Don't Poke the Bear! (an Emmett Love Western)

by John Locke

  It’s them!

  Without a doubt, it’s the two women I care most about in the world! Rose has the oxen exactly where they’re supposed to be, right in the center of the trail, and they’re just about to pass the next rise.

  I’m ridin’ as fast as I can now, without losin’ Steel, and when I get a half mile behind the wagon, I shout, “Gentry!” at the top of my lungs.

  She can’t hear me yet. There’s too much travelin’ noise. The thirty or forty wagons in front and behind her are all makin’ groanin’, creaky, squeaky wagon sounds. And there’s a wind blowin’ left to right that’s strong enough to drown my words.

  But no matter. I’m ridin’ swift, and I’ll be on top of ’em in three minutes, on the other side of the rise. I wonder if Gentry will turn to see me barellin’ in on ’em, just before they crest the small hill. It’d be the perfect place to turn around and look.

  But I hope she don’t turn around and see me, ’cause I got a fun idea.

  I’m gonna crest the hill and slow down, and just sort of sneak up on ’em with a speed walk. I’m gonna slide right past ’em, like I’ve never seen ’em before in my life, and as I pass, I’ll turn toward ’em and tip my hat and say, “Ladies,” and keep goin’ twenty or thirty yards before turnin’ around and grinnin’.

  Rose’ll roll her eyes and smile, but Gentry’ll think it’s hilarious.

  They’re crestin’. Don’t turn around, Gentry, you’ll spoil the surprise!

  They hit the crest, Gentry turns halfway around to the right, bless her heart, but I’m comin’ up behind ’em on the left, and just before she can pivot and look the other way, their wagon is headin’ down the other side of the slope. I’m two minutes behind, and I can’t wait. I spur Major into a canter and silently swear I’m never gonna leave Gentry’s side again, as long as I live. My horse is flyin’, my heart’s racin’, but everything goes black a minute, and when I come to, I find I’m lyin’ on the ground, on my back. And my head feels like someone smacked me with a two by four. And when the five Union soldiers gather around me, I feel like things may have taken a bad turn.

  “Gentry!” I scream with all my might.

  At least I think I screamed her name before I blacked out again.

  43.

  FORT BEND IS north of Stafford, west of Wichita, and fifteen miles from where I was shot in the back of the head. I’m on a cot in the infirmary, and horrified to hear about the wound in my head.

  Horrified because I was barely hit.

  How could a glancin’ blow knock me off my horse and make me black out five or ten times durin’ the journey to the fort? All I can figure is, it caught me by surprise and I must’ve landed on my head when I hit the ground.

  While I might a’ hit my head, my entire body’s achin’, so I obviously took quite a tumble. I remember goin’ at a fast clip when I was struck. I’m surly and furious over getting’ that close to Gentry, only to be taken a good thirty miles outta my way.

  Why the hell did someone shoot me, and why did they feel compelled to bring me here to patch me up afterward?

  It don’t make sense.

  It’s mornin’, so I’ve had a good night’s sleep. Now I need to take a piss. Despite the aches and pains, I feel strong. I sit up in my cot, feel the bandaged tender spot on the side of my head, and know I’m good enough to travel. I could cut a straight path from here to Daindridge, and save a full day of ridin’, but can’t take the chance of missin’ the wagon by getting’ in front of ’em. If that happened, I wouldn’t see Gentry till Lawrence, six days from now. If I don’t catch up to Gentry before then, she’ll be worried sick about me. She’s probably already upset, havin’ figured to meet up with me sometime yesterday.

  I’ll backtrack to the place I got shot, then follow the trail I know Rose is takin’. I’ll ride my horses into the ground if I have to. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be in Gentry’s arms, even if I have to carry the horses!

  I climb out of my cot, find a piss jar, and use it. Then I look around for my clothes.

  “You seen my clothes?” I say to the guy I just noticed lyin’ in a cot next to mine.

  He don’t answer, just shakes his head. Now that I get a good look, I can see the poor kid’s in a bad way. He’s lost an arm. His face is pale and his teeth are chatterin’. I’m no doctor, but I’ve seen enough injuries to know this kid is on the fence.

  “What’s your name, son?” I whisper, so as not to disturb the other three patients I now see in the room.

  He tries to speak, but nothin’ comes out. I reach out and pat his shoulder.

  “You’ll be okay,” I say. “You’re gonna make it.”

  His eyes search mine to see if I’m bein’ truthful. I nod and say, “I’m positive.”

  His hand moves out from under the blanket. I take it and say, “Stay strong.”

  He squeezes my hand. A tear falls from his eye. I nod again, put his hand back under the blanket, take the blanket from my cot, and cover him with it. As I’m doin’ that, tuckin’ the blanket around his feet, I realize he’s lost a leg, as well.

  I walk around the room, lookin’ for my clothes. They’re not here, so I open the door and start walkin’ down the hall.

  “Looks like you’re doin’ better,” a soldier says, comin’ up behind me.

  “You the doctor?”

  “I am.”

  “Thanks for patchin’ me up.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “That kid in there.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one lyin’ next to me, no arm and leg. Will he make it?”

  “I’m bettin’ no. But God might feel different about it.”

  “I’ll pray for him.”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  We stand there a few moments, thinkin’ about the kid, me in my under clothes, him in his uniform.

  “I’ll be needin’ my clothes and belongin’s,” I say.

  “Come with me,” he says.

  44.

  THE DOC LEADS me outside to the courtyard, where I see a dozen soldiers doin’ one thing or another, and three men dressed in gray uniforms.

  “Go over there and stand with them,” he says. “The Colonel will be out directly.”

  As he starts to leave, I put my hand on his arm.

  “Who’re those three?”

  “Johnny Rebs.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “We’re at war. They’re rebels.”

  “The southern states have uniforms already?” I say.

  “They do. This war’s been planned a long time.”

  “I’m Emmett Love, Sheriff of Dodge City.”

  He seems a nice man. But when I tell him who I am, he says somethin’ that gives me pause. What he says is, “Glad to meet you, Sheriff. I’m the Queen of England.”

  As I watch him walk off, I hear someone shout, “You there! Get your ass over here.”

  I turn to see who he’s talkin’ to, and it appears to be me. I walk over to him, and he tells me to stand in line with the others. He’s got a gun, and several others with guns are watchin’ us, so I figure the line is where I ought to be until I can straighten things out with the Colonel.

  As it turns out, me and the three Johnny Rebs are in line a full hour, which puts Gentry and Rose that much further away. I’m tryin’ to hold my temper because, honestly, I’m caught up in the middle of a war. As Sheriff of Dodge City, I’m exempt from soldierin’, and the good news for me is, Kansas went with the Northern side, and I’m Sheriff of a Kansas town. If I’d been shot and taken to a southern fort, they might not turn me loose!

  Finally, the Colonel and a Sergeant show up. The Sergeant makes us stand in a straight line. I expect them to ask us a few questions, but they ask us nothin’. Instead, the Colonel clears his throat and starts makin’ a speech.

  “As you men know, we’re at war. Unlike wars of the past, this one pits brother against brother, father against son, and neighbor again
st neighbor. It’s a helluva thing. And Kansas is wrapped up in it completely against our will. I don’t like this war. But I’ll do my duty, as I’m sworn to. What really chaps my ass is the whole damned thing could’ve been avoided.”

  He shakes his head and continues: “My people come from Tennessee. They just want to be left alone to live their lives and raise their families. Now I hear the war is headin’ their way, and people I grew up with are going to die for reasons they don’t even understand.”

  He shakes his head again. “Ain’t this a helluva war?”

  It is. And I’m not sure the Colonel actually said why he thinks the war was avoidable. But he’s right about how almost no one really knows why they’re fightin’. I mean, they’re probably all told somethin’ by their commanders that gets their dander up, but that don’t make it accurate. Or maybe it is accurate, I don’t know. But if I don’t know, then they probably don’t, either. What I do know, it ain’t my war, and I wouldn’t participate if it was. These are Americans fightin’ Americans and I’d take my own life before shootin’ my relatives over the color of their uniform, or over issues I don’t understand. Mostly, I think those who kill each other in this war will be shootin’ not because of some political cause, but because they don’t want to get shot.

  The Colonel continues: “This war is different in other ways. It’s the first industrial war. Railroads, telegraphs, ships, steamboats, and mass-produced weapons will all play a part. And that’s where you men come in. You’re prisoners of war. As such, you’ll work from sunup to sundown to help us get a railroad built. It’s in your best interest, because the railroad will bring troops and supplies up and down the war front six times faster than troops can move on foot. There are no finer generals than the south has, and no finer troops, although we like to feel we do a damn fine job with our troops, as well. I mean, we were all on the same side a few months ago. But the railroads and factories will win this fight for the North, and the faster we build this railroad, the faster you men can get home to your loved ones.”

  “You’ll be leaving here in an hour, and transported to the job site. It’s a rotten position you’re in, and I feel for you, and that’s the truth. But if you keep your mouth shut and your muscles working, you’ll come through this alive. You have my word.”

  He starts to leave, and a couple of soldiers come up behind us.

  “Colonel?” I say.

  He turns to look at me. “Did I just tell you to keep your mouth shut?”

  “I ain’t a soldier!” I say. “I’m—”

  …I’m in a wagon on my back, movin’ across the prairie. The three Johnny Rebs are starin’ vacantly at the scenery. My head is foggy and I feel somethin’ heavy on my feet. I think one of the prisoners might be sittin’ on my ankles, so I sit up to complain about it, and realize I’m wearin’ leg irons.

  45.

  THE PRISONERS DON’T talk much, but one whispers I got conked on the head with a rifle butt.

  “Why?” I whisper back. “I’m not a soldier.”

  “They claimed you’re a horse thief. Said you were leadin’ one of the Colonel’s stolen horses.”

  “I’m the sheriff of Dodge,” I whisper. “I had a badge in my pocket.”

  “Maybe you killed the sheriff and took his badge.”

  “Shut up you two!” one of the guards shouts at us.

  When we get where we’re goin’, there are maybe twenty prisoners, and eight guards with rifles. There’s a hand cart on a track, and an actual train car about fifty yards away. As I learn over the next few hours, every 160 feet of track that gets laid, the prisoners have to push and pull the rail car back and forth over the new section to see if it works. Accordin’ to the other prisoners, it takes two days for sixteen prisoners to lay 160 feet of track and test the car. Of course, every day more prisoners and guards will be brought in, which will speed the work up considerably.

  For me, the next few days are all about acclimatin’.

  I’m on the sledge hammer crew.

  The hand cart brings me and five other men a pile of rocks. We crush ’em, and a prisoner named Eddie scoops and hauls the rock chips away in a wheelbarrow. The rocks are placed on the ground to make a path, and wooden crossties are placed on our broken rocks. Then, two lengths of iron rails are laid on top of the crossties four feet apart, and a well-trained sledge hammer man drives iron spikes into the wood on each side of the rail. The spikes have a lip on one side that holds the rail in place. The rails are sixteen feet long, and weigh 120 pounds each.

  I rise at dawn, work all day, get fed a meager amount twice a day, sleep in a tent at night that’s guarded by soldiers. There’s little talk among the prisoners, and less involvin’ me, since I’m widely considered a horse thief. The guards are harsh, but not abusive. When one soldier breaks out into song, and is punished, I think about Rudy, and wonder how he’s doin’.

  Of course I think about Gentry.

  I think about Rose, and Shrug, and The Lucky Spur, and the town of Dodge, and how wonderful our lives had been only recently. But mostly I think of Gentry. I think of her night and day. She’s the first thought I have in the mornin’, and the last thought I have at night.

  I don’t dream often.

  I think that’s because I’m in constant pain from the leg shackles and exhausted by the non-stop work. I laugh to myself, thinkin’ how hard I thought it was to build a jail hole. That was hard work, but at least Wing and I switched jobs every other day. This sledge hammer work jars your bones with every hit, and wears your back out somethin’ fierce, and I don’t have any of Rose’s liniment to put on it at night.

  But when I do dream, it’s always about Gentry. Makin’ sweet love to her. Hearin’ her voice askin’ if we can lay under the blanket just a little longer. Hearin’ the waterfall of laughter that spills outta her mouth when Rudy chases and knocks the crap outta me while playin’ tag. Sometimes I dream about the trip we took from Rolla to Dodge last year. Think about the times we lay together under the stars. Think about the fireflies at Firefly Heaven in East Kansas. The great White River Nipple Contest, where somehow she got bested by skinny little Leah.

  I smile, just thinkin’ about the dreams. Wish I’d come up with a way to memorize those special moments while I was havin’ ’em, so I could remember every part of ’em. Like how her hair smells comin’ in from a rain. Or what sounds I was hearin’ that day when Gentry went dashin’ off and threw herself into a mud puddle full speed and slid nearly twenty feet. The whores travelin’ with us joined in, and before long they were laughin’ and rollin’ around in the mud, and slappin’ pads of it in each other’s hair. Then Gentry said, “What about you, Emmett?” and before I knew it, the whores dragged me into the puddle, pushed and poked and rolled me around, and slapped my face with mud cakes, and laughed and giggled. But when it suddenly grew quiet, I noticed it was Gentry layin’ on top of me, kissin’ my cheeks and mouth.

  At that moment, all the others backed away, silently, realizin’ somethin’ special was happenin’.

  “I like you, Emmett,” Gentry had said to me that day.

  God, I miss that girl.

  46.

  I’VE LOST TRACK of days.

  One blends into the next, when you get no news, and aren’t allowed to talk. It’s endless day after endless day, and your beard starts to grow and your clothes wear out. I’d been in my unders all this time, but when one of the workers dies they put me in his rebel uniform. I feel bad for the boy that died, but I’m warmer at night, when it’s cold.

  I wonder what Gentry thought when I didn’t show up. I know they would a’ gone on to Lawrence to warn the people about the massacre. But Gentry would a’ been beside herself with worry. Rose would a’ said I probably passed them in the night, and would be waitin’ for ’em in Lawrence.

  But I weren’t in Lawrence when they got there.

  After warnin’ the folks, did Gentry go on to Springfield with Rose, thinkin’ I’d come there to find her? Rose would w
ant to do that, since her adopted daughter, Hannah, was there. Or did Rose or Shrug bring her all the way back to Dodge? Knowin’ Rose, my best guess is, she took Gentry to Springfield, which is only a few days away, and probably sent Shrug back to Dodge to check on me. Shrug can cover fifty miles a day on foot. He could make the trip from Lawrence to Dodge and back to Springfield in sixteen days.

  I’m tryin’ to do the cipher in my head, but I’m out of practice and have to give up several times.

  It’s another day, and I hoist the hammer, bring it down on what feels like the millionth rock, feel the shudder go through my bones, and frown, realizing this particular rock hasn’t broken. I wonder where all these rocks come from? Who brings ’em to the hand cart people? I lift the hammer up over my head and bring it down a second time, with all my strength. This here’s an ornery rock. Two blows and it hasn’t busted. That’s a rare thing, in my experience. I hoist again, and this time it breaks into five pieces. On the one hand, I’m sad, because I like to think of my spirit as bein’ like this tough rock, able to withstand anythin’. On the other hand, it gives me a strange feelin’ of satisfaction. Maybe that’s because it’s the only way to tell I’m alive. If I keep poundin’ on a rock that don’t break, maybe I’m dead and haven’t realized it yet.

  I stop a minute and look at the five pieces of stone, and smile, rememberin’ that every time Shrug and I traveled durin’ our two years together, he’d be up ahead, scoutin’ the territory. Occasionally he’d set four stones on the ground, representin’ north, south, east, and west. A fifth stone would show the direction I was supposed to follow.