#crazy bear

Tekken 6: Bloodline Rebellion Art artist Masashi Kishimoto

Cocaine Bear

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over Bethany Stanley’s apiary. She moved from hive to hive, her hands steady but her mind elsewhere. Earlier that day, she’d cracked a joke about Crazy Bear being her boyfriend. It had slipped out naturally—a bit of harmless teasing, she thought. But the moment it left her lips, she saw the way Crazy Bear’s eyes had narrowed, and Jack Stone had just raised an eyebrow, unreadable as always.

Bethany had hurried to explain, her words spilling over each other, but she couldn’t tell if they understood it was just a joke. By the time the moment passed, she felt like she’d made a bigger mess of it.

As she worked, her thoughts churned. "What if I hurt his feelings?" she muttered, shaking her head. Crazy Bear wasn’t the type to show it, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been offended.

"Stupid, stupid," Bethany grumbled, swiping her hand across her brow. Bees buzzed around her as she cleaned out the frames, but her mind kept drifting back to Crazy Bear’s stern face. He’d always treated her with kindness and respect, never making light of her work or her ways. The thought of him being upset with her left a gnawing pit in her stomach.

When the sun finally disappeared, Bethany put away her tools and headed back to the house. In the dim glow of her lantern, she started sifting through her little wooden chest, the one where she kept things she found meaningful or pretty. A shell from the creek, a feather from an owl, a bit of jasper she’d traded for in town.

Nothing seemed right. Nothing felt important enough to give him as an apology.

Then her fingers brushed against something rough and dense. She pulled out a folded bundle of fur—a grizzly bear pelt. Unfolding it revealed the massive claws, still intact, hanging from one side. She ran her fingers over the coarse fur, remembering the fierce fight at Little Creek. Her back ached just thinking about it, and without realizing it, she touched the scar on her shoulder where the bear had raked its claws through her skin.

"This," she whispered. The bear pelt felt significant in a way the other trinkets didn’t. She chewed her lip, wondering if it would come across as too much or if he’d think it was strange. But it was something meaningful. Something she’d fought for. It wasn’t just a gift—it was an offering of respect. Crazy Bear deserved that much, at least.

Bethany rode past the blacksmith's shop in her wagon, the wheels clattering over the uneven dirt and stones of Rhodes' back road. Her eyes flicked toward the forge. A group of men were just dismounting, one laughing as they ducked beneath the old, weather-rusted metal overhang. She considered stopping to see if Buck was free to go hunting—but if he had orders coming in, she'd wait it out. The gunsmith's porch wasn't far, and Mr. Stone and Crazy Bear were usually good for conversation.

She pulled the wagon to a stop near the barn, handing off the reins to the man there. After retrieving a few things from the storage chest under the seat, she made her way around the back of the doctor's office and down Rhodes' main street. The wooden boards of the gunsmith's porch creaked under her boots as she leapt up from the side to avoid the cranky man on the steps.

Crazy Bear and Mr. Stone were already in their usual spots, exchanging jabs and lazy banter. Bethany grinned and joined in, her laughter mixing easily with theirs.

Time passed faster than expected. The sky had begun to turn dusky orange when she stood and brushed the dust from her pants.

"I'm gonna check on Buck," she said. "He had some customers when I came into town, but I figure he's done by now."

"Yeah, or he's lost track of time again," Jack said dryly, a hint of judgment hiding beneath his casual tone.

Bethany gave a short laugh and a shake of her head before hopping down from the porch. The smithy stood just behind the gunsmith's shop across the narrow dirt road. The men's horses were gone now, so he must've wrapped up with them. But the forge was still. No clanging metal, no hiss of fire. Just silence.

Her pace quickened as she rounded the corner of the old converted stables.

"Buck?" she called into the shadows.

Her boots scraped softly as she stepped through the wide doorway. At first, it was hard to see—until her eyes adjusted.

Then she gasped.

Against the far wall, in a slant of late sunlight filtered through tattered canvas, Buck hung slumped and bound, his form listing sideways. One arm was still tied high along the frame of the wall, the wrist swollen and bruised from strain. The other rope had given out—his body pulled partially to the floor under its weight.

His face was bloodied and swollen, one eye nearly shut and crusted dark at the corner. Deep cuts—mean, deliberate slices—marred the exposed side of his ribs, crisscrossing like tally marks. The bruises across his chest and arms were uneven, blooming in shades of purple and black. His shirt had been torn nearly to shreds and his shoulder sagged unnaturally.

"Buck," she whispered, voice breaking. Then louder, more frantic: "Buck—Buck!"

She rushed to his side, falling to her knees in the dirt. He was breathing—barely. Shallow and ragged.

"Hey—hey, come on, look at me," she urged, hands hovering but afraid to touch anything too hard. "It's okay. I'm here."

No answer. He made a low sound when she moved him, a terrible wheeze as if each breath scraped against broken ribs. His head lolled, eyelids fluttering.

It took her several tries, using her hunting knife to saw through the coarse rope. When he finally slumped fully into her arms, she nearly cried out herself—the weight of him, the heat of his skin, the sheer vulnerability of someone she'd only ever seen standing strong behind the anvil.

"I'm getting the doctor, Buck, alright? You hold on. Just—just stay with me."

She laid him down gently, fingers trembling. A red stain had already begun to pool beneath him from the wounds on his side.

Heart hammering, she bolted through the doorway, sprinting across the field. She vaulted the fence like it wasn't there and skidded to a halt in front of the wagon barn.

"Nigel!" she shouted. "Call for a doctor, now!"

"That'll be a dollar," he drawled, slow and stupid.

She fumbled for coin, throwing it at him without waiting to see if he'd even moved.

Then she darted to the side of the gunsmith shop, cupping her hands to her mouth.

"Mr. Stone! Get a deputy! Ride to Valentine if you have to—someone nearly killed Buck!"

A crash of questions followed her, but she didn't slow down. Crazy Bear's heavy footfalls sounded behind her, a silent answer to her urgency.

Bethany rounded the corner at full speed and grabbed the side post to swing herself through the smithy's entrance again. Buck hadn't moved, but he was still breathing. She dropped beside him, eyes shining with panic and resolve.