Bikers - Chapter 11

A group of six staffers gathered late one night, careful not to alert the subject of the clandestine meeting.

"He's taking off a day early this weekend. Jade just gave his blessing for the extra day off."

"That's very unusual isn't it? I don't remember anyone getting time off, unless there was a death in the family."

"Yes, its very rare."

"Where's he going?"

"He's not saying. But he has had his motorcycle hauled to Cody. So I assume the first thing he'll do is head that direction and pick it up."

"Motorcycle? I didn't know he owned a motorcycle."

"No one did. I just found out about it through other sources. And he's going with a friend of his, some biker named Big Albert."

"This does not sound good. I've got a bad feeling about this."

"So do I. But there's not a lot we can do about it except stay alert. So keep your eyes and ears wide open."

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Junior was on the move that same night. From Open Creek meadows he moved north, slowly climbing the steep slope of the big cirque. It took him a couple of hours to make the ascent. The big cinnamon-colored black bear rested on Rampart Pass with its gorgeous view of the Absaroka range, and Overlook Peak in particular. Then he moved north again down the slope to Rampart Creek. After several miles he stopped and turned left climbing again to an unnamed ridge that led to a big gap in the rugged ridge that ends in Sheep Mesa.

Once through the gap, Junior carefully began picking his way down the steep rocky slope that leads to a tributary of Fishhawk Creek. The rest of his evening would be spent descending a seemingly unending series of slopes, ridges, and small waterfalls until at last he came to Fishhawk Meadows. There he found a spot to sleep and rest for a few hours.

He did not know why he was traveling. He only knew that he sensed trouble. Trouble was to the north, so that was where he was headed.

...................................................

On Friday morning, that first official week of camp, Cradeau left in his car for Cody. About an hour and a half later one of the largest humans I have ever seen arrived in camp on a cycle looking for Cradeau. His name, he told us, was Albert. He was norse looking with an orange beard and arms the size of normal men's legs. With his long blond hair, Albert looked like he'd just stepped off a Viking ship after a raid on the English coast. He was very polite, seemed like a nice guy, really. Soon Cradeau showed up riding a Harley. They left, and from the sounds of their machines, we could tell they were headed toward Yellowstone. Cradeau never told us everything about what he and Big Albert did. But we talked to Albert later and we were able to piece together the story of those events, and events after they became separated. This is that story.

Cradeau and Big Albert first met in Las Cruces, New Mexico, which is close to El Paso and the Mexican border, sometime the previous February. It seems Cradeau had just purchased his Harley in Casper and had driven south on it down I-25 toward warmer weather. They became instant friends and spent the time from that first meeting until mid-May touring Southern California, the Pacific Coast, the Cascades, and the Desert Southwest on their bikes. Then Cradeau began his preparations for working at camp. Big Albert took up his regular seasonal job as a logger in Idaho. Cradeau had gone missing from his family and friends early the previous September. He suddenly showed up in Casper in February and then, after only a day, he disappeared again until May. Now we had a handle on where he had been for at least some of those months.

"Those were the best of days," Albert told us later about his tour with Cradeau. "We just drove west into Southern California until we ran into Spring. Then we just slowly followed Spring north and east. We never went anywhere there weren't flowers on the ground and fruit trees blossoming. I've never spent three whole months in Spring like that. It was incredible."

The two friends drove into Yellowstone via the East Gate, then down along the north shore of Yellowstone lake. After Fishing Bridge they decided to do the 'big loop' and turned north Soon they were in the Hayden Valley. This valley is named for Dr. Ferdinand Hayden the leader of the Hayden Expeditions to Yellowstone. Hayden, with help of the photos of William Henry Jackson and the oils and watercolors of Thomas Moran, was able to convince Congress to set aside Yellowstone as a national park. Hayden Valley is a series of open meadows with the Yellowstone River flowing through it. Here tourists see more animals than in all the rest of the Park together.

Big Albert was delighted with the place. Although an Idaho native, Albert had never been in this part of the Park. Albert grew up in a poor family and had to work in the summer, and summer was the time to visit Yellowstone. He was something of an outlaw, and had a wild streak. But Albert was not a seriously hardened criminal. Normally, he could not afford to take this kind of tour before he'd gotten his first paycheck as a logger. But he and his fellow Idaho biker/loggers had taken to breaking into the lock boxes at the Forest Service campgrounds where people deposit their fees to camp every night. It is largely due to them that the Forest Service lock boxes are now built a lot stronger.

They traveled north to see another jewel of the Park. Soon they were crossing the bridge above the Upper Falls. They got off their bikes and walked the trail down the canyon to the Lower Falls and Inspiration Point, a place where no one can take a bad picture. The Lower Falls are larger than Upper Falls and are quite majestic. Albert was impressed. They ate lunch at Canyon Village. Then they traveled north again to Tower Junction where they turned west to go to Mammoth Hot Springs. This is a big bare hillside in the forest where a large hot spring has been sending its waters down the slope for centuries. Over time minerals in the water have accreted to form big level terraces that are multicolored. The whole place steams from the hot water. Again, this was Albert's first visit, and he was impressed.

After Mammoth, the two journeyed south. Cradeau insisted on stopping at the Obsidion Cliffs. Albert wanted to know why, and Cradeau explained the importance of obsidion to Native Americans. Albert observed that there is obsidion all around the town of West Yellowstone, Montana. Yes, Cradeau agreed, and there is obsidion all along the forty miles between there and where they were standing. In addition, there is obsidion along the Belcher River which flows out of the southwest corner of the park.

The two journeyed south and saw Norris Geyser Basin, which is huge. Then they toured down to Old Faithful through Madison Junction. They saw the Old Faithful Geyser erupt, and that is a singular event, with thousands of gallons of steaming hot water shooting sixty feet into the air. They also visited the pools there. They visited Morning Glory pool which does resemble the flower. Then they visited the Emerald Pool, a deep green wonder.

When they pulled into the parking lot for the Emerald Pool they noticed a blond couple on the walk. Out in the grass in front of them was their little white headed toddler boy. Beside the boy was a big bull elk in velvet. The little boy was pulling grass and feeding it to the elk. When the two bikers approached the couple it quickly became obvious that they were from Sweden. Albert and Cradeau tried to convince them in English that their boy was in real danger, that Yellowstone is not a big petting zoo. The animals are wild. When that did not work, Albert switched to Swedish and that got their attention. The couple was able to convince the boy to walk back to them and they scooped him up. The elk kept grazing nonchalantly as if this kind of thing happened to him every day. Cradeau asked Albert how he knew Swedish. Albert replied that one of his grandmothers was from Norway, the other from Sweden, and he had learned to speak both languages.

After Old Faithful the pair traveled east and south to West Thumb and then traveled north along the west shore of Yellowstone Lake to Lake Lodge. Here they met two of Albert's fellow biker/loggers. These two already knew Cradeau. The four decided to have a late dinner. They dined in the lodge restaurant. Then they retired to the lodge bar.

Here Cradeau and crew began to drink seriously. They drank tequilla with beer chasers. After two hours of this, they were all well tuned. The bar was full of an even distribution of long haired bikers from Wyoming and Idaho and short haired loggers from Montana. For a couple of hours there was no trouble. Then a biker from West Yellowstone, Montana walked over to Cradeau's table.

"I don't like you long haired assholes," he began. "I should kick your ass," and he pointed at Cradeau.

"You look like the toughest guy in the bar. You could probably kick all four of our asses by yourself," Cradeau responded. "None of us wants any trouble."

The guy sauntered back to his buddies at his own table.

"If he comes back," Cradeau warned his companions, "I'm going to break a chair over his head. I'm not going to give him a chance to get in the first swing."

The biker walked back to Cradeau's table and began to speak. He never got to finish his sentence. Cradeau left his chair and swung it over the biker's head all in one motion. The chair broke. The biker went down in a heap. His three buddies stood up and charged Cradeau. Cradeau broke a chair leg over the first one's head and down he went over the limp body of his friend. Big Albert intercepted the other two by grabbing each by the shirt and holding them up in the air. Then he threw them onto a table of loggers from Montana and the fight was really on, long hairs versus short hairs.

It was a general melee. Bodies, fists, feet, and chairs were flying in all directions. Cradeau and Big Albert stood back to back in the fray. Cradeau is big and extremely strong. In high school, he was also a golden gloves boxing champ. Big Albert is Big Albert, and like a force of nature, simply unstoppable. The other two in their group were fresh from logging and hard as nails.

"It looked like something from a wild west movie," Albert told us later. "Things were breaking all around. The mirror behind the bar broke when some yahoo threw another guy over the bar into it. Glasses and beer bottles were breaking. Teeth and blood and beer were flying through the air. A guy would knock another unconscious, turn around, and get nailed himself. Over the shouting, you could occasionally hear a bone snap. I started to clear a path toward the door. The rest of our crew followed, protecting my back. Once we were outside, we high tailed it to our bikes and roared out of there. But as we were leaving I looked over my shoulder and saw that one corner of the bar was on fire."

"I swear," Albert told us, "none of us had anything to do with the fire. There was no time. We were too busy trying to fight our way to the door."

They headed south along the west shore of the Lake. At West Thumb they had a quick conference. They knew they were in trouble, and that Yellowstone can be locked down tight by the Rangers if they want. They were the first to leave the fight, so they had no illusions about who would get blamed for the fire. They would get the blame. They decided to split up. The three loggers from Idaho decided to head west through Old Faithful to West Yellowstone. They almost felt like cheering when they saw no flashing lights as they approached Old Faithful. But the lights were flashing and the road was blocked by armed rangers at the West Entrance. As luck would have it, Big Albert knows a way through the forest there on a little-used dirt road, and those three escaped from the Park with relative ease. They pulled off the highway at Macks Inn, Idaho not too far south of West Yellowstone, and there they spent the rest the night.

Cradeau decided he was too drunk to try to leave by way of the South Entrance. That would force him to drive to Moran Junction and then over Togwotee Pass to Dubois, Riverton, and Shoshoni. Once there, he'd still be four hours away from camp. No, it was too far to drive in his condition. He'd suffered five or six injuries in the fight, but nothing serious. But he was still woozy from the booze, and suddenly very tired. He had no other choice but to head back north toward Lake Lodge and Fishing Bridge, which are very close together.

He was cruising along the west shore of the Lake when he realized he was being followed. About a mile behind were three Rangers' vehicles, their red lights flashing through the trees. He picked up his speed. So did they. He pushed his cycle to go all out, taking the winding curves as fast as he could. It was a warm night and he and the Rangers were the only traffic on the road. He gained another mile between himself and the vehicles following. He raced by Lake Lodge. A lot of lights were on over at the Lodge. But there were no Rangers in the road. He began to slow for the intersection that would take him across Fishing Bridge.

There was a vehicle with a flashing red light at the intersection. The light outlined a ranger standing in front of it, holding a shotgun across his chest. But there was only one vehicle and one Ranger. Cradeau began to formulate a plan. He knew what his advantages were. His biggest advantage was that he knew the roads and the forest on this end of the Park better than any of the Rangers possibly could. It was a fact. He'd driven these roads over two hundred times, some twice that many times, and he'd often stopped along the roads to explore one thing or another. His other advantage was that he knew law enforcement, knew their techniques, and he knew all about their pride.

Cradeau continued to slow as if to stop in front of the Ranger. Closer and closer he came, gearing down all the while. He was waiting for the Ranger to react, waiting to see the Ranger drop the end of the barrel which was just above his left shoulder. The timing was going to be tricky, Cradeau knew. If the Ranger lowered the shotgun too soon, before Cradeau was close enough, it was going to be all over. The Ranger would have had the drop on Cradeau. No, Cradeau decided that once the Ranger allowed him to get close enough, it wouldn't matter what he did with the shotgun.

The Ranger let him get close enough. Just as the Ranger began to move, Cradeau gunned his Harley. The machine roared to life. The front wheel left the pavement. Cradeau had carefully aimed at the Ranger's left shoulder. The front wheel whacked the Ranger's shoulder as the bike and Cradeau screamed past. The Ranger was knocked ass over tea kettle.

Cradeau let off the throttle to allow the front wheel to come back to earth. Then he roared up the gentle incline past the intersection praying that the Rangers could still see his tail lights and that there were no bison on the road. There weren't. As soon as he negotiated the first turns in the road, and just before the road swung into a straightaway, Cradeau killed his lights, came to a complete stop, turned left and drove his cycle straight up the hill into the trees. Once he was well off the road, he killed his engine and waited. He had to wait less than two minutes. He carefully counted all four vehicles as they sped past his position, their red lights flashing and twinkling through the trees. Cradeau was grateful his assault on the Ranger had so enraged the man that he had joined the chase. It was the only way Cradeau's plan could work.

Cradeau started the Harley and gingerly picked his way down through the trees to the highway. He kept his lights off and swung south toward the Fishing Bridge intersection, all the while he prayed that the Rangers had not brought in reinforcements. They hadn't. The intersection was clear. Cradeau kept his lights off. He crossed the famous bridge and motored as quietly as possible through the Village. Then he picked up speed.

He could not run all out. For that, he would need his lights, and he did not want to turn them on. He calculated that the Rangers would figure he'd given them the slip just about a mile or two into Hayden Valley. By then, they'd be able to see far enough ahead to know he probably wasn't there. They'd figure, rightly, that he was somewhere behind them. They would turn around then and rush back to Fishing Bridge. At the moment of their turning around, he would have about twelve miles of lead on them. If just one Park Service employee had heard him motor through, they'd soon know that he was ahead of them, headed toward the East Entrance, which is precisely where he was.

He had gambled that no one would hear him driving through Fishing Bridge. He was wrong, they had heard him, and that was bad luck. The Rangers would get to Fishing Bridge and be told he was in front of them. Then, they'd pour on the coals and race after him. Under different conditions he might be able to outrace them. But with radio and telephone communications at their disposal, it would be a simple thing for them to have the East Entrance closed ahead of him. So superior speed was no advantage anyway. No, Cradeau decided, he would drive the north shore of the lake with no lights on at all, trusting in luck that there would be no large animals on the road, seeing by the reasonably good light of a moon that was in third quarter phase.

The Rangers might suspect that he was ahead of them. But, with his lights out, they would never see him. As a Psychology major he knew that the corollary to 'seeing is believing' is 'not seeing is not believing'. On this he was counting. He would never give his pursuers a glimpse of him. He knew that by the time he got to the last point he where could see the Lake, he'd be able to look back and see how far back his pursuers were. He also knew that once they got to the same place on the road, without once having seen his tail lights, doubts would begin to creep into their thinking. The further they drove into the dark forest that lines the approach to Sylvan Pass, the larger their doubts would become.

He arrived safely, if very tired and shakey, at that point. There is a small pullout there. He stopped and looked back. There they were. There were three of them. The Ranger he'd hit with his wheel had, no doubt, been left back at his original post, at the intersection. He'd been foolish to ever leave it. The original three pursuers were back there, only now they were getting smarter. Two raced together out front about as fast as they could drive. But the third was driving slower, a couple of miles behind the first two. Cradeau calculated that the lead pair was three miles, or about three minutes behind.

Cradeau forced his tired body to drive up the road as he forced his equally tired mind to think. He calculated that they, with their lights blazing. could drive roughly twice as fast as he could drive with his lights out. Simple algebra allowed him to figure that at the end of five minutes the lead pair would only be a half minute behind him. That's as close as he ever wanted them to be. So, in less than five minutes he had better be off the road in a safe place. After four minutes he left the road, driving uphill in the dark using the moonlight and the trees to his advantage. He killed his engine and waited.

On came the two lead vehicles just like before, hell bent for Sylvan Pass and the East Entrance. But Cradeau did not take the bait and pull out behind them after they passed. He waited five more minutes until the third vehicle passed his position. He noticed that the third car had its window down. Smart. The driver was listening for the sound of a motorcycle. Cradeau waited another ten minutes, then carefully and slowly followed his pursuers up the road toward Sylvan Pass.

He knew he did not dare drive into the wide notch that is Sylvan Pass with the Rangers anywhere close by. They'd hear his cycle for sure, with the sound bouncing off the cliffs to both the north and south of the pass. He would have to wait on the west end of the pass. He chose the east end of Sylvan lake. Here he carefully left the road and drove through trees out of sight. He shut down his machine. He dismounted and put it up on the kickstand. He was surprised by how stiff he was and how hard it was for him to move. But he knew he must move. He cut a bough off a Lodgepole Pine and retraced the cycle's tracks. With great care he erased all signs that anything had ever passed that way. Then he positioned himself where he could see the highway and he waited.

The lead cars had long since arrived at the East Entrance. It was closed tight. When the third car arrived there was nothing for the Rangers to conclude but that Cradeau had given them the slip again and he was probably headed back west toward Fishing Bridge. This sentiment was passed on to the head Ranger at the East Entrance. On this,Cradeau had been counting. The three vehicles turned around and headed back up the steep canyon road toward Sylvan Pass.

The Rangers were wary now and driving slowly. At every logical exit, they turned on their spotlights and looked for cycle tracks. They found none, even at the east end of Sylvan Lake. But Cradeau was glad they were looking. That meant they would eventually find where he had last left the road further west. They would know he had been at that spot, hiding. But what they would not know was which direction he had turned after he'd gotten back up on the highway. They'd have to discuss that before they decided to split up and try both directions. But this time they would not pursue him at full speed. This time they would creep along and it would take them way too long to discover where he had reentered the highway east of Sylvan Lake. He waited ten minutes. Then he started his engine and crept onto the road.

Now he would use his lights. He had to use them. He could not afford to roll off the road coming down the canyon road east of Sylvan Pass with its sheer drops. With great effort he managed to navigate the twisting road. But he was bone tired. He needed to stop soon. He needed to sleep. Soon he was at the East Entrance. Entrances to Yellowstone are primarily revenue producing units. If there is not enough traffic through the gates, it makes no sense to pay Rangers to man them. Normally, the gates are not manned late at night and traffic is free to come and go through them. This time all the exit gates were barred. But the head Ranger had seen no reason to block all the entrance lanes. One was open. After all, they were only trying to prevent someone from leaving the Park. They weren't trying to keep someone from driving into the Park. Besides, the gun-toting Rangers had told him that the guy they were looking for was, by now, far to the west. Cradeau drove quietly out through the unmannded security hole. At last, he was free.

He drove, not well, but slowly and carefully past Pahaska. Sleep was overtaking him. He, at last recognized a place to pull off the road. He pulled out and crept down a dirt road toward the North Fork. There was a small clearing there. He recognized it as the place where we often put kayaks into the river. With great effort, he put the cycle up on its kickstand. Then he collapsed on the ground beside the bike faintly feeling the reassuring heat coming from the warm engine.

He woke in the morning and immediately knew that he was in trouble. his whole body seemed to ache, seemed to be bruised. He sat up and saw blood on his coat and pants. They looked like they were shredded. He saw strange tufts of black hair all over him, matted to his clothes with all the blood. Then he noticed that he wasn't where he'd gone to sleep. He estimated that he was now between fifteen and eighteen feet away from his bike. His head ached, and it was really sore and tender on his left cheek and temple. Obviously, he was bruised badly there. His coat was torn over his right elbow and he knew he was scabbed up there. The injuries on his elbow and his head had not occurred in the fight in the bar. Of that he was certain.

He tried to get up to walk, but found he could not. He crawled to the river. There he managed to get out of his clothes. Then he crawled into the cold water, over the big round rocks which form its bed. He crawled in until he was completely submerged. Then he felt the current carry him down into the deep pool he knew would be there. He rose to the surface. The water felt good to him. He swam over to the edge of the pool until he could stand on the bottom. He felt tiny little bites and nibbles all over the front of him where the fish were nibbling away all the caked blood. He let them feed while he gathered his strength.

He finally pulled himself from the water. He felt just a little better. He was surprised when he looked at his naked body. He was bruised and cut all over. This was a lot worse than he had been after the fight. It looked like he'd been in a lot worse fight after he'd gotten off his Harley. He managed to dress, and get his cycle off its kickstand. He fired up the machine and gingerly drove back into camp. It was Saturday morning. Parents were arriving and kids were leaving. Staff was getting ready for its twenty four hours off.

He managed to park his Harley and walk slowly up to the Staff Cabin. Before he got there Pointer, his roommate, intercepted him and ushered him back to their cabin. Cradeau removed his clothes and crashed into his sleeping bag. They had a short but information-packed conversation before Pointer left the room. Before he left the cabin, he made sure everyone understood that Cradeau was back, but he was not to be disturbed.

Pointer sought out Rick Jade and they had a more lengthy conversation. Pointer ran down to the pond where Sloan and I were stationed. Sloan was left in charge of the pond and I returned with Pointer to the main camp. On our way back to the center of camp, Pointer was talking on his wireless to two different parties. He talked first to one of his cousins in Wolf City. He convinced his cousin to drive up to camp with his fifth-wheel enclosed trailer in tow. Then he called a guy named Pat Frost. He called in a favor and had Frost driving toward camp in a hurry. Then Pointer held an ad hoc meeting with the senior staff. Also in attendence were me, Chavez, Smolinski, and McCormac.

"We got Cradeau back," Pointer explained, "but he's not all in one piece. He's pretty well torn up. He's asleep in our room right now. And there is a little problem." When he said that we all knew there was a big problem.

"It seems there was a big fight between a bunch of bikers and a bunch of loggers in the bar at Lake Lodge last night, and the bar was badly damaged by a fire," Pointer continued. "Jade told me all about it just now. Seems they are looking for a guy on a bright red Harley, a big muscular guy with longish hair and a cheesy mustache. They are looking for our good friend, looking hard. There are all kinds of law enforcement cruising the roads in Yellowstone right now. They've got the ATF guys there and the FBI. All the surrounding Forest Service, highway patrol and sheriff's offices have men out looking right now, all looking for the prick that burned a bar in a National Park. Oh yes, men, this is a Federal case, and the Feds are some pissed off. I wouldn't want to be touring the Park right now on a Harley. This is going to make all the papers in the three state area."

"Shit," Madden exclaimed.

"And then some," Pointer replied. "Our job is to hide the bike until my cousin gets here and we can haul it safely away. Then we've got to get Cradeau cleaned up."

Madden drove the Harley off to a special place in the forest near camp we had already prepared for just this kind of problem. The cycle was quickly hidden.

When Pointer's cousin arrived in camp, Madden jumped in the cab of the pickup and they drove out of camp. Soon Cradeau's Harley was inside the enclosed trailer, strapped down tight, and the door was closed, hiding it from view. The pickup was quickly on its way to Wolf City with its cargo.

Then Pat Frost showed up at camp. Frost is nearly as big as Big Albert and despite his English name, he is mostly Crow. He is a hunter and tracker with exceptional skills. He was quickly told about what we knew of Cradeau's adventures.

"But there is a mystery here too," Pointer told him. "That's why you are here, to help solve the mystery. You see Cradeau can't remember a thing between when he got off his Harley and when he woke up this morning."

Frost wanted to see Cradeau first. We all went into the room and I was shocked by how badly beaten up Cradeau was. Frost examined all of Cradeau's wounds, particularly the bruising on the head. Then he carried the clothes outside and looked at them carefully. They were ripped and torn. There was a lot of blood and black hair stuck to them.

Frost wanted to see the place where Cradeau had woken in the morning. We quickly drove there. Even to an untrained observer like myself, it looked like there had been a scuffle there. Frost took his time. He went all around the site, looking at the ground and the prints there. But he also looked at the branches of the trees and bushes. It took him about an hour to make his examination.

"I am satisfied," Frost announced. "Now I know what happened here. It's a bit unusual, but not impossible."

"We're all ears, Pat" Pointer told him.

"Here is where the Harley was parked," Frost began. "You can see where it rested on the kickstand. Next to it, you can see where Cradeau was on the ground. Then you can see where he got up and took a step forward. Is Cradeau a boxer?"

"Yes, he is."

"That would explain the bruise on the side of his head," Frost continued. "You see there was a bear here, a black bear. The bear stood right here on his hind legs in front of Cradeau. Cradeau probably got up when he heard the bear in his sleep. The bear swung at Cradeau with his right paw. Cradeau stepped into it to reduce the force of the blow, like a boxer would. That's why the bear did not break the skin. He only hit Cradeau with the big pad of his paw, not the claws. That move probably saved his life. The blow knocked Cradeau unconscious. He tore up his right elbow when he fell against this limb here," Frost said pointing out a limb on a nearby tree.

"The bear drug Cradeau's body back to this point here," Frost went on. "Then something happened, something strange, a miracle really. Along this path here came another, bigger bear at high speed. This second bear challenged the black bear and they literally fought over Cradeau's body. The black bear got the worst of it. That's where most of the blood and the hair came from, from the black bear. He left going that way.

The new bear was a different color than the first bear. At first I thought it was a grizzly, but the hair has far too much red in it, see?" and Frost held up some strands of cinnamon-colored hair. "It is a cinnamon-colored black bear."

"Junior," we all said together.

"Ah, then you know this other bear. He won the fight alright, there's very little of his fur here. This is all very strange. The second bear you call Junior won the fight but did not harm Cradeau afterward. He just laid over there to make sure the other bear was really gone. He probably left when Cradeau woke up. He may not be very far away, even now."