Trexler smiled to himself. At the top of his lungs, he yelled: "Heil Hitler!" And hunching up his shoulders, he pushed off into the face of the storm.

FORTY-FIVE.

Dawn. And it was still snowing. Trexler had made it to Copperhead Ridge just before dark, crawling up the last two hundred yards from rock to rock on his belly to keep from being blown over by howling winds. Once inside, he had built a fire, eaten and then slept for eight solid hours. Nobody was going to follow him up there, he was sure of that.

He was up well before dawn and ready to go down the other side of the Copperhead as soon as the sun permitted. The wind had died down in the predawn hours. At 6:30 he was on his way again, skiing cautiously until the sun broke over the Sawatch range to the east. As his vision improved he went faster, staying on the high ridges. Skiing cross country to keep on the high side. By noon he was almost adjacent to Mt. Harvard, which was his halfway mark. But the wind had picked up and swung to the west, slowing him. His hands and feet were beginning to get numb and his visibility was down to thirty or forty feet. He entered a pine thicket and walked instead of skiing.

Then an instant of panic. Ahead of him, immediately to his right, the snow was curling upward. A moment later he felt the updraft. He was almost on the edge of the cliff. He stopped and traversed up the slope, his breath coming harder. Through the icy swirls off to his left he saw something. At first he thought it was the root bowl of a fallen tree. But as he drew closer to it he realized it was a cave, a gaping hole five feet wide in the side of the mountain. He worked his way up to it, shoved his knapsack through the opening and took off the skis, shoving them inside the cavern. He gathered up some sticks and branches and crawled into the hole. He took out his torch and flashed it around the opening. It was a funnel-shaped cleft narrowing to a smaller opening thirty or forty feet from the main opening. Leaves and broken limbs, nature's refuse blown from the outside, littered the floor of the fissure.

He made a fire near the opening, letting the updraft suck the smoke out. He took off his boots and socks and warmed his feet and hands over the fire. Then he put on fresh socks. He ate some canned meat and an orange and drank almost a full canteen of water.

An hour passed. The snow shower tapered off and the wind shifted. It got brighter out. But the wind shift blew the smoke into the cavern. He repacked his bag and prepared to get back on the trail.

Then he heard something. At first it was a low growl. A snort almost, like a dog sneezing. Trexler sat up and peered into the dark cave. He flipped one of the tree limbs out of the fire, made a torch out of it and held it at arm's length deeper into the mountain lair. He saw nothing. He reached into the knapsack for the flashlight.

Then he heard it again. This time it was louder, deeper, more threatening. Trexler instinctively backed up a foot or two, the torch still burning in his hand. He reached into his knapsack with the other, rooting around, feeling for the flashlight and his pistol.

Then he heard movement and realized suddenly that whatever was in there was big. And he was between it and freedom. He rustled the fire with his torch so it burned brighter, still groping for the .45, still searching the darkness of the cave.

The beast roared an angry no-nonsense challenge and then it took shape in the darkness. A grizzly bear, awakened from his winter's sleep by the smoke, stalked toward him, half asleep, its black lips folded back over bared teeth, its eyes flashing with anger.

"Jesus!" Trexler screamed aloud as the enormous creature came toward him. He threw the torch in its face and started pulling things from the bag, felt the cold steel grip of the Colt and pulled it out of the sack. But as he did, the bear charged, slashed out at him with one paw. The nails tore into Trexler's cheek, ripped three deep gashes from cheekbone to jawline, knocked him backward into the opening of the cave.

Trexler screamed with pain, falling backward and kicking the fire at the enormous animal. It backed off for a moment and he held the gun at arm's length, aimed at the bear's face and fired. The bullet tore into its Forehead just above the eyes, grooved the top of its head. The bear charged again, looming up over him as he squeezed off shot after shot. The bullets thunked into its thick body without effect. With each hit it roared louder, became angrier, as Trexler scrambled backward to get out of its path.

He backed into one of his skis and it tipped and slid out of the cave. He reached frantically for it but missed. The ski bounded down the steep cliff and plunged out of sight.

Trexler whirled back as the great beast charged again, rising up over him, its roar booming through the cavern. Trexler swung the gun up and got off the last shot. It hit the bear in the eye. The eye burst like a grape, the bear's head snapped back. It shook its head violently and fell as he tried to roll out of the way. The animal fell across his legs and lay there groaning.

Trexler wriggled one leg free and kicked and pushed at the dying creature until he freed his other leg. He snapped the clip out of the gun, found a box of bullets and nervously slipped six more shells into the clip. He slammed it back in the gun, held it six inches from the bear's head and shot it three more times. Then he dropped the gun and, groaning with pain from the deep gouges in his face, he crawled outside and bathed the three wounds with snow.

Trexler was not cold anymore. Adrenaline was roaring through his veins. He took out his torch and flicked the beam through the cave. It appeared empty. He lay on his stomach and looked down over the side. The ski was gone. A thousand feet down in the valley someplace.

He had another ten miles to go.

He dug out the first aid kit and a mirror. Using a pad of bandage, he dabbed iodine on the wounds. The antiseptic sent arrows of pain into the side of his face. He fell back against the cavern wall, gasping for breath while tears streaked his bloody cheeks. He threw back his head and howled like a wounded animal. The scream echoed down through the gorge and back.

Lamar Trammel was turning off the downstairs lights when the dogs started barking. It was almost ten o'clock and the snow had already reached a foot and a half. The barking was persistent.

"Lamar?" his wife Melinda called down from the bedroom. "What's got into the dogs?"

"Dunno. Maybe there's a bear or a cat out there."

"In this stormy?"

His son Byron, a junior in high school, came out of his room.

"Something's raising the dogs, Dad," he yelled down.

"I hear 'em, son. I'm not deaf."

His sister Grace stuck her head out of her bedroom door.

"What's eating the dogs?" the pretty eighth grader asked.

Byron went downstairs and joined his father.

"Shall I get the thirty-thirty?" he asked.

Lamar, a tall, lean, weather-beaten man with wispy brown hair that needed cutting, smiled down at the youth.

"Now what d'ya think you're gonna shoot in this? Probably kill one of our cows."

The dogs, locked in the barn to protect them from the storm, were howling and yapping like hounds on a hunt. Lamar got his heavy flashlight, went to the back door and unlocked it. When he opened it, he reared back in alarm. Behind him, Byron screamed with surprise.

An apparition was framed in the doorway. A man, snow- and ice-caked, his feet tied to pine boughs that had been fashioned into homemade snowshoes, his gloved fingers crooked and frozen. Crazed eyes peered at them from behind a ski mask. The man reached out and tried to say something, then collapsed in the doorway.

Trexler awoke with a soothing wash of warm water on the side of his face. He opened his eyes. A handsome woman, her face leathery from hard living, her long brown hair tied at the back, was cleaning his wound.

"Are you an angel?" he mumbled. "Did I die?"

She smiled warmly. "Thank God you're awake," she said softly, and turning, called out, "Lamar."

A tall string bean of a man sauntered into the room followed by two teenagers.

"How ya doin'?" the older man asked.

"I don't know. Where am I?"

"Pitkin. We're a couple miles up from town."

"Pitkin!" he said with surprise. "How did I get way down here?"

"We're the Trammels," Lamar said. "Melinda, Byron, Gracie. I'm Lamar. You appeared at our door an hour ago. Scared hell out of all of us."

"He means you were a sight," Melinda hurriedly added.

"Afraid we can't get you a doctor," the father said. "Phone's out and besides, the roads are all under two foot of snow."

"I've cleaned the wounds out and dressed them," said Melinda. "Just need to keep them clean."

"I'll be okay," said Trexler. "My name's Clark, Sam Clark."

They shook hands.

"Feel like talkin' about it?" Lamar asked.

"Sure. I was skiing up around Harvard Peak and the snow caught me. Found a cave, was just getting settled in, and turns out I was sharing it with a grizzly bear."

"Holy smokes!" Byron yelped. "How big was he?"

"Byron!" his mother admonished for interrupting.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's okay," Trexler said. "I yelled a lot louder than that when I saw it. He looked bigger than King Kong. Smoke from my fire must've choked him. He came out of hibernation fighting."

"How'd you get away?" the girl asked.

"I shot him with my old army pistol."

"Be damned," said Lamar. "You killed a grizzly with a pistol?"

"Lucky shot. He was right on top of me. Hit him in the eye."

"Wow!" said Byron, obviously impressed.

"Are you hungry?" Melinda asked. "I could warm up some stew or make you a bowl of soup."

"I'm sure you all want to get back to bed."

"Why?" said Gracie. "We won't be able to leave the house tomorrow anyway. We can stay up all night and take care of you."

"Mr. Clark is probably tired, Gracie."

Trexler was thinking about energy. He would have to be on his way by dawn. Just a few hours. He needed food and more sleep.

"A bowl of that stew sounds awfully inviting," he said.

"Oh! Great," Melinda beamed. "I'll stoke up the stove. Won't be but a few minutes."

"Great. I can't thank you enough. I probably would've died if I hadn't stumbled on your place."

"That's likely," Lamar said. "I'll help with the stove."

They all left the room but Byron. He lagged behind, stood in the doorway.

"I almost got me a grizzly once," he said. "Up near Crested Butte. But he moved faster than I thought he could."

"What kind of gun were you using?" Trexler asked.

"Winchester thirty-ought-six with a Johnson scope. Dad was carrying his twelve-gauge. You ought to see it. He won it over at the Gunnison Thanksgiving Turkey Shoot two years ago. Got gold curlicues on the stock. Want to see it?"

"Sure," Trexler said with a smile. "Sounds like a real treasure."

FORTY-SIX.

There had been two storms in forty-eight hours with a six-hour break between them. Phone lines were still down and they were just beginning to clear the roads. Keegan and Dryman, huddled against the harsh wind, which was beginning to slack off, scurried down the street and entered the ranger station. It was eight o'clock in the morning and the sun was just beginning to rise over the mountains. They had been holed up in their hotel room for two days.

Jack Lancey, a grizzled, white-haired ranger, was sitting behind his desk with his feet propped up, drinking hot chocolate.

"Howdy gents," he said. "Got coffee and hot chocolate on the stove in the other room. It ain't the White House but it'll do."

"How's Duane's ankle?" Keegan asked.

"A little better today but what the hell, a compound fracture. That's gonna smart for a while. You sure did a good job with that splint there, Dryman. He could've been crippled for life."

"I'm sorry I got him into this," Keegan said.

"It's his job, Mr. Keegan. He's faced up to a lot worse."

"Any news from Kramer's cabin?"

Lancey shook his head. "This is a real pisser," he said. "We can't get jack shit on the radio and our phones are down. Don't know whether Soapie went on up to the ridge or stayed at the high cabin. Hell, for all we know Trexler went into the gulch, too. He could be an ice cube by now."

"No such luck," Keegan growled. "Got a big map of this area, Jack?"

"Right in the radio room there, gents. Almost life-size."

They went into the radio room and stared at the map, which covered almost one entire wall of the room. Lancey pointed to a spot with his pencil.

"That's us, right there," he said.

"Let's say he skied out of Kramer's place, just for discussion's sake, okay? Where would he most likely go?"

Lancey stared at the map for a few minutes.

"Well, he probably went to the Copperhead Ridge cabin first. From there it's just about downhill to anyplace you'd want to go. Hell, there's a buncha little villages he might've made it into. But he would've gone southeast, to avoid the river. Over in here someplace. Almont, Gunnison, Sapinero."

"What's this?" Keegan asked, tracing a broken line down the center of the map with his finger.

"That's the Continental Divide."

"Definitely would've gone south, right?"

"Had to. Too rough going north. I don't care how good he is."