Chapter Five: Black Bear Bend

Cactus Slim at Black Bear Bend

 

   

   The black bear's shadow was running neck and neck with Cactus Slim. Making Slim doubt his ability to reach the spot on the river where his gear laid. A .50 caliber Henry was cocked, ready to fire. Our boy Slim had been so excited about the trout he was trying to land, safety fell to the wayside, and a race was afoot. But, safety sprang to the four fronts as the 300 plus pound bear lunged to the bank, and ate Slim's breakfast, a breakfast he'd been trying to land for a good fifteen minutes. Bring this lopsided race to life.

 

     Slim leaped over a log that the wind blew over last winter. It had claw marks running down it. This stretch of real estate belongs to Big Ben, Who currently is breathing down Slim's neck. He was closing in on the rifle, which was of little comfort. Seeing how the shadow of the bear was riding piggyback. Slim's thoughts had failed on how he would play this out as he ran on autopilot.

 

    Earlier that morning, Slim had tucked in his pocket a skipping stone. He removed the stone and chucked it into the water, hoping the bear would turn and look. With one breath and seamless motion, he dove for the rifle rolled to his back, and fired a round into the bear's chest.

 

    A scream ripped from the beast. Followed by a roar that sent every bird in the forest a flight. His claws pierced the earth like daggers. A bright, fluid red trickle puddled by his left front paw. His roar turned into a deep low rumbling growl that made Slim's nerves and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Without changing his footing, the bear leaned into the growl bringing his frame a good ten inches closer. The rifle was not set for a second shot, and Slim's sidearm was hanging a lifetime away. Skinning his holster in a fashion that put lightning to shame, Slim emptied his gun. With the final round spent, the paw of the beast set him to air.

 

    Landing in the water, he sprang to his feet. His left arm was motionless at his side. He made ready his Jim Bowie Knife and prayed for God's good graces. The bear and Slim moved in step, each taking a stride closer. The stare of the bear's eyes made his own flood with emotion. As he made peace with his fate, Heaven's grace moved and laid the bear dead at Slim's feet. Truly the number seven is the number of grace. Seven shots clustered tight, and a seven-second prayer is the price for a nine by nine rug made from a Montana Black Bear.

Author's Note

any comments are welcome

Reviews

[SR Urie]

Hello Cherrie.
What a great, adventurous story! Events move so fast that the actions seem to zip by faster than your words. Slim trades his big trophy trout for a bigger black bear rug, adds pearls of lore with the grace of seven, and a close pattern of shots. Very good, very entertaining!

If I may, there are times that it's confusing as to who 'he' is or from whom 'his' shot came or where 'his' paw is going. Pronouns are useful tools in the rush of battle, but you seem to have painted yourself into a puzzled quagmire in the gist of the fight between Slim and the bear, and even though it's obvious that it's Slim's gun and the bear's paw, sometimes it's easier for the me (the reader) if you spell out 'Slim's' or 'the bear's' to avoid confusion while focussing on the actions and the results of the fight. Also in your second paragraph your sentence structure is a little out of whack, and you may want to re-read it to place a needed comma or two and shift capitalization here or there.

Nevertheless you've written a great chapter with good characterization, setting, plot, climax, and ending; giving rise to curiosity about Slim and his adventures in the endless-sky-state wilderness. Keep it up!
BZ