Deadwood Dead Men

CHAPTER ONE

Tuesday Evening, August 22, 1876—Jack Jones stared at his solitaire hand, the playing cards arranged in seven columns on top of an upended crate. Swilling the Old Crow whiskey, feeling the sweet burn, he forced the liquid down his throat.

The smell of unwashed bodies competed with tobacco and wood smoke, pinesap, and cheap liquor. Straightening his backbone and repositioning himself on the low stool, Jack shifted his gaze to the roomful of prospectors, ne’er-do-wells, loafers, and a sprinkling of sporting girls. They were all relatively new to Deadwood Gulch and they all had one thing in common—make money and make it fast.

Cigar and pipe smoke fogged Saloon Number 10’s atmosphere. Guttering coal-oil lanterns attempted to dispel the August evening’s gloom. Competing voices, hearty laughter, and raucous oaths all lubricated by rotgut whiskey strove to be heard above the others.

Jack felt the snout of his small hound dog press hard against his leg. Stonewall Jackson wanted out. In a minute, fellow, Jack said, patting the dog’s head. Stonewall sighed, circled beside the crate, and lay down with his jaw resting on Jack’s boot.

One more hand of solitaire, Jack swore to himself, sweeping the cards into a pile and shuffling. Maybe if I loiter here a little longer, I can find another good story to send the paper, something more than the latest pilgrim arriving in the gulch.

Jack felt a slender arm snake around his shoulder. The scent of familiar perfume overpowered all odors.

A husky female voice whispered in his ear. How’s my favorite Jack Jones?

Why, Lil, I’m just fine and you’re looking first-rate tonight, Jack said.

Lillian Rochelle wore one of the latest fashions, a pleated charcoal grey ankle-length skirt with a long, overlapping jacket bodice buttoned to the neck. A small matching riding hat was pinned to her golden hair.

Got any news to spark the interest of my readers? Jack asked. Stonewall’s tail pounded vigorously against the floorboards.

No knifings or beatings to speak of, Lil said, sliding onto Jack’s lap and staring into his brown eyes. She reached around and gave him a long, slow kiss, her lips gently pressed to his.

Now that is certainly newsworthy, Jack said, gazing into her twinkling blue eyes as he swept a stray strand of golden curls from her forehead.

Lil grabbed his hat brim, tugged it down sharply over his forehead, and stepping away, said with a smile, Stop by later tonight if you’re interested and I’ll give you a full report of the comings and goings of Deadwood. Right now I’ve got to drum up a little business for the Deadwood Theater.

I might have to take you up on that, he responded, stroking his close-cropped beard and grinning, as Lil pushed her way into the milling crowd. Jack resumed shuffling the cards.

Deadwood’s been lively, he thought. There’s plenty of action. If I wait long enough something is bound to happen.

Willing miners hoisted Lil’s slim form up onto the bar as three loud strokes across a fiddle’s catgut strings settled down the saloon’s noise level.

Boys! Boys! Lil shouted. Tonight Mr. John Langrishe promises you an extravaganza up the street at the Deadwood Theater. We bring you comedy, tragedy, and the latest songs and tunes from back East. As a little free treat, here’s a song to whet your appetite.

You’re whettin’ my appetite right now, little missy! shouted a prospector, who was soundly pummeled by surrounding men as they shouted at him, Shut up!

Turning to the fiddle player below her, Lil said, Proceed, Professor. The man slowly began the melody of Dreary Black Hills and after one run through Lil began with the haunting first verse:

"Kind friends, you must pity my horrible tale,

An object of pity, I’m looking quite stale,

I gave up my trade selling Wright’s Patent Pills

To go hunting gold in the dreary Black Hills."

Then Lil broke into the chorus, and as many of the men knew the lines, they sang with her:

"Don’t go away, stay at home if you can,

Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne,

For Old Sitting Bull or Comanche Bill

They will lift up your hair on the dreary Black Hills."

The Professor ended the tune, and Lil shouted, Thank you, boys! The saloon erupted with thunderous applause and shouts of more!

Well, I suppose we can do one more verse. But after that you need to come to the show if you want to hear more. Professor! The fiddler started up again and Lil joined in:

"Kind friend, to conclude my advice I’ll unfold,

Don’t go to the Black Hills a hunter for gold,

Railroad speculators their pockets you’ll fill

By taking a trip to the dreary Black Hills."

The men shouted along with the chorus.

"Don’t go away, stay at home if you can,

Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne,

For old Sitting Bull or Comanche Bill

They will take off your scalp on the dreary Black Hills."

The Professor ended with a flourish. The crowd shouted, clapped, and stomped their feet. Lil beamed, throwing kisses, as rough hands gently lifted her down to the floor, where she and the Professor made their way through the crowd and out the door. The noise level remained high with excitement.

Jack uncorked the Old Crow bottle, refilled his glass, and resumed laying the cards down in a row of ascending stacks.

Look at these people, reckoning they’re going to strike it rich, Jack thought. New greenhorns arrive every day, thinking it’ll be easy pickings. The good placer claims on Whitewood Creek are taken. Most of these men have nothing to do but spend what little money they have left and drift along somewhere else.

A nasty, pungent, unwashed odor disturbed Jack’s thoughts. Stonewall snorted from beside the crate.

Captain Jones, ol’ friend!

Jack did not look up. Beside him stood a ragged, nondescript figure with an old Union army cap perched atop his head.

Captain, may I sit down? the grizzled-faced man said, eyeing the Old Crow bottle and pulling up a stool before Jack could deny his request.

Captain Jones, can I have a sip of your Kentucky bourbon? The derelict’s breath was the stench of rotten meat. I don’t have any money, but I’m good for it.

Bummer Dan, I’m sorry, Jack said, without looking up from his hand as he flipped the next set of three cards face up. I’ve already grubstaked you for more than a bottle of whiskey. Got any news you can give me in trade?

No. Myer Baum, also known as Bummer Dan, scanned the crowd appearing nervous. Please, just one good shot of whiskey.

Why not take it up with Harry, Jack said, nodding toward Harry Young, Saloon Number 10’s burly barkeep, who was having a boisterous exchange with a tipsy patron.

That’s a pinch of dust for a shot of whiskey, Young shouted. The miner spat a stream of brown tobacco juice in the general direction of a spittoon on the floor and pulled out his poke. Young snatched it from the miner’s hand and opening it, thrust in his right-hand thumb and forefinger. His long fingernails grasped more than a standard pinch and placed the gold dust in the saloon’s leather poke bag. He poured the miner a shot with his left hand as he ran his right hand through his greasy hair. Jack guessed that later that night when he would be alone, Young would carefully wash his hair, saving the water, and pan it to retrieve the gold flecks trapped by the grease in his hair.

Harry won’t grubstake me, Bummer Dan said as he unslung an old black-gummed haversack. He plunked it down on the crate, disturbing the order of Jack’s well-laid cards. Bummer Dan had painted BD in large white letters on the haversack so he would always know it was his.

Bummer Dan rapidly glanced right and left. His eyes grew beady. He looks like a rat guarding a piece of cheese, Jack mused as he tried to figure out if he could salvage what was left of this solitaire hand.

Bummer Dan unfastened the haversack’s keeper strap. I showed this to Harry, he said as he fished through the sack’s clutter. He removed a grape-sized object wrapped in a greasy cloth.

Making sure no one was close enough to see, and moving too close for Jack’s comfort, Bummer Dan unfolded the cloth, revealing a gold nugget.

Jack tried to remain cool but his eyes widened.

I told Harry I didn’t have any coin or dust for a drink but I did have this. Harry said, sure, I could have a drink but he wanted to hold on to the nugget. I said no. Harry wanted to know if I had more where this came from. I said, ‘I wouldn’t tell you if I did.’

Jack smiled. Put that thing away before someone knocks you on the head. You’re good for a drink with me.

Bummer Dan pulled out a dented tin cup from his haversack and Jack poured him a good, stiff drink. He downed the whiskey in two long gulps, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with the back of his threadbare coat sleeve, and then grinned. Whoa Emma! That was good, Captain Jones. Soon I’ll be living the life of a gentleman, dining on oysters and sipping champagne.

Bummer Dan placed the wrapped gold nugget and tin cup back in his haversack. As he closed it he said, When Harry asked if I had more nuggets where this came from, I said, ‘That’s for me to know since you won’t give me any whiskey.’ But I’ll tell you, Captain Jones, I got more stashed in my shanty.

Bummer Dan! Jack hissed. Don’t be telling anyone else. You got to be careful.

Aw, no one’s gone to bother ol’ Bummer Dan, he said, standing up and slinging the haversack over his head and resting it on his right hip. Giving Jack a jaunty salute, he turned and worked his way through the crowd to the front door and along with a breath of fresh cool air, he disappeared outside.

Jack looked down at his scattered cards. Humph. I didn’t finish that hand. I owe it to myself to start over. But first, I deserve one more drink, he thought and poured another glass.

Thunderous pounding came from the bar. The loud talk subsided.

Attention! Shut up! Harry Young shouted. The crowd grew quiet.

I’ve been asked to tell how my good friend, Wild Bill Hickok, met his untimely death by Bill Sutherland, also known as Jack McCall. For all you greenhorns, I was the last person to talk with Wild Bill before he was shot right here in this very saloon almost three weeks ago, right at that table. Harry pointed to a circular table occupied by three card-playing prospectors and a professional gambler by the name of Johnny Varnes.

Here we go again, Jack thought. How many times have I heard this? Each telling seems to change slightly. He took a sip of whiskey and began shuffling the cards.

Wild Bill and I had been friends for years, ever since Hays City, Kansas, Young began. Seems like every town I moved to we’d run into each other. When Bill arrived in Deadwood back in June, the first place he stopped was right here, Saloon Number 10, as he was good friends with the owner, Carl Mann. Carl told Bill to use Saloon Number 10 as his headquarters, thinking Bill’s fame would attract more customers. When Bill spied me behind the bar he said, ‘Kid, here you are again, like the bad penny, but I’m awfully glad to see you.’

Git on with how Wild Bill got shot! shouted someone hidden in the crowd.

Well said. Jack thought.

Who said that? Young growled, glaring in the direction of the shout. Anyhow, Bill always sat with his back to the wall so no one could sneak up behind him. He told me he had a premonition he was going to get shot from behind. He always drank with his left hand, leaving his right hand ready to reach for his pistol if there was any sign of trouble. Speaking of his pistol, that reminds me of the time he was with General Custer outside Fort Hayes and shot six times at a telegraph pole, hitting it at a spot the size of your palm while …

Git on with your damn story of Wild Bill’s killing, shouted the same voice from the crowd. I’m workin’ up a thirst!

Amen. Jack thought.

Shut up, you! Young shouted at his unseen nemesis. "As I was saying, on the night of August first and into the morning of August second, Bill was playing cards with Jack McCall, a worthless, cross-eyed son of a bitch. Never was sure which eye to look at when talking to him. Bill asked me to check the amount of gold in McCall’s poke sack behind the bar. I weighed it and found it to be worth one hundred and seven dollars. Bill told McCall he had overplayed his hand by ten dollars. McCall said he would make good on it the next Saturday, but for the time being, he was broke. Bill gave him seventy-five cents for breakfast and said if he needed more to come see him.

"That afternoon, I was working behind the bar. Carl Mann, Charlie Rich, and Captain Massey were playing poker. Wild Bill and Colorado Charlie Utter walked in and the poker players invited Bill to join them. Bill asked Charlie Rich if he would move to the empty seat so he could sit with his back to the wall, but Captain Massey said Rich should not move, no one was going to sneak up on them. Bill reluctantly obliged him. The game got underway in earnest. Colorado Charlie left to eat his lunch. Bill was losing, and he asked me to get him fifty dollars of chips from the bar. I brought the chips over and gave them to him. Bill said, ‘Massey, the old duffer, just broke me on that hand.’ That’s the last thing Bill ever said. That egg-sucking dog McCall snuck up behind Bill and shot him in the back of the head, shouting, ‘Take that, you son of a bitch!’

The bullet passed down through Bill’s skull and out through his cheek to hit Massey on his wrist. Massey jumped up and ran out into the street, shouting Wild Bill had shot him. McCall pointed his pistol at us and we all ran out the door. McCall followed us into the street as a crowd started to gather. A horse was tied to the hitching rack, and McCall attempted to ride it out of town, but when he went to climb up into the saddle, it swung under the horse’s belly. The cinch was loose and, in his haste, McCall didn’t check to see if it was tight. McCall ran up the street, pointing his gun at people in the crowd. By now most everyone knew he had killed Bill. No one shot at him for fear of hitting others. McCall was finally grabbed from behind and disarmed. The mob was getting ready to hang him then and there. They were dragging him toward that good, stout ponderosa pine across the street and had a rope out. If it hadn’t been for those crazy Mexicans Poncho and Carlos galloping into town dangling an Indian head and distracting the crowd, McCall would have been hung. Some of the businessmen persuaded the crowd that we should hold a proper trial, so that’s what we did. Judge Kuykendall convened a miner’s court. And you know what? The jury let that son of a bitch McCall go free. He claimed Bill had killed his brother. I didn’t believe it, but the jury sure did. And that’s how my good friend Wild Bill Hickok came to his end, right here in this very saloon and his murderer set free.

Saloon Number 10 was silent. Then three slow, loud handclaps sounded from the crowd along the far side of the bar.

Haw! Haw! Haw! That’s a tall tale if I ever heard one! shouted a man in a colorful checked coat as he walked up to the pine-planked bar and leaned on it, glaring at Young. And I don’t think you were ever friends with Wild Bill, you liar!

Jack looked up from his cards. The clapper was the gambler, Laughing Sam Hartman. Laughing Sam was known for his practical jokes that always amused him more than the fellow who had the joke pulled on him. Hartman was given the moniker Laughing Sam because of a scar on his right check that made him look like he had a perpetual smile on his face.

Young’s left hand, the size of a small ham, shot out and clamped on Laughing Sam’s throat. Young drew back his right hand balled into a fist, yanking Laughing Sam across the bar until their faces were inches apart.

You dare mock me! Young shouted in Laughing Sam’s face as he squeezed tighter on his neck.

A gurgling noise erupted from Laughing Sam’s mouth.

Young tossed him backwards, pulled out a pistol from under the bar, and aimed it at Laughing Sam’s forehead. Get out, you son of a bitch! he roared. Come back and I’ll shoot you down like a dog.

Red faced, gasping for air, Laughing Sam staggered backwards.

Next time you see me, it’ll be the last thing you ever see, Laughing Sam swore.

He stormed from the bar, the man in his flamboyant coat cutting a swath through the miners, making a stark contrast against their drab clothing. Someone opened the door for him and with a cool blast of air, Laughing Sam was gone from Saloon Number 10.

Young broke the stunned silence. Come on, boys! Drink up!

Humph, Jack grunted as he pulled out a small leather-bound notebook and pencil from the side pocket of his coat. Scribbling a few notes, he mumbled to himself, Tuesday evening, August 22, 1876, minor ruckus at Saloon Number 10…

Jack finished his solitaire hand, and then he tied up the deck with a string, put it in his coat pocket, downed the last of the whiskey in his glass, and corked the bottle.

Reaching in his vest pocket, he pulled out his Elgin watch and pressed the button to flip open the lid. The time was eight p.m. He returned the watch to its pocket, rubbing the Grand Army of the Republic fob between his thumb and forefinger.

Stonewall, he said, nudging the dog with his foot. Time for a little grub?

Walking to the bar with Stonewall tagging by his side, Jack handed his bottle to Young for safekeeping under the bar.

Stonewall growled, baring his teeth at Young.

What’s wrong with that damn mutt of yours? Why does he only growl at me?

Don’t know, Harry. He hasn’t told me yet, Jack said with a grin.

You won’t be printing this little shouting incident in your paper now, would you?

Well, I’ll be kind.

Young frowned, but said nothing.

Jack, with Stonewall trotting ahead of him, made his way through the crowd. To his left he passed the four men playing poker. Johnny Varnes, the professional gambler, with a pile of newly acquired chips stacked in front of him, glanced up at Jack, nodded with just the trace of a smirk, and went back to studying the eyes of the yokels losing to him.

Jack reached for the door and stepped outside onto the dry, rutted mud of the street. He breathed in the crisp, invigorating, evening air. Acrid campfire smoke punctuated the pine fragrance. Stonewall ran to the corner of the saloon building, sniffed, and hoisted his leg. A babble of tongues assaulted Jack’s ears, everything from precise English accents to exotic Cantonese lingo. Miners, and those living off miners, filled Deadwood’s Main Street this evening.

And why not? Jack asked himself. Jack knew that prospectors discovered gold here last December, and the camp did not start growing until this spring’s thaw. Deadwood was the largest, fastest growing town in Dakota Territory, even if it was an illegal town within the Great Sioux Reservation. Everyone there wanted to make a buck during the Centennial Year of our country’s founding. Maybe, Jack thought, they will find enough gold to bring us out of our economic depression?

Deadwood’s buildings were a mix of log cabins and canvas tents, but newer buildings were being constructed of rough-hewn boards as sawyers had a ready supply of trees for lumber and there was an increasing demand for building material for homes, businesses, and mines.

Bawling teams of yoked oxen and oath-shouting bullwhackers alerted an excited crowd that a bull train—large, covered freight wagons loaded with tons of goods—had just arrived. People were trying to get a look at the latest goods that were stashed away in the wagons. Jack spied a young bullwhacker gawking at the sights of Deadwood.

Howdy, young fella, Jack said. First time to Deadwood?

Yes, sir, the young man said.

"My name’s Jack Jones, reporter for the Chicago Inter-Ocean newspaper. Got a minute for a few questions?"

Sure, Mr. Jones. By the way, my name’s Pete Adams.

What are you hauling, Pete?

Mostly food, dry goods, miners’ supplies—picks, shovels, crowbars, and other hardware.

Where did you come from?

We started from Fort Pierre on the Missouri River. About a two hundred and forty-mile trip in two weeks.

I’ve been over the trail. Not much by way of human comfort out there.

That’s for sure, but fortunately it was uneventful. No problems with Indians or bandits.

Faint shouting started from the upper end of the gulch. The shout grew in volume as residents of Deadwood repeated it until people around Jack and Pete were shouting the phrase Oh Joe! and then others down the gulch picked up the shout of Oh Joe! It continued down the gulch as a wave. An earsplitting wolf howl broke through and overwhelmed the shout. The citizens of Deadwood laughed and went back to what they had been doing.

What was all that? Pete asked.

It’s a little Deadwood tradition. One night a few weeks ago, a prospector who had too much to drink fell into a pit. He was so drunk he couldn’t climb out, and all night long he called ‘Oh Joe!’ for his partner to help him. So now, every evening, people will wait until someone begins the call up the gulch and then it travels as a wave all the way down. The wolf howl is an added touch by a prospector named Smokey Jones.

That howl’s enough to make my blood run cold!

Well, I’m off for my supper. Nice to meet you, Pete.

Sure, Mr. Jones, likewise.

Jack turned away from the commotion surrounding the bull train’s arrival and walked up Main Street, avoiding large rocks and tree stumps no one had bothered to remove, not to mention animal manure and garbage tossed into the street. The stench of a poorly constructed, not well-ventilated privy overrode all other smells for a brief moment.

Across the street, silhouettes of two men formed in the dim light that spilled out of a saloon. As they came into view, one had a distinctive checkered coat, and the other had a haversack slung over his shoulder. Laughing Sam and Bummer Dan appeared to be in deep conversation.

That’s odd, thought Jack. Didn’t know those two were chummy.

Jack continued up the street to Deadwood’s imposing Grand Central Hotel, where he shared a room bunking with others for a buck a night. It was always hard to get to sleep with a room full of snoring, wheezing, foul-smelling strangers. Regardless, he knew it was the best place in town to room and eat three square meals.

Jack opened the Grand Central’s front door and walked into a small lobby. Pine boards made up the walls, ceiling, and floor of the sparse lobby. To the left was a pine counter, and on the wall behind the counter hung a regulator clock. A balding, mustached Charlie Wagner, the proprietor, stood behind the counter. He had removed his coat and wore a white shirt, dark vest, and tie as he worked on his books.

Good evening, Captain Jones, Wagner said, looking up from his work.

How are you, Charlie?

Good, Captain.

How’s Aunt Lou’s cooking tonight?

Same as always, mighty fine.

Jack walked past the counter, back the hallway, turned right, and entered the dining room. The warm fragrance of fresh baked biscuits greeted his nose, causing his mouth to water and his stomach to rumble. The dining room was not fancy, but functional, with rough plank floors and walls. Coal-oil lamps dispelled the darkness. Only a few customers sat at the tables. They were enjoying the food, one man wolfing it down as if he had not eaten in days.

A stern-faced, middle-aged black woman addressed Jack as she bustled out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl of new potatoes. "Are you