Free Working for Bigfoot by Jim Butcher Page B

it got dark, I was well into preparing the dinner I’d brought with me. The scent of foil-wrapped potatoes baking in coals blended with that of the steaks I had spitted and roasting over the fire.
    Can I cook a camp meal or what?
    Bigfoot showed up half an hour after sunset.
    One minute, I was alone. The next, he simply stepped out into view. He was huge. Not huge like a big person, but huge like a horse, with that same sense of raw animal power and mass. He was nine feet tall at least and probably tipped the scales at well over six hundred pounds. His powerful, wide-shouldered body was covered in long, dark brown hair. Even though he stood in plain sight in my firelight, I could barely see the buckskin bag he had slung over one shoulder and across his chest, the hair was so long.
    “Strength of a River in His Shoulders,” I said. “You’re welcome at my fire.”
    “Wizard Dresden,” River Shoulders rumbled. “It is good to see you.” He took a couple of long steps and hunkered down opposite the fire from me. “Man. That smells good.”
    “Darn right it does,” I said. I proceeded with the preparations in companionable silence while River Shoulders stared thoughtfully at the fire. I’d set up my camp this way for a reason—it made me the host and River Shoulders my guest. It meant I was obliged to provide food and drink, and he was obliged to behave with decorum. Guest-and-host relationships are damned near laws of physics in the supernatural world: They almost never get violated, and when they do, it’s a big deal. Both of us felt a lot more comfortable around one another this way.
    Okay. Maybe it did a wee bit more to make me feel comfortable than it did River Shoulders, but he was a repeat customer, I liked him, and I figured he probably didn’t get treated to a decent steak all that often.
    We ate the meal in an almost ritualistic silence, too, other than River making some appreciative noises as he chewed. I popped open a couple of bottles of McAnnally’s Pale, my favorite brew by a veritable genius of hops, back in Chicago. River liked it so much that he gave me an inquisitive glance when his bottle was empty. So I emptied mine and produced two more.
    After that, I filled a pipe with expensive tobacco, lit it, took a few puffs, and passed it to him. He nodded and took it. We smoked and finished our beers. By then, the fire had died down to glowing embers.
    “Thank you for coming,” River Shoulders rumbled. “Again, I come to seek your help on behalf of my son.”
    “Third time you’ve come to me,” I said.
    “Yes.” He rummaged in his pouch and produced a small, heavy object. He flicked it to me. I caught it and squinted at it in the dim light. It was a gold nugget about as big as a Ping-Pong ball. I nodded and tossed it back to him. River Shoulders’s brows lowered into a frown.
    You have to understand. A frown on a mug like his looked indistinguishable from scowling fury. It turned his eyes into shadowed caves with nothing but a faint gleam showing from far back in them. It made his jaw muscles bunch and swell into knots the size of tennis balls on the sides of his face.
    “You will not help him,” the Bigfoot said.
    I snorted. “ You’re the one who isn’t helping him, big guy.”
    “I am,” he said. “I am hiring you.”
    “You’re his father ,” I said quietly. “And he doesn’t even know your name. He’s a good kid. He deserves more than that. He deserves the truth.”
    He shook his head slowly. “Look at me. Would he even accept my help?”
    “You aren’t going to know unless you try it,” I said. “And I never said I wouldn’t help him.”
    At that, River Shoulders frowned a little more.
    I curbed an instinct to edge away from him.
    “Then what do you want in exchange for your services?” he asked.
    “I help the kid,” I said. “You meet the kid. That’s the payment. That’s the deal.”
    “You do not know what you are asking,” he said.
    “With respect,