when Black Jean got the fire started and going good it would roar up through the stone and cook it. You could see the blaze for a mile.
One day Black Jean came to the King William looking for that Yankee. Seems that individual hadn't paid for his lime. When Black Jean didn't find him at the tavern he started for the Cove.
I have never known who struck first; but they say the Yankee called Black Jean a damn frog-eater and there was a fight; and that afternoon the French-Canadian came to the tavern with his bears and all three of them got drunk. Black Jean used to keep a muzzle on the larger of the bears but by tilting the brute's head he could pour whisky down its throat. They got pretty drunk, and then someone dared Black Jean to wrestle the muzzled bear.
There was a big tree standing in front of the tavern, and close by was a worn-out pump having a big iron handle. Black Jean and the bear went at it under the tree, the two of the clinching and hugging and swearing until they both gasped for air. This day the big bear was rougher than usual, and Black Jean lost his temper. It was his custom when he got in too tight a place to kick the bear in the stomach; and this time he began using his feet.
Suddenly we heard a rip of clothing. The bear had unsheathed his claws; they were sharp as razors and tore Black Jean's clothing into shreds and brought blood. Black Jean broke loose, his eyes flashing, his teeth gritting. Like lightning, he grabbed his dirk and leaped at the brute and jabbed the knife into its eye and gave a quick twist. The eyeball popped out and hung down by shreds alongside the bear's jaw.
Julian Kilman
Will Have Another Story
In The April
WEIRD TALES
"The Affair of the
Man in Scarlet"
It's a Powerful
Tale With a Terrifying Climax
Never can I forget the human-sounding shriek that bear gave, and how my father caught me up and scrambled behind the tree as the bear started for Black Jean. But the animal was near blinded, and Black Jean had time to jerk the iron handle out of the pump; and then, using it as if it didn't weigh any more than a spider's thought, he beat the bear over the head. He knocked it cold.
Then my father said, "That bear will kill you some day, Jean."
Black Jean stuck the iron pump handle back into its place.
"Bagosh! you t'ink dat tru?" he sneered. "Mebbe I keel her, eh?"
Our place was next to the piece where Black Jean lived, and it was only next morning we heard a loud yelling over at Split Hill. I was a little fellow but spry, and when I reached Black Jean's cabin I was ahead of my father. I saw the French-Canadian leaning against a stump all alone, the blood streaming from his face.
"By God. M'sieu!" he blurted, when my father came up, "She scrat' my eye out."
My father thought he meant the woman.
"Who did?" he asked.
"Dat dam' bear," said Black Jean. "She just walk up an' steeck her foots in my eye."
Father caught hold of Black Jean and helped him to the cabin.
"Which bear was it?" he asked.
Black Jean slumped forward without answering. He had fainted.
I helped father get him into the house—he was more than one man could carry—and just as we went inside there was a growling and snarling, and the big muzzled bear went sliding down that pole to her nest.
