by Bill Markley
Across the street from the Cricket Saloon stood Saloon Number 10. Maybe I’ll find some answers there. Jack, with Stonewall trailing, walked across the street and entered the saloon. His eyes readjusted to the dim light. A few patrons stood at the bar. Johnny Varnes was sitting in the same spot he had been last night. No one else was at Varnes’s table, so he was occupying his time with a hand of solitaire. Jack walked up to the table opposite Varnes and said, “Mind if I join you, Johnny?”
Varnes looked up. “Not at all, Jones, looking to start a little game of chance?”
“No thanks,” Jack said as he pulled up a stool. “Just trying to find some information to round out my dispatches to the paper on the Bummer Dan murder.”
Anson Tipple, the bartender, called from the bar “Captain Jones, would you care for your bottle?”
“I surely would.”
Varnes swept up his cards and shuffled them, saying “That was some doings last night, wasn’t it?”
“It surely was.”
Tipple set Jack’s Old Crow whiskey bottle and a relatively clean glass on the table. “Anson, while you’re here, let me ask you both a few quick questions, if you don’t mind. Have you seen Laughing Sam or do you know where I can find him?”
“I haven’t seen him,” Varnes said.
“Nor I,” Tipple said. “And I have no idea where he might be. You could ask at the Senate Saloon where he runs his faro game.”
“I have no idea where he hangs his hat either,” Varnes said. “Why are you interested in Laughing Sam?”
“I want to know why Bummer Dan was wearing Laughing Sam’s clothes. Don’t you think that’s peculiar?”
“It is,” Tipple said. “Harry had no problem with old Bummer Dan. It was Laughing Sam he was worried about. Between the three of us, I know for a fact, that Laughing Sam had threatened to hurt Harry these past two weeks. So it’s no wonder Harry was jumpy when he saw Bummer Dan wearing Laughing Sam’s clothes walking toward him. I’m sure he thought it was Laughing Sam coming back to do him harm, so he pulls out his pistol and fires. That’s what I think. I’ve got to get back to my other customers.”
“Wait. Before you go, have either of you seen California Joe? I need to see if he’s interested in a job.”
“Haven’t seen him, but if I do, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him,” Tipple said as he turned and walked back to the bar.
“I haven’t seen California Joe either,” Varnes said, staring at his cards as he shuffled, “It is peculiar about Bummer Dan wearing Laughing Sam’s clothes. Old Bummer Dan didn’t dress very well. Maybe Laughing Sam had a smidgen of compassion and just so happened to give him his hat and coat as a gift that night. As I say it aloud, it sounds farfetched, but who knows, maybe that is the case. I can see why you want to talk to him. It would certainly add to your story to know that fact.”
Jack poured Old Crow into his glass and swirling it before taking a drink, said more to himself than Varnes, “I just can’t figure out what happened to that haversack.”
“Haversack? What are you talking about?” Varnes asked. Jack realized he was probably revealing too much information, but the cat was out of the bag and maybe Varnes could shed some light.
“The haversack is not a major concern, but as you know I was here last night before the shooting. I had left for supper before that happened. You might have noticed Bummer Dan was also in here earlier in the evening.”
“Yes, I remember seeing him.”
“He was wearing that old haversack with BD painted on the side. When Harry shot him, he did not have the haversack on him. I just thought it might have items in it that we could send to any family he might have.”
“I see. That is commendable of you. Maybe if you find Laughing Sam, he can tell you where it is.”
“Right,” Jack said as he took another drink of his whiskey. Slow down with these drinks, he thought. It is still early in the day, and I need to change the topic away from the haversack with Varnes. “Last night, that was a fine thing you did, Johnny, breaking up that necktie party.”
“Thank you, Jones. It just was the right thing to do. We do need to have law and order around here. I know that new fellow, Seth Bullock, and others are trying to do the right thing with setting up their Sanitary Commission to nip in the bud our smallpox epidemic.”
Jack nodded in agreement and drained the last of his whiskey down his throat.
“Just think, the absolute absence of government,” Varnes continued. “We have the federal government, but where is it? If the army showed up, they would probably try to evict us from Deadwood just as Crook did to us down in Custer last year this time. So look for absolutely no help from them. Then there’s the Dakota Territory government in Yankton. Hell, they don’t even know where we are. No county government and no town government. No taxmen, no police, no courts really. Oh yes, we’ll have a trial here today or tomorrow, but is it legal? There are those who would say not. So if you think about it, we the people here in Deadwood, we are the government, and when we need to do something as our small society, we will form a Sanitary Commission or a judge, jury, and court. Then just as Cincinnatus did, they will disband themselves when they have fulfilled their job—not like elsewhere, where once you form a government or pass a law it’s there to stay for good or bad.”
“If I understand what you are saying, here in Deadwood it is man in nature without government,” Jack said. “The Creator has endowed us with an inherent knowledge of good and evil and we come together as a society to care for each other, or to right a wrong, and then dissolve that temporary governmental function until needed again.”
“Right you are, Jones. Isn’t it wonderful here? We can do as we please as long as we don’t harm someone else. Men can play any game of chance they want, drink all night if they’d like. Smoke the Chinaman’s opium, spend the evening with a beautiful woman if you have the money, and above all, make money any way you can and not have the government official there with his hand in your pocket.”
“Well said, sir! But I must be on my way,” Jack said, standing up. “I need to try to find these men and attend the jury selection tomorrow.”
“I too plan to sit in and watch the jury selection. It should be interesting.”
“Until then,” Jack said, shaking Varnes’s hand, then returning his bottle and empty glass to the bar.
Back out on Main Street, Jack walked up the street toward the Senate Saloon. To Jack’s left, nailed over the door of a newly constructed log building was a sign with a five-pointed star. “Sol” was painted on one side of the star and “Star” on the other side. Below that was painted “& Bullock” and under that “Wholesale and Retail.” Another sign on the door read “Open.”
“Humph,” Jack grunted. “Stonewall, stay out here. I think I’ll see what goods they have to outfit my trip. Maybe they know where those two fellows are that I’m looking for.”
Stonewall was engaged in sniffing new smells. Jack knocked on the door. “Come in!” a voice boomed from within. Jack pushed the door open. The log building was one large room filled with rough shelves, tables, and stands displaying mining supplies, hardware, clothing, canned goods, sacks of flour, groceries, and sundry items. There was tinware, ironware, even a few pieces of glassware. Crates stood in the middle of the floor, with their lids pried open and packing material and the contents either still inside or piled on the floor. A short man stood behind the counter writing in a ledger book and a taller man was stacking canned goods on a shelf.
“Good morning, or I should say good afternoon now,” the man behind the counter said. “What can we do for you?” Jack detected a faint German accent.
“Good afternoon, my name is Jack Jones, reporter for the Chicago Inter-Ocean. I’m looking for supplies to outfit me and another person on a month-long trip. I’m also fishing for a little information, so I hope I might find both here.”
“You’ve come to the right place, sir,” said the man stocking shelves. He stuck out
his right hand and said, “The name’s Bullock, Seth Bullock, and this here’s my partner, Sol Star. We just arrived in Deadwood the first week of August. Business has been booming!”
Jack then shook hands with Star, saying, “Glad to make your acquaintance too.”
“So what can we help you with, Mr. Jones?” Star asked.
“Please call me Jack.”
“Not a problem, Jack, and please call us, Sol and Seth.”
“My editor has tasked me with tracking down General Crook and his army and reporting back on their situation. I understand they could be almost anywhere to the north of the Hills between the Little Big Horn and the Missouri River. So, I think I’ll need supplies for two people for a month. I’d need a complete outfit—food, equipment, boxes of ammunition for a Winchester 73 and an Army Colt 1873. I plan on taking two horses, along with two rented mules from the livery.”
“We should be able to accommodate you,” Bullock said.
“Thank you, which leads me to my next question. My thought is to hire California Joe as my guide. Have either of you seen him?”
“I know who he is, but I’ve not seen him,” Star said.
“The same with me,” Bullock said. “When do you plan to leave, so we know how much time we have to put together your items?”
“It depends on when I find California Joe and whether he is willing to guide me. If he is not, I’ll have to find another competent guide, and that might take some time, but my goal is to leave town this Sunday, August 27th.”
“That should give us enough time,” Star said. “How about if we compile a list of foodstuffs and gear we think you may need? Stop back tomorrow and you can add and subtract from the list.”
“I like that idea. Please proceed with it,” Jack said. “Now I’d like to change subjects, if that’s all right with you?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
“I’m sure you know about the murder of Bummer Dan last night.”
“Yes,” Bullock said.
“I’m looking for Laughing Sam Hartman. I’d like to ask him a few questions about what was going on that night.”
“I haven’t seen him,” Star said.
“I haven’t seen him either,” Bullock said. “I can understand why you would like to talk with him. People tell me there was bad blood between Young and Hartman. Each threatened at various times to kill the other. I hear Bummer Dan Baum was wearing Hartman’s hat and coat when Young shot and killed him. Something is not quite right with that. Mischief is afoot, if you ask me. There is no reason Baum should have been wearing Hartman’s clothes into Saloon Number 10, a situation he would have known was dangerous. Hartman and Baum were partners. Don’t you think Baum knew it would be dangerous to impersonate Hartman in Saloon Number 10, just after Young threatens to kill Hartman if he steps back in the saloon? Those two were up to something no good and whatever it was it went wrong—dead wrong.”
“That’s very perceptive, Seth,” Sol said.
“Yes it is,” Jack agreed.
“I was a sheriff in Helena, Montana, before I came here,” Bullock said. “And I’m still interested in homicide and bringing the perpetrators to justice.”
“It seems most everyone I’ve talked to has concerns about the latest murders and is of the opinion we need to establish law and order in this town,” Jack said.
“They are correct. Deadwood needs law and order, but the trick is that we have no legal basis to establish a legitimate government. This is still land owned and controlled by the Sioux Indians. It’s theirs and not ours until the federal government either buys it from them or forces them to give it up and sign a new treaty. Until then, the army could come in at any time and evict us just as they were doing with all those miners on French Creek.”
“But it’s so bad that someone can literally commit murder in this town and get away with it,” Jack said. “Look at that fellow Jack McCall shooting Wild Bill and the jury letting him off.”
“That was before my time,” Bullock said. “I think I might have made a citizen’s arrest and hauled McCall off to the Dakota Territory prison in Yankton.”
“I’ve heard he’s been seen in Cheyenne,” Star said.
“What’s your theory as to what happened with Preacher Smith?” Jack asked.
“Most people say the Indians got him,” Star answered.
“And I’m not so sure about that,” Bullock said.
“How so?” Jack asked.
“There’s lots that don’t add up,” Bullock said. “First of all, I had the opportunity to examine the body. If you don’t know, some of the businessmen in town formed a Sanitary Commission after the outbreak of smallpox. Sol and I joined the commission when we arrived in Deadwood. We built a pest house outside of town to house those infected with smallpox, and we sent off to Cheyenne for vaccine.”
“I met Calamity Jane Canary on her way back from taking care of the patients in the pest house this morning,” Jack said.
“Martha Canary is quite the nurse. She is one of the few people willing to provide assistance,” Bullock said.
“She claims she is immune to smallpox,” Sol added.
“The commission is the only semblance of any kind of government we have in town,” Bullock said. “One of our self-appointed duties has been to develop a cemetery, which is now called Ingleside, on the east edge of town.”
“Just think,” Star added. “The town needed one place to bury bodies, otherwise they were starting to be planted anywhere people wanted to dig a hole in town. The same goes for privies. There’s no control. Someone builds a privy along Whitewood Creek and the next person takes his water just downstream. No wonder people are getting sick!”
“When Preacher Smith was killed,” Bullock continued, “it was the duty of the commission to inter the body. As you know, Indians also killed Lou Mason and two other individuals that day. I had the coffins opened so we could make sure Smith was buried in the grave assigned to him in our ledger book, Mason was buried in the grave assigned to him and so on with the others. My previous job as sheriff in Montana has whetted my curiosity so I couldn’t help but take a few moments to examine Preacher Smith’s body. There was only one gunshot wound and that was to the heart. Calamity Jane and her friends had sewn the bullet hole through the shirt and tried to wash it, but it appeared to me that there were powder burns on the shirt. There was no mutilation of the body. His Bible, his sermon notes, all personal effects were found on his person except for that morning’s offering, which I was informed was close to two hundred and fifty dollars. Mischief is afoot here, if you ask me.”
“But I hear that Texas Jack said there were Indians about when he and Mason came upon Preacher Smith’s body,” Jack said.
“That’s right,” Bullock said. “But when questioned, Texas Jack said there was only one Indian on horseback, who slowly approached making the sign of peace. Mason and Texas Jack both shot at the Indian, wounding him and knocking him off his horse. The Indian was able to crawl into the brush. Mason approached the hiding spot and was gut shot by the Indian. After which Texas Jack was able to get the drop on the Indian, kill him, and cut off his head. We have all had evidence of this, as he paraded the head up and down Main Street until we took his gory trophy away from him, declaring it unsanitary and burying it.”
“It had become a little ripe,” Star mused.
“And as we know, shortly after dispatching the Indian, Mason died,” Bullock continued. “So we know the Indian killed Mason, but do we know the Indian actually was the one to kill Smith.”
“Why, is there doubt in your mind?” Jack asked.
“Number one, remember there was no scalping or other mutilation of Preacher Smith’s body. Number two, nothing was taken from Preacher Smith’s body other than the money. I suppose the Indian knew what money is and would know to use it to trade for items he would need back at his agency. But then we come to number three—if the Indian knew the purpose of money and took it, why was it not discovered o
n the Indian’s body?”
“Right!” Star said. “And if this Indian was the one who murdered Preacher Smith, why would he openly approach two armed men as he tried to show peaceful intent?”
“I suppose he might have tried some treachery on Texas Jack and Mason,” Bullock said, “Or maybe some other Indian murdered Preacher Smith and this poor fellow just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But my theory based on this evidence is that Indians did not murder Preacher Smith, but a white man murdered him. Here’s my scenario. Preacher Smith is walking to Crook City. He meets a white man along the trail. They exchange pleasantries, the man gets close to the preacher, pulls out a pistol and shoots him at point blank range, killing him and stealing his money. Texas Jack and Mason come upon the scene of the murder, they see the Indian, jump to the conclusion that the Indian must have killed Preacher Smith and commence shooting at him. It’s great cover for whoever committed the murder. No one will look for him because they think the Indian did it and he’s dead.”
“That certainly sounds plausible,” Jack said.
“I agree!” Star added.
“So in conclusion,” Bullock said. “We closed the coffin lids and placed the bodies in their graves. Preacher Smith was Methodist. We searched the gulch high and low for a Methodist prayer book or order of service but could find none. The only thing we did find was the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, which I read. We sang a hymn, I said a closing prayer, and we were done.”
