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.
I hear 'em before I see 'em: three cowboys yellin' and laughin'.
Gentry hears 'em, too, and says, "I don't like the sound of this."
"They're drunk for sure."
I motion her to lay on her stomach, and I do the same. Then we crawl to the topmost point of the hill and push some grass out of the way and look.
We both see it at the same time.
"Oh my God!" Gentry says. "It's Shrug!"
It is Shrug, my former scout and best friend. The cowboys have shot him and are in the process of strippin' him naked. One has placed a rope around his neck and tightened it.
"Whatever the hell this thing is," one of 'em shouts, "I'm gonna sell it to the Chinese in Dodge!"
"It's some sorta man, but he looks like a grasshopper!" another one yells.
It's true Shrug is seriously deformed. He was trampled in a stampede as a child and lucky to survive. As he healed, he grew more sideways than tall. So badly formed is Shrug, he can't ride a horse. And yet he's the fastest, most dangerous man I ever met. He can kill in pitch darkness with a single throw of a rock. There's no better rock chucker in the world than Shrug, and no way these yahoos could've got the drop on him without resortin' to trickery. I look at the trampled grass nearby, and the wound in Shrug's back, and can guess what happened.
These bastards probably saw him comin' from the top of the hill, where you can see for a couple of miles. One of 'em probably laid down in the grass where it's been trampled. He probably cried out for help. Shrug come along to help, leans over the man, and gets back-shot by someone hidin' in the tall grass. The third hombre probably had the horses on the east hill and rode down just before Gentry and I got here. I look around to make sure there aren't more of 'em lurkin' about.
Gentry says, "We've got to do something, Emmett. He'll bleed to death!"
"I'll take care of this," I say. "But you need to clear out."
"What are you talking about? I'm his friend, too! He needs us. I can help bandage his wound."
"Gentry, look at me."
She does. She knows from my tone I'm serious.
"Shrug's an uncommon proud man. If he thinks you've seen him stripped naked, helpless like this, he'll never want to be around you again."
"But Emmett-"
"He's my best friend, Gentry, besides Rose."
"I thought I was your best friend."
"You're the woman I love. They're my friends. Of course you're my friend. But it's different."
"Shrug is my friend, too."
"I mean it. Go back and get the blanket and pretend none a' this happened. Don't speak a word about it. If anyone asks why you're back without me, tell 'em we had a quarrel and you came back on your own."
"A quarrel?"
"Please, Gentry. He's my only friend, besides you and Rose. I need you all in my life, and this could ruin it."
"That's ridiculous."
"I'm done talkin' about it. I aim to kill these bastards and save my friend. But I won't do it till you leave."
She sighs. She's angry, but knows I'm serious. "Fine. But come straight to the Spur so I can take care of him."
"I'll try, but he probably won't let me bring him into town. You know how he is about bein' seen by people."
"Please try."
"I will."
"Emmett?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you kill these men?"
"I can."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
"Promise me you won't get killed in the process."
"I promise."
She takes one more look. They had him naked and were tryin' to get him to his feet. Probably plan to parade him through Dodge naked, with the rope around his neck.
"Poor Shrug," she says.
"He'll be okay. But you gotta get movin'."
She turns to leave, then turns back and says, "I don't understand you men, and your prideful ways. I find it hard to believe you'd let him die before you'd let me help."
"Believe it."
"Emmett?"
"Yeah?"
"Whichever one shot him..."
"What about it?"
"Make him suffer."
"If you'll get movin' I aim to make 'em all suffer."
"Okay. When will I see you again?"
"I have no idea. But don't worry."
"Right."
She finally leaves. I give her a couple minutes to fetch her blanket from the picnic area, then I walk over to my horse and remove my rifle from the scabbard.