Elmer Caldwell Finds Himself in an Awkward Situation: a Shack
Above Gold Creek, Colorado Territory, 1870

Two days of my snares yielding nothing
but a few feathers and a handful of fur,
and without a word, the squaw handed me
the papoose and was out hunting in the snow.

Lige--what I call him, for my brother,
dead at Chancellorsville--stared up at me,
and maybe feeling my arms tremble
in hunger and fear, for once let out a yell
lusty as Rebs storming Little Round Top,
his face dark as a keg of black powder.

I bounced him, sang every song I knew;
finally he slept, with my finger
like a milkless teat in his hungry mouth.
I paced, cursed my luck: blizzard-trapped
with a squaw and her papoose, waking again.

This time, he knew better than to bawl
out his hunger: like he could remember
his mama's people sitting grim in winter,
no good yammering they were starving.
The oilskin windows were dimming
when she returned with a brace of hares.

Whilst I'd waited, I was tempted to leave:
better odds at escaping Sprockett's vengeance
if I wasn't shackled to them. But I stayed,
don't ask me why, 'cept Lige was too heavy
for me to set him down and run for it.

Blowing up the fire, the squaw I've decided
to call Mary smiled up at me, not knowing
I'd already betrayed a woman in Gold Creek:
left Lydia with one way out, which she took.

copyright 2004 Robert Cooperman
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