The air in Washington stinks of ink and ambition, a sour cocktail of quills scratching parchment and men chasing power. Davy Crockett, the Tennessee wildman, strides through the House of Representatives like a bear in boots, his grin sharp enough to skin a deer. He’s the people’s hero, the frontier king, all buckskin and bravado. Me, I’m just another suit, a congressman with soft hands and softer convictions, watching him like he’s the last real thing in this swamp of suits.
The Speaker’s gavel cracks like a whip. A bill’s up—money for a naval officer’s widow. Charity dressed in bureaucracy. Everyone’s nodding, bleating their sympathy like sheep. Crockett stands, and the room hushes. Here comes the speech, the one to seal the deal, to make us all feel noble. But Crockett’s eyes glint, hard as flint. He opens his mouth, and it’s not poetry—it’s a gut-punch.
“Mr. Speaker,” he drawls, voice like gravel underfoot, “I’ve got respect for the dead and pity for the living, same as you. But this ain’t our money to give. The Constitution’s not a suggestion. It’s a cage, and we’re the beasts inside, clawing at the bars. Congress can’t play Santa with the people’s coin. I’m the poorest bastard here, but I’ll toss a week’s pay to the widow. Let’s see who else will.”
He sits. Silence. The bill’s DOA, killed by Crockett’s words. I’m pissed—outraged, even. That widow needed help. I storm to his room the next morning, find him franking letters, a pile high as a hog’s back. “What the hell, Davy?” I snap. “You tanked a good bill. Why?”
He doesn’t look up. Just keeps sealing envelopes, his fingers steady as a hangman’s. “Sit,” he says. “There’s a story. Long one. You’ll listen.”
Years back, Crockett’s on the Capitol steps, jawing with other congressmen, when Georgetown lights up like a devil’s bonfire. They pile into a hack, race over, and there’s Crockett, hauling buckets, sweating like a mule, fighting flames for hours. Houses burn. Families huddle, shivering in the cold, their lives ash. Crockett’s heart twists. Something’s gotta be done.
Next day, a bill hits the floor: $20,000 for the fire’s victims. Crockett’s all in, voting yea with the herd. It passes quick, no fuss. Feels good. Feels right. Until it doesn’t.
Summer rolls around, election season creeping like a snake in the grass. Crockett’s back in Tennessee, saddlebags stuffed with tobacco and a few shirts, riding the district to keep the voters sweet. He’s in a nowhere patch, fields stretching like God’s own quilt, when he spots a farmer plowing. Timing’s perfect—they’ll meet at the fence. Crockett flashes his grin, ready to charm.
“Don’t rush off, friend,” he calls. “Let’s talk.”
The farmer—call him Horatio Bunce—leans on his plow, eyes cold as a January creek. “I’m busy,” he says. “But I know you, Colonel Crockett. Voted for you once. Won’t again.”
Crockett’s gut lurches. “What’s the problem?”
Bunce’s voice is a blade. “You voted last winter to give $20,000 to those Georgetown folks. Where’s that in the Constitution?”
Crockett blinks. “It was just $20,000. A rich country like ours—”
“It’s not the amount,” Bunce cuts in, sharp as a switch. “It’s the principle. The Constitution’s a contract, not a wish list. You don’t get to dip into the people’s pockets for charity. That power’s a loaded gun—today it’s $20,000, tomorrow it’s $20,000,000. You open that door, and it’s fraud, favoritism, corruption. The poor pay tariffs they can’t even see, while you play hero with their money.”
Crockett’s sweating now, not from heat but from truth. He scrambles. “If you’d seen those women and kids, you’d have done the same.”
Bunce doesn’t flinch. “I’d have given my own money. So could you. Congressmen make enough to spare a week’s pay. But you didn’t. You took what wasn’t yours to give.”
Crockett’s done. Gutted. He can’t argue, because Bunce is right. The Constitution’s a wall, and he climbed over it. “I messed up,” he admits, voice low. “If I ever vote like that again, shoot me.”
Bunce laughs, a dry crack. “Tell your voters you were wrong. Own it. I’ll vote for you if you do.”
“Deal,” Crockett says. “Get a barbecue going. I’ll speak.”
Friday, Crockett’s at Bunce’s house, talking government till midnight, learning more from this dirt-farmer than from all of Congress’s windbags. Saturday, the barbecue’s on. A thousand people, maybe more, crowd around a rickety stand, their eyes on Crockett. He steps up, heart pounding like a war drum.
“Fellow citizens,” he starts, “I’m a new man. I screwed up. Voted for something I shouldn’t have, because I didn’t see the truth. Horatio Bunce did. He showed me the Constitution’s not a suggestion—it’s a chain on power. I gave away what wasn’t mine, and I’m sorry.”
He tells the fire story, the vote, Bunce’s words. The crowd’s quiet, then roaring, shouting his name like it’s a battle cry. Bunce takes the stand, says, “Crockett’s honest. He’ll keep his word.” The cheers hit like a fist, and Crockett’s eyes burn, tears mixing with sweat.
Back in Washington, he’s franking those letters, printing his speech by the thousands. “That’s why I killed the widow’s bill,” he tells me, sealing another envelope. “It’s not about the money. It’s about the line we don’t cross. Those rich bastards in Congress, they’ll talk honor but won’t spare a dime of their own. Public money’s trash to them—unless it’s filling their pockets.”
I leave his room, head spinning. Crockett’s not just a bear in boots. He’s a man who learned to listen, to bend, to stand for something bigger than himself. And Horatio Bunce? He’s the ghost in the machine, the farmer who broke a legend and built him back stronger.