Gordon Dickson - The Right to Arm Bears

“Of course,” rumbled Flat Fingers.

“But then it happened,” said More Jam. He gazed sadly at the Bluffer and at Flat Fingers, and then, unaccountably, his eyes wandered slowly back again to meet the eyes of Bill.

“It?” demanded the Bluffer.

“Would you believe it,” demanded More Jam, staring at Bill, “after I’d left One Man—it was a pitch-black night out, of course—on the way back to the Inn, I bumped into someone who told me that my maternal grandmother had just died back down here at Muddy Nose?”

“You grandmother?” began Flat Fingers, wrinkling his nose in puzzlement. “But I thought—”

“Well, of course,” went on More Jam smoothly, ignoring the blacksmith and keeping his gaze on Bill, “no ordinary person would ever have thought of trying to get from where I was all the way back to Muddy Nose to pay my last respects to my grandmother, and still make the trip back again in time for the fight the next day. No ordinary person, as I say. But in those days I was in pretty good shape, what with one thing and another. And I didn’t hesitate for a minute. I just took off.”

“But your grandmother—” Flat Fingers was attempting again, when More Jam smoothly interrupted him once more.

“—Wasn’t dead at all as it turned out, of course,” said More Jam, his eyes still fixed on Bill’s. “As folks around here know, she lived to be a hundred and ten. It was just some kind of a rumor that this stranger had picked up and passed on. And of course, it was so dark out when he told me that I didn’t know what he looked like. So I was never able to find him again.”

“Good thing for him I bet!” muttered Flat Fingers. “So you went all the way home and didn’t get back in time for the fight? Was that it, More Jam?”

“Not exactly,” said More Jam. “As I say, I was in pretty good shape in those days. I turned right around when I found out the truth, and headed back toward the foothills. And I made it back, too. I got back to Shale River Ford just as dawn was breaking. But you know, when I hit the door of the Inn, I sort of collapsed. I just fell down and passed out. It was plain for one and all to see that after a round trip like that, I was in no condition to fight.”

“True enough,” said the Hill Bluffer, with an expert traveler’s judiciousness.

“So that’s why you didn’t fight One Man?” interposed Flat Fingers.

“Well… yes, and no,” said More Jam mildly. “You see a funny thing had happened to him, too—I found out after I woke up. Just as One Man was heading back to the Inn, himself, the night before, after talking to me—I told you how dark it was out—”

“You told us,” put in Flat Fingers.

“Well, dark out as it was,” said More Jam, “One Man didn’t see this hole in the ground. And he stepped right into it and twisted his ankle. Broke it, I think, although it was kind of hard to tell; his legs were so muscley. Of course,” added More Jam, deprecatingly, with a glance at Flat Fingers and the Bluffer, “nobody was about to call One Man a liar if he said he thought his ankle was broken.”

“Ha!” snorted the Bluffer. “That’s right enough!”

“And, of course,” added More Jam mildly, “nobody would think of doubting my word that I’d actually had somebody come up to me in the dark who I couldn’t see, and tell me a false rumor about my grandmother being dead.”

“I’d like to see them try it!” growled Flat Fingers. “That’d be something to see!”

“So, one way and another,” wound up More Jam, his gaze returning to Bill, “neither One Man nor I was fit to have that fight after all. And the way it worked out, we never did meet again. Though I hear he’s still alive, up there in the mountains.”

“He sure is,” said the Hill Bluffer. “Says he’s all worn out now and decrepit! Him—decrepit!” The Bluffer snorted again, disbelievingly.

“You shouldn’t jump to conclusions though, Postman,” put in More Jam, almost primly. “You young men in the prime of life, you don’t know what it’s like when your bones start creaking and groaning. Why, some people might even look at me and think I might have as much as a shadow of my own old strength left. But I tell you, if it wasn’t for my daughter’s cooking—and my stomach’s so delicate nowadays I can’t handle anything else—I’d have been dead long ago. You may not believe One Man’s being cut down by age, but an old hulk like me knows better.”

The Bluffer muttered something, but not loudly enough, or in a tone disbelieving enough, to emerge as obvious challenge to the innkeeper’s statement.

“But there you have it, Pick-and-Shovel,” said More Jam sadly, turning back to Bill. “That story of mine, of how I had my chance at One Man and then missed out on it—through no fault of my own—has been preying on my mind for a couple of days, now. I just figured I had to step up here and tell you about it, so it could be a caution to you. I know you can’t hardly wait to get at Bone Breaker, just like I couldn’t hard wait to get at One Man, and vice-versa. But things you wouldn’t believe can crop up to interfere with the most promising tangle in the world.”

He sighed heavily, apparently remembering Shale River Ford.

“So I just wanted to put you on your guard,” he went on. “Something just might come up that’d threaten to keep you from meeting Bone Breaker for that duel. But if it does, let me tell you, you only have to turn and call for More Jam for anything his old carcass can manage by way of help. Because it means a lot to me, your taking Bone Breaker, it really does.”

“It does?” said Bill puzzled. “Why to you, in particular?”

“Why, because of this delicate stomach of mine,” said More Jam, patting the stomach in question tenderly. “Oh, I know some folks in Muddy Nose think I’m going against tradition, when I back up my little daughter in refusing to let herself be taken off to Outlaw Valley to live. But if Bone Breaker takes her away, who’s going to cook for poor old More Jam? I can’t move out there with her and turn outlaw at my time of life—even if my old bones would stand the hardships. On the other hand, if he’d do like she wants and settle down here in Muddy Nose, I know I’d always have a bench at their table. Or maybe he’d even want to go into the inn business with me. So, as I say, if you ever find yourself in a position where you have to think about not tangling with Bone Breaker—for his sake, of course—just stop and think instead about More Jam, and see if it doesn’t help!”

He closed his eyes, patted his mountainous stomach again, very tenderly, and fell silent. Bill stared at him, baffled.

“All right, Pick-and-Shovel!” said the blacksmith’s voice.

Bill turned to find Flat Fingers stooping over him with a leather cord in his two, huge furry hands.

“Hold your arm out, there,” rumbled the big Dilbian, “and I’ll get you measured for your little blade and buckler—though much good they’re likely to be to you—”

Bill’s mind had been whirling ever since More Jam had finished talking. What it was spinning about, mostly, was the strange glances the rotund Dilbian had kept shooting at him while telling the story about his own near-fight with the mountain champion, One Man. Clearly, More Jam had been trying to convey some sort of message. But what was it? Bill tried to make some kind of connection between the story of the near-duel and what Anita Lyme had said to him the evening before. Maybe there was more to this business of organizing the villagers to defy the outlaws than he had thought. On the other hand, clearly More Jam was offering to be an ally of some sort. But just how was he supposed to do that? Flat Fingers obviously had a pretty low opinion of Shorties, physically at least. The blacksmith was not likely to accept as a leader someone with whom he was not impressed, and how could Bill impress him—particularly, physically? Offhand, he could think of nothing in which he could even begin to put up a showing against one of the huge, male Dilbians. He certainly could not outrun them, nor outjump them, nor—