Don't Poke the Bear!

Chapter 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.