The characters in this book are fictional products of the author’s imagination. Resemblance to any person or persons, either living or dead, to any names used, or to any specific locations, events or locales is purely coincidental.
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Chapter 1
"Steve?"
A lanky, sandy haired man stepped out onto a long wooden porch and looked at the man who was standing near a trio of thirty-gallon steel barrels. “Yeah?”
"Them damned bears have been in the garbage again." Scott Lyndon, the younger brother of the man coming toward him, picked up an empty cereal box and tossed it in one of the barrels.
"How in the hell are they getting those lids off?"
"I don't know. We've tried everything short of padlocking them at night."
"Maybe we'll have to resort to that." Steve Lyndon raised deep blue eyes to the dense forest that covered the north hillside. "We’re going to have to think of something. We don't need any damned bears wandering into camp."
"That's for sure." Scott picked up the rest of the trash and threw it in the middle barrel then dropped the lid back onto it before snapping the clamps closed. "I'm going go up and clear away that brush on the west slope so we can get in there with the trucks tomorrow."
"Take the rifle Scott," Steve Lyndon told the brother that was almost four years younger than his thirty years. "One of the boys said they’ve seen bear tracks up that way."
Scott nodded then went toward the long, single story log structure that housed the office, kitchen and living quarters of the Lyndons. A wide porch fronted the entire structure. Back within minutes, Scott Lyndon was carrying a high caliber rifle in his hand. "I should be back in a couple of hours," he called over his shoulder as he headed for a blue four by four pickup that was sitting beside one of the out buildings. Fifteen minutes later Scott Lyndon pulled the truck to a stop near a large yellow bulldozer. He grabbed the rifle and headed for the machine the pair had purchased five years earlier. After slipping the rifle into a clip on the fender he fired up the dozer then swung it around and started up the hillside toward the dense underbrush. The sloping hills that acted as the foothills for this section of the Sierra Mountains was the home of the Lyndon Logging Company; a privately owned firm, solely owned by Steven and Scott Lyndon. They were ecologically-minded, removing only select logs from the forests which gave way for the smaller trees to grow. This month, their task was to weed out the older trees from the west slopes of the Sierras along the forty thousand acres they leased from the government. It was interesting work and something both brothers loved.
Scott steered the dozer into the edges of the underbrush. Today, he would make a path just wide enough to get their logging trucks through so they could reach the upper section of this side of the slope. The path, made by two swipes of the dozer’s blade, allowed them less than two feet of clearance on either side of their trucks. That was just enough to get the logs down off the steep hillsides and do as little harm as possible to the environment. Scott edged the dozer along the hillside carefully, pushing brush and rocks back to the point the two brothers had mapped out. He was just finishing the first of section when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something black rise up in front of the dozer. Scott looked up to see a massive black bear on his hind legs less than twenty feet ahead. Its front legs were outstretched and its teeth barred. Scott slammed on the brakes hard. Scott snapped the rifle out of the clamp and aimed it toward the animal. If a situation like this arose, it was their usual procedure to fire a warning shot over the animal’s head. That usually got their attention and the animal would wander off, allowing the work to continue. Scott brought the bear into focus on the scope then lifted the rifle ever so slightly, targeting a spot a foot or so above the bear’s head. He eased his finger down onto the trigger slowly. Just then, out of his peripheral vision, Scott caught a glimpse of something white a split second before something hit the barrel of the rifle, breaking his aim. He blinked and when he looked at the bear again it was lumbering away into the heavy underbrush.
Scott Lyndon sat dumbfounded for a moment before he backed the dozer out of the brush. He looked at where the bear had been standing to see something red in the bushes. Scott turned off the machine and, after listening for any sounds nearby, eased down off the bulldozer and, with rifle in hand, moved along the dirt to the red object. It looked like a piece of nylon. As he reached down to pick it up Scott heard a low throaty growl and looked up to see the same black bear watching him from a small clearing less than fifty feet away. Scott straightened slowly and the bear stopped growling. He started to reach for the material again but stopped when the bear began growling again. "Hmm," Scott pondered and straightened. To his surprise, the bear stopped again. "Ok," he told the bear and took a step back. "I'll leave it alone." Slowly, Scott backpedaled toward the dozer. As he neared the dozer the bear took a few steps forward then stopped. Scott decided that maybe he had done enough bulldozing for today and climbed onto the dozer. With the rifle back on the clip he started the machine and backed it down the hill, keeping one eye on the bear. When he was about halfway down the hill Scott saw the bear come forward and pick the nylon up in its teeth then disappear into the underbrush.
"You're back early," Steve Lyndon commented as his brother stepped into the large room that acted as a joint office and kitchen. "Get into a fight with a bear?"
"Actually, yes."
"What?"
Scott put the rifle back in the closet as he told the story of what had happened.
"That's damned strange actions for a bear. I wonder what that nylon was from."
"I don't know. It looked old and weathered."
"Maybe an old flag marker?"
“It wasn't that shape. It was more of a rectangle. Maybe ten by fifteen inches, and the edges were frayed. What I want to know is what that white thing was and what hit the rifle."
"A bird maybe?"
Scott shook his head. "That was no bird. If I didn’t know better I would swear someone threw a rock.”
“They’d have to have pretty good aim to hit a rifle barrel.”
“Yeah. But I saw something off to my right, either in the underbrush or at the edge of it. A split second later something hit the rifle. It wasn’t a sharp blow but it was enough to break my aim.”
"Was the bear coming at you?"
"No. It seemed to be guarding that piece of red nylon.”
“Damned strange," Steve frowned. "Maybe you'd better take someone with you tomorrow morning when you go up and finish the road."
Just after dawn the next morning Scott and Tal Hardy, the yard foreman, went up to the western slope and within an hour had the entire road cleared. They had no further encounters with the black bear.
It was two mornings later, as Steve and Scott Lyndon came out of the cabin to see the lids off the garbage barrels again.
"Oh now this is getting ridiculous," Steve grumbled and strode to one of the open garbage barrels. "I clamped these lids on tight last night. There's no way in hell a bear could have opened them."
Scott looked into the three barrels as he gained a deep frown. "Steve," he said and looked at his brother. "That bear's being awfully damned selective." He motioned to the nearest barrel. "The top of this barrel is unlatched and moved over slightly but nothing inside was disturbed." He pointed to the newspaper he had tossed in it the night before.
"So you're saying they're opening the barrel, looking inside then moving on without touching the contents? Your fiction mind is getting the better of you brother dear."
"Maybe. But I think there's more to this than what we know."