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

I bend over and give ’em a vertical smile, which gets ’em all worked up with laughter. Then I go back inside, slick my hair, and put on my hat and night clothes. I get about three feet into the main room when a one-eyed whore named Mary Burns comes struttin’ into the main room like a Tennessee Walker with ginger up its butt. Mary sashays up to the bar, tosses back a shot of rye, puts her hands on her hips and shouts, “Who wants a free poke?”

  “I do!” says Charlie Stallings.

  “Then c’mere, handsome!” Mary says.

  Charlie’s seventeen, new to the ways of whores. He jumps up from his chair at the card table, takes a few steps, turns back for his hat, picks it up, but don’t seem to know what to do with it. Finally he puts it on his head and walks up to Mary and says, “A free poke? No shit?”

  Mary winds up and punches Charlie full force, right in the eye. As he spins around, reelin’ from the blow, she lifts her leg and kicks his backside so hard he falls to the floor.

  “Anyone else want a free poke?” she hollers.

  No one else does.

  About that time a young lady’s voice can be heard sayin’ “Well, hi there, Mary!”

  All eyes turn to the steps, and every man removes his hat.

  That’s my Gentry comin’ down the steps, prettier’n any angel who ever came down from heaven.

  I turn to look at her like the others, for I know she’s dolled up mostly for me. I give her a smile from across the room, and then the shootin’ starts just outside the front door.

  2.

  I DRAW MY gun and race out the door. First thing I see is an old man lyin’ in the street, badly wounded, and a fancy-dressed man walkin’ toward him, gettin’ ready to shoot him in the face from point blank range.

  “Hold up!” I shout.

  The fancy dressed man spins and shoots the gun right outta my hand. I dive for the dirt in the opposite direction from where the gun is flyin’, and he wrongly assumes I’m outta the action. The shot he made was amazin’! A shot like I never seen or heard about. But I don’t have time to admire his gunplay, ’cause he turns the gun back toward the old man’s face and starts cussin’ him in some foreign language. By then I’ve got my derringer in hand, and start bringin’ it up. The fancy guy cocks his gun and shoots. But his shot goes wide, because my bullet hits the side of his head just as he pulls the trigger.

  I hear people behind me comin’ out of the saloon and other businesses up and down the street. I scramble to my feet and run to the old man. By the time I get to him, there’s maybe ten men there, and a couple of women, includin’ Gentry.

  “You saved his life, Emmett!” she says.

  “He ain’t survived yet.”

  “I’ll work on him.”

  I’m crouched over the old man, so I have to turn to look up at Gentry. “Why not the doc?”

  “He’s deliverin’ a baby at the Manson Ranch.”

  “Again?” Lord, but that woman spits ’em out! “How many is that, nine?”

  “Thirteen, I think.”

  “This’ll make fourteen,” someone says from the gatherin’ crowd behind us.

  Fourteen kids! Holy Christ! I figure Mavis Manson must fuck day and night. If only the county crops had such a fertile field to grow in, we’d never want for food. While I’m ponderin’ thoughts of havin’ fourteen children underfoot, someone standin’ over the fancy-dressed man says, “Why this here’s Bad Vlad!”

  “No shit?” someone says. “How do you know?”

  “I seen his show. He’s the world’s greatest marksman. No offense, Emmett.”

  “None taken,” I say.

  I have to admit, a guy that can shoot the gun out of my hand from forty feet, at dusk, without takin’ the time to aim his weapon, well, that’s a helluva shooter. I never knew anyone to be more accurate than me, till tonight. But there’s no way I could’ve made that shot at that speed with a hand gun.

  I get to my feet. “Everyone see what happened here?”

  They all murmur awhile and come to the conclusion I shot the younger man to save the old one.

  “Don’t matter,” one of ’em says. “We ain’t got a sheriff anyway.”

  “All right, then. If two men’ll carry the old guy to the Spur, Gentry’ll tell you where to set him down. Then she and the girls’ll do what they can for him till Doc comes back.”

  3.

  I DON’T ENJOY killin’ people. Besides all the church reasons, it’s almost always messy, and you have to deal with the relatives. If there ain’t no relatives, you have to deal with the corpse. In large towns that’s the undertaker’s job. But we don’t have undertakers in Dodge, which means it’s up to the dead man’s family to dispose of his remains. But when there’s no family present, the one who does the killin’ is supposed to handle the buryin’.

  I walk over to Vlad, pick up his gun, and test it in my holster. It’s a nice one, better than mine, and fits nicely. I start to walk away and realize everyone else is walkin’ away, too. I reckon the whole town’d be content to let Vlad lay in the street forever if it kept them from havin’ to bury him. In my own case, I ain’t finished the hole I been diggin’ for three weeks, and have no desire to dig another one.

  I know better than to ask for volunteers. I never met one yet who’d bury a stranger. First of all, there ain’t that many picks and shovels in Dodge that ain’t already been wore out, and second, the ground is hard as a rock.

  I walk back over to Vlad, check his pockets, and find he’s carryin’ exactly four dollars cash. I sigh. “Anyone know if he’s got a horse?”

  “Jim Bigsby here?” someone calls out.

  Jim runs the livery stable, but he ain’t among the folks in the street.

  I only know one place that’ll bury a body in this part of the country, and that’s Fort Dodge, five miles away. For ten dollars Major Cardigan will order his troops to bury your body for you. ’Course, you got to get it there.

  “I’ll pay someone to take the body to Fort Dodge,” I say.

  “I’ll do it for four bucks,” Earl Gray says, “if someone’ll help me load him into the wagon.”

  “When?”

  “I’d rather not load him tonight,” he says.

  “Well, we can’t leave him lyin’ in the street.”

  “Make it five dollars,” Earl says, “and he can stay in my wagon bed tonight. I’ll haul him to Fort Dodge in the mornin’.”

  There are twenty people standin’ around me, but no one offers to do it for less.

  I tell Earl, “For five dollars, your wife can help you load him.”

  “I reckon she’ll want his clothes.”

  I reckon he’s right. No scrap of paper, bit of cloth, or piece of wood goes unused in Dodge, nor any other part of Kansas. A Dodge City wife like May Gray would be a good enough seamstress to get fifteen dollars of wear out of Vlad’s clothin’. With three little ones at home, that’s a bounty. So scarce is cloth for clothin’ out west, when I met Gentry, she didn’t own but one pair of undergarments, and hers, like many folks’, was made from a used flour sack.

  “May can keep the clothes,” I say, handin’ him the four dollars I took from Vlad. “Come see me at the Spur when you’ve got him loaded, and we’ll settle up.”

  4.

  IT TAKES LESS than three minutes to walk to Jim Bigsby’s Livery. Jim’s got a lantern lit, and he appears to be waitin’ for me.

  “Heard you shot the Russian,” he says.

  “News travels fast.”

  He shrugs. “Small town.”

  “He have a horse?”

  He laughs. “Nope.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Did he leave somethin’ here?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Did he pay you?”

  “Nope.”

  Bigsby chuckles.

  “You don’t seem very upset about it,” I say.

  “It’s worth seein’ the look on your face when I give it to you.”

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; I frown. “Well, let’s have a look then.”

  He leads me to the last stall in the barn, past nine empty stalls. Holds the lantern up so I can see what’s in there.

  “What the hell?”

  I’m lookin’ at a bear. A big, black bear.

  “He’s yours now,” Bigsby says.

  “What?”

  “It belonged to the Russian. You killed him; that makes him your property. And you owe me two dollars for stablin’ him tonight.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with a bear?”

  “I was you, I’d eat it. Course, I ain’t you.”

  I ponder that a minute, ’cause I’ve eaten black bear and found it tasty, unlike brown bear or grizzly, which is stringy and flavorless.

  “I might be able to move some bear steak out of my kitchen,” I say.

  “Then pay me and take him with you.”

  “Now?”

  “I charged the Russian four dollars a day. Two dollar minimum.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “It’s the goin’ rate for bears in these parts.”

  I frown deeper. “You ever stabled a bear before?”

  “This is my first. But at these prices, I’m hopin’ to get more. Still, if I’m you, two dollars for a six hundred pound bear seems cheap to me.”

  It did to me too, though I felt slighted in a way I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around. Then I remembered.

  “It’s costin’ me fifteen dollars to bury the Russian.”

  “You could toss him in your jail hole for free, and fill it in. That’d make Miss Gentry happy, I ’spect.”

  We spend the next minute quiet, content to stare at the bear. I guess everyone in town must know Gentry’s opinion of the indoor jail, though neither of us tells things about the other. It’s our whores that seem to know everythin’, and have lots of occasions to gossip with the men they serve. Now that my eyes are better adjusted to the lamp light spillin’ into the stall, I get a better look at the bear’s condition.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “You mean his attitude, or the rope runnin’ through his nose and cheek?”

  “Both.”

  “I can’t speak to his attitude, ’cause he’s only been here a half hour. Maybe he’s sick. The rope in his face was tied to a lead line, and that’s how the Russian walked him into town.”

  “What about the old man? What’s his story?”

  “He got here ten minutes after the Russian. Said he was trackin’ him and planned to kill him. Guess you kilt him first.”

  “The Russian winged him, and was fixin’ to kill him, till I stepped in.”

  “And now you got a bear and a seventeen dollar debt. Minus whatever you took off the Russian’s body.”

  “You got the lead line?” I ask.

  “If you got the two dollars.”

  We settle up, and I lead what appears to be a very sick bear from one dusty end of Front Street all the way to First Street. We pass Vlad’s body, turn right, pass two businesses, and climb the three wooden steps that lead to the porch of The Lucky Spur.

  5.

  NORMALLY WHEN THE front door of the Spur opens, the customers’ll glance at who might be comin’ in. This time they scream and scatter.

  “What in the name of Holy Hell?” someone says.

  “He’s bringin’ a bear into the house?” someone else says.

  I use a loud voice to announce to the entire room, “I’m gonna tie this bear up in the far corner till I decide what to do with him. In the meantime, don’t poke him.”

  The bear shies away from the folks in the saloon, who, seein’ the timid nature of the beast, get up their courage to gather round and watch me tie him up.

  “Leave him be,” I say. “It’s clear he’s feelin’ poorly, and I reckon he’ll leave you alone if you grant him the same courtesy.”

  The second floor hallway overlooks half the main room. I look up and see three of our five whores starin’ slack-jawed at the bear.

  “Constance!” I holler. “Find a piece of wood and tie a string around it to fit the bear’s neck.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m gonna make a sign.”

  “You need some ink?”

  “I do.”

  I see Gentry has joined the whores on the hallway. She’s starin’ at the bear, like everyone else in the place, not knowin’ quite what to say. She gives me a quiet look that I can’t cipher. But in my experience, when a man can’t cipher a woman’s look, it usually ain’t a good thing. By the time Constance shows up with the things I need, Gentry’s gone back in one of the rooms to tend to the old man.

  “You want me to do the lettering?” Constance asks.

  “You do write straighter than me,” I say.

  “What should I write?”

  “Don’t Poke the Bear.”

  She looks at me. “Who the fuck would be dumb enough to poke a bear?”

  I shrug. “Rules are easier to enforce when there’s a sign posted.”

  She shakes her head as if she thinks I’m crazy, but letters the sign anyway, and hands it to me. I approach the bear and carefully slip the sign over his head, hopin’ not to get bit in the process.

  6.

  WHILE I DON’T enjoy killin’ people, there’s nothin’ better for business.

  Everyone and his brother comes into the saloon tonight, wantin’ to shake my hand or slap my back. By the time the embellishin’ was done, you’d a’ thought I killed a dozen men, ’stead of the one. Earl Gray saunters in around ten to collect his fee.

  “Where’d you get the bear?” he says.

  “Won him in a poker game.”

  “No shit? What’d you have, two pair?”

  “Nope. Just bullets.”

  Earl gives me a funny look, like he thinks I might be joshin’ him. Either that or he thinks no one would bet a bear on a hand that couldn’t beat two aces. But he’s done talkin’ about the card game. Instead, he asks, “How’s the old man?”

  “Not good. But I hear he’s talkin’ to Gentry some.”

  An hour ago, after puttin’ the sign on the bear’s neck, I tried to go up and check on the old man, but Gentry had the door locked. Lou Slips, our oldest whore, told me he’d started his death bed speech, and Gentry didn’t want it interrupted.

  By now the place is completely full. Them that ain’t drinkin’ to celebrate my shootin’, are drinkin’ toasts to the bear. Someone found my gun and brought it to me. I already knew it’d never shoot again, but I buy the man a drink for his thoughtfulness, and decide to keep the busted gun as a souvenir.

  Every big time saloon has a piano player they call the Professor. Ours finally shows up, stumblin’ in through the back entrance so drunk he walks right past the bear without givin’ it a second thought. He gets about ten feet past it when he suddenly stops and turns around, as if his mind just registered what he’d seen. He jumps back and shouts, “Holy Shit!”

  Everyone in the place laughs, but the Professor recovers nicely, and strolls on over to the piano, sets himself on the bench, and begins playing a bouncy tune.

  Then the most amazin’ thing happens: the bear jumps to his feet and starts dancin’! I mean, he steps one foot up, then the other, and twirls and puts one paw up and the other out in front, like he’s holdin’ a partner!

  Everyone in the saloon starts hoo-rawin’ and clappin’, and I’m startin’ to think this bear could be worth a fortune! I run over and start dancin’ with him. I put out my hands and he puts out his paws, and we tap each other lightly. He still appears ill, but he’s movin’ around like a youngster, and just as cute, ’cept for that rope goin’ through his snout and cheek.

  The others realize what I’ve got in this bear.

  “You’re gonna be rich, you’re gonna be rich!” they chant, while the music plays and the bear dances, and I hop around grinnin’ like the village fool.

  Until a shotgun blast is fired from upstairs.

  The music stops, and everyone loo
ks up to the second-floor hallway, where Gentry’s standin’ on the overlook, holdin’ a shotgun. I can see the hole in the far wall where she shot the rock salt. While no one’s hurt, I can’t for the life of me figure out what’s gotten into this woman I adore. Gentry points to the Professor and says, “No more music! Not another note!”

  “What?” I say, pointin’ to the bear. “Did you see him just now? He loves it! He’s a dancin’ bear.”

  Every man has his hat off, which they instinctively remove whenever Gentry makes an appearance. So exceedin’ is her beauty, most men can’t form a single sentence in her presence.

  “Emmett,” she says in a tone that makes every man go quiet, “This is your place, and I’m just your woman. But so help me, if you let the Professor play one more note, I’m walkin’ out of your life forever.”

  I draw my gun before the first person can think to gasp, and fire six shots into the piano. Shot so fast, the Professor had no time to jump outta the way. Then I shout, “If I see or hear of any man or woman touchin’ that piano again, even if you so much as brush up against it, you’ve breathed your last breath. Is that clear?”

  I look around the room as everyone nods. Then I say, “Spread the word!”

  Then I yell for Constance and tell her to draw up a sign and put it on the piano so everyone can see it when they come in the front door. I tell her the sign should say, Music Will Get You Shot!

  I look back up at Gentry. She gives me a long look, then smiles a grim smile, and says, “Thank you, Emmett.”

  The way she said it was formal, but tender. Considering the anger she’d shown just before, and how sweet she were to thank me with a smile so soon after, hit me and the others like a warm fire on a frosty day. I look around the room and see tears wellin’ up in the eyes of some of the ruggedest men you’ll ever find on the prairie. Then, as we all watch, Gentry lowers her shotgun and turns to leave, takes a couple steps, then turns back and coos, “Could you come upstairs when it suits you, cowboy?”