by Bill Markley
“Well said, sir, but I still need to follow up on these other stories.”
“By all means, then go ahead, but I still think you are missing the real story! The town continues to grow and is slowly becoming civilized, whether people want it to or not. Why, just last week Judge Joe Miller’s family arrived in town. Others are thinking of sending for their families once the army escorts the Indians back to their agencies.” Merrick took a breath. “And then, Jones, just think, once the Indians are no longer a menace, the stage lines have promised they will start regular runs to Deadwood, and the telegraph will follow. We will not have to rely on Utter and his ilk to find out what is happening in the rest of the world, and to let the world know of our progress. Why, someday I can envision a railroad running to Deadwood. That’s progress. That’s the real story.”
“I agree with you, but I need to report on these killings too,” Jack said. “What is your take on the murder of Preacher Smith?”
“A tragedy,” Merrick said shaking his head. “A horrible tragedy. Smith was our only semblance of a minister here in town. Look at the Chinese. They are in the process of building their own house of worship on lower Main Street. I think they call it a Joss House, and we can’t even keep a damn preacher alive!”
“Why do you think the Indians would have killed Smith? An unarmed, peaceful man, neither scalping nor mutilating him, and they took only his money and markers.”
“How do you know Indians did it?”
“Who else would do such a thing?” Jack asked.
“Anyone would. Just think, he was carrying quite a lot of money. Just about everyone in town would have known that. Who’s to say that someone didn’t follow him? They could have approached him acting friendly to get close enough to have a clear shot at his heart, snuffing out his life, and taking his money. Dead men tell no tales!”
“An interesting theory,” Jack said.
“Indians would have taken more than just money.”
“Humph. What about Harry Young shooting Bummer Dan? What do you think was going on there?”
“Rumor has it that Young and that so-called Laughing Sam Hartman had been having an ongoing dispute, but over what, I have no idea. For some odd reason known only to Bummer Dan, who is now deceased, and Laughing Sam, Bummer Dan was wearing Laughing Sam’s hat and coat. Young claimed he thought he was shooting Laughing Sam, not Bummer Dan, a lethal case of mistaken identity.”
“Speaking of Laughing Sam, I’d like to talk with him about what happened last night,” Jack said. “Any idea where I might find him?”
“If I knew where he was, I’d be there right now getting his story for the paper. I’ve sent a few hounds out trying to track him down with no luck. Maybe he left town, giving Bummer Dan his hat and coat as parting gifts.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Jack said. “Maybe he was so intimidated by Harry Young last night that he thought the best thing to do would be to leave town and head off to another mining camp. But hopefully we’ll see him testify at the trial.”
“Yes, if he shows up. But I wouldn’t count on it,” Merrick said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Maybe he thinks he would be implicated in poor Bummer Dan’s death. Even if Bummer Dan wearing his hat and coat could be construed as a practical joke, it ended in the death of Bummer Dan. And Laughing Sam could be held accountable for that.”
“Another interesting thought,” Jack mused.
“Will you join me in another morning libation?” Merrick said as he picked up the bottle and began to pour himself another shot into his cup.
“Thanks, A.W., but I better hold off this time. I’ll take you up on that offer later.”
“Suit yourself,” Merrick said as he downed the whiskey.
“You don’t happen to know where Calamity Jane would be? I heard she might be at the Cricket Saloon.”
“No, I don’t know where she is, but the Cricket would be a good place to look for that harpy. Why do you need to see her, if I may ask?”
“Since neither of us can find Laughing Sam, Calamity Jane just might be able to direct me to him.”
“Good luck to you, Jones.”
Jack left Merrick to his ink and whiskey. With Stonewall zigzagging back and forth in front of him, checking out the latest smells along the way, Jack returned to Main Street. He headed north down the street filled with the continuous mass of humanity, bellowing oxen, and sharp-tongued bullwhackers. He arrived at the Cricket Saloon and was about to enter when behind him, he heard an unmistakable female voice roaring curses, and when he turned to look, was amused at the whirlwind presence as she surged through the mass of humanity. “Captain Jones!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Wednesday Late Morning, August 23, 1876—“Captain Jones!” Calamity Jane Canary shouted, pushing one miner who was too slow to get out of her way.
“Move, ya old son of a bitch!” she shouted, giving the miner a swift kick in the rump and showing her man’s work boot beneath her ankle-length, lavender, day-dress with purple piping. She wore a knotted purple scarf around her neck, and a broad-brimmed man’s hat rode atop her red head. Her face was plain, but pleasant. Her figure was boyish. She lunged at Jack, who laughed as he caught her.
“Captain Jones, I haven’t seen ya since we left that damn old goat Crook, trying to find those bastard Sioux along the Big Horns! How ya been doin’?” she asked, holding on to him as if he was the last man in the world.
“Well, Calamity, I’ve been doing just fine. I’ve been reporting on a few stories here in Deadwood.”
“Why haven’t I seen ya?”
“I don’t know. I guess our paths just didn’t cross until now.”
“Where’s that real son of a bitch? That hound of yours.”
“He’s snooping around somewhere. He’ll come back and find us. What have you been up to?”
“Just about anything I can do to keep my body and soul together, Captain. I’m currently employed by that son of a bitch Al Swearengen, to dance with hard-luck bastards in the Cricket Saloon, but I’m my own gal. He don’t own me. I work for me and
pay him a percentage, and I help out lookin’ after his new girls. Break ‘em in, so they’re ready to be rode hard by these horny bastards who can’t make a living anywhere else.” In a lower voice, she added, “Not sure how much longer I’ll be partnering with Swearengen. He’s rough on those girls. He’s even blackened his own wife’s eye a time or two and will farm her out if the price is right. But that bastard weasel knows better than to aggravate me and my friends. If he touches any of us he’ll wind up a gelding, if ya know what I mean.” She grinned. “So what brings ya to the Cricket?”
“You.”
“Aw, didn’t know ya got soft and are now sweet on me?” She stood back from Jack, but held on to him at arm’s length.
“Sorry, just trying to do my job and track down a man. I thought if anybody knows where he is, you’re that person.”
“That’s for certain. Come on into the Cricket where it’s a little cooler. We can sit down and have a whiskey for old time’s sake.”
“Sounds like a fine idea,” Jack said.
They walked toward the door to Jack’s right when Stonewall ran up to Calamity, his tail wagging and a soft whine coming from his throat. He jumped on her as she bent over and cooed, massaging his floppy ears. “How’s my favorite little hound dog, Stonewall? Let’s go inside and find ya some grub, ya little son of a bitch. Come to think of it, I haven’t had a bite to eat and, Captain, ya look like a damn scarecrow. Don’t they feed ya around these parts?”
“Actually I’m being fed quite well by Aunt Lou.”
“That woman sure can cook!”
Jack noticed a bulging haversack slung over Calamity’s shoulder. “What have you been up to with that haversack?”
“Everyone knows a smallpox epidemic has hit town, and being a reporter, I’m sure ya know that them’s that’s got it are forced out of town and quarantined to an isolate
d shanty to live or die. Well, I’m not going to let those damn sons of bitches die by themselves. I can’t get smallpox, so I go out and take care of them. No one else will.”
“That is a commendable act you’re doing, Calamity.”
“Aw, it ain’t nothin’. It just needs bein’ done. Come on into the Cricket. Let’s stop this jawing in the sun and get inside where it’s cool.”
Calamity Jane was right. It was cool inside the Cricket Saloon. Jack’s eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dim light. A rough-hewn stage ran along the right wall with a bar far to the back. A few tables and stools had been placed in front of the stage. Three women wearing wraps sat at a table near the front of the building. The rest of the room was empty except for a man behind the bar.
“Captain Jones,” Calamity said, “let me introduce ya to my friends.”
“Starting on the left, this here’s Kitty Arnold, next to her is my old friend from France, California, Montana, Colorado, and a hell of a lot of other places, Eleanor Dumont, also known as Madame Mustache. Don’t let the name fool ya, her mustache ain’t that bad. And last, but not least, Tid Bit.”
She waved a hand at Jack. “And ladies, this here’s an old friend of mine from when I was with Crook’s boys out in the wilds of Wyoming, Captain Jack Jones, who is, among other things, a reporter for a fancy back-East newspaper and a right nice gent.”
The three women acknowledged Jack with smiles. The blond-haired Madame Moustache, older than the other women, held out the back of her hand for Jack to kiss, which he did. Tid Bit was embroidering a dress laid across her lap. Jack could see he had interrupted their conversation.
“Looks like you all are busy here,” Jack said. “Maybe I should come back later.”
“Nonsense,” Kitty said. “Please pull up a stool and join us.”
“If you insist.”
“We insist,” Madame Mustache said. Stonewall made the rounds of the three women, becoming an immediate hit.
“Hey you!” the man at the bar shouted. “We don’t allow no dogs in here! Get that mutt out of here!”
“Johnny!” Calamity Jane shouted. “The dog is my guest and if I says he stays, he stays. Got that?”
The man scowled but did not say anything. He went back to polishing glasses with a dirty rag.
“Captain, what say ya to that whiskey?” Calamity said.
“Sure thing, Calamity. Let me buy you ladies all a drink,”
“Johnny!” Calamity shouted. “A bottle of whiskey. The good stuff. And five glasses.” The man slowly finished his polishing and then rummaged under the bar for a bottle of the good stuff.
“Who’s the barkeep?” Jack asked softly to Calamity, who was sitting to his right.
“That son of a bitch’s name is Johnny Burns,” she said, in a not so soft a voice. “He’s Al’s boy,” and to the bar she yelled, “Hurry it up, you slow-moving horse’s ass.”
Burns leisurely walked to the table, then setting down the bottle and glasses, he said, “And I love you too, Calamity.”
“Aw shucks, ain’t he nice. Ha! Ha! Johnny, ya know I don’t mean nothing by it.”
“I know, Calamity.”
“Now leave us alone, you castrated bastard, I mean, sweet Johnny,” Calamity said, with a mischievous grin.
Jack uncorked the bottle and poured five glasses to the brim.
“Oh, thank you, Captain!” Kitty said.
“A toast,” Jack said, hoisting his glass. “Here’s to four of the finest women in Deadwood!” This was answered by a chorus of thank yous and the clinking of five glasses. Shots were downed, lips were smacked, a cough or two, and smiles around.
“Captain Jones is here on business,” Calamity proclaimed.
“And what might that be?” Madame Mustache asked.
“Murder and mayhem,” Jack responded with a smile.
“Oh, poor Preacher Smith. It was so horrible,” Tid Bit said.
“It surely was,” Kitty agreed.
“Captain, we were the ones what laid out poor Preacher Smith’s body for burial,” Calamity said.
“We removed his coat and shirt,” Madame Mustache said. “Tried to wash out the blood stains, but didn’t get it all. Tid Bit mended the gunshot hole as best she could.”
“We washed the blood off his body,” Kitty said. “Then we washed his hands and face, put his shirt and coat back on him, combed his hair, and brushed the dirt from his beard. All ready for burial. That new fellow, Seth Bullock, said the prayers over the grave. Seems like a nice man.”
“Don’t think I’ve met him yet,” Jack said.
“He and a fellow by the name of Sol Star just arrived from Montana. They’re setting up an emporium,” Calamity said.
I’ll have to stop by their establishment and see what supplies they have on hand for my trip to catch Crook, Jack thought and then said, “I need to take a few notes.”
“Is this an interview?’ Calamity asked. “Will we make it in your Eastern paper?”
“I’m not guaranteeing anything,” Jack replied. “You never know about editors, what they will keep, and what they will toss out. Sometimes it depends on how much space they have to work with. But I’ll give it a try and let’s see what happens.”
Jack fished his notebook and a pencil out of his coat pocket, and opening to a blank page, started to write, saying, “Tell me again, how many wounds there were?”
“We already done told ya, it was only one,” Calamity said. “One lead bullet to the heart.”
“No other wounds, cuts, marks, powder burns?”
“Wait a minute,” Kitty said. “Come to think of it, there were powder burns on his shirt. Weren’t there, girls?”
“That’s right!” Calamity agreed as Jack continued to write.
“One bullet wound to the heart. Powder burns to the shirt,” Jack said as he looked up from his writing, poured himself another shot, and then remembered to pour whiskey into his table companions’ glasses.
“You’re a right proper gentleman, Captain Jones!” Calamity said lifting her glass.
“Hear! hear!” the other women agreed.
“Thank you all. Now back to the business at hand. You say there was no mutilation, and nothing else was taken…”
“Except those Injuns took his Sunday church collection!” Tid Bit said.
“There was a right tidy sum,” Calamity said. “I should know, I counted it for him.”
“How much?” Jack asked.
“That poke was worth near two hundred and fifty dollars in dust, coin, chips, and markers. Quite a take, if ya ask me,” Calamity said.
“You should have seen how Preacher Smith earned his keep that day!” Kitty said.
“Calamity Jane took up the offering for him,” Madame Mustache said.
“I take it you weren’t there, Captain?” Tid Bit asked.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“Well, it was quite beautiful, if you ask me,” she responded.
“Tell me,” Jack said.
“As you may know, Preacher Smith always did his preachin’ on the street,” Tid Bit said. “This time he found an old crate, stood on top of it, and proclaimed the Lord’s Word to those heathen in the street who stopped to listen, remembering their upbringing and their home folks. Although some knotheads were too interested in their damn faro games to even look up or listen. Preacher Smith’s words moved Calamity to run up to his crate. He had removed his hat before the Lord and held it in his hand. Calamity snatched it from him and used it as an offering plate. She interrupted his sermon long enough to shout ‘Ya sinners, dig down in your pokes, now. This old fellow looks as though he were broke, and I want to collect two hundred dollars for him!’ She pestered each of those fellows in the crowd. Wouldn’t let them alone until they threw something in the hat. She even forced herself on the fellows playing faro, stopped their games until they paid up!”
They all laughed except Calamity Jane, her face somber and wooden. Tears began to stream down her face,
as she said, “Ain’t it too bad, that the only man who comes to this God-forsaken town to tell us how to live, has to be killed by Injuns!”
Tid Bit put her arm around Calamity and hugged her. Calamity pushed away and wiped her eyes with her bandanna.
“Humph,” Jack cleared his throat. He was uncomfortable seeing a blubbering Calamity Jane, who was always bluster and show.
“But there was an Indian lurking there who probably killed Preacher Smith. That same Indian killed Lou Mason before he himself was killed by Texas Jack. Isn’t that correct?” Jack asked.
“That’s right,” Madame Mustache said.
“Did that Indian have the two hundred and fifty dollars on him?” Jack asked.
“Good question. No one ever saw any money. No one ever asked about the money until now. Maybe Texas Jack would know,” Madame Mustache said.
Jack wrote: “Track down Texas Jack, ask about money.”
“That Texas Jack, he’s one crazy bastard,” Calamity said. She appeared to have recovered her composure. “I’m not sure that Injun was the one that killed Preacher Smith anyways.”
“Why do you say that?” Jack asked.
“Because the fellas that were at the site of Preacher Smith’s killing said that Injun was slowly riding up to them making the sign of peace, and our half-brained bastards started shooting at him. Shoot first, ask questions later. Then that simpleton, Lou Mason, has to go and try to flush the Injun out of the brush and gets himself gut shot and bleeds out. Oh, Emma!”
“Then Texas Jack kills the Indian and doesn’t satisfy himself with just lifting the scalp,” Madame Mustache said. “He chops off the whole head. How revolting!”
“Well, it ain’t that bad!” Calamity said. “Remember the day, my best friend, Wild Bill, the man I love, was shot by the weasel-faced, cross-eyed bastard Bill Sutherland or Jack McCall or whatever that egg-sucking dog’s name is? That day was the day that Mex, Poncho, I think is his name, anyway he and his sidekick, I forget his name, ride into town with this head of this Injun chief. We’re all happy ‘cause what with Custer and his boys getting themselves killed and my Wild Bill being ass-assonated, I needed a little fun. So, me and Harry Young, poor Harry being locked up like that, anyway me and Harry and half the town, we tag along with Poncho and his sidekick and buy celebratory drinks from establishment to establishment. The town was whoopin’ it up. All the while, here I am, forgettin’ about my Wild Bill being dead. Anyhow, we had a gay old time traipsing through the town with that chief’s head in tow. Someone got the bright idea to run the chief’s head up the town’s old Fourth of July flagpole, which we did. Then we all danced around it like a maypole only it was more like an Injun war dance. We was jumpin’, hollering, and yelling. It was great fun. Not sure whatever happened to that chief’s head. It was starting to get a little rank.”
