Don't Poke the Bear [western 02] Read online

  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.

  The one thing I think about with every swing of the hammer is bustin the chain off my ankles. The daily rubbin’ against my bare skin creates wounds that, like the rope in Rudy’s nose, never heal. They open up every mornin’, and hurt all day. I get rock dust in ’em constantly, and they get infected and ooze pus and blood all the time. And the skin around ’em is always blistered and chapped. The soldiers give me salve to put on ’em regular, and that helps keep the infection down, but it don’t stop the pain. I don’t suffer like Rudy done, but I understand his sufferin’ more than I used to. I hate that I danced with him that first night when I didn’t know any better, but proud I shot the piano, and the spurs off Hollis Williams’ boots.

  I smile, thinkin’ about how Gentry loved to tease me about Rudy bein’ my son.

  I pound the pieces into smaller ones and try to remember what I was thinkin’. Oh yeah, the cipherin’ of Gentry’s trip. So figure seven days for Rose to get to Lawrence, two more days to realize I ain’t there, six days for Shrug to walk all the way back to Dodge to check on me, another to realize I ain’t there either, and eight more to walk the 400 miles from Dodge to Springfield.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been here, bustin’ rocks, but it’s probably been long enough for Shrug to have made his round trip. I think of poor Gentry, and what must be goin’ through her mind. Will she stay in Springfield with Rose or go back to Dodge? She don’t know it, but she’s got a legal claim to the Spur. I put it in both our names. Someone will eventually tell her that, and I can only hope it’s me.

  Each day we’re movin’ further west. There’s more than fifty of us now, and nearly thirty guards. I have no idea how far west we’ve come since I was forced into railroad labor, but it’s significant, as we’re now doin’ more than 300 feet a day. The days keep meltin’ one after the other, and the only thing that changes is the scenery.

  Until one swelterin’ August afternoon, when all hell breaks loose.

  47.

  I HAD JUST busted the last piece from a giant rock and signaled Eddie to come shovel the pieces into his wheel barrow. It ain’t my job to help him do that, and I’d get punished if I tried to, since that eight minutes or so between loads is the only time I get to put my hammer down and sit. I’m sittin’ there, lookin’ at the size of the rocks they’re getting’ ready to bring me later this afternoon and can’t imagine tryin’ to bust ’em, they’re so big. As always, my thoughts turn to Gentry, and I try to imagine her lyin’ next to me, and hope she ain’t forgotten or given up on me yet. I’m much older than she is, and it would make sense for her to move on and find a young feller to raise a family with.

  I hope she don’t, but she probably should.

  Those are the thoughts I’m havin’ this hot afternoon in August when the first shots are fired. Everyone ducks for cover, as a band of men come ridin’ their horses hell bent for leather from the east.

  The guards have never been fired on since I been here, and they’re in a panic. Several go down from that first wave. But the rest take up positions behind whatever structures they can, and begin returnin’ fire, which makes the attackers turn tail and gallop off.

  Just as the guards begin celebratin’, another band of men attacks ’em from the west! They don’t appear to be shootin’ at anyone wearin’ gray, but the blue coats are fallin’ like flies. Just as the guards turn to face the new enemy, another group comes at ’em from the east again, and gets ’em in a crossfire. It quickly becomes clear that the attackers are just playin’ with the guards, because they keep dartin’ in and out from either side, back and forth, usin’ a push me-pull you kind of strategy.

  Within minutes, the outdoor guards are out of ammunition. They stand to surrender, and are cut down by enemy fire. The only guards with ammunition are the five or six who were in the railroad car when the attack started. But they don’t last long. Every time one of ’em tries to take a shot, a hundred attackers shoot back. There must be three, maybe four hundred men doin’ the attackin’. When the battle’s over, twenty or thirty of ’em bust through the railroad car door and remove all the ammunition and weapons and then gather the guns from the dead guards on the ground.

  When the prisoners realize the battle’s over and the guards dead, they stand up and cheer fit to beat the band.

  I cheer right along with ’em.

  We all move to the area where the horsemen have congregated. They accept our cheers and accolades for a minute, and then motion us to quiet down.

  A lone rider comes up from somewhere behind them, and works his way through the center of the sea of horses and riders. When he speaks, I recognize his voice.

  It’s William Clarke, the school teacher.

  48.

  “YOU MEN ARE free,” Clarke says. “Go back to your homes, rest up, get provisioned, and rejoin the fight. I only wish I could spend more time with you, help you get those chains and shackles off, give you weapons and supplies for your journey. But we’ve got pressing business that can’t wait, and the war hangs in the balance. The South has recently suffered a heavy loss on the battle field, and we aim to make up for it. If we’re to win this war, we’ll require your valiant efforts. Can we count on you?”

  The roar from our fifty men is thunderous.

  Clarke continues. “That’s mighty gratifying. Mighty gratifying, indeed. But we need you at full strength, so go back to your homes, check on the welfare of your family members, and then come back and fight with a vengeance!”

  Every man cheers, except me. I have no intention of fightin’ anybody. When the cheers die down, I call out, “Mr. Clarke?”

  He rides closer to me.

  “Do I know you, sir?”

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

  He gives me a long look. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s true. Under all these whiskers, I’m he.”

  He says, “If you are, then what’s the sign say around the neck of that bear?”

  I smile at the thought. “Don’t Poke the Bear!”

  He smiles back. “Well, in that case, I suppose I’ve repaid your kindness. How goes it with you, sir?”

  I look around, gesture to the rock pile, to the dead guards, to the prisoners who mostly look worse than me. “How the fuck do you think?”

  Everyone looks around, wonderin’ what’s gonna happen next. But Clarke begins chucklin’ a moment, and then he laughs. Then the men around him laugh, and the men around me laugh. Even I start to laugh.

  “Can I ask you what day it is?” I say.

  “It’s Wednesday. Why, you got a train to catch?”

  The men around him roar with laughter.

  “What’s the date?” I say. “It’s August, right?”

  “It is August,” he says. “August 19th, 1863.”

  I fall to the ground.

  “Are you okay, Sheriff?”

  I shake my head. I couldn’t have heard him right.

  “Excuse me. Did you say 1863?”

  “Yes, of course. What year did you think it was?”

  “1861.”

  He shakes his head. “You poor bastards.”

  And with that, he and his men ride away.

  49.

  I KNOW IT won’t be long before Union soldiers are all over the place. The Rebel soldiers are bandin’ together, lookin’ for any guns and ammunition the attackers left behind, and strippin’ the bodies of any money the soldiers might have on ’em.

  “Look for keys!” I shout. “Maybe we can get these chains off!”

  It strikes me as odd no one else thought about that yet, but after twenty minutes of searchin’, we come to the conclusion that whoever put
these chains on us had no intention of removin’ ’em, since there’s not a single key to be found.

  I trudge back to my rock pile, lay the chain atop a stout rock, and lay into it, and get nothin’ for my effort except a shootin’ pain in my wrists and forearms from the recoil.

  I hit it again and again, to no avail. Some of the other men are trying to break their chains with sledge hammers, but most have given up and moved out. One by one they quit, figurin’ to get as far away from this spot as possible. They can always deal with the chains later.

  Personally, I want to give it one more try. I reposition the chain against a sharp rock, put all my strength into it, every last ounce I have, and…

  …and my sledge hammer breaks when I hit the chain.

  I shriek a curse to the sky, then look down and notice the chain in two pieces.

  When the last Rebel soldier has gone, I drag both ends of chain behind me and strip the pants off a dead Union soldier, and take them with me, along with some twine and a piece of sharp metal I kick off the side of the supply door that was left hangin’ after Clarke’s attackers busted in. When I get far from all the Rebel soldiers, I’ll put the Union pants on, and keep to the tall grass, so if anyone sees me, they’ll just see my white undershirt.

  I’m goin’ to Dodge.

  I have no idea how far away I am, and don’t care. I only know I’m gonna walk day and night till I get there, because even if Gentry ain’t in Dodge, at least I know the locals, and can get the blacksmith to cut these damn leg irons off me once and for all.

  I don’t know if Gentry’ll be in Dodge, but that’s my first guess. I haven’t seen her for two years and four months, but someone will have told her long ago that she owns half of the Spur. Even if she believes I’m dead, it was our dream to purchase and run the Spur, and I figure she’d want to keep that dream alive, if at all possible.

  50.

  AFTER SIX HOURS of headin’ southwest, I make my way to the top of a short rise and see in the distance hundreds of horses and riders headin’ east and west, which tells me I’m about two miles from the main trail. I also have a general idea of where I am, and I’m quite pleased about it. I don’t want to walk anywhere near the main trail because I’m wearing Union pants, and someone might take me for a deserter.

  The good news is I no longer have to drag my chains behind me. I’ve tied them to my lower legs with the twine I found in the railroad car. It’s terribly uncomfortable trying to walk this way, but I can cover more ground at a faster pace. I’ve also got two pieces of beef jerky I found in a can in the railroad car that no one took, so that ought to do me till I get back home.

  Which ain’t all that far.

  Over the past two years we’ve apparently laid around sixty miles of track, which puts me about forty miles northeast of Dodge.

  I stay low and keep walkin’. I look all around, same way I did two years ago when I was travelin’ the main road, lookin’ for Gentry and Rose. Only this time I don’t want to see anyone. While Union soldiers might shoot me for desertin’, Rebel soldiers will shoot me for wearin’ these pants. I’m also on the edge of where Indians used to be a few years back, and you never know if a few might’ve returned to hide. There’s game here, and woods less than a mile north, so it’s possible I could run into some hostiles.

  For these reasons, and others,’ every time I think I hear somethin’, I jump down into the tall grass and lie there on my belly a half hour, till I’m completely convinced there’s nothin’ around me.

  The more I think about it, the more I think I should get closer to the woods. The chances of runnin’ into Indians is smaller than runnin’ into soldiers, ’cause I’m traveling near Fort Dodge. If I do see soldiers, I can dart into the woods and hide.

  I’ll lose thirty minutes of time, headin’ back to the wood line, but I figure it’s a smart gamble. As I head north-west, I see the sun goin’ down. I’m not gonna stop till I get to Dodge, but thirty miles, walkin’ with chains on my legs, is a hard walk in the tall grass.

  Based on the position of the moon, I’m guessin’ it’s after four in the mornin’. I’m travelin’ at a clip of two miles per hour, by a sliver of moonlight that’s barely sufficient to keep me just south of the tree line that runs all the way to the Arkansas River. This is a good route to take, because it’s north of Fort Dodge.

  Now I’m about ten miles northeast of Dodge City, barely able to contain my enthusiasm, knowin’ each step I take is bringin’ me that much closer to Gentry’s arms.

  In the same instant that I’m the most elated I’ve been in more than two years, I hear something movin’ in the woods less than a hundred yards away.

  I stop and drop. But the sound don’t stop.

  It’s gettin’ louder.

  Whoever it is, they’ve seen me. They know I’m here. They’re gettin’ closer.

  I jump to my feet and start runnin’ fast as I can, through the tall grass. But I’m wearin’ leg irons and chains, and feel like I’m movin’ slow as molasses.

  They’re gainin’ on me.

  The tall grass is whippin’ my arms, neck and face, and I only get about ten yards before they shoot me in the back.

  And just as I did the last time this happened, two years and four months ago, I scream, “Gentry!”

  51.

  I’M LYIN’ HERE in the grass. My shoulder don’t hurt half as much as I expected, but there’s a reason for that, and the reason is, I didn’t get shot in the first place.

  I’m lyin’ here, waitin’ to see what might happen next, and realize I never heard a gunshot, and I ain’t bleedin’.

  So I weren’t shot, which is a good thing.

  On the other hand, somethin’ hit me hard enough to knock me down, so that’s a bad thing. I’m not unconscious this time, and there’s no Union soldiers standin’ around me, so right now the good things outweigh the bad.

  Except that I see and hear nothin’. It’s an eerie quiet, like bein’ in the center of a storm, when your hair starts to rise before the bad part hits.

  I wonder if maybe some Indians started to attack me and changed their minds. Maybe one of ’em hit me with a tomahawk.

  I lie here quiet as possible till my breathin’ gets back to normal. Whoever’s out there seems to have given me a pass.

  I look up at the stars and mouth a silent thank you.

  Then I get to my feet and start walkin’.

  Within seconds, I get knocked down again.

  And then I hear the craziest sound.

  It’s like the bleat of a goat.

  But it ain’t a goat, it’s a bear.

  A bear that’s playin’ tag, and laughin’ at me.

  At first, I’m the happiest man on earth.

  But then I realize somethin’ awful must a’ happened, if Rudy’s been turned loose.

  I hug my bear and try not to think about what might’ve happened. I’ll know soon enough when I get to Dodge in a few hours.

  Right now, I just want to hug my bear.

  In a few minutes, I’ll start walkin’ again. But right now I’m huggin’ Rudy, and he’s huggin’ me, and laughin’ his silly head off.

  It don’t take long for me to realize I ain’t so much huggin’ Rudy as I’m huggin’ Gentry, Rose, Shrug, and everythin’ I’ve lost, and everythin’ I hope to get back.

  Wherever Gentry is, I’ll find her. Whatever’s happened, I’ll deal with it.

  I won’t lie. I’m worried.

  But this silly, laughin’ bear deserves a game of tag, and though my heart ain’t in it, I aim to give him one before I head for Dodge. I rush into the darkness where I know he’s waitin’, and tag him, and he knocks me on my ass.

  I listen to him laugh, wishin’ I could hear Gentry’s somewhere in the background.

  But Rudy’s laughin’ alone.

  EPILOGUE

  AT 7:00 A.M. ON Friday, August 21, 1863, two days after killing twenty-eight guards and freeing Dodge City Sheriff Emmett Love and fifty-two Confederate p
risoners, William Clarke Quantrill descended upon the town of Lawrence, Kansas, with a force of 450 men. Quantrill’s Raiders looted every person, home and business, and robbed the town’s bank. Under Quantrill’s orders, 183 men and boys were dragged from their homes and executed in front of their horrified mothers, wives, and sisters. By 9:00 a.m., it was over. Every male in Lawrence above the age of thirteen lay dead, and every structure in town had been set on fire.

  If You Like Don’t Poke the Bear You’ll Love Now & Then!

  Go back in time and follow Rose as a precocious ten-year-old, as she guards the first generation of Donovan Creed and Emmett Love’s ancestors!

  John Locke

  New York Times Best Selling Author

  #1 Best Selling Author on Amazon Kindle

  Donovan Creed Series:

  Lethal People

  Lethal Experiment

  Saving Rachel

  Wish List

  Now & Then

  A Girl Like You

  Vegas Moon

  Emmett Love Series:

  Follow the Stone

  Don’t Poke the Bear

  About the Author

  John Locke is the international best-selling author of novels including Lethal People, Lethal Experiment, Saving Rachel, Now & Then, Wish List, A Girl Like You, Vegas Moon, Follow the Stone, and Don’t Poke the Bear! He lives in Kentucky, where he is working on his eighth Donovan Creed novel, The Love You Crave! To view book trailers and other information, visit the author’s website http://www.DonovanCreed.com