Quarter Reads is a series of short stories written by me, stuartcturnbull.
This one is called Achim and the Bear. A weird western with my recurring character Achim Witt
Achim Witt tracked the bear for three days. He followed its spoor from the edge of a deep stream, across the valley floor, and up through close packed trees.
Now the sun was dipping behind the ridge, and he’d be lucky to catch it today. Still, he was confident. The creature appeared to be heading in one direction, as if purposefully, and its tracks showed an injured left hind leg. The last pile of bear shit, in the lee of birch tree, was only a couple of hours old. He was gaining. Sometime tomorrow the bear would be in range of his rifle.
Achim wasn’t keen on killing the bear. A man, that was neither here-nor-there - the law allowed a righteous killing and his were all justified, in his heart at least. But animals were different. Sure, rabbit for the pot, a good beef steak, a man’s gotta eat. Or if a creature attacked him, like wolves and snakes in times past. The bear, though, was a creature of another order. It looked after its home area, stopped smaller creatures getting uppity and eating the land all to nothing, prevented smaller carnivores wiping out deer, and the like.
But he needed the money a bear pelt would bring. Since Horse died he’d had to walk all over and it was getting old. Time for a new ride, maybe even one he’d give a name to.
The trees cleared giving a view to the top of the ridge. Achim froze. The bear was there. It stood on its hind legs sniffing the air, turning left and right. It knew there was something to smell, and was seeking it.
Achim stepped back into the trees. He took the rifle from his shoulder and slid the bolt, slow and steady to keep the noise down. Still the bear searched the air with its nose. Bringing the rifle up Achim used a tree trunk as a brace, and peered along the barrel.
The shot was about two hundred yards, uphill. Allowing for the bias of the gun, the distance, and height, Achim aimed at the sky a few inches up and left of the bears head. He exhaled with a soft sigh and, in the quiet space at the bottom of the breath, squeezed the trigger.
The flat crack of the rifle echoed. The bear jerked, and fell to all fours with a roar. Achim slid another bullet into the rifle and looked to shoot again, but the bear was gone, disappeared from sight.
Holding the gun across his chest Achim ran hard, as he had chasing rebels across bloody fields. When he crested the ridge there was blood on the ground, confirming the shot had been on target, if not perfectly. The bear was already out of sight, down into the trees that led to a lake.
An old log cabin sat in a clearing about a third of the way round the water. Achim had sudden hope of a warm fire and sleeping inside for the first time in nearly a month. He took dead reckoning on the structure and headed into the increasing gloom.
Keeping eyes and ears alert for the injured beast made Achim wander a little in the trees, and he came to the edge of the lake four or five hundred yards from the cabin. The last daylight was disappearing, shades of red and purple fading into black above the tops of the trees, reflecting on the still water of the lake.
By the time he reached the cabin the moon had risen. It was full, and bright, shining like a lamp on a polished mirror. Light flickered round the shutters and beneath the door, wood smoke was in the air. He knocked.
“Come in.”
The voice was reedy, and sounded pained.
Inside an old man sat on a chair with his left leg on a stool. Dark grey hair, face lined by years of exposure to the sun. He cradled his left arm. Blood spotted the sleeve, seeped through from the bandage beneath. Faded dungarees hung on him like a sack on a scarecrow. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
“What?” Achim’s hand slid to his hip, ready to draw.
“You been tracking me a couple of days at least. And that was a decent shot up the ridge. Take a seat, you’re looking weary and confused.”
“I’ll stand, right now. I been tracking a bruin.”
The old man nodded. “An old injured one. I know, it’s me, most of the time.”
“Explain.”
“Most of the month, I’m a bear. But at full moon, I turn human for a day or two.”
“Impossible.”
The old man shrugged. “Yet true. Like I said, I’ve been waiting for you. Got a favor to ask. Sure you won’t sit? There’s some ‘shine in the jar there. If you don’t want, I’d appreciate a mug.”
Achim poured for them both, and sat on the edge of the table. “Ask away.”
“You’re handy with a gun. I want you to shoot me. I’m old, injured, haven’t eaten in near a month. And this is the time of year I should be building my reserves for winter. Send me to glory with some dignity.”
“Wont kill a man who don’t deserve it.”
“Not even as a mercy?”
“I’ll feed you, help you recover. Stack up some logs. You got plenty years left.” Achim didn’t believe the old man was the bear. It was nonsense.
The old man sighed. “What’d you do if a bear attacked you?”
“Defend myself.”
“Huh.”
Achim heated up coffee, and boiled some beans. The old man was called Haggerty, and he’d lived by the lake for over twenty years, moving into a cabin built by his grandfather long before.
“Spin me your yarn,” Achim said, as they sat with more moonshine, the fire freshly stacked with logs.
“My yarn?”
“The bear story. Haven’t heard a good tale in a stretch.”
Haggerty frowned. His eyebrows were thick, white, and looked like caterpillars rippling on his forehead.
“What to tell. Most of the month I’m a bear. Roam the valley over doing what bears do. When the moon comes near to full I work my way back to here, must be some kind of instinct.”
“You don’t know it’s happening.”
“I’m a bear. I know where my favorite itching tree is, and where the salmon pass closest to a shallow part of the river.”
“Who taught you to speak? You talk okay for someone human one day a month, even if you’ve had sixty years worth.”
Haggerty laughed, grimaced, and shifted his arm gently.
“Didn’t turn bear until I hit puberty. Bit of a shock for the folks when I didn’t turn back. ‘Course, when I did, Ma was taking her monthly turn at being a bear. Pa had to explain things to me - he don’t have the curse. He brought me up here, we lived in Grant’s Pass.” He paused and stared at the fire. “Another thing. I’m thirty-five, thirty-six next month. Bears live shorter lives than humans, and I’m bear most of the time.” He held his mug up. “Here, pour me some more.”
Achim did, but only added water to his own half full mug. Listening to the old man was fascinating. Achim found himself almost believing the tale. Looking round the cabin it was obvious no one spent much time here, it had the air of occasional use he’d found in other hunter’s cabins he’d spent a night or two in. And Haggerty had the knack of speaking like he was the character of the tale, it was a rare trick. Achim wondered if he’d been a conman in younger days, he’d met one or two and the good ones had the same skill. You never knew they weren’t a preacher, or prospector, or ranch owner until they’d spun their web, pulled in enough money, and skipped town.
“Now,” Haggerty said, “I just want it over. Pa ain’t come for six months, seven now. Never missed more than one before. Ma, if she’s still alive, and my brother and sisters will be out in a wood somewhere being bears for a night, while I’m here being human.”
I interrupted. “What do you mean?”
It seemed he’d forgotten Achim was there. “What? Oh. See, I didn’t turn back until the next full moon. When I’m human, Ma’s a bear.” His head lolled, and he yawned. “Apart from Pa your the only human I seen in all the years up here. And I need you to make sure I don’t die suffering.” He yawned again.
“Let’s get you to bed old-timer," Achim said. "We’ll talk more in the morning, but tonight’s tale sure was a good one.”
“No tale,” Haggerty slurred as Achim helped him up.
There was only the one bed. Achim settled the old man into it, and sat himself on the chair. Weariness took him and he slept.
A bear’s growl pulled him awake. The fire had burnt out, but daylight slipped through cracks in the wood. The bear roared. Achim pulled his revolver and fired, shooting until all six bullets were used. The bear still stood. He grabbed his rifle, expecting a paw to club him down. He aimed for the head and was about to pull, but at the last moment slid down and fired at the heart. At last the creature fell.
Achim opened the shutter. The bed was empty. A pair of dungarees lay on the floor. The door was still closed, the bolt secure.
So, the old man hadn’t been mad, just impossible. Achim looked at the bear, and knew he couldn’t skin this beast. He’d be horseless for a time more yet.
He thought about burying it. After all, last night it had been a man, and a man had a right to be buried proper. But the body was a bear. As Haggerty burial would have been easy, as the bear not so much. The hole would be huge, and moving the body a trial near on impossible. He stacked fire wood and kindling round the cabin, and over the body.
As the fire took hold he removed a hat and said, “Lord, I ain’t sure what words should be said, but Haggerty seemed a decent man and, man or bear, we’re all your creatures. I guess you can work out what’s right.”
Achim put his hat back on and headed west, towards Grant’s Pass, wondering how he’d find a family of were-bears and tell them their kin was dead.
A future Achim Witt story will be available to read in Zehlreg A. Grindstone's Spectacular Western Oddity Emporium
To find out more about my collaborator check Kirsten Alana
This video was shot by me with a Samsung S24 Ultra and compiled with Wondershare Filmora
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