Don't Poke the Bear!

Chapter 4

IT TAKES LESS than three minutes to walk to Jim Bigsby's Livery. Jim's got a lantern lit, and he appears to be waitin' for me.

"Heard you shot the Russian," he says.

"News travels fast."

He shrugs. "Small town."

"He have a horse?"

He laughs. "Nope."

"What's so funny?"

"You'll see."

"Did he leave somethin' here?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Did he pay you?"

"Nope."

Bigsby chuckles.

"You don't seem very upset about it," I say.

"It's worth seein' the look on your face when I give it to you."

I frown. "Well, let's have a look then."

He leads me to the last stall in the barn, past nine empty stalls. Holds the lantern up so I can see what's in there.

"What the hell?"

I'm lookin' at a bear. A big, black bear.

"He's yours now," Bigsby says.

"What?"

"It belonged to the Russian. You killed him; that makes him your property. And you owe me two dollars for stablin' him tonight."

"What the hell am I supposed to do with a bear?"

"I was you, I'd eat it. Course, I ain't you."

I ponder that a minute, 'cause I've eaten black bear and found it tasty, unlike brown bear or grizzly, which is stringy and flavorless.

"I might be able to move some bear steak out of my kitchen," I say.

"Then pay me and take him with you."

"Now?"

"I charged the Russian four dollars a day. Two dollar minimum."

"That's crazy!"

"It's the goin' rate for bears in these parts."

I frown deeper. "You ever stabled a bear before?"

"This is my first. But at these prices, I'm hopin' to get more. Still, if I'm you, two dollars for a six hundred pound bear seems cheap to me."

It did to me too, though I felt slighted in a way I couldn't quite wrap my mind around. Then I remembered.

"It's costin' me fifteen dollars to bury the Russian."

"You could toss him in your jail hole for free, and fill it in. That'd make Miss Gentry happy, I 'spect."

We spend the next minute quiet, content to stare at the bear. I guess everyone in town must know Gentry's opinion of the indoor jail, though neither of us tells things about the other. It's our whores that seem to know everythin', and have lots of occasions to gossip with the men they serve. Now that my eyes are better adjusted to the lamp light spillin' into the stall, I get a better look at the bear's condition.

"What's wrong with him?"

"You mean his attitude, or the rope runnin' through his nose and cheek?"

"Both."

"I can't speak to his attitude, 'cause he's only been here a half hour. Maybe he's sick. The rope in his face was tied to a lead line, and that's how the Russian walked him into town."

"What about the old man? What's his story?"

"He got here ten minutes after the Russian. Said he was trackin' him and planned to kill him. Guess you kilt him first."

"The Russian winged him, and was fixin' to kill him, till I stepped in."

"And now you got a bear and a seventeen dollar debt. Minus whatever you took off the Russian's body."

"You got the lead line?" I ask.

"If you got the two dollars."

We settle up, and I lead what appears to be a very sick bear from one dusty end of Front Street all the way to First Street. We pass Vlad's body, turn right, pass two businesses, and climb the three wooden steps that lead to the porch of The Lucky Spur.