//------------------------------//
// Chapter 4:  Loaded For Bear 
// Story: Before Nightfall:  Barely Rescued 
// by Jordan179 
//------------------------------//

Big Mac stepped carefully through the forest, moving with even more than his usual deliberation, because he was wearing his grandfather's hunting leathers, and bore the unfamiliar burden of Ol'Bessie and her bolts on his back.  The weight was not that much; Bessie weighed twice as much as Mackie's normal hunting-crossbow, and her bolts were proportionately almost as massy, but these were fairly light loads for a stallion as healthy and strong as was Big Mac.  If necessary, he was sure he could run at nearly his normal top speed at a full gallop, for almost as long as he might have done naked.

This was an important consideration, given that he was searching for something that could easily kill him if it were able to catch him in close combat.  Blackie had impressed this point upon his grandson.

"Mackie," the old stallion had said, "Ol'Bessie a right pow'ful weapon.  She can take down almost anything short of a full-grown Hydra or Dragon, or such-like, with one good hit, and with time ta' prepare and the right sorta bolt, she might even give you a chance against that sort o'critter."

He reached out, stroked the steel frame of the arbalest almost lovingly.  "Ah once took down a Gnoph-keh with one bolt, with mah Bessie," he said.  "'N'other time, stopped a Shoggoth right in its, um, slime trail, with a special chemical head Glass Flash whipped up fer me -- saved Ink Well's life with that shot."  He smiled in reminiscence.  "Those were the days."

For a moment he was lost in his memories.  Then he returned to present reality.

"Point is," Blackie continued, "Ol'Bessie's a fine weapon.  But she's a ranged weapon.  Yeh can save yer last shot fer point-blank if'n yeh reckon it wise; but after that, yer in melee, as they call it.  Hoof-ta-hoof combat.  Or, in this case, hoof-ta-claw.  An' when yer mixin' it up that close, yeh don't got time to reload, an' the critter's prolly inside yer weapon anyway, yeh cain't bring her to bear -- heh, literal cain't bring her to bear!"  He chuckled.  Then his tone sobered.

"Bessie's heavy  an' tough enough to be used as a club.  "She's made of high-quality chromium steel, with just a pinch o'moonsilver.    Didn't forge the main frame here -- Ah'm not and never was set ta do that kind o' work at Sweet Apple Acres.  Made that in a blast furnace, over in Bitsburg, ta specs none other than the Faithful Tourmaline brought over from the Fall o' the North-Realm, about a thousand years ago -- but that's a whole other story.

"Anyhow, Ah doubt yew could hit any critter hard enough to break Bessie's frame," Blackie said.  "Sights are more fragile, though, an' if yew buckle the frame, even a hair -- which mind yew ain't that easy -- yew'll put her aim off.  Which'd be a right shame, seein' as Ah crafted her to decimillimeter tolerances, with parts of her done to almost micron tolerances with the aid o' a magesmith.  She's a real precision instrument, is ol'Bessie, an' if yew treat her like a lady, she'll do right by yew -- put her bolts dead on center ev'ry shot.  But if yew just go bashing critters with her -- well, that's no way ta treat a gal like her, yew see."

"Also," he added, "if'n yew do bend her frame, Ah'm not set up to fix her here -- cain't straighten her frame proper with mah little forge and press.  Not nary enough heat and force and precision, yeh see, with the tools here on the Acres.  For major damage, Ah'd have to take her ta the fires where she was wrought -- it's Swift Industries owns the plant now, over in Bitsburg.  For minor tune-ups, a'course, Ah just bring her into Canterlot, where the Watch has a well set-up machine shop; they can bend her a little bit, and will do it for me, fer ol' times' sake.

"Ah cain't do the work mahself no more, but Ah can show the workers how ta do it, an' Greenie knows where Ah keep mah notes on Bessie, if'n fer some reason Ah cain't show them.  So Bessie can be, if needs be, repaired from most anything likely ta happen to her -- but Ah'd rather not have to.  Ah'd rather not see Bessie hurt."

"Ah'll take good care o' her," Big Mac promised.

Blackie had smiled, at that.  Then he'd showed Mackie how to take care of the arbalest, and specifically how to transport it.

Blackie's hunting leathers, which covered Mackie's forward half and parts of his hindquarters, attached to an equipment harness from which various weapons, ammunition and other supplies could hang.  The leathers were light -- soft and supple -- and provided some protection against thorn and claw.  They covered his chest, forelegs, and forward barrel, with a harder-leather gorget on the hollow of his throat, where his well-muscled neck was the most vulnerable.  They also extended back to cover his spine to the base of his tail, his hips and his outer thighs.  Mackie might be a little warm in them, but they were not at all cumbersome.

The harness itself, made of strips of thicker and tougher leather, was both light and provided some additional protection against slashing weapons.  Blackie had special cases and sheaths for all sorts of equipment, most especially Old Bessie.  The arbalest rested within a big padded wooden case, designed to protect it from being banged against obstacles as the bearer went through obstructed terrain.  The crossbow case was placed to enable its bearer to easily open and close it without removal from the harness, and rapidly withdraw or replace the weapon within:  a feature of obvious practicality when hunting dangerous creatures.

Blackie had Big Mac practice a bit with the arrangement.  He also showed Mac how -- in a pinch -- to grip Old Bessie and carry her with one's mouth.  It was even possible to run at nearly full gallop with her held in this manner.  Blackie told Mackie that he had actually done this, more than once, and warned him that it was hard on both mouth and neck to carry the crossbow in this way for too long.

Aside from the arbalest, Big Mac carried relatively little.  A long hunting knife, of the kind popularly called a 'White Tail Toothpick,' named for the inhabitants of the mountains to the west-southwest, was sheathed at his left thigh.  A water canteen hung on his right side; a first -aid kit was strapped to his left.  A hunting purse, hanging around his neck, contained flint, steel and various sundries, including some well-wrapped apple fritters.  Mackie could have carried a whole lot more, but he did not want to render himself slow or clumsy.  He was not an expert hunter, but his woodscraft was sufficient for him to grasp why this was so important.

As he made his way through the woods, heading back toward the place he had last seen the bear, he mulled over the advice his grandfather had given him on how to hunt the bear.  Blackie had warned him of their keen intellects, surly disposition, brute determination, tough bodies, and excellent senses of smell.  The old monster hunter had adviced him regarding avenues of approach, choices of ammunition, vulnerable anatomical areas, and similar issues.  Big Mac paid close attention to his grandfather's hard-won wisdom.

But the advice Mac most treasured, Blackie had saved for last.

"Mackie," the old stallion had told him, his voice thick with emotion.  "Ah know yew want to make us proud, an' keep us safe, an' o'course Ah hope yew don't damage Ol'Bessie.  But -- if it comes ta' the sharp end, an' it's a mater o' yore life, against losin' the bear or bendin' Bessie -- just remember this.  Yew kin allus' hunt the bear again if'n he gets away.  An' Ah kin fix Bessie a darn sight more easy then Ah can fix yew.  So watch out for yoreself, grandson.  Yore worth more to me than clearin' out a bear or keepin' mah arbalest from gettin' broken, even if'n she is the best darn arbalest in the world an' Ah made her mahself!"

Big Mac well understood what his grandfather really meant b this formulation, and tears moistened his eyes.  He reached out suddenly and hugged the old stallion, ignoring his grandfather's half-hearted protests.  Mackie held Blackie, wishing that he could protect him and keep him safe, just as his grandfather had protected and kept him and everypony else safe from the monsters.  A moment later, a third pair of arms embraced both of them, to the extent possible given that both Blackie and Mackie were big stallions.  Granny Smith was hugging both her boys -- her husband, and he rgrandson.

The warmth of that moment remained with Big Mac long afterward, both on that day and on many of the other days of his eventful life.  It was a perfect memory of family love, and soon after -- as he walked to the door -- he had looked back at his grandparents sitting at the table, and down at little Apple Bloom sleeping on the couch, and the scene filled his heart with determination.

This is what he was fighting for.