Before statehood, grizzly bear hunting was a profitable trade in California. Nowadays, hides are as rare as an honest politician. I blame the legal profession; Gentlemen of the California State Bar can’t resist the sport of killing. Their unofficial headquarters is a tiny Napa Valley resort at the base of the Vaca Mountain Range. Lawyers, clerks, and judges pay hefty fees to stalk bears of any size, color, and temperament.
One warm July evening, a renowned judge arrested an entire company of visitors with tales spanning the jurisprudence of Athens to rumors of an American overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy. Whenever anyone dared interrupt the orator with either question or comment, the elder would raise a bony pale hand and sputter the words, “Presently! Presently!” Even after retreating upstairs, beneath the floorboards, I heard the learn’d jurist continue his pontification.
An hour before daybreak, I descended into the parlor to find the fireplace barren, the judge droning, and a solitary young man sitting with bloodshot eyes, bawled fists, and a vein in his forehead the size of the Colorado River. I pretended to know the poor soul. Out of the earshot of the magistrate, I asked how the boy endured. Missouri-born, he dreamt of practicing law. A career in dentistry is where he set his sights now. He broke a molar grinding his teeth all night.
Knowing me as a bear-eater, he inquired whether I had any milk teeth. It is a common practice among Saint Louis dentists to replace human molars with the premolars of 18-month-old bear cubs. The greenhorn gave me his caravan pass for next summer in exchange for two milk teeth. Thanks to my lucrative new career, I’ve purchased an 18-karat set of gold teeth. How could I foresee that my lustrous smile would soon endanger my life?
En route from San Francisco to Stags’ Leap Manor, a masked figure boarded our transport in the cloak of night demanding we, “stand and deliver!” One among us pleaded, “We’re simply hunters with nothing of value. Knowing the risks, even our wedding rings are back home.”
“I will steal a red-hot stove” promised the highwayman, “then come back for the smoke.”
A familiar voice replied, “Hark, my son, I have the honor of serving this great state as an officer of its highest court and must inform you that our tribunal, in its abundant wisdom, has escalated the liability standard of a capital offense in this jurisdiction to a threshold which…”
“Call it off, boys!” ordered the leader of the highwaymen. “I recall this old fart! If we don’t get out now, the fool will keep us ‘til morning.”
This short story first appeared on September 3rd, 2024 in Pulp Literary Magazine, issue 3, part 2.
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