Sgt. Burnbottom

He is a member of the Chloride gunfighters. His name, I am told, comes from a slight accident he had a few years ago. While attempting to put his pistol into his waistband at the back of his trousers, the pistol went off, burning his butt. What could have been a rather damaging event, led only to his new name.

He said that he had been told that my shop carried the largest variety of tanned leather in Kingman. In truth, my shop was the only place in town where leather could be purchased. He told me that he needed enough cow leather to build a new belt and holster for the errant pistol. He didn't want to risk another accident. Bear had introduced us the previous Saturday evening and, after selecting the pieces he needed, we went into conversation. I learned that he was in his early fifties, had never been married, had a keen interest in the American Civil War, and was an artist in several different mediums. While I never considered him a friend in the truest sense of the word, he was more than an acquaintance. He came into the shop regularly, buying this or that, and our conversations were lengthy.

Soon after Bear's death, he came in and presented me with a gift. Made by his mother, it is a 10 inch figure of a seated bear, with its front legs swatting the air. The mouth is partially opened. It is a clay piece, and I know that it must have taken hours to complete. The bear is the dark brown of a grizzly, and the work that went into this piece is nothing short of incredible. You can almost see each of the hairs on its body. I have been given, or collected, many figures of bears over the years, but this one is, and will remain, my most treasured.

During one of his visits, I told him that I had a vision. Bear had agreed to do the painting for me but, of course, he was never able to start. I asked him if he would agree to do the work for me, and told him that I would supply the materials of his choice, and pay him for the finished piece. He would be honored, he told me, and asked if I had paper and pen so that he could make a rough draft of what I wanted. I provided him with both, and told him about my vision. In the center, there is a Sioux woman (me), with long black hair streaked with gray. My arms are stretched upward, with the palms of my hands facing the heavens. On my left sits a bear, and on my right a wolf. An eagle is in position to light on my right arm, and the clouds in the sky form a small herd of white buffalo. These are my animal guides and protectors. He sketched as I spoke, and all of a sudden dropped the pen from his hand, as though his hand had been burned. I asked what was wrong, and he told me that he felt another hand over his, guiding his lines. I looked at the completed sketch and said that yes, another hand had been guiding his and that it was Bear. He asked how I could know this, and I told him that in my explanation of the scene, I never told him that the bear and the wolf seated on either side of me were looking up at me. I also never told him about the gentle breeze that was blowing my hair, and the feathers in it. Besides me, the only person who knew that was Bear.