by John Locke
“Hell of a war,” he says. “Glad you escaped it.”
I pull up my pants leg.
He frowns. “How long you had that?”
“Long enough. That’s why I’m here.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t help you.”
“You still got your fire pit?”
He nods.
I say, “I’m strong enough to do the work, if you’re healthy enough to instruct me.”
“Ain’t no tools in Kansas that’ll cut leg irons off.”
Before I can speak he says, “There is a way. But you don’t want to know it.”
“Anythin’ short of cuttin’ my feet off will work for me.”
“That’s easy to say now.”
“Whatever this way is that you know about,” I say, “would you do it to get your leg back?”
He thinks a minute. “Maybe.”
“Then let’s do ’er.”
I help Tom to his work area, and he explains how much wood we’ll need to build the fire.
“About all I’ve got to my name is wood,” I say. “I can use the tables and chairs. If that ain’t enough I can use some of the railin’s.”
He chuckles. “It’s gonna take all the railin’s, doors, and half the walls.”
“How’s that possible?”
“You’re gonna have to build lots of fires. You’ll gather wood at night, burn it durin’ the day.”
“What’s the plan?”
He says, “Only way I know to do this is wedge as much cloth as you can between the leg iron and your ankle, all around. Then you’re gonna spoon water on the cloth. Then you’re gonna take that poker over there and set the tip of it into the fire till it’s white hot. Then you’re gonna push the tip of that poker into the leg iron till it cools. Then back over the fire till it’s hot again. Then back in the same spot till it cools. You’re gonna do that as long as you can stand it until you burn a hole all the way through. Then you’re gonna start all over again till you make the next hole next to the first one.”
He looks at the leg iron. “You’ll have to make about six holes, then burn through the iron that separates the holes.”
“How long will that take?”
“Depends on how much you can stand. The poker’s white hot, so you’ll have to protect your hands, which makes for awkward work when workin’ on yourself. After a minute, the leg iron will be as hot as the poker. You’ll want a bucket of water to dip onto the cloth every few minutes, to keep the flesh on your ankles from boilin’. But you’ve got open wounds there, so after about ten minutes it’ll feel like you’re gettin’ branded.”
“Suppose I can handle the pain. How long would it take to get the first leg iron off?”
“Two weeks.”
“What?”
“Give or take. And you need to be careful toward the end of each hole, just before the poker goes through, because if you’re pushin’ too hard at that point, you can burn yourself beyond repair.”
“What about the chains?”
“What about ’em?”
“If you were me, would you get rid of the chains first? Or let ’em come off with the cuffs?
He thinks on it a minute before sayin’, “If it was me, I’d take the extra time to get the chains off. It’ll lighten your load and make it easier for you to get around over the next month while you burn holes in the leg irons.”
“How long will it take to burn through the chains?”
“About a day or two for each.”
“I’ll start fetchin’ wood,” I say.
“You can stack it in here,” he says.
I nod. “You got a gun?”
“I do not.”
“You sure?”
“I’m still alive, ain’t I?”
7.
I’M MISERABLE THINKIN’ about the delay. I’ve also got nothin’ for Rudy to eat. I borrow a rope from Tom, and a large flour sack. I use the rope to tie my pants around my waist, and figure to fill the sack with tubers from a field east of town where tubers have always been plentiful, if you know where to dig. It’s six miles each way, and I’m hopin’ Rudy will help me gather enough for a week of meals.
I tie the sack to my rope belt and head back to the Spur and try to get Rudy up.
He’s tired.
“You’re makin’ this twice as hard on me,” I say loudly.
Rudy opens one eye, then closes it, and settles back to sleep. I check his feet.
They’re fine, which makes no sense.
Rudy had been terribly abused by his original owners, who taught him to dance by beatin’ him and burnin’ his feet on hot plates. By the time I acquired him, his feet were so bad he was nearly crippled. On the one hand I know a bear’s feet can’t be healed after a lifetime of abuse. On the other hand, Rudy’s feet have not only been healed, they look perfect. I think on it a minute and decide my witchy friend, Rose, must a’ given Gentry some sort of poultice to put on ’em.
I’m concerned but not afraid to leave Rudy at the Spur. There aren’t many people left in Dodge to harm him, and he’s been out in the wild long enough to know when danger’s afoot. I’d feel better if he came with me, but don’t have time to wait for him to finish his nap. I’ve got to walk twelve miles round trip in the burnin’ heat of an August day with leg irons and chains.
When I get back, I’ll start collectin’ wood for the fire I’ll need to build tomorrow. I walk to the front door of the Spur, turn, and look up at the door to the bedroom where me and Gentry used to sleep.
“I’m comin’ honey,” I say. “You’ll just have to wait awhile longer.”
Then I lift my weary feet down the street and start makin’ my way toward the tuber field, six miles away.
Three hours later I’m exhausted. But my day ain’t half over, so I try to focus on the stand of poplars three hundred yards in the distance, where I hope to find an abundance of tubers for Rudy. Beyond bein’ tired, my problems include the diggin’, the carryin’, the walk back to Dodge, and the two young Indians at the top of the rise who just spotted me.
Now that they’re trottin’ toward me, yippin’, I can say they’ve just become my biggest problem.
8.
THERE’S TWO OF ’em, ridin’ the same horse. They’re young, maybe fifteen. I see no weapons, less you count the rope coiled around the horse’s neck.
They get within fifty yards and circle once, twice, makin’ sure I’m as helpless as I appear. They yip and yell Indian curses at me, tryin’ to get their courage up. When they get directly behind me, they charge. I start runnin’ best I can, but of course the chains don’t allow me to make much progress before they slam their horse into me, and knock me down. They jump off and attack me before I can get to my feet, but haven’t counted on my ability to fight. I throw a fist at one of them and break his nose. He cries out and the other one stops in his tracks, but before he can back away, I grab him by the arm and pull him down beside me and and bust his cheekbone. He’s young, and quick, and scrambles to his feet just in time to avoid gettin’ seriously hurt. They retreat, screamin’. If it weren’t for the fact they’ve been shamed, they’d probably give up and go home. But like I say, they’re shamed.
Broken Nose calls the horse, climbs on, and gallops toward me. I get to my feet and start runnin’ toward the stand of poplars. It’s a long way, but if I can get there I’ll be able to keep the trees between me and the horse, and create a standoff.
But these damn leg irons prove too cumbersome, and I get knocked down a second time. I decide to lie on the ground, figurin’ the horse won’t trample me if he comes at me again.
But I’m wrong.
The horse don’t shy at all, and I barely avoided being crushed under its hooves. I jump to my feet and make one last effort to get to the trees. But my ankles are raw, and wet with blood, and every step feels like I’m stuck in quick sand.
I don’t get far.
The third time he gallops toward me, I turn to face him, and raise my arms,
plannin’ to scream at the last minute to spook his horse. I’m hopin’ he’ll get bucked off, so I can knock him cold and stop this foolishness. But he reins his horse to a stop twenty feet from me, which gives Broken Cheekbone enough time to work his way behind me. He hurls a large rock that strikes the back of my head and knocks me loopy.
These young pups are dizzy and groggy from the punishment I gave them earlier, but they have the upperhand and could easily kill me with the rock beside my head, a fact that’s not lost on Broken Cheekbone, as he snatches it before I can.
But he don’t use it to kill me.
Instead, he tucks the rock into a pouch attached to a wide strip of rawhide that circles his shoulder. It soon becomes clear why.
They want to torture me first.
They uncoil the length of rope from the horse’s neck and loop the free end through one of my leg irons, and tie it. Then they drag me two hundred yards across the field on my back at a fast trot. They make a wide circle with me and drag me the other way. I can feel the grass burnin’ and slicin’ my neck and arms, and every now and then I hit some rocks, and it won’t take too much more of this to kill me.
When they get to the other side of the field they turn to drag me again. There’s no doubt they plan to drag me to my death, or nearly so, and then finish me off with the rock.
But then somethin’ happens.
Broken Cheekbone falls off the back of the horse, unconscious. When he hits the ground, I grab him. Broken Nose abruptly stops the horse and slides off.
I don’t want to kill these kids, but they’ve made it clear I’m in a life or death situation. As he starts walkin’ toward me, I pull the rock from Broken Cheekbone’s pouch. As Broken Nose looks on in horror, I crush his friend’s skull.
Once again I’m responsible for killin’ a kid.
And if Broken Nose comes a little closer, I’ll kill him, as well.
But he’s seen enough. He’s afraid to leave his friend, but even more afraid not to. I see what’s about to happen, so I pull the dead kid on top of me and hold on for dear life. Broken Nose jumps on the horse. When he digs his heels in to drag me to my death, the weight on our end is too heavy, and the rope breaks. The kid gallops off, dragging the broken rope behind him.
I don’t know of too many sure things in this crazy world, but one thing I know for certain is Broken Nose will soon be back with half the tribe, which means I’ve probably got less than an hour to live.
I try to get to my feet, but fall unconscious. My eyes roll up into my head and I dream I’m bein’ dragged across the field again.
My head starts to clear and I realize I’m not dreamin’. I actually am bein’ dragged across the field! I lift my head and see Rudy in front of me. He’s got a hold of my left leg and seems to be pullin’ me back toward Dodge. Of course, my right leg is gettin’ hung up under my body, and the pain is somethin’ awful.
“Rudy!” I shout. “Stop! You’re killin’ me!”
Rudy hesitates, then stops, ambles over, and licks my face like a dog. Then he yawns, plops down beside me, and promptly falls asleep.
Just as I’m wonderin’ how I came to have such bad luck, I see a horse, way off in the distance, headin’ my way.
The Indians are comin’. They’ll kill me, and Rudy, too.
“Rudy!” I scream. “Run!”
He’s alert. He twitches his nose, pickin’ up the scent.
“Run!” I shout. But Rudy has no intention of runnin’. He stands on his hind legs, throws his head back, and roars. I’ve heard this sound before, but never from Rudy. It appears whatever’s headed toward us, we’re goin’ to face it together.
I reach around in the grass for the rock, find it, grip it tightly in my hand, and wait.
9.
WHAT SHOWS UP ain’t a tribe of Indians. It’s a lone white horse with no rider.
The horse is saddled, and there’s a scabbard attached to it, with a rifle. There’s two saddlebags that appear to be full, two canteens, and a large skinnin’ knife. I blink twice, to make sure I’m not dreamin’.
I’m not.
I blink again anyway, ’cause it ain’t every day you see a horse brave enough to walk right up to a wounded man and a bellowin’ bear. While it goes against my grain to steal such a horse, I’d rather be hung tomorrow than scalped today, and this horse represents all I need to survive.
If I can get to my feet.
If I can get my leg over her back.
It ain’t easy gettin’ to my feet, ’cause my ribs are either bruised or broke, and my back feels wrenched. I get halfway up, hold myself there a second, take a deep breath, screw up all my strength, and finally stand on shaky legs. My breath is comin’ out in a gaspy wheeze, and I’m worried I’m gonna scare the horse. But then I figure if she ain’t afraid of the bear, my wheezin’ sound ain’t likely to affect her.
I hold my palm out and say, “Whoa, girl, whoa.”
I take a step toward her. She don’t shy away. I take a second step, and Rudy “tags” me and knocks me ass over heels while laughin’ himself silly.
The horse laughs, too.
I ain’t laughin’. I’ve got no strength left to stand. But then somethin’ amazin’ happens.
The horse walks right next to me and lies down!
All I have to do is get my leg over her back, and though it takes a pain-filled minute, I get it done.
The horse stands up, I remain on her back, and she starts headin’ toward Dodge, with Rudy at our side. As we make our way steadily across the plain, I look from side to side for Indians. So far, so good. Of course, if they’re gonna attack they’ll come from behind us. I want to turn and look, but force myself not to, for fear I might fall.
Thirty minutes later, we’re gettin’ close to the field where I knelt this mornin’, thinkin’ about the picnic Gentry and I started that day in April, more than two years ago. Unfortunately, that means we’re north of Dodge, and the horse is makin’ no effort to turn south. I’ve regained enough of my strength to pull her mouth to the left, but she pays no attention. I pull harder, and she blows out a warnin’ sound. While I appreciate her savin’ my life, I need to be in Dodge, collectin’ firewood. I feel bad that Rudy’s got no tubers for supper, but he’ll have to deal with it. I gather my strength and pull so hard the horse spins, and I fall off. She turns to look at me, then starts walkin’ slowly in the direction she’d been takin’ me when I fell.
I wave to the horse.
“Thanks for the ride!” I holler. I’m stronger now, and my head is clear. I’m hurt, but happy to be alive. I work myself up to a standin’ position, and watch the horse and Rudy headin’ west, even as I start walkin’ south. I don’t know this mare well enough to think any thoughts about her either way, but I’m surprised to see Rudy abandon me like this.
“So that’s how it’s gonna be, is it?” I holler, disgusted.
A short time later I hear a sound, and turn to see the horse and bear walkin’ behind me, fifty yards back. Minutes later, they close to within five feet, and now we’re walkin’ single file: me, the mare, and the bear, which is how we walk through the town, and into the front door of my old saloon, the Lucky Spur.
At which point I remember the saddlebags.
I’m hurtin’ so bad I can’t remove the leather bags from the horse, but I can open ’em. I know the contents don’t belong to me, but it’s almost as if they do, since one of the bags is filled with tubers, and the other contains corn dodgers, pork cracklin’s, and two hundred dollars in gold coins. That, plus the rifle, knife, and horse, represents a temptin’ haul.
Too temptin’.
Like somethin’ the devil might offer, to steal a man’s soul.
I’ll take the tubers for Rudy, and replace ’em when I can. The rest of the contents will stay where they are, in the saddlebag, ’cause they ain’t mine to take. It’d be so easy to teach this brave horse how to turn south, and ride her all the way to Springfield, but I won’t.
Last time I r
ode a horse I didn’t buy it cost me twenty-eight months of hard time. I ain’t about to repeat that mistake.
10.
IT’S MORNIN’.
I gathered no firewood yesterday, and hurt so bad I don’t know how I managed to climb the steps. Guess I was that determined to sleep in my old bed. I’m lyin’ here still, racked with pain. It’s killin’ me to lie here when there’s wood to be gathered and a fire to be started so I can finally get these cursed chains off my ankles. But I have to accept things as they are. I’m lucky to be alive, and need to be content with that. Need to get myself healed before I start liftin’ and carryin’ large amounts of lumber.
Rudy’s snout is nuzzlin’ my leg. He slept on the floor by my bed last night, and seemed so comfortable doin’ it, I figure Gentry must a’ let him sleep here when she wasn’t in the rockin’ chair guardin’ him.
I sigh, and the effort of doin’ so makes me wince. I need to piss in the worst way, but dread the thought of gettin’ up, goin’ down the stairs to the outhouse, and climbin’ back up. We used to have piss pots in each room, but now I ain’t got a pot to piss in. The whores must a’ made off with ’em last year when they cleared out.
I’m settin’ my jaw against the pain, but pause to notice the lines of light comin’ through the torn curtains, highlightin’ the words and symbols on the wall. Emmett & Gentry. Two hearts. Emmett & Gentry. Two hearts.
I look at Rudy.
“Where’s the horse?”
He stares at me, blankly.
“What’d you do, leave her downstairs?”
He opens his mouth like he’s gettin’ ready to answer, then peels his lips back and grins at me. I don’t know if that’s a smilin’ expression or somethin’ he does ’cause he feels like it. I ain’t spent an abundance of time among black bear, and them I dealt with were stern-natured, so when it comes to smilin’, it’s Rudy’s secret to know, and mine to find out.
