The Right to Arm Bears

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The Dilbian called The Hill Bluffer opened his large mouth again, and put a further aspect of the matter out for John’s consideration.

“You know,” said the Bluffer, “you can’t get Greasy Face back from the Terror without fighting him?”

Greasy Face, John remembered, was the Dilbian’s nickname for the human woman the Streamside Terror had kidnapped. “Fighting him??” he echoed.

“Yep,” said the Bluffer. “Man-to-man. No weapons. No holds barred.”

John blinked. He looked past the Dilbian postman’s head at the puffs of white clouds. They had not moved. They were still there. So were the mountains. It must be something wrong with his ears.

“Fighting him?” said John again, feeling like a man in a fast elevator which has just begun to descend.

“A man’s got his pride,” said the Bluffer. “If you take Greasy Face back, his mug’s spilt all over again.” He leaned a little toward John. “That is, unless you whip him in a fair fight. Then there’s no blood feud to it. You’re just a better man than he is, that’s all. But that’s what I haven’t been able to figure in this. You aren’t bad for a Shorty. You pulled a good trick with that beer on those drunks last night. You got guts.”

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