Don't Poke the Bear!

Chapter 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.