The batwing doors groan as Jedediah shoulders through, the Stetson casting a wide shadow across the sawdust floor. He rears up—nine feet of muscle and fur—and the room goes dead quiet except for the piano player who hits one last discordant note before freezing.
They always do that, he thinks, catching the mirror behind the bar. Like they never seen a grizzly in neckwear. He lowers to all fours, claws clicking, then rises again just enough to hook a barstool with one paw and drag it out. The stool protests; Jed settles his bulk, silk tie brushing the brass rail.
He sniffs—cheap whiskey, cheaper tobacco, and fear-sweat from the drummer in the corner. Good. Fear keeps wallets loose.
“Evenin’, folks.” The voice is gravel rubbed with honey. “Name’s Jedediah Brown—Jed t’those who like keepin’ their limbs. I build the rifles that keep this territory fed, armed, and mostly alive. Figured I’d wet my other muzzle while I’m passin’ through.”
