The Power of Words
by
Sharon Kay Bottoms
"I'll kill him."
Odd that three such short words could get a man in so much
trouble, though you'd think that I,
of all
people, would have realized the
power of words. I've studied
enough of
them: the words of classical
scholars in Latin and Greek, the
words of
great literature in the modern
languages, the words of our own
founding
fathers. How can a man who has
studied words as potent as those not
realize
that words have power? Power
to move, power to persuade, power to
. . .
to land a man in jail if he
ignores their power.
Yet, how could I have dreamed my words would be taken seriously?
Because I sounded so serious, I
suppose. Logic tells me that, so I shouldn'
t be surprised to be here, should
I?
Of course, I should. Logic could
never have warned me that someone
else would
take advantage of my overheard
words and harm the man I'd
threatened.
Man? Wouldn't he love to hear me call him that! He's just a
boy, three months short of eighteen,
and I
would never have harmed him. I .
. . love him. Why didn't I say
those
three words, instead of "I'll kill
him"? Now I may never get the
chance. Oh, God, don't let him die thinking
I did this to him . . . please,
don't let
him die, whatever he thinks of me.
Angry words. When will I learn that angry words carry force?
And force can lead to action,
sometimes
unpredictable action. I thought I
already knew. I seem to recall
lecturing him on the subject of his
temper-many, many times. Not
that the
lectures weren't merited. Oh, how
quick he was to fling angry words
into the
air, heedless of what he was
actually saying! How quick I
was to
criticize, to condemn his hasty words .
. . how slow to check my own.
Angry words. Oh, he deserved
that
much. He deserved to be chewed up one
side and down the other, as my other
brother
might have phrased it, he of
the plain but powerful speech.
The
scamp had the audacity to take my horse
without permission and use him for
some wild
race with his friends down the
center of
stagecoaches happened to lie in
their
path. Then not only did he lame Sport
in that ridiculous undertaking, but
he took
off, afraid to face me, leaving
Hoss to break the news. And
when our
longsuffering middle brother did, who
could blame me for bellowing, "I'll
kill him!"
But who could have known, who could ever have dreamed that
someone would actually try to kill
the
boy? A boy liked-even loved-by all;
a boy with no enemies, unless you
count a
few petty rivals from his
schoolyard days. No one had
gotten a
good look at his assailant, but
everyone who saw that man running
away gave
the same description: tall, dark
hair, dressed head-to-toe in
black.
And every man in the Bucket of Blood
reported that a man answering that
description-me-had threatened to kill Joe
Cartwright.
Me, kill Little Joe? The boy I cradled in my arms within an
hour of his birth, the boy I've
sheltered
and protected all his life, the
boy I'd give my own life for?
Kill
him? I've never even raised a closed
fist to him! Oh, I've applied
an open
palm to the appropriate seat of
learning when Pa wasn't around to do
it
himself, but never more than that.
He's a boy-a maddening, infuriating
pest of
a boy-but a boy nonetheless, and
I'd never hurt any boy, much less my
own
baby brother. How could anyone
believe that? Yet I fear
twelve men,
honest and true, might believe exactly
that, all because of three short
words
spoken in anger.
"I'll kill him." Someone tried; someone very nearly succeeded.
Thank God, the boy's still
breathing, or was
when Pa was here last. But it'
s two days now since that assault,
and Joe
still lies there in Doc Martin's
office, unconscious, fighting for
every
breath, and instead of being with
him, I sit here behind bars, charged
with
assault and battery. If he dies,
the charge will be murder. So
if he
dies, I will, too . . . and what will
that do to Pa? And Hoss?
Both of
them believe me; both have stood by me
and will, no matter what. Even
ignore all those witnesses, so here
I sit,
when where I want to be is with
my family. With my
brother. All
because of three little words. You'd
think a man so noted for
self-control could
have kept three little words
contained.
Commotion in the outer office, the sound of a scuffle, the
reverberation of flesh striking
flesh, a
sound I know well. Sounds have
power, too, but I can't interpret
these,
except to surmise that I'll soon
have company in this cell block.
The door flings open. A prisoner, one I recognize, wrestles in
the grip of Roy Coffee and my
brother
Hoss. Luke Cameron, my old nemesis.
Together, Hoss and Roy wrangle him
into the
next cell, clang shut the door
and lock it.
"Hoss, what . . ."
Hoss grins broadly as
told us who done it."
Awake? He's awake? If three words had power, imagine the
impact of those two. He's
awake; he's
alive and . . . suddenly I realize.
Luke Cameron. Not my spittin'
image,
but roughly my build and coloring.
Disguised in dark clothes and seen
at a
distance, he could be mistaken for
me, as he no doubt intended. I
rush
toward the bars separating me from a
man capable of beating a boy he bore
no ill
will to a bloody pulp and
leaving him to die . . . all to
punish the
man he did hate, the man he
wanted to hang for his crime . . .
me.
As Roy and Hoss pull me back from
the bars, I scream out in fury,
"I'll-" But that's as far as I get.
Three little words. I had almost shouted those same three
words, the ones that locked me in
this
cell. But I'm no fool; I learn from
my mistakes; I won't utter them
again.
I will my muscles to relax and say,
instead, through gritted teeth,
"I'll
leave you to the law." Words not as
forceful, but holding the quiet
power of
promise.
Their power washes through me,
freeing me
from the rage, so I can focus on
more important matters. "I
want
to see my brother."
Seeing me in control, once again the Adam Cartwright he knows,
Sheriff Coffee nods, and he and Hoss
release
their hold on my arms. "You're
free to go,"
As Hoss and I walk out together, he drapes an arm across my
shoulder. I say nothing.
Words
are not needed between us, and I'm storing
up mine, concentrating their
potency.
The next words I speak will be to
Joe. Just three words, as
before, but,
oh, how much more powerful!
The End