Emmett & Gentry (an Emmett Love Western)

by John Locke

  I make my move to get out of bed and hear myself gasp with pain. I wouldn’t a’ thought it’d be harder to stand today than it was yesterday, but it is. When I finally make my way down the stairs, draggin’ the chains behind me, the racket I make is enough to wake up what’s left of the town.

  I’m in the outhouse now, and somethin’ don’t feel right about the way I’m pissin’. The light comin’ through the crescent moon at the top a’ the door ain’t givin’ off enough light to see by, so I piss a little into my hand and hold it near a knot hole, and sure enough, there’s blood in my piss. In my experience, that’s never a good sign. I remember my witchy friend, Rose, tellin’ me about coughin’ up blood. One type of color is worse than another, and there was somethin’ about smellin’ copper, but I can’t remember enough about it.

  I do miss Rose, and all her knowledge of useful things.

  Right now I could use some of the birch bark medicine she taught me how to make. If I’m pissin’ this quantity of blood, and my ribs are busted or bruised, things could quickly go bad for me. There used to be a fine sawbones in town, but I doubt Doc Workday is still practicin’ here. My guess is he ain’t.

  I push open the outhouse door and walk a few steps to the water trough. There ain’t but a couple inches of water in it, and what’s there is covered with a layer of green scum. There are mosquitoes standin’ on it.

  All in all, I’d say my hands are cleaner than the trough water.

  I look at the pump handle. It’s been a long time since I worked the pump, but back then it only took a couple minutes to draw. But that was April, and this is August. In my experience, August is about a five-minute pump, and I’m in such pain I doubt I could pump a single stroke. I look around to see if anyone is nearby who can lend a hand, but there ain’t no one in sight.

  I skitter the back of my hand across the scum on the water till I’ve made an open area big enough to put my hands in. I swirl ’em around a bit and wipe ’em on my pants.

  I wonder if I’m bleedin’ inside. Internal bleedin’, is what Rose calls it, and you usually see blood comin’ out of a person’s mouth shortly before he dies.

  Gentry had a friend, a whore named Scarlett, who got gored by a hydrophobic bull on the journey we made from Rolla to Dodge. She had the internal bleedin’ Rose talks about, and sure enough, she died not long after the blood came out her mouth.

  I take a minute to think about Scarlett. She weren’t a pretty whore, but she was sturdy, hard-workin’, courageous, and had a sunny disposition. Accordin’ to Gentry, Scarlett was also uncommonly generous with her charms, which is the most useful quality a woman can have, in my opinion. Scarlett would’ve made a helluva pioneer wife after her whorin’ days were done, had she lived long enough to find a decent man. She puts me in mind of Clara Bigsby, Jim’s wife, ’cept I doubt Clara’s as eager with her charms as Scarlett was said to be.

  All these thoughts of Scarlett’s internal bleedin’ puts my mind on the blows I took to the back yesterday, and all the draggin’ through the fields, and I come to the conclusion I ain’t bleedin’ on the inside. I figure it’s a kidney bruise that’s causin’ the blood. Nonetheless, it’d be smart to boil some birch bark in water and drink it like a tea. It tastes somethin’ awful, but it stops infection, inflammation, and helps a body heal quickly. If I drank three or four cupfuls between now and tomorrow, it’d probably heal my back as well as my kidneys.

  I know where there’s some birch, ’cause I used to cut it every week and drink the tea every day. But the birch I know is a good ways out of town.

  Then again, I’ve got a horse in the saloon, less she run off durin’ the night. If she’s still here, I’ll name her Scarlett.

  Instead of walkin’ back up the stairs to the bedroom, I walk around the buildin’ and go in the front door.

  Not only is Scarlett still here, she’s still saddled. I feel bad about havin’ left her that way since yesterday afternoon, but my pain was intolerable at the time, and it was all I could do to get up the stairs and climb into bed. I look at the two canteens hangin’ on either side of the saddle horn and wonder if her owner would begrudge me a few swallows. If it were me, I’d offer the water, and a few corn dodgers to boot. I decide he’s as generous as me, and help myself. Rudy hears me crunchin’ corn dodgers and comes barrelin’ down the stairs. I toss him one, which makes him need another. I toss him another, and that tastes like some more.

  “These ain’t ours, Rudy,” I say, closin’ the saddlebag.

  Rudy bleats at me to show his displeasure.

  “Behave,” I say. “You’ve got tubers.”

  I toss him one.

  He throws it back at me. When I duck out of the way, I feel a sharp pain stabbin’ my hip. What the hell caused that one? Two minutes ago my hip was the only part of me that weren’t in agony, and now it’s the thing I’m feelin’ most.

  I sigh, and lead Scarlett outside so she can relieve herself. After she does, she gets on her knees and waits for me to climb on her back. I look around, to see if anyone’s watchin’ us. I don’t want to be accused of stealin’ another horse, but I could sure use that medicine.

  I climb on Scarlett’s back, and she takes off at a slow trot. Every step she takes is like the devil breakin’ my bones and jugglin’ ’em. I can’t remember the last time I was in such pain, even when I was workin’ on the railroad with swollen feet and infected ankles. Scarlett takes me due north, about three miles, at which point we come to the spot where I need to veer to the right if I’m gonna cut some birch bark. I guide her expertly to the right, only she don’t go to the right. She’s goin’ due north. It finally dawns on me what’s goin’ on here.

  Scarlett’s tryin’ to get home to her owner. If I’m right about that, her owner is another three miles north, and then west, which is the direction she was tryin’ to force me yesterday when she threw me off her back.

  I ain’t about to be thrown again, so I remove the knife from its leather holder and tuck it into my pants. Then say, “Whoa, Scarlett.” She stops, as if acceptin’ her new name, lowers me to the ground, and I get off and start walkin’ toward the birch trees.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I call out, cheerfully.

  Two minutes later I turn to see her walkin’ directly behind me. She follows me another mile, all the way to the birch trees.

  I use the knife to cut about a pound’s worth of bark, then look at Scarlett. She goes down to the ground again, and I climb back on. She takes me a mile due west, to the north-south trail, and turns right. If you’d a’ told me you had a horse that can’t make a left turn, I’d a’ slapped you for bein’ crazy. But this horse ain’t made a left turn yet.

  “Is it possible for you to take me back to town?” I say.

  I try to ease her gently around, but she ain’t havin’ none of it.

  I sigh. “Whoa.”

  Scarlett stops, lowers me to the ground. I get off and start walkin’ toward town, and she soon falls in line behind me.

  “You gonna make me walk the whole three miles?” I say.

  Scarlett says nothin’.

  “I ain’t never had to walk so many miles with a saddled horse in my whole life,” I say.

  Scarlett remains quiet, just follows me at a distance of five feet, all the way back to Dodge.

  11.

  WHEN I FINALLY limp into town, Jim’s standin’ outside the Spur.

  “You waitin’ for me?”

  “I am for a fact.”

  “Somethin’ wrong?”

  “We were expectin’ you for dinner last night.”

  “It’s hot,” I say.

  “It is.”

  “Why not wait inside the Spur?”

  “You might a’ forgot there’s a bear in there,” he says.

  “Rudy would never hurt you.”

  “So you say. But I’ll keep my distance from a bear when you ain’t around, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “He’s partial to corn dodgers,” I say.
<
br />   Jim rubs his beard. “That’s good to know. Where’d you get the horse?”

  We go inside, and Scarlett follows us in.

  “You won’t believe this, but she just showed up yesterday, northwest of here.”

  “Where?”

  “You know the poplar field, several miles out?”

  “You’re tellin’ me you walked all the way to town yesterday mornin’, then turned around and walked all them miles to a poplar field, draggin’ them chains?”

  “Had to get tubers for Rudy.”

  “What do you mean the horse just showed up? With a rifle, saddle, bags, blanket?”

  “Yup. Any idea who her owner is?”

  He gives Scarlett a long look. “I can’t remember seein’ a finer horse.”

  Jim ran a livery for fifteen years. I say, “Well, you’d know.”

  He nods. “Thought you’d be buildin’ your blacksmith fire by now.”

  “I got laid up in my back.”

  “I could see you were limpin’ pretty bad.”

  “Got bushwhacked by Indians.”

  Jim frowns. “How many?”

  “Just two. Boys. But they gave me all I could handle.”

  “Due to the chains?”

  I nod. “Had to kill one of ’em. Hurt the other one, but they still managed to hit me with a rock and drag me a bit.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “And that’s the truth,” I say.

  We sit quiet a minute. Then he says, “You gonna keep the horse?”

  “Ain’t mine to keep.”

  “Have you ridden her, or does she just follow you around?”

  “She only goes in certain directions. But left ain’t one of ’em.”

  “What?”

  “She don’t make left turns.”

  Jim looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

  “When ridin’ west,” I add. “Nor right, while ridin’ north.”

  Jim tries to squint my meanin’.

  Aimin’ for accuracy I say, “Left ain’t right.”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, left ain’t the right word. East is.”

  He appears more confused than ever. “East is what?”

  “East is what she won’t turn. Or south.”

  “The mare won’t turn east or south?”

  “Not in my experience.”

  Jim takes off his hat, shakes his head, puts it back on. I’m in too much pain to allow this conversation to continue much further. I try to explain myself one last time.

  “The horse will carry me north out of town, but only to the Arkansas River. Then she’ll go west. No amount of pullin’ will get her to take any other direction.”

  “But she followed you into town.”

  “Ain’t it the damndest thing you ever saw?”

  “Maybe her owner lives west of the river.”

  “I was thinkin’ that same thought.”

  “Maybe her owner’s hurt and the horse come lookin’ for help.”

  “She would’ve had to walk past a hundred folks on either side of the river at any given time,” I say, “findin’ me before noon as she did.”

  “Maybe she figured you’re the only one that could help her owner.”

  “Who figured that,” I say. “The horse?”

  Jim shrugs.

  Now it’s my turn to look at him like he’s crazy. Maybe we’re both crazy. In any case, I’m done with this bullshit conversation. Time to change the subject.

  “What’ve you got planned for the day?”

  He points at my feet.

  “What about ’em?”

  “I’m available.”

  “For what?”

  “To help you get them cuffs off. You’re too hurt to do it yourself.”

  “I can’t pay you. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Consider it an investment.”

  “In what?”

  “Saving Dodge.”

  I frown. “You know I aim to find Gentry soon as I’m able to travel.”

  “You and Gentry need each other,” Jim says, “but Dodge City needs you both.”

  I like the way he put that.

  “I’ll not forget what you’ve already done for me, keepin’ an eye on the Spur all these months,” I say.

  “You’d a’ done the same for me.”

  He’s right.

  “If you’ll point out the wood you want me to tote to the fire pit, I’ll go ahead and get started.”

  “Could you help me unsaddle Scarlett first? And then maybe pump a bucket of water? That way I can water her and Rudy, and boil some medicine bark for myself.”

  Jim’s grinnin’ at me.

  “What?”

  “That’s her name,” he says.

  “Who’s name?”

  “The baby.”

  “What baby?”

  “Yours, you dang fool! Your baby’s name is Scarlett.”

  “Scarlett? You sure?”

  “Yep, it just come to me. Her name is Scarlett Rose.”

  12.

  AFTER RUDY AND Scarlett have their fill to drink, I boil a small pan of water, toss in the birch bark and cook it till it turns the color of brown I’m lookin’ for. While it cools, I point out the wood for Jim to collect. He carries two stout chairs over to Tom Collins’s fire pit, and I follow him there. Tom and two other men, and ten women, are standin’ there to greet us. I know all of ’em, but only recognize a few at first, which is fair, since I’m pretty sure none of ’em recognize me.

  “Be careful,” Jim murmurs as we approach. “These women are hopin’ for a husband.”

  Ten women in the same town without a man? Unheard of!

  Used to be the other way around. I remember a time when men outnumbered women a hundred to one west of the Mississippi. For years I made a livin’ bringin’ whores and mail order brides from Rolla and Springfield to central and western Kansas. Back then, the homeliest, crankiest women were treated like princesses. Now, dreadful as I am, these ten women are lookin’ at me the same way I looked at Scarlett the horse yesterday, when I considered her my only hope of survival.

  “Good afternoon,” sheriff, they say, one after the other. The two men are George Reed, and Art Carbunkle. George used to own G. Reed’s Feed & Seed, and Art used to play piano for me at the Spur, till I shot holes in it and forbade music. That’s because when music was played, Rudy danced. When we learned Rudy only danced ’cause he’d been tortured as a cub, we put a halt to it. This is the first time I’d seen Art since firin’ him years ago, and the first time in my life I’d seen him sober. Truth be told, he looked a lot healthier when he was drunk.

  “You okay, Art?”

  “Consumption,” he says.

  I shake my head. “Sorry to hear it.”

  If Art ain’t high on Dodge’s list of eligible bachelors, George Reed is even lower. His entire body’s the color of lead, and he smells like a man weaned on stink weed. Even in a skeleton town like Dodge has become, the saddest women won’t tolerate the scent comin’ off George. But I give him credit. Most folks who look and smell like this would take their own life.

  Jim tosses the chairs into the fire pit and looks at the men.

  “The sheriff’s ribs are busted,” Jim says, “and his back is wrenched. His ankles and feet are infected, and he’s down in his hip. Emmett ain’t said any of this, but it’s clear enough to me. Will anyone lend a hand?”

  Jane Plenty speaks up. “The women will help you directly.”

  Jim nods, and looks at me as if to say “I warned you.” Then he turns and heads back to the Spur to fetch more wood. Art and George shuffle slowly behind him.

  Tom Collins says, “This is gonna take some time. I’ll come back outside when there’s enough wood in the pit.”

  He hops back into his shanty, leavin’ me to stand alone, facin’ a line of women like a young man at a town dance.

  There’s fifteen feet of dirt between us, and the women ain’t shy, but each comes at me a different
way. They’re respectful of each other, even friendly, but I remember a couple of ’em bein’ holy terrors when the town was flush. I’m speakin’ of Jane Plenty and Claire Murphy, who happen to be the first to walk across the dirt to say hello.

  “Howdy Jane,” I say, tippin’ my hat as best I can, since it still hurts to raise my arm that high. “Claire,” I add.

  “Sheriff,” Claire says. “I’ve got some liniment that might help you, if you want to come by later.”

  “Nice of you to offer,” I say.

  She nods, and steps back. What I remember about Claire, she wanted me to publicly flog the whores at Patty’s Pie Palace for makin’ lewd bathroom sounds at her and her friends when they walked to church one mornin’. Claire’s one of the meanest proper women I ever encountered, so I doubt I’ll be stoppin’ by for liniment any time soon.

  Jane’s turn. She gives me a shy smile and whispers, “Emmett, you look like you could use some tending. I’m small, but sturdy. She starts to go, then turns back and takes two steps toward me, and leans close enough for me to smell the lilac in her hair. She whispers, “It’s shameful and humiliating for us to throw ourselves at you like this, but we know you’re a good man.”

  She takes a step back and looks me in the eye. “I’ll admit I was a bit high and mighty when you were sheriff. But I’ve come down a peg. I’m a humble, warm-hearted woman who knows her place.” She touches my arm, and keeps her hand there.

  “What’s become of Pete?” I say.

  She shakes her head. “The war got him.”

  I nod. We both look at her hand a moment, and she gives my arm a little squeeze before removin’ it. Then she steps back in line with the others. What I remember about Jane is seein’ her small, freckly, left bosom when one of our whores ripped her blouse in my saloon one mornin’. Jane’s husband was one of the few men in town who used to poke Leah, our most unfortunate-lookin’ whore. In fact, Leah was the only whore Pete would poke, but he never said why, and I guess I’ll never know.