But he was hungry and hunger can make a bear bold. Asa Pagg, his back against an arrowhead of sandstone rock that jutted from the bed of the dry wash, knew he was in a heap of trouble. Weak from the whipping he’d taken and unarmed, he was in no shape to tackle an aggressive bear one-on-one. Pagg’s wrists and the palms of his swollen hands were scraped raw and he felt blood trickle down his fingertips. He’d worked his bonds against the sandstone for an hour, but felt no loosening or even a suggestion that the rope was fraying. The bear shambled toward Pagg, its soulless eyes, like black beads, never leaving his face. Pagg filled his chest with air and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Get the hell away from here, Ephraim!” Momentarily puzzled, the bear stopped, then reared onto its hind legs as though to get a better look at the human. Then it came on again. Its coat was muddy and stuck all over with dead leaves and one ear was notched, a V-shaped chunk bitten off in some old mating tussle.
