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

by John Locke

  “What?”

  “Honey bees!”

  “So?”

  “Where there’s bees, there’s honey.”

  “So?”

  “There ain’t nothin’ in the world a black bear loves more than honey.”

  14.

  BY THE TIME we get there, and by “there” I mean a hundred feet away—Rudy’s covered in honey and bee larvae, and cryin’ from bein’ stung by the swarm of bees around his face.

  “Why doesn’t he run away?” Gentry says.

  “Once a bear gets started on a hive, he won’t quit no matter how bad he gets stung. He’ll eat the live bees, the larvae, the honey, the honey comb—he can’t help himself.”

  I look at Gentry and see she’s really concerned.

  “He’ll be okay,” I say. “His fur’s thick enough to protect him from most of it. His eyes and nose’ll swell, and he’ll be sore and cranky tonight. But believe me, he’s as happy as a kid with a new toy.”

  “He can’t stop?”

  “It’s sort of like how he has to make them dancin’ movements when music is played. Only this time nature’s makin’ him do it, ’stead a’ men.”

  “But he gets something out of it,” Gentry says.

  “He does. Accordin’ to Rose, honey has all kinds of medicine in it. It’ll help Rudy get stronger, and probably help him fight against getting’ his nose infected from the operation.”

  “If the bees don’t hurt him worse.”

  “He’ll be okay.”

  By the time Rudy’s done eatin’, he’s a sticky, nasty mess. We want to lead him to the river, but he’s havin’ none of it. He lies down to take a nap. No matter how hard we try to coax him, there’s nothin’ left to do but sit there all afternoon with him, till he’s finally ready to get some water. By then it’s dusk, and the river’s too far in the opposite direction.

  “I don’t know how you’re going to get him clean tonight,” Gentry says, “but he can’t come in the house like this.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re the one who knows all about bears and honey.”

  I sigh.

  An hour later, me and Wing Ding decide the best way to clean Rudy is to rub dirt all over him, then take a wet cloth and try to scrub the honey and dirt out at the same time. Of course, the bee stings have him all swollen up, and he’s cranky.

  It takes us two hours and requires three separate inspections from Gentry before she’ll let him back inside, but Wing is happy for the work, since it’s income he weren’t expectin’. I find Wing so agreeable and helpful I decide to offer him a full-time job on the spot. As I stumble around with my words, tryin’ to explain what I’m offerin’, he startles me by saying, “I happy work for you. One dollar day. Start eight. Stop eight. One hour lunch. No windows. Okay?”

  I stare at him.

  “All this time you could speak English?”

  He shrugs.

  I frown. “What do you mean, no windows?”

  He says, “I kidding about windows. Start tomorrow?”

  I nod, still bewildered about his ability to speak.

  “One more thing,” he says. “Food terrible. I cook lunch and supper for all.”

  “I agree our whores ain’t suited to cookery,” I say. “I’ll be glad to give you a shot at it.”

  15.

  RUDY’S IN NO condition to go for a walk the next mornin’, but Gentry and I’ve grown accustomed to the time together and decide we don’t need Rudy as an excuse. Wing Ding saddles our horses and packs a breakfast that smells so good I want to dig in before we leave. But I hold off after thinkin’ how much fun it’ll be to picnic on a blanket in a field with Gentry.

  The Arkansas River runs just north of Dodge, which is why there are so many trees. It’s also hilly, compared to the land east of Dodge. It’s a clear day, not a cloud in the sky, and while the temperature is cooler than warm, I’m comfortable with my jacket off. Like most women I know, Gentry is cold-natured, and keeps her coat buttoned up tight. She’s wearing a burgundy hat today, and for some reason the breeze is so slight, she doesn’t have to pin it to her hair. That’s rare for Dodge, which is consistently windy. We choose a spot a quarter mile below the highest hill, where the grass is tall and green. The river’s a hundred yards west of us.

  I tie the horses to a low tree branch, and Gentry spreads a blanket on the ground and sits. I take a minute to admire her silhouette. Gentry’s always been slim and well-built, but when I met her last September, her face was littered with pimples somethin’ awful. Worst case of pimples I ever seen. My witchy friend, Rose, slathered some type of smelly yellow poultice on her face every day for several days. When Gentry come out from under all that yellow stink, she had the prettiest complexion I ever seen. Rose used to travel with me from Springfield, where she lives, to Dodge City. For two years me, Shrug and Rose ran a business where we brought whores and mail order brides west from Rolla and Springfield, Missouri, to Dodge by horse and wagons ’cause the railroad and stage coaches don’t service eastern Kansas. Of course, it won’t be long before that changes, since progress is headin’ our way from both ends of the country.

  Gentry’s posture is perfectly straight. She looks like she’s posin’ for a portrait, sittin’ on the picnic blanket in front of me. I can’t imagine holding a pose like that for any length of time without hurtin’ my back, but she’s young and flexible and learnin’ how to be cultured, and could probably sit that way for hours if she had to. It’s my plan to relieve her of that pose and get her on her back, where I can hug up against her before we take the time to enjoy the breakfast Wing made for us.

  I’m thinkin’ these thoughts about Gentry as I remove our lunch from my saddlebag. What I’m holdin’ is some sort of sandwiches wrapped in a cloth. I hold the bundle to my nose and take a whiff and wonder if it could possibly taste as good as it smells. I smile at Gentry and say, “I think hirin’ Wing Ding might turn out to be a good plan.”

  She says, “I’m happy about it. I’ve grown quite fond of Wing. He’s dependable, industrious, and very respectful of me and the ladies.”

  “And from the smell of this breakfast, he’s a fine cook as well,” I place the bundle next to her on the blanket.

  She starts to say somethin’, but suddenly our attention is drawn to the other side of the hill where a shot has been fired.

  “Sit tight!” I say, as I turn toward my horse.

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort!” Gentry says, jumping to her feet.

  “It’s probably nothing. I’ll just ride over and take a quick look.”

  “We’ll do it together.”

  “Fine.”

  I turn back, grab the food, and put it back in my saddle bag. By then, Gentry’s got her left foot in the stirrup. Her horse is shyin’ slightly, so I wait to make sure she swings her leg up and over without fallin’ off. She does. I get on my horse quickly, and we gallop up the hill. Twenty feet before crestin’ it, we climb off our horses and tie ’em to a large, dead tree branch on the ground. Then we creep toward the crest.

  I hear ’em before I see ’em: three cowboys yellin’ and laughin’.

  Gentry hears ’em, too, and says, “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “They’re drunk for sure.”

  I motion her to lay on her stomach, and I do the same. Then we crawl to the topmost point of the hill and push some grass out of the way and look.

  We both see it at the same time.

  “Oh my God!” Gentry says. “It’s Shrug!”

  It is Shrug, my former scout and best friend. The cowboys have shot him and are in the process of strippin’ him naked. One has placed a rope around his neck and tightened it.

  “Whatever the hell this thing is,” one of ’em shouts, “I’m gonna sell it to the Chinese in Dodge!”

  “It’s some sorta man, but he looks like a grasshopper!” another one yells.

  It’s true Shrug is seriously deformed. He was trampled in a stampede as a child and lucky to s
urvive. As he healed, he grew more sideways than tall. So badly formed is Shrug, he can’t ride a horse. And yet he’s the fastest, most dangerous man I ever met. He can kill in pitch darkness with a single throw of a rock. There’s no better rock chucker in the world than Shrug, and no way these yahoos could’ve got the drop on him without resortin’ to trickery. I look at the trampled grass nearby, and the wound in Shrug’s back, and can guess what happened.

  These bastards probably saw him comin’ from the top of the hill, where you can see for a couple of miles. One of ’em probably laid down in the grass where it’s been trampled. He probably cried out for help. Shrug come along to help, leans over the man, and gets back-shot by someone hidin’ in the tall grass. The third hombre probably had the horses on the east hill and rode down just before Gentry and I got here. I look around to make sure there aren’t more of ’em lurkin’ about.

  Gentry says, “We’ve got to do something, Emmett. He’ll bleed to death!”

  “I’ll take care of this,” I say. “But you need to clear out.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m his friend, too! He needs us. I can help bandage his wound.”

  “Gentry, look at me.”

  She does. She knows from my tone I’m serious.

  “Shrug’s an uncommon proud man. If he thinks you’ve seen him stripped naked, helpless like this, he’ll never want to be around you again.”

  “But Emmett—”

  “He’s my best friend, Gentry, besides Rose.”

  “I thought I was your best friend.”

  “You’re the woman I love. They’re my friends. Of course you’re my friend. But it’s different.”

  “Shrug is my friend, too.”

  “I mean it. Go back and get the blanket and pretend none a’ this happened. Don’t speak a word about it. If anyone asks why you’re back without me, tell ’em we had a quarrel and you came back on your own.”

  “A quarrel?”

  “Please, Gentry. He’s my only friend, besides you and Rose. I need you all in my life, and this could ruin it.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m done talkin’ about it. I aim to kill these bastards and save my friend. But I won’t do it till you leave.”

  She sighs. She’s angry, but knows I’m serious. “Fine. But come straight to the Spur so I can take care of him.”

  “I’ll try, but he probably won’t let me bring him into town. You know how he is about bein’ seen by people.”

  “Please try.”

  “I will.”

  “Emmett?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you kill these men?”

  “I can.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Promise me you won’t get killed in the process.”

  “I promise.”

  She takes one more look. They had him naked and were tryin’ to get him to his feet. Probably plan to parade him through Dodge naked, with the rope around his neck.

  “Poor Shrug,” she says.

  “He’ll be okay. But you gotta get movin’.”

  She turns to leave, then turns back and says, “I don’t understand you men, and your prideful ways. I find it hard to believe you’d let him die before you’d let me help.”

  “Believe it.”

  “Emmett?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Whichever one shot him…”

  “What about it?”

  “Make him suffer.”

  “If you’ll get movin’ I aim to make ’em all suffer.”

  “Okay. When will I see you again?”

  “I have no idea. But don’t worry.”

  “Right.”

  She finally leaves. I give her a couple minutes to fetch her blanket from the picnic area, then I walk over to my horse and remove my rifle from the scabbard.

  16.

  THE FIRST TWO are easy.

  I start with the guy on the horse, who’s got the rope tied to his saddle horn. I fire a quick shot that hits the side of his head, then quickly squeeze off a second round that catches another guy in the neck. Unfortunately, the sound of the first shot has caught the ear of the third guy, who suddenly realizes his two friends have been shot. The first guy’s dead, the second moans loudly while bleedin’ out. But before I can shoot the third one, he lies down and pulls Shrug on top of him. He works his gun out of his holster and puts it to Shrug’s head. He’s lookin’ in my direction, knows the shots came from this general area because of the smoke from my rifle barrel, but can’t see me.

  I keep my rifle trained on him and wait a few minutes and realize we’re at a standstill. I slide back down and walk to my horse and remove the bundle from my saddlebag, open it, and eat one of the sandwiches. It’s unbelievably good! So good that if anyone but Shrug was down there, I’d eat the other one, too. I open the canteen and drink a few swallows, then resume my position on the hill and wait for an opening. After ten minutes, I notice the man’s left foot has moved about a foot away from Shrug’s body.

  I squeeze off a shot and hear him cry out in pain. He slides his gun down his body, props it against Shrug’s hip, and shoots a couple of poorly-aimed shots in my direction. But I’m out of range for a handgun. Even Bad Vlad couldn’t hit me from there.

  I stand to my full height and wave my arms and call him names, tryin’ to get him to shoot at me to use up his bullets. But he realizes what I’m up to, and resumes puttin’ the gun against Shrug’s head.

  “I’ll kill him, so help me!” the man yells.

  “Do it, then,” I holler back. “What do I care?”

  “You care,” he yells, “or you wouldn’t a’ got involved.”

  “I’m not involved. I just like killin’ cowboys and sellin’ their horses and guns.”

  Shrug knows my voice. I can’t tell if he’s unconscious or not, but he’s not movin’. If he’s conscious, he’ll wait till the time is right, and then make his move. When he does, I’ll get a clear shot.

  “Where are you men from?” I holler.

  “None a’ your business!”

  I go back to my horse and get my canteen and sit on the side of the hill in plain sight. The man under Shrug’s body can’t stand the fact I’m sittin’ right out in the open like that, sippin’ from my canteen. He takes careful aim and squeezes off a shot that lands ten feet shy of my feet. I’m surprised how close he got, but know he won’t try again, since he’s down to three bullets. We both know he can’t reload, because if he tries, he’ll lose his grip on Shrug, and if Shrug moves as much as a foot away, I’ll kill the guy.

  He yells, “Your friend is bleedin’ to death.”

  “He ain’t my friend. Shoot him if you like.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Try me.”

  I’m not worried about Shrug bleedin’ to death. He’s been livin’ with Rose at least part of the last few months, and Rose always makes us drink a birch bark tea that heals us faster and keeps our wounds from gettin’ infected. If Shrug had been gut shot, or hit in the center of the back, I’d be on this bastard like a hog on sassafras. But I can tell Shrug’s wound ain’t a mortal one.

  The guy’s friend stops moanin’.

  “You killed my friends,” he yells.

  “Don’t fret. You’ll be with ’em soon.”

  “Turn around and leave, and I’ll spare your weird-lookin’ friend’s life.”

  “He ain’t my friend. What I’ll do is have your horses.”

  “Why don’t you come get them?” he yells.

  “I will,” I say. “In time.”

  I do wonder why the horses haven’t scattered. They’re the best trained animals I ever saw. All three of ’em still standin’ there, though none are tethered. Just seein’ horses behave like that makes me want to cuss Major.

  An hour passes. Then I holler, “How’s your foot?”

  “Fuck you!”

  Another hour passes, and the foot that’s been shot slides out from u
nder Shrug again. I squeeze off another shot and laugh when he screams in pain.

  “You think that’s funny?” he yells.

  “I can see where it might not be as funny to you.”

  A few minutes pass and he yells, “All right. You can have our horses.”

  “Thanks.”

  “If you promise to let me go, I’ll send them on up.”

  “How’re you gonna do that?”

  “I’ll tell them.”

  “How dumb do you think I am?”

  “Teddy!” he yells. “Go up the hill!”

  Suddenly, one of the horses turns and looks at me. Then trots up the hill and stops a few feet in front of me. Rose might a’ got a horse to do that, but she’s a witch. I work with my horse Major every damn day and have for years, but if I don’t tie him to somethin’ stout, I’m on foot.

  “Send the others on up.”

  “Do I have your word you’ll let me go?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “Teddy!” he yells.

  Teddy trots on down the hill and stops a few feet away from him. I really hate the bastard for what he’s done to Shrug, but I got to admire his ability with horses.

  Then he shoots Teddy and yells, “I got two more bullets. I’ll shoot both the horses. Then you’ll get nothin’.”

  I can’t abide a man that’ll shoot a horse. Not to mention my best friend. If ever I came across a man that needed killin’, this were him.

  I try to keep the anger out of my voice when I yell, “You kill those horses and there’s nothin’ to keep me from killin’ you. Plus I get the saddles and guns, and while they ain’t the same as horses, that’s more’n I started with this mornin’.”

  I stand up and take careful aim.

  “What’re you doin’?” he shouts.

  The guy’s tall, and Shrug’s wide, and so far it’s been workin’ to his advantage, except that he can’t completely hide beneath Shrug without exposin’ some part of himself. I walk a few yards to the right, to get a different angle, and see him tryin’ to maneuver Shrug’s body in such a way as to cover himself better. From this vantage point, I see his ear is exposed. That ain’t worth a lot, but it’s somethin’, and will serve to discourage him some more.