Don't Poke the Bear!

Chapter 1

DODGE CITY, KANSAS, 1861, is a windy, dusty-ass town. It's worse in the summer months, but even now, early April, it's a mess. It's evenin', and there's a chill in the air, so everyone in the main room of my saloon, The Lucky Spur, notices when the door opens.

I'm in the back of the buildin', diggin' a hole in the open area by the kitchen like I've been doin' every day for the past three weeks. It's back-breakin' work, made easier by my Chinese helper, Wing Ding. I'll tell you right off, Wing Ding ain't his actual name, but that's what someone called him years ago, and for some reason he liked it then, and likes it still. I reckon I'd shoot the first man who called me Wing Ding, and let the rest of 'em scatter. But I'll call a good man by any name he chooses.

So I'm in the hole, six feet deep, diggin' for seven.

"Got another one for you, Wing," I say.

Wing's got the hard job. He has to pull the bucket up, untie it, drop me another one, then haul the dirt forty paces away. By the time he gets back, I'll have the next bucket filled.

"He does that all day?" Burt Bagger asks.

"We take turns. Tomorrow's my day to haul."

Burt runs the local paper. For now, my jail hole seems to be the biggest news in town.

"The ground's hard from all that snow last month. Digging and hauling has got to hurt your backs."

"It does for a fact."

I don't know what sort of liniment Wing Ding uses. I only know he don't want any part a' mine. He ain't said as much, but I think it's because my witchy friend, Rose, gave it to me before headin' back to Springfield last October.

Burt watches Wing carry the bucket out the door. Then says, "Does he talk?"

"Not much," I say. "And when he does, I can't understand a word of it. But strangely, he seems to understand everythin' I say."

"Odd."

Not to me. I'm used to workin' with folks that don't talk much. My best friend Shrug is said to be a talker, but I traveled with him more'n two years and never heard him speak, though he's an uncommon good whistler.

"I understand there's talk that the town might be willing to pay you a dollar a week for the use of your jail hole," he says.

"You think?"

I finish fillin' the bucket, then put my hands behind my hips and lean back to stretch out my knotted muscles.

"I never heard of an indoor jail hole," Burt says. "My readers will want to know the benefits."

I seriously doubt the few people in town who read the Dodge City Gazette will care much about my indoor jail, nor the reasons for it. But when there ain't much to write about, I suppose you make do with what you've got.

For the benefit of Burt's readers I explain this'll be a good place to keep drunks till they sober up. Like most towns, Dodge has no real jail, so you'll find a couple outdoor holes here and there where people can be tossed for a night and pulled out later.

I don't care much for outdoor jail holes. Innocent people can fall in at night, and break their necks. You can cover 'em up, but if you cover 'em too tight, the men inside can suffocate. If you cover 'em in a way the prisoners can breathe, their friends can use a horse and rope to drag the cover off and set 'em free.

There's more problems.

If the hole's too shallow, them that's in it can climb out. If it's too deep, you can get seepage weeks later, and that can fill a hole in an hour's time. Of course, a big rain can drown a drunk, too. I've known drunks to drown both ways in an outdoor jail hole.

"How many will it hold at one time?" he asks.

"I can squeeze four in here, if they don't mind beatin' hell out of each other."

"Once in, looks like they'll stay put."

"They should," I say.

Before diggin' the hole, I cut a six-foot square out of my wood floor and fastened three iron hinges to it, and a rod to bolt it shut.

"The roof overhead'll keep 'em dry," he says.

"That's the plan," I say, endin' the interview.

Burt never asked, but Gentry don't like the hole bein' near the kitchen. She says the prisoners'll piss and shit in it for spite, and that'll stink up the whole kitchen and make it unsanitary. I figure to treat my prisoners well enough to discourage it. Gentry says you can't reason with a drunk, and she ought to know. She'd been whorin' five years when I met her last September, at which time she'd just turned seventeen.

I never shot a man for shittin', but reckon I would, if it upset Gentry enough.

I don't think it'll come to that, because I have plans to contain the smell. First, my prisoners'll have a bucket to do their business in. Second, when no one's in the hole, I've got a large piece of wood that'll lay flush against the openin'. And I haven't told Gentry this, but I'm plannin' to build a wall around my jail hole, after the lumber man fetches his next load from St. Joe.

The sound of many voices in the main room tells me it's time to quit diggin' and get to work. I give Wing Ding the last bucket to dump, and while he's haulin' it away, I climb out of the hole and shuck my duds right there on the kitchen floor. Then I take 'em outside, shake 'em, bring 'em back inside, and hang 'em on a peg by the door. Then I get the basin of water from the counter, take it outside, and pour it over my head and body. I hear hootin' and hollerin' from the landin' above me, turn, and see two of our whores up there smokin' pipes.

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.