Using pine pitch and cones, I started the morning’s campfire for those who would soon be crawling out of their bags. I poured what coffee was left into the blued enameled pot sitting next to last night’s fire and drank it. Cold and bitter, it provided the jolt I needed. Josey, Rojo, Alred and Rosanky had merely moved a few feet since dark. I secured them to make-shift hitching rail.
Before leaving camp, I grabbed my .45 Colt revolver, its bluing worn off from years of carrying. My late father-in-law had given it to me when Maria and I had started going together. “Son!” said he with a sly smile, “If you’re thinking of marrying that strong-willed daughter of mine, this may come in handy!”
I patted the old revolver. Its grips were fashioned from the antlers of a bull elk I’d shot the year our first daughter made her appearance on Earth. The revolver gave me a sense of comfort and of home. The first chamber held a solid. Next in the cylinder’s rotation was a round loaded with No. 8 shot for dispatching rattlesnakes, followed by four more hard-cast solids. Mind you, I’m not big on killing snakes purely for the sake of killing those slithery critters. They’ve got their place as long as they are several feet away from me and my dogs. I suspected most self-respecting cold blooded vibras had by now crawled into a hole for the winter.
I listened intently, hoping to hear the tinkling of Chester’s bell. Likely he had drifted toward the creek south of camp, drawn by water and green grass. I waited for awhile, then headed south on a well-walked game trail.
Fifty steps down the trail, I spotted bear tracks – big’uns. Probably made by an old boar looking for one more meal before he’d headed toward hibernation. The tracks had obviously been made by a black bear based on the length of the claws. According to “wildlife experts,” there were no grizzly bears as far south as we were. Some locals questioned this. Merely proclaiming and hoping such did not make it true or real.
After a quarter mile, I spotted Chester’s horse-shoed tracks. On top of them were bear tracks, those I had seen earlier. The .45 Colt revolver at my side now felt even more comforting. Might not be ideal for dispatching a bear, but I was pretty handy at placing bullets precisely where I wanted them to go.
I slowed my pace, taking time to look and see what lay ahead, and, behind!
After all, it was hunting season and I just happened to have a bear tag in my possession. Frankly, I hoped to encounter a bear, one that had eaten well and had a thick layer of tallow. Oil rendered from a fall-fat black bear makes some of the finest and best cooking oil available, especially for baking bread, biscuits and pastries, not to mention fried potatoes. I smacked my lips in anticipation.
I heard the tinkling of a bell followed by a high-pitched “Neeeeheeeee!” Chester, no doubt it was him. There likely was not another horse within miles outside of those tied to the hitching rail in camp. I stopped to listen. I heard a series of deep, guttural growls, indicating that a bear was after Chester. I ran toward the louder growing melee, charging through buckbrush thickets, in the process nearly losing my tightly screwed-on hat.
From what I could hear, Chester was holding his own, at least for the moment. The bear growled louder and deeper. Chester whinnied louder and higher pitched. I could not see them, but I was obviously getting closer the sounds because the sounds were getting louder and louder. No way could I allow the bear to cripple or kill Chester. We needed him for the hunters already in camp and to pack our gear back to the trailhead.
Running, I pulled the revolver from the holster while rotating the six-shooter’s cylinder past the the snake-medicine cylinder, so I had five solid bullets to send. Last thing I wanted, if I had to shoot a bear, was to hit him with a light load of No. 8 bird shot!
A few more steps and both Chester and the bear came into full view. The dappled gray was backed against a solid stand of oak brush, ears laid back against his neck, mouth wide open, teeth glistening, prepared to put a hurt on the bear if he came with in biting range.
The upright bear, mouth agape to bite and hold on, raised his left foreleg so he could swat and break the horse’s neck soon as the opportunity allowed. For the moment, it was a stand-off. I intended to sway things to Chester’s advantage as I pointed my .45 at the bear’s vitals only 20 steps away.
As my revolver came up toward the bear, I cocked the single-action’s hammer, then pulled the trigger when the back and front sights aligned with the bear’s vitals.
At the shot, it was as if things went into slow motion. The bear dropped to all fours, swung his head to look at me, hate in his eyes, laid back his ears and took a step toward me. Soon as I had pulled the trigger, I cocked the .45’s hammer on a fresh round.
As the bear started toward me, I pointed the barrel at the front of his nose and fired, hoping I had led the beast sufficiently to brain him. I saw the bullet strike just behind his skull, slightly off to the right side of his spine.
My bullet slowed the bear but did nothing to dampen his resolve to make me his last meal. I cocked the hammer a third time, far faster than could ever be spoken or written about and pointed my gun at the animal, now less than ten steps away and determined to attack me.
My thoughts were to hit him a third time, then save the fourth and my fifth hard-cast bullet for when I had to shove my revolver into his mouth and hopefully kill him.
After my next shot, everything seemed to be happening in super slow-motion, and I recalled what an old-time Canadian sourdough guide had told me regarding the difference between grizzlies and black bears: “Son, a griz will bite and bat ya’ around a bit. If he thinks you’re dead, he’ll walk away. A black bear will swat ya’, bite ya’ and then eat ya’ before leavin’. If’n ya’ get in a jam with a black bear, don’t ever quit fighting!”
Suffice to say, I was determined to go down swinging.
My next hard-cast bullet hit just to the right of the bear’s head, now only a few feet way. I thumbed the six-shooter’s hammer on the second to last solid bullet. I doubted the cylinder filled with a No. 8 shot would do little to discourage the bear from eating me.
I had forgotten about Chester.
The bear was all but on top of me when he came to a sudden stop. It was like he had been jerked backwards! I looked past the bear. There stood Chester, his jaws locked on the bear’s rump, legs braced to keep the bear from going forward. All still in slow-motion. Before the bear could turn to swat at his stopper only inches away, I put a solid slug into his brain. He went limp, not moving. I cocked the six-shooter to load the remaining solid, took several steps back and watched as Chester shook the bear.
I breathed a sigh of relief, then shot the bear in the head, holstered my .45 and reached to hug Chester’s neck, his jaws still gripping the bear. I unwound the lead rope wrapped around my middle and secured it round Chester’s neck. After a silent prayer about having a horse like Chester, I began trying to lead him away, but he refused to release the bear. After considerable coaxing, I finally convinced him to give up his death grip on the bear.
I left the bear where it fell after I applied my tag and would come back later to take care of the meat, tallow and hide. I led Chester toward camp, albeit on shaky knees, mine and likely his.
“Heard the shots! You okay?” asked someone sitting next to the blazing campfire.
“Yeah, I had to shoot a bear.” I responded, walking toward the four tethered horses. I tied Chester next to them.
As I began saddling the three sorrels and the bay, I was interrupted, being handed a hot cup of cowboy coffee by Sam, one of my fellow guides. “You okay?” He again queried. I did not immediately answer.
“Whoever was supposed to ride Chester today is gonna have to walk,” I said. “Matter of fact, send that hunter with me. He can help with the bear I had to shoot.”
Turning toward Sam, I asked, “Mind finishing saddling the rest of horses . . . all but Chester? I’m gonna give him an extra ration of oats and hay. He earned and deserves it!”
I hesitated before going into the tack and horse feed tent. “Never gonna complain about that horse wandering off again . . . ever!” I said with great resolve.
“Got a story to tell?” asked Sam.
“Probably best to tell it around the campfire tonight after the hunt, accompanied by a wee dram or two of “Who Shot John!” Matter of fact, I’m gonna add a bit of that safe water to what’s left of this coffee! Before I start the rest of the day!”