Chasing the Buffalo

Flatwater, MO

From the moment he saw Sarah Lee Smiley cross the main road in Flatwater, Missouri, Emmett Blue lusted after her. It'd rained that morning, and the ill-defined, dirt road that sliced the small, burgeoning railroad town in two, had turned to mud. She'd kicked her heel over the hitching post outside her father's general store to clean her boots; her delicate, lace petticoat, exposed for the world to see. He tried not to stare. Emmett knew the danger of staring at a white woman, especially in that way.

Though nearly a decade had passed since Lee surrendered to General Grant at Appomattox, signaling the end of the war, animosity in Flatwater still lingered. Like an annoying itch, fragile egos, and antiquated sensibilities longed to be scratched.

The locals wouldn't have given a second thought to dragging someone like Emmett into the street, beating him to an inch of his life, and hanging him from the nearest tree.

"Them negroes need to stay in their place," they'd say.

Even so, Emmett couldn't stop himself, and leered. When Sarah caught him, he looked away. But she didn't mind. He never imagined she would've returned even the smallest of affections—a discreet smile, a secret caress of the arm in passing—but for the last few months, they met secretly, ravaging each other in the tiny, secluded stock room tucked away in the back of Doc's General Store after closing time.

"Easy, Emmett," she said. "Not so rough."

"Sorry. I didn't mean... you OK?" he asked, concerned he'd broken her.

She flashed the sly, crooked smile that melted him, "Yeah, you're being a little too rough is all."

"I got excited."

"I can tell."

Intertwined, coiled like tangled snakes, they gasped for air between open-mouthed kisses. He craved her. She bit his lower lip, drawing blood. Emmett didn't mind; he'd suffered worse. The crosshatch of scars carved into his back after years at the wrong end of a whip proved it.

Sarah's soft, tiny hands sent ripples across his dark skin, and she smelled of daffodils. Intoxicating. Canned beans, hair tonics, and other supplies tumbled to the floor when groping hands, and quivering legs knocked them from their shelves. Chipped, painted fingernails dug into Emmett's naked back, clawing at old scars. She'd fantasized about him all day, anticipating his touch. Slowly, to tease him, she lifted her skirt above her waist. Goosebumps ran up her arms when he grabbed her hips, and pushed into hers. Pain like daggers pierced through his rib cage, interrupting the moment of pleasure. He fell out of her, and onto the floor.

"Oh, god. You OK?" Sarah slid her skirt over her hips, covering her trembling legs. "Why'd you have to go, and pick a fight? You don't need to defend my honor, if that's what you were doin'. Ain't no sense in getting all worked up over stupid bullshit like that."

"Folks shouldn't talk about you that way. Especially an inbred redneck like Deacon Crow." With his pants around his ankles, Emmett held his side, hoping it'd soothe the ribs stabbing into him. "I would'a been fine if Tom Quade hadn't snuck up behind like a coward, and grabbed me. Don't worry 'bout it, Sarah. They didn't break nothin'."

"Bruised ribs ain't nothin', Emmett."

"I got plenty of bruised ribs before. Back in the war, Johnny Reb banged me up all sorts of ways. Ain't much you can do about a busted rib, or two anyway."

"What I can do is keep you from doing something stupid like that again. If you ain't careful, next time somebody's gonna do more than give you a few bruised ribs."

Bracing himself on a shelf in shambles, Emmett stood on wobbly legs. "If I didn't know no better, I'd say you were worried about me."

"Shut up, and pull up your pants."