He dropped the rope and reached for the ammunition. At the same time, the female caught the scent of the dead deer and exploded into a run. Her sons were right behind her.

As long as Kate lived, she would never forget watching those bears tear down that hill in their direction, looming larger and larger against the snow. She unshouldered her .22.

"No," Stephan said. "Run, Kate. Run!"

She ran a few steps and stopped, out of his eyesight, and watched, the .22 held in both hands across her chest. Her world narrowed down to her father and the bears, and suddenly everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion, slow enough for her to notice things and think about them, slow enough for her to feel the smooth metal of the .22's barrel and the slick wood of its stock against the palms of her hands, slow enough for her to feel the bite of below-freezing air on the skin of her cheek, to smell the scent of pine, to taste fear bitter on her tongue, slow enough to notice the sun traveling the sky just above the horizon, two sun dogs guarding it like scimitars to the right and to the left.

The three bears came at a gallop that covered the earth, claws tearing at the crust of snow and kicking it up in little puffs. One of the males caught his paw on a bush and tumbled forward into a somersault, his velocity carrying him as fast as his brother was running.

Her father's hand was shaking so badly he dropped the first round. It seemed to take forever to hit the ground, brass casing glinting in the slanting rays of the sunset. She had time to notice that her father didn't even swear. By sheer effort of will he steadied his hands and fed the remaining three bullets into the magazine and slid the bolt home.

The bears were less than fifty yards away when he brought the rifle up to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. The first shot echoed in her ears, bang, bang, bang, bang, the rhythm sounding like a fading heartbeat. Slowly, ever so slowly, Kate's eyes followed the line of the barrel. The female was still coming, so were the males, and she thought Stephan had missed.

Then the female stumbled and went down, sliding forward another ten feet on her belly, her immense frame so agile in action, so incongruously awkward in death. The two males barely checked. Again, her father fired, again the echo, bang, bang, bang, bang, and the male on the right squealed and stumbled. He got back up, still squealing, and made for the edge of the trees, limping badly on his right foreleg. His brother skidded to a halt and howled a protest. The other bear answered him in kind, and he wheeled about to hurl defiance at Stephan. Stephan kept his eye to the sight but held his fire. The third bear gave off the grizzly's signature sound, a cross between a donkey's bray and a pig's squeal, and retreated to the top of the hill.