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Bear Among the Dogs

By Scott Archer Jones

I used to work for the Bear when he was young and strong. It hurts me to see him old and half-lame. But he’s still the Bear. I was there in Archie’s last year when he took on the gringo.

I talk about those times with Bear to anyone who will listen, but some of it is mierda. My wife, she say, “Old days fade and turn into mentiras.” Now I live behind these thick glasses and work in a hardware store in Raton, and the Bear . . .he never figured that age would catch him. He planned to be young forever. Nowadays a big bushy white beard hangs on his chest, and his hair is white too, and his back kills him most of the time. Bear, he is like the rest of us. He never saved a dime, so here he is at sixty-three still taking people from the city out to fish and sometimes to hunt. He lives in a single-wide he bought in 1972, lives there with his third wife Jennie, the only smart one he ever married. Or she married him.

That last time I saw him, before they took him away, I was in Archie’s Beer Barn, like I said. Archie’s real name is Celestino Archueleto and he runs this bar in a metal building out near Cimarron, mostly for us Latinos. Sometimes Bear would come by.


Bear, he’s white and a guide in northern New Mexico and southern Colorado. Used to be one of the best. In the old days, we ranged all seasons and all country. We carried pale white men back into the mountains for their moment of glory, their cuento de muerte. Bear was part of the mountain – he knew where the animals would feed, where the fish would hide, where the turkeys, they would roost. He acted like a bear too – you could never tell what he was thinking by looking at him.

That day in Archie’s, Bear wore what he always wore, a big dirty coat made out of an Indian blanket, with jeans and boots. Pushed back on his head he had a sweated-out felt cowboy hat with a snakeskin band – a snake he killed himself, years ago. His big belly hung out and he shuffled along like his back hurt, but he had a wave and a hello for everyone. I had hunkered down with some of my friends in the corner, and Bear stopped to talk for a bit. He told us he was down to one truck and one tent.

En buenos tiempos, we kept a full camp, horses and a couple of jeeps. It was our job to pick the sportsmen up at the airport, set up their tents, feed them and pour liquor in them. It was our job to throw them up on the horses, take them to the animal, skin and slaughter the animal once it was dead. Nothing in this was a bad thing. Bear, he respected the animal and its death. Also, the kill by the sportsman – en júbilo for the hunter and good to see. Most of these rich white men, they wanted to be Bear’s friend, so that was okay too. I was Bear’s Mexican, there to cook and wrangle horses, but I’m pretty agringado myself, white enough to keep everyone comfortable. The big thing for me? I got to work in la hermosa tierra de mundo. Until Bear went broke.


Like an animal, Bear don’t live in the past. So we visited about what he had coming up. Outside of coyotes near his casa, he hadn’t shot anything in months – still, he thought he’d make an elk hunt in the Fall. He also thought he’d go fishing soon, and we made noises like we would go too. Then he clomped over to the bar to visit with Archie.

Archie’s, it don’t see many outsiders, but every once in a while, guys out on a road trip together pull up. They park their cars or their bikes or their RVs and they stroll in to soak up Archie’s beer. This day, a bunch of Anglo guys out of Albuquerque had drove up in their Corvettes. They must have been in some kind of car club, a club based on how much they could spend on a toy with four big wheels and a cloth roof. They all chose tables way across the room from us and Archie waddled out from behind the bar to take their orders.

Things went fine for a while. There’s always un buen tipo who can talk to anybody, and so it was this time. This nice guy in shorts and a big fat nose wanders over and we visit for a while. He was retired, but he used to be in the concrete business, so we talked about that, about pouring foundations in the winter, about how far you can truck a wet load. He visited with Archie too and spoke to Bear. His buddies and him, they milled around for about an hour sloshing down the beer.

But if there’s a nice guy in a crowd, there’s also someone ugly, who gets uglier when he drinks. These Corvette drivers had a loudmouth in a nylon jacket, dark hair slicked back from his face. He sat there wavin’ his hands and talking up his opinions pretty estridente. It turns out he was muncho importante, and of course we wasn’t. He had been in lots of great places, and this wasn’t one of ’em. He drove a great car, and the folks around here, we drove rusty pieces of shit. He was right – we drive what we drive and we buy what we can afford – old men and old trucks.

So Mr. Slick Jacket trots up to the bar to order another round of beer and he talks to Bear while he’s there. First he calls him Cowboy and then he calls him Old Man. Two other guys amble up and lean on the bar too, one beside Bear and the other near his friend, just to be close to Hombre Muncho Importante. Mr. Jacket, he asks Bear, “Do you know you look like Santa Claus with a ponytail?”

Bear takes all this real mild, just sits there on the bar stool. Then the stranger starts in on the White Thing. He says, “Do you actually drink with those dirty Mexicans in the corner?” Meaning me en mi amigos.

I thought Bear was an old man, past all this, but once an animal learns something, it must not forget. Bear jabbed out at this pendejo, fast like a snake – he slammed the heel of his hand into the guy’s nose. Then he grabbed him by the back of the neck and threw la cabeza del hombre down onto the bar, uno, dos, tres. Bam bam bam! The guy folded up like a pile of clothes on the floor at Bear’s feet. The other two Anglos, they closed up quick on Bear and he jumped to his feet. He spun on his toes to face the one and then to face the other.


A long time ago I seen a pack of dogs corner a bear up against a cliff, and it looked just like this. Them hounds would charge in on the bear’s back and he would spin around to try and catch them. This bear grabbed two or three perros and mauled them up quick. This was casi lo mismo, as Bear twisted from one to the other. He held them off with his mal de ojo and his stone face.

Archie had been caught sleeping, but he hustled out from behind the bar with a baseball bat in his hands. He sidled in between Bear and the other guys at the bar and waved that bat around saying, “Now – Now – Now.” The whole crowd of Anglo guys all jerked up from their tables and come running over. The young ones turned all red-face-angry and the old ones grey-shook-up, but they added up to a pack. We Latinos, we nailed our colillas to the chair. Bear might have been my boss once, but brown skins don’t have brawls with white skins and get away with it. I felt real bad about it, but I didn’t do nothing dumb.

Archie stuck the bat out to let them know he’d handle things, not them. The friendly gringo we first talked to helped Mr. Jacket to his feet, got him a bar rag to hold on his face. We could all tell this loudmouth needed the medics – he had left a couple of his teeth stuck in the bar. If Mr. Jacket got hauled off to Emergency, there would be a police report. So Bear, he’d have to have a long talk with the Sheriff.

Bear stared at the bloody-faced man, and he smiled like the sun come up. He turns to Archie and says, “After you call the ambulance and the police, maybe I can call my wife? I bet you they send me to County for this one. Jennie will want to know where I am tonight.”


That loudmouth, he got his cuento del vergüenza, beat up by an old man, and Bear got to feel young again. All of us in the corner, we was surprised. We had never known what Bear was thinking. All those years, him the Anglo and us the Mesicans. But somewhere in there he must have been thinking we Latinos were okay. Or at least we weren’t the dogs. Bueno.


Scott Archer Jones is currently living and working on his fifth novel in northern New Mexico, after stints in the Netherlands, Scotland and Norway plus less exotic locations. He’s worked for a power company, grocers, a lumberyard, an energy company (for a very long time), and a winery.

A new writer, he has been a finalist but not a winner too many times, published in enough places to get cocky, been rejected enough to be humbled. He is on the masthead at the Prague Review.

Scott cuts all his own firewood, lives a mile from his nearest neighbor and writes grant applications for the community. He is the Treasurer of Shuter Library of Angel Fire, a private 501.C3, and desperately needs your money to keep the doors open.

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The Unknown Shore

Written by Patrick O’Brian

Published by W.W. Norton

Review by Scott Archer Jones



The Unknown Shore is the predecessor volume to the Aubrey/Maturin books that dominated O’Brian’s career, and is a lively book by a young author first working out his voice and his big themes.

The aficionado of O’Brian’s books (that focused on the Royal Navy during the Napoleonic Wars) will absolutely wallow in the details of this story, seeing characters, quirks, details, and ideas that will be resorted and reused in the coming series. For instance, a variation on Stephen Maturin named Tobias Barrow, though decidedly English, takes his place as the second protagonist – a genius of a naturalist whose friends describe him as a socially inept “ugly cove.”

From an author’s perspective, O’Brian is somewhat loose with point of view, and continues the turn-of-the-last-century, Henry-Jamesian preference of narration over action for perhaps half the book. Some will find this old-fashionedly charming and some will find it weak. The most compelling chunks of the novel appear as action based sequences spiced by dialogue. There is a remarkable and unbelievable ability for the characters to become fluent first in Indian, then in Spanish, and last in French – not just in pidgin, but in at a level of subtle comprehension. Finally, O’Brian’s syntax is occasionally so clotted that you have to re-read a sentence three times – he should have “killed his darlings.”

The novel is well worth reading on its own as a stand-alone. In the beginning the book has a charming tongue-in-cheek attitude towards its characters, and then shifts into dedicated drama written in a mature powerful voice. During the chapters of hardship and deprivation, starvation and debasement, O’Brain made me so hungry I was forced to get up three times and make toast. The book is strongest from midpoint until two chapters from the end, then falls into a sense of epilogue. In spite of the unevenness, The Unknown Shore is well worth reading, even if you are not acquainted with the grown-up O’Brian – it is quite superior to many of the books in the genre, including most of the Hornblower novels.


Scott Archer Jones is currently living and working on his fifth novel in northern New Mexico, after stints in the Netherlands, Scotland and Norway plus less exotic locations. He’s worked for a power company, grocers, a lumberyard, an energy company (for a very long time), and a winery.

A new writer, he has been a finalist but not a winner too many times, published in enough places to get cocky, been rejected enough to be humbled. He is on the masthead at the Prague Review.

Scott cuts all his own firewood, lives a mile from his nearest neighbor and writes grant applications for the community. He is the Treasurer of Shuter Library of Angel Fire, a private 501.C3, and desperately needs your money to keep the doors open.

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By Scott Archer Jones

En boca del discreto, lo público es secreto.

(In the mouth of the discreet, what people say is a secret).


A simple job.  Take a car, turn it into a flat metal pancake, haul the block of metal away.  David’s Department of Transportation crew were at work in a homemade junkyard up near Cuba, New Mexico, an acre where a family had been piling their rusted metal for a hundred years.  Mick fell into that metal.

The day was emborregao with racing shadows and sunlight rippling across the murderous scrap piles.  The Crusher misbehaved, groaned out a protest and refused to pulverize cars.  Now they tried to diagnose the problem.  Parked along a fence made of old roofing tin, with cars sprawled around them on three sides.  Behind the fence a mound of metal –  scraps and pieces.  A hill of rust, sharp edges, tarnished steel teeth soared up.

His two Norteños had predicted rain based on the sky, fleecy, moving fast.  David Alvarez could only smell dry, caked dust in his nose – no ozone hint of a mountain rain.    A balding middle-aged man in coveralls, heavy with the fat of a fried foods diet, taller than most Hispaños, he gazed at the sky again.  David had sent the owner of the junkyard away, told him they would call when the Crusher could run again.  Now all of them searched for the break.

David sent Mick, his only Anglo, up on top of the Crusher to search for a hydraulic leak in the deck, though they should have been able to see the spray of fluid.  The other three huddled, heads together.  They argued about air in the lines, lack of pressure.  They squabbled about the main pump, transducers, valves.

With a scream Mick toppled from the deck.  The other three jerked up their heads to see him fall, behind the fence, into the scrap.  They heard the clatter and the grunt of his landing, and the shouts.  His voice a clot of fear, not surprise or pain. “Ah!  Ahh!  Shit!  Shit!”

David, Matt and Frankie tore down to the end of the fence and around.  When they got to Mick, scrambling up and over the scrap heap, they found him on his back, cradled in a depression of metal refuse.  His rigid neck held his head up.  His right hand outstretched, grasped a metal rod.  He stared wild-eyed at its blunt end.

The rebar, straight up out of the scrap, stabbed through Mick’s armpit and out of the top of his shoulder.  No blood on the rod’s end where it protruded rusty and blunt above his frame, but blood seeped out around the shoulder into the man’s work shirt.

Kneeling, David asked, “Mick, are you okay?”  He shook his head, said to the other two, “We’re a hour and a half out of Albuquerque.  Estamos nuestro proprio.”

Matt said, “Sí, like always, on our own.”

Dave collected himself, “Frankie, get to the pickup and bring the first aid kit.”  David knelt on the steel and iron scraps, hovered over Mick, said anything he could to the man.

“Okay, it looks bad.  But we really don’t know.  I don’t want you to move until we can see what’s going on.  Lay still till we can figure out how to get you up. Frankie will be here in a minute.  Can you feel anything?”  Mick’s face was pale, his eyes wide and unfocused.  He lay rigid, mute.

“Shit, cabrón,” said Matt.  “This ain’t nothin’.  I been hurt twice as bad and drove myself home.”

Mick rolled his eyes at the two men – focused on the steel pushed out through his body.  “Unh, unh, unh.  Stay with me.  Get it out of me!”


Frankie sprinted back with the NM DOT first aid kit, a skinny brown man darting up through the scrap.  He tore open the orange box and pulled out two packets. “Here.  Remember the training.  Enfermedad de la sangre.”  He thrust a pack at David.

They rolled on latex gloves.  Frankie cut open the shirt and probed around the exit wound.  David reached beneath to check out the entrance wound.  Fingers like a caress, trying to not cause pain.

Frankie reported, “Nomás, I think it missed the muscle on top of his shoulder.  See, here’s the muscle in front of the rod, and the rebar, it comes through close to the bone.”

“I can feel where the bar sticks up into the armpit, into the soft part.  Not the muscle, not the tendon.”  Mick grunted softly as David’s fingers pushed into the wound beside the iron rod.

David stuck his head down sideways in the scrap, felt metal bite his temple.  “Aguate!   I want you to raise him up three or four inches so I can see the bottom of the rod.  Go slow.  Mick, this is going to hurt.”

Matt and Frankie reached beneath Mick, and with a grunt, pulled at him.  Nothing happened at first, then the man’s torso jerked up by a half foot.  He let out a keening sound.  David, his head below Mick’s shoulder, could see blood dripping out.  Large fat drips.  “Okay, bueno, hold him there, don’t let him back down.  The rebar held back the blood, but now he’s opened up.”  David sat up on his knees and dug in the first aid kit for a gauze pack.  He ripped open the packet, then dropped down again.  He pressed the gauze upward, wrapped it around the rebar and pushed hard against the wound.  He clinched his hand in a fist around the rod to hold it steady.  “Wait there.  I got to see if we can get the rebar loose.”

Only then did he stare at the rebar’s butt.  With his other hand, he dug in the scrap to see the better, and shredded the latex glove.  Two fingers stung, cut up.  The rebar wasn’t deep in the pile, but a hook in its base, an angle where the rod had been bent, pinned it in the heap.  “Okay, keep him there. I’m going to get the rebar loose down here.”

David scrabbled in the metal and then he saw that, if he rotated the rod and the hooked end, they would come free.  “Mick, this will hurt.  I’ve got to turn the rebar.”

“Noo.”  David twisted it.  Mick let out another shriek of pain.

Frankie spoke, “Jefe, he’s gone all espectro and he’s sweating pretty good.”

“I think I can get the rod loose now – I want to leave it in him because it’s slowing the bleeding.  Sí, set him up slow when you feel me push from here.”

The three men brought Mick to a sitting position.  Frankie packed a gauze compress around the wound in front.  The rusty iron stuck out of the man by two feet and its butt angled down out of his back by six inches or so.  Mick humped over the rod, panted hard.

“Frankie, go and bring the pickup as close as you can. Matt, get an arm under his right shoulder.  I want you to ease him down the pile here and I’ll help as much as I can from the left.”  David grabbed Mick’s belt and bore some of the weight.  With much shuffling and slipping, they got the man down the mound.  The two gauze packs fell loose and lay bloody on the scrap behind them.  They all panted and wheezed as they stumbled free of the scrap.

When the men reached the end of the fence, clutched together in a single body, Frankie waited with the pickup.  “Now this will be tricky,” said David.  “He’s got to sit sideways because of the rebar.”  He and Matt faced the door with Mick between them – wrong way around. “Matt, circle him around to your right and we’ll back him up to the door.”

They stumbled towards the open passenger door of the truck.  “Frankie, he’s coming your way.  Pull him back into the truck.”  David and Matt shuffled Mick up into the door, with David wedged back in the triangle between the door and the truck.  “Matt, on three.  One, two, three.”  They eased him up  through the door of the truck, his head lolling forward on his chest.  “Okay, Frankie.  No – don’t grab him by the shoulders.  Pull him by the belt.”

Frankie slid Mick back into the truck, leaving his legs hanging out the passenger door.  “Now,” said David.  “Matt, get the kit again, we’ll rip off his shirt and strap more gauze and tape on him.

It was done.  David turned back to Matt.  “Stay here with the trucks.  Call it in and let ER know we’re coming in.  Once we’re there, we’ll radio and let you know what to do.  Frankie, get behind the wheel.  Brace him.  I need to turn him enough to tuck his feet in.”

David clambered into the back seat, hung forward, his arms bracing the injured man in place.  They had Mick in the seat sideways, the butt of the rod stuck out over the console.  David  cradled Mick, immobilized him.  “Let’s go.  Slow until we’re on the black top.”


At four in the afternoon, David and his Norteños waited in the hospital sitting room, the pickup and one of the semi tractors out in the parking lot.

The Doctor, a tired looking gringo with the unlikely name of Arguelito, explained.  “There are some tears at the edge of the muscle, right here, see?”  His hand swung up, patted at the muscle across his own shoulder.  “The good news – the metal hasn’t cut any big veins or arteries.  The bar did rip up some small blood vessels and nerves. I made a lot of internal stitches.  They’ll dissolve themselves.  I used ten small staples on the outside that have to be removed later.”

David asked, “So, he’s not in any danger?”

“Infection is the thing now.  Some of the shirt got carried into the wound.  I fished out pieces and thread, everything we could find.  Gave him a tetanus shot.  But the chance of infection is high.   We’ll keep him on antibiotics for a while.”

“What should we do?”

“I’ll get you a prescription or two to fill, antibiotics and pain killers.  The rest is the healing process – he’ll be fine to go home in a couple of hours.”

“How long before he can go back to work?”

“I’d say two months minimum.”


Matt leafed through the same People magazine over and over.  Frankie, slumped down in his chair, faked sleep.  David stared at a vending machine, rather than at the TV up in the corner of the room.

He nudged Frankie.  “Wake up cabrero, the three of us have to talk.”

Frankie’s eyes snapped opened quick.  He hadn’t been asleep at all.  Matt stared up over the magazine at David, elbows on his knees. “So, you been thinking about what happens next?” asked Frankie.

“Oh, adevina! Our little gringo, he’s going to get fired.”

“What do you mean?” asked Matt.

Frankie said, “So he’s been hurt.  It will be on the insurance, and David has to fill out this safety report.”

Oyé,” said Matt.  “They will do one of those –  what is it?  Safety incident reviews.”

“That’s right.  Only Mick, he wasn’t wearing no hard hat and he wasn’t tied off up there on the deck.”

“But that wouldn’t have done much good, since he fell about five feet.  The line, it’s ten feet long.”

David said, “Yeah, but that won’t matter.  We all know the rules.  Mierda, we helped write them.  He should still have had that line clipped up.  He could have fallen off the front side.”

Después,” said Matt.  “They make us all sweat, and you don’t get promoted into the office this year.”

David flapped a hand, dismissive.  “No, they’ll fire him.  It’s the best job the chingadeo will ever have, working for the State.  Mick will end up back with those meth-head framers in Española.”

Matt nodded, “Es cierto, Mick, he’s new, he’s only got a year.  He don’t even know how good he’s got it.”

David said, “I don’t much like being the dedo here.”

“That would be some bajeza, yeah, but you know Mick, he’s a such a muñiga.”  Matt leaned back in the plastic chair, folded his arms, unmoving.

“Well, our muñiga, he’s going to be unemployed,” said Frankie.

“What’s that to us, he’s a real pain you know, an agregado?”

David said, “Yeah, well he’s our agregado.”

“So what you want to do?”

“I want to hide the accident.  It’s not on the state insurance yet.  I haven’t made out the report.”

“Oh,” said Matt.  “I knew I wasn’t going to like it.”

Frankie snickered.  “I noticed you didn’t check him in on the insurance card.  We’ll have to pay something going out the door, or they’ll look him up with the insurance companies, find he’s got a job.  Tenemos el dinero?”

“Well, I got two hundred from the per diem, you know, when I stayed with my relatives.  I can chip that in,” said David. “I would have done no good with it anyway.”

Quizas, I got fifty I’m ahead,” said Frankie.

Tal vez, … shit, for el más agregado … I got a hundred I can put in, but I need it back for my kids, tardo o temprano.  Mick better have something in his pants.”

Gracias, Matt.”

Por nada.  We got to do it.”

Frankie paused, then asked, “But how do we keep him on the time sheet?”

Está bien.  He’ll be all strapped up, but he can come out to the job with us.”

“We got four vehicles.  We can’t run a shuttle.”

“That’s alright too,” said Matt.  “I can get a portable tow bar from mi padres.  We can tow the pickup everywhere.”

“Good,” said David.  “And we can hang an orange vest on Mick.  He can wave traffic through with his good arm. Es posible.”

“What happens at night?  You baby sit Mick?”

David answered.  “We’re working down the Valley from Velarde through Española.  Mick, he lives with his mom near Pojoaque.  I can get him home each night.  We’re working in the area for a couple of months.”

“Now you the taxi, ?”

“Better that than letting the cabrónes in Albuquerque have him.  It could have been one of us,” said Frankie.

David sat back in the chair, satisfied.  He smiled, folded his hands across his big belly.    There were still some lies ahead, still the paper work and the payment schedule.  But now they were doing the wrong thing, for the right reason, for familía.  Even if he was a  muñiga.


 Norteño Slang:

Adevina! – (from Spanish Adivina!) Guess, Guess What!

Agregado – (from Spanish Agregado, – attaché) sponger, idler, helper, assistant

Aguate! – Be careful! Watch out!

Bajeza – a low, mean and vile act.

Cabrero – (from Spanish Cabrea – goat) goat herder

Cabrón – (from Spanish cabro – billy goat) cuckold, pimp, SOB

Chingadeo – fucker

Dedo – finger, fink, squealer

Emborregao – an adjective describing sky filled with a kind of cumulus clouds that resemble flocks of lambs  – borreguitos.

Muñiga – cow dung, cow chip

Nomás – no sooner, not even.  Sprinkled in to conversation nearly as “like” is in Anglo conversation.


Scott Archer Jones is currently living and working on his fifth novel in northern New Mexico, after stints in the Netherlands, Scotland and Norway plus less exotic locations.  He’s worked for a power company, grocers, a lumberyard, an energy company (for a very long time), and a winery.

A new writer, he has received an honorable mention in the E. M. Koeppel Short Fiction Contest, and been a finalist in the Glimmer Train 2008 Fiction Open and the SouthWest Writers Annual Contest (twice).  He’s been published online at Foliate Oak, The Rusty Nail, the Prague Review and shortly at Whistling FireCC&D Magazine has included his work in an issue, and he is on the masthead at the Prague Review.

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