The Kodiak Bear – Tales of the Alaskan Fur Trade

An Erotic Romance Serial by Grizzly

Chapter 1:

A late September morning broke over the forested islands of the Southeastern Alaskan coast, bringing a chill that stripped the last memory of summer from the sky and let all know that autumn had arrived in the Great North. The waters below stood calm and glassy, confined by sheer, glacially carved fjords. These ancient channels had borne witness to eons of grinding ice and now watched the rapid advancement of humanity, lured by the promise of gold. The year was 1897. Thirty years prior, William Seward had purchased the Alaska territory from Russia, buying the icy domain for pennies on the dollar. Since then, rugged trailblazers like Joe Juneau and John Muir had scouted and mapped the waterways leading toward hidden gold deposits. Miners followed in their footsteps. Now, the seasoned men of Alaska did their best to take advantage of the newcomers, quickly relieving them of their dollars in exchange for much-needed services and supplies across the territory.

Clinging to the rocky coast of Baranof Island stood the town of Sitka, a bridge between Russian colonial history and American enterprise. Once the proud capital of Russian America, its tidy clapboard residences, official buildings, and plank boardwalks lined the harbor in stark contrast to the rugged wilderness behind them. Weathered saloons and maritime storefronts sat beneath the prominent, green onion-shaped dome of St. Michael’s Cathedral—enduring monuments of human presence in a harsh and unyielding country. From tin chimneys, thin ribbons of spruce smoke clawed into the chilly mist, only to be devoured by the downdrafts plunging from the ice-capped peaks. The wind pushed outwards into the rhythmic swells of the ocean sound, where a raft of sea otters tumbled and twisted in the kelp beds. Their thick, dark pelts—the very prize that brought the first European hands to these shores—repelled the icy sea as they casually smashed sea urchins upon their chests. It was a simple, brutal existence, and a fitting preview for the rugged men who sought to tame this wild territory.

One such Northern man was currently sleeping off a bottle of whiskey in a back room of the main saloon. His snores woke the dead as he rolled across his thin straw mattress, trying to keep himself facing the warmth of the iron stove. He was a tall, rugged beast of a man. Stout and big-boned, with a thick layer of fat covering a muscled frame honed from years in the wilderness. Covered in a thick mane of reddish-brown hair, he lay there in his faded homespun wool shirt, wrapped in his patched blanket-lined canvas coat and a thick wool riding blanket. Chilled, he rolled over to turn his back toward the draft blowing in from the doorway, pulling the blanket over his head in an attempt to trap the warmth and humidity he exhaled with each breath, struggling to maintain his deep slumber.

A few miles away, the small cargo steamer Lady Jane was coming up the Inside Passage en route from Vancouver, slowly making her way into the still waters of Sitka Sound. She was loaded with a supply of provisions as well as a few passengers eager to get to shore after two cold nights at sea. One was a dapper yo-ng gentleman in his late twenties, a blond with a tall, slender build and a freshly shaven face. He was dressed in an ankle-length Russian fur overcoat, a tailored Scottish tweed Norfolk jacket with matching sport vest, and pristine light-khaki wool riding breeches. A silk ascot tie was wrapped around his heavily starched collar. Atop his narrow head he wore an oversized beaver-pelt hat. He checked his pocket watch anxiously as the ship approached the docks. The ship’s horn blew a dull blast as the final lashings were secured and two deckhands began lowering the gangway. The yo-ng gentleman slowly descended, holding the guide-rail with one hand and his mahogany walking stick in the other.

“Oh my,” the yo-ng gentleman muttered as he stumbled onto the dock, grabbing the shoulder of a stout dockhand to steady himself.

“Mind your hand!” the man groused in a thick Irish brogue.

“So sorry, my good man. I say, could you tell me where the queue is for the coach into town?”

“Coach? There ain’t no coach here, my good man. Walk yourself down the dockway; ain’t more than a quarter mile.”

“I see. Well, thank you anyway. Good day to you.” The gentleman tipped the edge of his hat and started walking up the dock, passing by the crew who had begun unloading the ship’s holds.

“Aye, good day,” the dockhand muttered as he returned to work. “Bl—dy English. Won’t survive more than a fortnight here…”

As the town bell tolled nine, the yo-ng British gentleman walked down the boardwalk through the tiny, silent town. The crisp morning air carried the sound of an eagle as he passed the sturdy United States post office building, then the town’s new general store. As he walked toward the Russian cathedral in the center of town, he paused a moment to appreciate the foreignness of this remote land. With each step, the clap of his heel against the boardwalk rang up through his legs. Soon, the sign for the Sitka Hotel welcomed him to the largest building in town—all two stories of it. On the upper floor were rooms for the small frontier hotel, while the lower floor housed the town’s saloon, complete with a small kitchen. The gentleman walked in and took a look around; the dusty room was dark and cool, but warmer than the outside. A few tables and chairs were scattered about, all unoccupied in the early morning light that had just begun to creep in through the front window. Toward the back of the room was a traditional Western bar and counter, lined with several stools. Behind the counter, a bald man with calloused hands placed a pot of coffee on a freshly lit stove in the corner.

“Can I help you, sir?” the innkeeper asked.

“Yes, my name is Nigel Arthur Mosley, of the Derbyshire Mosleys. I believe my company reserved a room with your establishment and sent advance notice of my arrival.”

The innkeeper raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to give me a minute to check on that.” Mosley smiled politely in acknowledgment. “In the meantime,” the old man continued, “if you’d like a cup of coffee, I just brewed some up.”

“Yes, thank you, that would be most welcome.”

The old man smiled, reached for a primitive ceramic mug, and poured a cup. “That’ll be twenty-five cents.”

“Twenty-five cents?” Mosley struggled to contain his shock.

“Coffee’s not easy to come by in these parts,” he said as he topped the mug off.

“I don’t suppose you have a spot of cream and sugar?” Mosley reached into his pocket and plucked a freshly minted silver quarter from a coin purse.

“I got some sugar in the kitchen pantry. Be happy to get you some.” The older man grinned, displaying a prominent gold bicuspid.

“Very well.” Mosley slid the quarter across the counter.

“Thank you kindly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go have a look at my records. I’ll be right back.” He turned and slowly walked down the hallway toward the back of the building, his footsteps fading away.

Mosley took a seat on a stool and peeled his goatskin gloves off one by one before wrapping his fingertips around the warm mug. A moment later, the innkeeper returned with a small pot of sugar and an opened letter that had been sealed with deep red wax.

“Everything’s in order. Your company sent advance payment,” he said, passing the sugar across the bar. “I’ve got you upstairs in the corner suite—best view in town. Did you have any bags with you?”

“Yes, I left them at the dockmaster’s office.” Mosley stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. “Could you send a porter to fetch them for me?”

The older man smiled again. “Ain’t got no porters here, but if you want, I can wake my boy up and have ‘im fetch ‘em for you…” His voice drifted off.

Mosley sighed. “Let me guess. He’ll do it for… say, ten cents?”

“He sure would!” As Mosley produced another piece of silver, the innkeeper nodded. “I’ll get him right on that. Freshen your cup?” he asked, gesturing toward the coffeepot sitting on the stove.

Mosley hesitated, slipping his coin purse back into his pocket. “No, thank you very much.”

“Much obliged.” The old dog smiled and turned down the hall. From behind the wall, Mosley could hear the innkeeper call upstairs to his son, “Connor! Connor, you good-for-nothin’ boy, I got a job for you!”

At about a quarter-til-noon, the thick-bearded man sleeping in the back room of the saloon stirred and woke. His hairy chest pulsed to life as he drew his first waking breaths of the day. He ran a heavy, big-boned hand through his thinning hair and yawned. Standing up, he brushed off his wool trousers and secured his suspender buckles. He shoved his thick, muscular calves into his worn buckskin boots, tying the laces firmly one by one. He righted himself and yawned once more, walking out the door of the back room and down the hall, past the pantry and the hotel’s kitchen, and into the saloon area. Seeing nobody around, he helped himself to a mug of coffee, picking the pot off the stovetop. He sniffed the air and licked his lips; he could smell bacon and beans.

The innkeeper came out from the kitchen. “Mornin’, Kodiak. What’s left of it.”

“Aye,” the grizzled man replied.

“Help yourself to some breakfast, saved you a plate,” the old man said, gesturing back toward the kitchen. “I’ll add it to yer tab.”

Kodiak took a sip of the coffee and nodded. “Don’t mind if I do…”

As he walked back into the kitchen, the innkeeper began noting down his alcohol inventory, checking each bottle against a ledger. Kodiak emerged from the kitchen, plate in one hand, spoon in the other. With each step, he shoveled a spoonful of bacon and beans into his mouth.

“Got a new arrival off the boat from Vancouver,” the innkeeper said, picking up a brand-new bottle of bourbon.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, some big-shot British guy, well dressed. Owns a lot of the outfits across the territory. Asked me if I knew any guides.”

“Why’s he looking for a guide?” Kodiak gnawed a large hunk of bacon between his teeth. “Juneau’s a goddamn boomtown.”

“Well, apparently his company’s got some outposts all around the territory, lots of them pretty remote. He’s supposed to check in on it all and report back.”

Kodiak looked up from his plate. “He ain’t got much time. Winter’s coming in.”

The old man shrugged.

Kodiak scraped the last of the beans off his plate, then took a swig of coffee. “He upstairs?”

“Yep, the ‘Penthouse Suite’.”

“Oh, brother… what’s his name?”

“Mouse-ly, I reckon. Regular tea-sipping fancy pants, if you ask me.”

“Hm.” Kodiak considered his options.

“Better take yourself to Charlie and get yourself a fresh trim and haircut first. Feller’s loaded. You just might earn enough from him to pay me off for letting you stay in my broom closet."

Kodiak rolled his eyes and groaned. “You’re right, I’ll get on that. Gotta have someplace to sleep the winter off…” He finished his coffee and placed the mug and plate on the counter. Then he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a hand-carved wooden tobacco pipe bearing the image of a brown bear. “First things first,” he said. Taking out a tobacco pouch and placing both on the counter, he took a seat on a stool and hunched over, pinching a few grams of dry tobacco cuttings into the bowl of his pipe.

“Got a match?”

The old man nodded and reached into his pocket. “I’ll add that to your tab too…”

Kodiak snatched the match from the innkeeper, giving the grinning man a glare as he struck the match head against his pocket flint and lit his pipe. He took a deep drag and inhaled, letting the hot tobacco smoke fill his lungs before steadily blowing it out of his body and up into the rafters.