, which hit with more than two tons impact and blew up inside the body of the target. Even this was considered lightweight ammunition when going up against an enraged bear.
Today, the rifle was a welcomed tool . . . an implement that might save a ranger's life before the day was over.
Not all campers had fled the park. Some welcomed the "adventure."
In one high country site, near the edge of R-Three, two young back-packers sat, sipping beer, and listenlng to a transistor radio.
The announcer said, "Today there's news of another tragic accident—this one in the National Park. Most years, we hear of unnecessary deaths caused by careless campers. This year has been free of such mishaps. But now a double death has been caused up near the timber line by what appears to be a rogue bear. Two young women were slain by a berserk bruin, and the official opinion is that they may have appeared to threaten a bear cub and were killed by the angry mother. Search teams are on the move, and the hopes are they will either capture or kill the bear shortly. Private sources say the young women were so badly mutilated that the evidence points toward a dangerous animal—a killer bear, using all its cunning and wiles to destroy the enemy . . . man."
Tom Cooper, riding Tex, paused near the edge of the clearing.
He addressed the two young men. "Hey, guys. Didn't you get the word about evacuating this area?"
"We just got in," said one camper. "You mean about that bear?"
"Yeah. I know it's a hassle, but we've got to move everybody out of this area until we bring that rascal down. He's killed two girls already."
"Hell," said the other camper. "Bears don't hurt you unless you mess with them. We hiked all the way up here and we just spent an hour pitching our
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