When he swung clumsily towards the Englishman’s boy, the boy said loudly, “You ain’t sniffing me, you bastard.”
The bear stood swaying, then jerked and rolled his shoulders so the distinctive hump of the grizzly rose up menacingly on his back under the torn shirt. The Englishman’s boy did his best to stare him off like a dog, but these weren’t the eyes of a dog. They were the black fierce lights of the bear the Indians called the real-bear, the grizzly, beside which all other bears were nothing. This was the bear that broke the body of the hunter in the bushes, killed the women and children when he found them stealing in his berry patch; this was the bear who crushed your bones as easily as he did the bones of a salmon, who tore your guts with his claws. This was the bear with the great hunger, the bear who, in his rage, could eat the world, all its fruits, all its fish, all its flesh.
And he was in the room with them.
“Yes, you will,” said Grace quietly. “You will let him sniff you.”
The bear came forward, the vermilion on his face shining with grease, the charcoal eyes and mouth shafts leading into some terrible inner darkness, a darkness out of which he groaned hollowly, out of which he laboured to walk on his hind legs, like a man.
Then he was in the Englishman’s boy’s face, inches from it. The boy could smell meat on the panting breath, smell the bear grease twisted up in the balls of hair on either side of his head – smell something else, musky, slightly skunky, which snagged in his throat, coating it with old, rancid fat. The bear peered into his face, nose to nose. Sniffed him.
Death was smelling him to see if he was ripe; Death was looking him in the eyes to see how they would answer. When the grizzly caught you, you best play possum.
Don’t you try to eat me, old bear. I ain’t big, but I’m more’n you can swallow. I might stick in your throat and choke you. I might slide down your gullet like a straight razor, slice you stem to stern.
The bear was leaving him, swinging his head toward Grace. The two black eyes bored across the table to where the child clutched Grace’s shirt pocket, mouth hanging open with terror. The Englishman’s boy thought he could see a little picture of Grace holding that babe tight sitting in each eye of the bear. Slowly, the bear wrinkled his lips and bared his teeth. Slowly, he backed across the room to the door, his moccasins whispering in the dirt as he smiled his yellow, carnivorous grin for Grace and only Grace. Then he was gone.
The Englishman’s boy glanced at the Eagle. He was staring at the yawning door, clasping the child even closer.
“Eagle.”
Grace didn’t answer.
“Eagle.”
He turned to the boy, kissed the child on the head, set her on the floor between his feet.
“What the hell was that, Eagle?”
Grace stood up. “Assiniboine Bear Cult man. One of the chosen few the bear visits in a dream to pass bear medicine to.”
“So what the hell was he doing here?”
Grace was watching the door, as if he expected the bear to shuffle back in any minute. “I don’t know. But it can’t be good. A bear man always means bad luck. They never prosper. Their wives die and their children go hungry. The spirit of the bear brings trouble and death. They have a reputation as touchy killers like the grizzly. Maybe these people know what it means, but I don’t.” The family sat solemn as owls, watching Grace as he spoke. He put money beside his plate, more money than he should have. “I’ve got a bad feeling. I think we better get on back to the post and warn the boys. Maybe it’s nothing but it stinks like something.” He turned to the old woman. “We’re obliged for the hospitality. I’m obliged to have sat in a house on a Sunday. When we’re gone, bar the door.”
Leaving wasn’t so easy though; when she realized he intended to go, Rose Marie wrapped herself around his leg and hung on with all her might. The Eagle pried her off, screaming, and passed her to her granny.
Stepping out the door the Eagle drew his pistol and signed for the Englishman’s boy to do the same. The door closed behind them and they heard the bar fall with a solid chunk behind them. It was hot and still. The sun glared on the surrounding cabins. There was no smoke rising from the chimneys. A great silence reigned. Grace cocked his head, listening. Nothing but insects playing jew’s-harps in the grass. Even the dogs were mute. Not a soul moved outside the cabins. He could feel eyes pressed to the chinks between the logs, watching him.
He narrowed his eyes against the painful light, attentively swept the field from right to left. It was empty. No sign of the Bear Cult man. He had disappeared, maybe into the willows down by the creek. Maybe across the creek and up the bench rising to the north of Moses Solomon’s fort. He prayed God he wasn’t lying up there with a gun, sighting them now.
“Let’s move,” he said.
He broke into a trot and the Englishman’s boy fell in beside him. The gophers squeaked and dove for their holes at their approach. The Englishman’s boy didn’t know why they were running, but suddenly, like Farmer Hank, he had no intention of being left behind. The taut look on the Eagle’s face persuaded him that if the Eagle said move, they’d better move.
The Eagle had bottom, he never let up until they reached Fort Farwell. The Metis were gone. Across the creek the Indian camp might have been a painting, except that now and then a dog or horse moved, spoiling the picture and the conceit. The only living thing outside the walls of the fort was Scotty hunched on a wooden bucket; Scotty smiling to himself, scribbling like mad with a stub of pencil in a cracked-spine journal.
“Where’s Hardwick?” Grace asked him.
Scotty didn’t look up.
Grace took him by the shoulder and shook him. “Goddamn it, where’s Hardwick?”
Scotty stared up with a dazed, angelic smile. He shaded his eyes with a hand. “Why, in Hades,” he said sweetly, then returned to writing.
The Englishman’s boy tapped Grace on the shoulder. A rider was coming toward the post at a gallop. George Hammond in a lather of high excitement. “That thieving red son of a bitch stole my horse again!” he shouted. “Same son of a bitch I paid a bottle of whisky yesterday! Same horse! I’m riding over yonder to get him back!” He pointed wildly to the Assiniboine camp as his horse champed and spun. “I regret to say there ain’t no men at Moses Solomon’s post with the guts to support me, but I heard tell there’s a fellow here by the name of Tom Hardwick who has a reputation for being a man! I rode over to see if he’s as big as his brag! I rode over to see if he’ll back a fellow recovering his rightful property! I rode over to see -”
“Goddamn right he will,” said Hardwick, stepping through the gate of the stockade. “Goddamn right he will.” He walked toward the mounted man with his arm outstretched. “And here’s his hand on it.”
24
Chance set an absolute deadline for delivery of a first draft of the photoplay. I’ve been working day and night for two weeks, surviving on sandwiches, coffee, cigarettes, and nerves. Fifteen years ago a scenario was a bare- bones sketch, often written in a day, a crutch which director and actors used as a guide to improvise a picture. Photoplays have become more detailed, but they’re still expected to be quickly written, rough-hewn scenes, a blueprint for a shoot. Maybe I’ve got too close to the material. It’s tough to convey the feeling of McAdoo’s story without dialogue, because I keep hearing his voice, the way he
