by John Locke
I PICK UP my pace and enter the north side of town, lookin’ for any signs of life. I see a couple of fellers on the far end of the main street, up where Jim Bigsby has his livery stable.
Or had it.
I head straight to the Spur, and see it’s boarded up and deserted. I kick the door several times, in case anyone’s inside, but no one comes. I go around the back and climb the stairs to the landin’ where the whores used to smoke their hand-rolled cigarettes. Once there, I try the bedroom doors and find ’em locked, but all the windows are broken from rocks kids have thrown, so I kick most of the glass out of one of ’em, and carefully step inside.
I’m in the room where Rose had her vision of William Clarke attackin’ the city of Lawrence.
I walk through the small room and out the front door, and head left on the hallway that overlooks the main room of the saloon. I stop a minute and call Gentry’s name. I’m at the place she shot a blast of rock salt from her shotgun the night she got mad at me for dancin’ with Rudy the bear. I turn to the right and smile, seein’ that the hole she shot in the wall is still there. I look down and see what’s left of the piano I shot up that same night, though the sign I put on it is gone. Our whore, Constance, lettered the sign. It said, Music will get you shot!
I smile at that, too, and all the other memories that come floodin’ back into my head. Then I walk to the bedroom where Gentry and I used to sleep. Inside, I see my name written on the walls. Not once on each wall, but hundreds of times. With two hearts in front of ’em. And after my name is a sign that means “and,” and then another name, and two more hearts.
The words between the hearts say Emmett & Gentry, and there must be a thousand of ’em written on these walls, and when I look at ’em and think of all the sad hours it took to write ’em, I’m sure my eyes would’ve welled up with tears if a shot hadn’t been fired through the front door just then.
3.
I LOOK OUT the back window to see if I’m bein’ set up for a cross-fire, but the back yard’s clear. I unlock the back bedroom door anyway, and push it open, as a means of retreat. Then I peer out the bedroom door and watch as the front door of the saloon gets kicked down. A giant man enters, one I’ve met before.
“Emmett?” he hollers. “Is that you?”
I check to see he’s put his gun back in his holster. Then I shout, “It’s me, Jim. You aim to shoot me?”
Jim Bigsby laughs. “Hell no!”
“Then why’d you shoot the door and kick it down?”
“I didn’t know who might be inside. I don’t abide folks stealin’ from my friends.”
I come out the door, walk to the end of the hallway, and head down the steps. When Jim sees what’s become of my appearance, he shakes his head.
“You’re a soldier? Got yourself captured?”
We shake hands, warmly.
I say, “Where’s Gentry?”
He gives me a long look. Says, “Let’s sit a minute.”
There’s only six chairs left in the saloon that once held sixty, and all are on their sides on the floor. Jim and I pick up two of ’em, place ’em on opposite sides of a table, and sit.
I repeat, “Where’s Gentry?”
“You don’t know?”
I frown. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked. What’s become of her?”
He removes his hat and says, “I honestly don’t know. She just…disappeared one morning.”
“What do you mean?”
“One night she’s here, next morning she’s gone. And I never heard anyone speak about her again, except to wonder what happened.”
I search his face for truth until I’m satisfied that’s what I’m gettin’. Then ask, “When did she leave?”
He looks up and to the left, like he’s tryin’ to remember. After a bit he says, “About six months, more or less.” Then adds, “I wouldn’t wear them pants around here if I was you. Specially with them leg irons.”
“I’m not a soldier, you dang fool. I was on my way to meet Gentry in Lawrence, Kansas, and got bushwhacked by Union soldiers outside of Fort Bend. They put me in chains and forced me to work on the railroad. I did that for twenty-eight months till yesterday, when I got rescued by southern sympathizers.”
“But the pants, Emmett.”
“I wore mine till they were in tatters. When one of the rebs died, I took his pants. Wore ’em till I got rescued. Then stripped one of the dead guards and kept his pants. It was that, or go naked.”
“I would a’ gone naked.”
“What’s got into you, Jim?”
“Twelve thousand and counting,” he says.
“What’s that mean?”
“In the past two years Kansas has lost twelve thousand men and boys. And more are getting killed every day.”
“I thought Kansas was neutral.”
“It was, but that didn’t last long. Started out north against south, but quickly turned into cousin against cousin, father against son, and brother against brother. Damned, cursed war.”
“And Dodge has turned north? Or south?”
“Both. What’s left of it.”
“You’re still here,” I say.
“I figured people will always need horses. Unfortunately, the army stole my good ones. Now me and the missus and some of the widows are eating the lame horses one at a time, hoping the war will finally end and people will come back.”
“Tryin’ to wait it out?”
“Still got the livery and barn. And like I say, people will always need horses.”
I look around at the empty saloon. “But not a place to drink?”
“Problem with saloons, it’s a social…” he pauses, searching for a word. Then says, “This is the most talking I’ve done in months. I can’t think of enough words to explain it. So I’ll just say that when all the men ran off to fight, only the women and kids were left. And they don’t generally drink or whore. When news came back their husbands and sons were dead, they cleared out. One business after another went under, and your whores couldn’t find work, except for deserters, and they rarely felt the obligation to pay.”
“What about the Chinese? What happened to them?”
“They all moved to Colorado.”
“Why?”
“The country’s buildin’ a railroad to connect the west to the east. The Chinese are gifted at workin’ for low wages.”
I nod, knowin’ that to be true. Then say, “Tell me what you remember about Gentry.”
“That time you and her left for Lawrence, she was gone a long time.” He thinks about it. “A month, maybe? No, longer than that. Six weeks, probably. Anyway, she come back, looking for you. Went door-to-door and farm to farm. Spoke to everyone in this part of Kansas, I reckon, askin’ if they’d seen or heard from you.”
“You spoke to her?”
“Many times.”
“How’d she seem on them occasions?”
“Heartbroken.”
I nod. “That would’ve been June, 1861?”
“Somewhere around then.”
And she stayed here from then all the way till six months ago? That’s what, twenty months?”
“I’m not good at ciphering dates, but that sounds about right.”
“Well, did the saloon stay in business all that time?”
“Oh, hell no! She closed the Spur in March of sixty-two.”
“What makes you so sure of the date?”
“It’s the same month we buried Roy.”
“Who’s Roy?”
“My nephew. Gut shot at Boley Crick. Made it all the way to our yard before dyin’. Got there in the middle of the night. We didn’t even know he was outside our window till we heard the town dogs fightin’ over his body.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
He nods.
I do the cipherin’ in my head before sayin’, “So she stayed here about a year after closin’ the place?”
He thinks on it a minute, and says, “About that.”
I
look around the room. “And the whores?”
“They left when she closed.”
“So it was just her alone in the place?”
“Wing Ding stayed as long as he could, to protect her and the bear.”
“What do you mean?”
“When the town started fallin’ apart, everyone put their thoughts on the bear. 1862 was a harsh winter. Folks were starvin’. They wanted to kill the bear and share the meat.”
“Which folks?”
“Half the town and all the Chinese. Even a few Indians.”
“It was half the town against Gentry and Wing Ding?”
“Them and some sort a’ grasshopper man who jumped from rooftop to rooftop chuckin’ rocks to the point people were afraid to walk the streets.”
I smile, despite the harshness of his words. My old scout and best friend, Shrug, is an uncommon rock thrower. I’ve seen him take out ten men at a time with nothin’ more than a sack of rocks and the cover of darkness. If I was goin’ to war in a town like Dodge, I’d take Shrug over a troop of soldiers.
“It ain’t funny. He killed at least six people.”
“No, it ain’t funny. Why did the Indians and Chinese want Rudy?”
“Same reason, food. But the Chinese thought him bad luck and the Indians thought the opposite. To them, black bear’s a sign of power. They figured to kill the bear and drink his blood, so they could own its power. Course the Indians were afraid of the grasshopper man, so they gave up quick. On the other hand, the Chinese blamed the bear for all the bad luck that hit the town.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Maybe. But anyway, your Gentry had her hands full, with everyone tryin’ to kill her bear.” He points to the corner of the saloon where Rudy used to sleep. Then he said, “She kept him in that corner over there, sat in front of him in a rockin’ chair all night long with a loaded shotgun in her lap, Wing Ding watchin’ the upstairs, and keepin’ an eye on the baby.”
I’m noddin’ as he speaks, but his last word catches me by surprise.
“The what?”
“The baby.”
“What baby?”
“Why, yours and Gentry’s, of course.”
4.
“GENTRY HAD A baby?”
“You didn’t know?”
“A ’course I didn’t know, you chucklehead! I’ve been workin’ on the railroad!”
“All the live-long day?”
“What?”
“The song.”
“What song?”
“Forget it.”
“What kind of baby is it?”
Jim looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “A human baby, of course.”
“What?”
“A human baby. What did you think?”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Did Gentry birth a girl or boy?”
“Girl.”
I nod. “And you think I’m the father?”
“That’s Gentry’s claim, and I reckon she’d know.”
I pause before speakin’. “I know you’re not overly good at cipherin’ dates, Jim, but think it through, and tell me the truth. I won’t hold you accountable less you lie to me.”
“Lie about what?”
“Do the dates work out?”
“What dates?”
“I last saw Gentry in late April, 1861. When was the baby born?”
He thinks about it and says, “three weeks before Christmas.”
“Which Christmas?”
“1861.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Gentry showed signs of motherhood soon after she came back to Dodge. She had the baby before they put up the Christmas tree.”
“The what?”
“A cattle guy from England come through town just before Christmas and bought drinks for all the card players in the saloon to celebrate Christmas. He told Gentry about how back in England they always put a pine tree in the house and decorate it to celebrate the season. Well, Gentry’s eyes lit up like a little kid’s, and the very next morning she had Wing Ding take the buckboard up to the river to cut a pine tree. She tore her fanciest dress into ribbons and she and the whores tied the ribbons all over the tree. Never saw anything like it! She loved that tree.”
“Sounds just like her.”
“She said it was a present for the baby. Said every year from that day on she was gonna have a Christmas tree in her house.”
“And that was 1861.”
“It was.”
“You’re sure?”
He looks at me.
“Of course it was 1861, Emmett, because the whores helped her decorate the tree. And the whores were all gone by March, 1862, when she closed the durn place.”
I feel my face break out in a wide grin.
The dates match! I’m a father!
“What’s her name?”
“Whose name?”
“My daughter.”
He scrunches his face up a minute, thinkin’ about it. “If you said it, I’d know. But the plain truth is, I’m not good with knowing baby’s names. Clara would know. You can ask her at dinner tonight, if you’d care to join us.”
I bet there weren’t ten kids born in the whole town in 1861, and Jim can’t put a name to mine. I briefly wonder how many kids Mavis Manson has popped out since I’ve been gone. She’d birthed fourteen before turnin’ thirty.
“Thanks for tellin’ me all them things,” I say. “Can I trouble you for two more questions?”
“Of course.”
“What became of Shrug?”
“Who?”
“The rock-thrower.”
“He disappeared too.”
“Same time as Gentry and the baby?”
“About the same time.”
“You’re sure?”
“Damn sure. I’m one of the only people he didn’t hit with a rock.”
“How’d you escape it?”
“I give him no reason to bother me.”
“We’re quiet a minute. Then he says, “What’s your second question?”
“Is Tom Collins still in Dodge?”
“What’s left of him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He give up an arm and leg in battle.”
“Is he still smithin’?”
“Nope.”
“Is there another blacksmith?”
“Nope. Not much work for ’em.”
“I need to get these chains cut off my ankles.”
“You also need some new pants.”
Suddenly Jim shouts, “Jededia!” His eyes are big as plates and he’s pointin’ upward and behind me while jumpin’ out of his chair and backin’ up.
I turn and look. Then shake my head.
“Relax,” I say. “It’s Rudy.”
5.
RUDY MAKES A sound like a trumpet, which I know to be his laugh. Then he ambles his big body down the stairs, walks over to his corner, yawns, and lies down. He closes his eyes. Before Jim and me have time to say much about it, Rudy’s sound asleep, and snorin’.
“I’ll be damned,” Jim says.
I’m frownin’ on the outside, but glad to see my bear again. I say, “You think my clothes are still in the closet upstairs?”
“You didn’t check while you were up there?”
“You came in too quick.”
“I doubt many folks would dare to steal your clothes.”
“Stay put a minute,” I say, as I get to my feet.
Jim gives a nervous look at the bear.
“Don’t shoot him,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I climb the stairs to my bedroom and check the closet. In the corner, on the floor, are two shirts and a pair of pants. I remove my clothes and work the pants over the leg irons, pull them up and find they’re huge on me. It’s only now I can tell how much weight I’ve lost over the past two years. I put on one of the shirts and find it baggy. I’m sure I look like a kid wearin’ his pa’s clothes. Still, these duds aren’t
as apt to get me killed as a soldier’s uniform, less I cross paths with a gun-totin’ tailor.
The shoes I’m wearin’ ain’t great, but they’ll do for now. I’ll trade ’em in for a pair of boots after I get these blamed leg irons off.
I go back downstairs, holdin’ my pants up with my left hand.
Jim Bigsby laughs.
“I s’pect Gentry and the baby are in Springfield,” I say. “I aim to go there, soon as I can get this hardware off my legs. Do you have a horse I can use?”
“They’re lame,” Emmett.
“How lame?”
“We’ve eaten four so far. Got two left.”
“That’s pretty lame,” I agree.
“Clara and me are feeding horse stew to nine others every night at our place,” he says. “We’d be pleased to have you join us while you’re in town.”
I give him a long look. “You and Clara are good people,” I say.
“Well, I like to think whoever owned lame horses would do the same for us.”
Anyone in town have a good horse? And a gun and holster?”
“Not around here, less you’ve got gold.”
“My credit’s no good?”
“Not for a horse.”
“Why’s that?”
“There ain’t any extras. Would you give up your only horse if a feller needed a ride?” He adds, “Let me think on which widow might have a gun you can borrow.”
“Do that,” I say. Then I ask, “Does Tom still live on Third Street?”
“He does. But he don’t smith anymore.”
“I aim to change that,” I say.
6.
TOM COLLINS IS in bad shape, but we’re friends, and I think he’ll help.
“Got any whiskey left?” he says.
“Do I look like I got whiskey?”
He laughs. “You look like you went through all your whiskey last night.”
“You too,” I say.
It’s true. Tom’s down to one arm and one leg, and the rest of him is yellow, ’cept his fingers and toes, which are swollen and black. There’s a scent comin’ off his body that ain’t too far off the smell Gentry’s pimple poultice used to give, meanin’ it’s strong enough to make my eyes water. Tom’s hair is thin and patchy, and looks like someone pulled it out in thick chunks. He’s thin as a six-day corpse, and has a beard the color and texture of Spanish moss. He’s wearin’ no shoes or shirt, and his chest is all yellow with black spots, and sunk in worse than his cheeks. Lucky for Tom—if there’s any luck to be found—the limbs he does have are on the same side of his body, so it appears he can get around to some extent with the use of a crutch.
