Deadwood Dead Men

by Bill Markley

  Jack heard the movement of canvas. The inside light increased, and then came the click of a cocking pistol.

  “Hold it right there, mister!” commanded a man’s voice behind Jack.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wednesday Late Afternoon, August 23, 1876—“Stand up!” the voice commanded. “Raise your hands over your head.” Jack complied. The voice had a slight British accent. “I have a pistol aimed at your head. If you try anything foolish I will pull the trigger. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Jack answered. Stonewall continued digging, sending dirt flying behind him.

  “I want you to slowly turn towards me.”

  Jack complied. He could not distinguish the man silhouetted by the outside light.

  “So you return to complete your robbery of Bummer Dan,” the silhouetted man said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jack responded.

  “You were here last night searching through Bummer Dan’s possessions and my friends and I chased you away.”

  “You have me mistaken for someone else. I wasn’t here last night. If you need proof, we can go visit the Grand Central Hotel or the Deadwood Theater, where my friends can tell you I was with them most of the evening.”

  “Step out of the tent into the sun where I can see you better,” the man ordered. As Jack slowly proceeded toward the front of the tent, the man dropped the flap, stood back to the side and behind Jack as he emerged outside with his hands still raised.

  “Turn around,” the man ordered. As Jack complied, he was surprised to see that the man who had the drop on him was Chinese. The man appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was dressed as any miner in Deadwood but wore his hair in a long braid. Atop his head was a broad-brimmed hat and in his hand he held a Navy Colt, which was leveled at Jack’s forehead.

  “Very slowly, unbutton your coat with your left hand and hold it open so I can see if you are armed,” the man ordered. Jack complied, revealing that he was unarmed.

  “Tell me again why you are here?” the man said.

  “I’m following up on my investigation of the Bummer Dan shooting. I’m a reporter for the Chicago Inter-Ocean. I knew Bummer Dan and I came here hoping I could find more information on him, if there is any information on his family, and if there is anything here that could be sent to his family.”

  “How do I know what you tell me is true?”

  “Let me show you my card,” Jack said as he slowly reached with his left hand into his coat pocket. The man continued to aim his pistol at Jack’s forehead. Jack slowly removed his card and held it out to the man. The man took it with his left hand and held it up to his eyes. “This reads you are John Jones with the Chicago Inter-Ocean newspaper. All right, Mister John Jones. I will trust you a little more. Maybe your story is true,” the man said as he handed back the card. He brought the gun down to waist level, pointed it away from Jack, and slowly eased the hammer back from the fully cocked position.

  Stonewall chose at that instant to finish his digging and bolt out of the tent. Seeing the man, he ran up to him with tail wagging, expecting the man to pet him. The man obliged the dog.

  “May I put my hands down now?” Jack asked.

  “Yes, Mister Jones, you may,” the man said as he continued to pet Stonewall. The man was now smiling. “What is the name of your dog?” the man asked.

  “Stonewall Jackson.”

  “Stone Wall Jack Son, that is a strange name.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” Jack said. “You know my name, who I work for, and even my dog’s name, but I do not know yours.”

  The man stood straight. “Ah yes,” he said and bowed. “My name is Fee Lee Wong,” He straightened up and extended his hand. Jack shook it.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wong.”

  “Please, John Jones, call me Fee Lee.”

  “Sure, Fee Lee, and please call me Jack.”

  “Yes, Jack it is, then,” Wong said. “Jack, tell me again why you are here.”

  “Last night as you must know, Bummer Dan was shot and killed by Harry Young in Saloon Number 10. Bummer Dan was wearing his partner’s coat and hat at the time he was shot. His partner was Laughing Sam Hartman.”

  “Yes, I know who they are. I live two houses to the south of Bummer Dan and Laughing Sam lives two houses to the north of Bummer Dan.”

  “That’s very good news to know. I’m gathering information for my newspaper story, so I’ll need to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind. I’d also like to see if Laughing Sam is home and question him.”

  “That is good with me. Let us first go to my home where we can sit and be more comfortable as we talk. I was in the process of brewing tea when you so rudely interrupted me. Would you care to join me for a cup?”

  “Yes, that’s fine with me,” Jack said. Wong led the way as Jack and Stonewall followed behind. Wong came to a lower-half log and upper-half canvas one-room house. A blanket served as the door. Wong held the blanket to the side, bowed and motioned Jack to enter, which he and the dog did.

  The canvas allowed enough light inside for Jack to see that the one-room dwelling was tidy and clean. The floor was smoothed timber, on top of which lay a rug. A sleeping mat was rolled to the side. A small cast-iron stove with a pipe leading up and out of the tent sat at the rear of the dwelling. A wood fire blazed within the stove and on top stood a kettle with roiling water within. A small cabinet held porcelain dishes and a large crate contained a variety of packages displaying Chinese writing. In the center of the room sat a large crate that served as a table. Two small stools stood on either side of it.

  Wong motioned for Jack to sit at the crate. Wong opened a sack grabbing a handful of dried tea leaves. He removed the kettle lid and dropped the leaves into the boiling water. Wong took two porcelain teacups from the cabinet and placed them on the crate in front of Jack. He went back to the stove and waited for the water to return to a boil. Wong took a small towel and used it to protect his hand as he removed the kettle. Holding a spoon by the spout to keep the tea leaves from coming out, he poured tea into the two cups and placed the kettle on a flat rock by the stove. He sat down opposite Jack and raised the cup with both hands, saying, “To your health.” Jack picked up his teacup and imitated Wong saying, “And to your health.”

  They both took a sip. Jack was not much of a tea drinker. He was partial to coffee, but this had a very good flavor.

  “This is excellent tea,” Jack said.

  “Thank you, Jack. As you might imagine, it is very hard to get good tea in America. And especially hard to get tea here in Deadwood. I have to send a special order for it.”

  They sat in silence sipping the tea.

  “Do you care for more tea?” Wong asked.

  “Yes,” Jack replied. After Wong refilled their cups and returned to his seat, they took a few more sips in silence.

  “Fee Lee, may I ask you a few questions?”

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “I’m curious how have you come to speak English so good and how did you come to be in Deadwood?”

  “Ah yes, you ask two questions that intertwine, and if you have time, I can tell you my story.”

  “Yes, I would like to hear it.”

  “I speak English because of the English!” Wong said with a laugh. “I am from Canton in China’s Guangdong Province. The British have had an interest in Guangdong for years. They have become involved in all aspects of business in that region of China, including smuggling illegal drugs—opium. When the Emperor tried to stop it, the British government went to war with China to continue the opium trade. A little opium for medicinal purposes is good, but many of my countrymen cannot use too much of it or they become hopelessly addicted. For years the Emperor’s government has been trying to lessen its effect in China, as well as here in America.”

  Wong took another sip of tea.

  “As for me, my father believed that to do well in business, I should learn the language of
the English, so he enrolled me in a missionary school not only to learn the Christian religion, but also to read and write English. Chinese from Guangdong have been coming to America ever since gold was discovered in gum shan and so…”

  “Wait a minute,” Jack interrupted. “What’s gum shan?”

  “Oh excuse me for the lapse! Ha-ha! Gum shan is Cantonese for Gold Mountain, the name we gave California. The early reports that came in letters to Guangdong from men who went to California said there was so much gold that people were picking up gold nuggets off the ground. Of course, it was not true, but it started the Chinese gold rush for California. When we were old enough, my brother and I asked my father for his permission to travel to California to seek our fortune. At that time, Guangdong was a poor place for a young man to find work. The British banks were calling in their loans, there was discontent, and the Emperor sent troops in to put down the rebellion. It was a good time to leave.”

  Wong drained the rest of his tea, rose, and brought back the kettle, refilling their cups.

  “How did you decide to come to Deadwood?” Jack asked as Wong returned to his stool.

  “My brother and I worked at many jobs in California—placer mining, railroading, laundry, and cooking. It seems I have tried my hand at many jobs. When news first reached California about the gold strike in Deadwood Gulch, I wanted to come here and see if I could make my fortune. My brother had had enough in California and decided to return home. With the modest amount he had earned, he could live in comfort for the rest of his life, but I wanted more.”

  Wong took a sip of tea and continued. “I found a small group of Americans who were heading to Deadwood. They needed a cook. I said, ‘I can cook!’ They sampled my cooking and hired me on the spot. We traveled by train to Cheyenne and then started our journey north along the trail to Fort Laramie and into the Black Hills. One evening, a group of men attacked us. We never found out if they were Indians or white men. They fired into our camp most of the night. I stood with the others, firing rifles and pistols at our attackers. By morning, they were gone. When we reached Deadwood Gulch, we staked claims along Whitewood Creek and drew lots for who got what claim. One of the men did not want to share with the ‘heathen Chinaman’ but the others voted him down and said if I could equally help defend them along the trail, I equally would share in the rewards. I received two placer claims, which have turned out to be good producers, so much so that I have hired some of my countrymen to work them for me. My goal is to open a store to sell Asian goods to my countrymen, make my fortune, and return to Guangdong to live in luxury. In the meantime, I think I can be of use to the Cantonese community and the white community. A bridge, if you will, as I am the only person in Deadwood who I know who can speak both languages fluently. I am not bragging. I am only stating the fact.”

  “That’s not bragging, Fee Lee. It’s commendable of you to be of service to everyone,” Jack said. “One question I have,” Jack continued. “This morning I encountered one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, being carried by two men. Who is she?”

  “Her name is Di Lee.”

  “Can you tell me more about her?”

  “She is from Guangdong, the same as me. She is young and single, but she is not a courtesan. She has the means to live independent of any man.”

  “What is she doing in Deadwood?”

  “I cannot say.”

  Jack was not sure of that answer, but let the subject drop.

  “Tell me again what you were doing in Bummer Dan’s home?” Wong asked.

  “Three things actually,” Jack began. “First, I wanted to see if there would be any additional information there that could tell me why Bummer Dan was wearing Laughing Sam’s clothes. Second, I wanted to see if there was any information on his relatives, where they live, and if there was anything in the shanty of importance that I could send to them. Third, and most important, is that Bummer Dan had gold on him that I would like to find and send to his family, if possible.”

  “I see,” Wong said and thought for a moment before saying, “And what if you find this gold, but you do not find any information on his family, then what will you do with his gold?”

  “Good question. I hadn’t thought of that,” said Jack. “I suppose I could give it to the poor or maybe to the Sanitary Commission. They could use it to improve the town.”

  “Equally good answers, Jack,” Wong said smiling, and then continued, “How do you know Bummer Dan had gold?”

  “Last night, I was in Saloon Number 10 and Bummer Dan showed me a large nugget of gold he kept wrapped in cloth and close to him in his haversack. He told me he had hidden more gold. When he was shot and killed, he did not have the haversack or the gold on his body.”

  “I see,” Wong said. “You believe Bummer Dan may have returned his haversack to his home with the gold in it, or that he hid the gold in or near his home with the rest of it for safekeeping.”

  “Yes, or maybe Laughing Sam is holding it for him.”

  “Or maybe after Bummer Dan was killed, Laughing Sam decided to keep the gold for himself. Maybe he knew Bummer Dan had more gold hidden at his home.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Jack said. “The only other person who I know who knew about Bummer Dan’s gold is Harry Young. Bummer Dan showed him the gold nugget and hinted that he had more, but Harry has been sitting in Tom Short’s storeroom this whole time.”

  “This is very interesting,” Wong said. “Let us go back to Bummer Dan’s home and see if we can locate information on his family and possibly the gold.”

  “Good idea,” Jack said as they both stood. “And thank you for the tea. I enjoyed it.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Wong said.

  When they returned to Bummer Dan’s shanty the sun had disappeared behind the western ridge and it was dark inside. Wong found a coal-oil lamp, struck a lucifer, which flared in the gloom, and then lit the lamp’s wick. The two of them looked through Bummer Dan’s meager belongings as Stonewall decided to tackle the hole again, enjoying tossing up a stream of dirt. They checked every item, looking for any letters from home or scraps of paper. But there were none. They searched every nook and cranny, finding nothing. They examined the floor but found no indication of any abnormal surface disturbance that would indicate someone had dug a hole and covered it up—other than the hole Stonewall was working on.

  The dog growled. Both men turned and saw that the hound had something in his teeth that he was tugging on. Stonewall tore loose a small leather bag from its obstruction and shook it rapidly from side to side. “Hey, what have you there, Stonewall?” Jack said as he removed the bag from the hound’s jaws. Examining it under the lantern light, they discovered it was an empty leather poke bag.

  “Carefully turn it inside out,” Wong suggested. “Maybe we can find out what was in it.” Jack slowly worked at doing just that as Wong held the lantern close. Nothing. And then, a small golden gleam, and then another. There were several flecks of gold the size of pinheads.

  “Well, would you look at that!” Jack said.

  “It appears Bummer Dan hid his gold in this sack and someone removed it,” Wong said.

  “I agree,” Jack said. “Thinking back on last night, from the time I saw Bummer Dan on the street with Laughing Sam until when he was killed at ten o’clock, less than two hours passed. I suppose he could have returned to his shanty, dug up his gold, returned to town to borrow Laughing Sam’s clothes, and walk into Saloon Number 10 to be shot and killed.”

  “That still leaves the question, where is his gold, since no one found it on his body,” Wong said. “It is more likely that whoever I scared away from his home last night was the person who took the gold.”

  “What time was that, Fee Lee?”

  “I do not know, Jack. I do not own a timepiece.”

  “Humph,” Jack grunted. “It seems to me that if I could find Laughing Sam and talk with him, some of this mystery might clear itself.”

  “What do
you want to do with this gold?” Wong said.

  “We have found no evidence of family to send it to. I have no need of it. Do you know of any poor who it could help?”

  “I do, and I will give it to them,” Wong said with a smile. “Let us look outside. Perhaps there is something out there we overlooked.”

  They searched the outside walls of the shanty and again in every conceivable place that might be a hidey-hole.

  “I think we found the one and only spot where Bummer Dan hid his valuables,” Jack said.

  “I believe you are correct, Jack. Let us go and see if Mister Laughing Sam Hartman is home.”

  Men were returning to their cabins, shanties, and shelters. Fragrances of cooking food filled the air. Lanterns glowed in dwellings, and men stood in the streets conversing over the murder, horse race, and other events of the day.

  As Wong and Jack approached Laughing Sam’s shanty, it appeared dark and unoccupied, like the shanties on either side of it. Reaching the front door, they heard something being knocked over and falling, clattering to the ground. Two squirrels scampered out the open door. Stonewall gave chase, but he was no match for their speed. Jack and Wong looked at each other and laughed. Wong still held Bummer Dan’s lantern in his hand.

  “Halloo inside the house!” Jack said. His answer was silence. “Well, let’s go inside,” he said. The lantern revealed a single, simple room, similar to Bummer Dan’s, only this one appeared to be in order except for a box of hard bread the squirrels had been feasting on before they were rudely interrupted.

  “It doesn’t appear that anyone has gone through Laughing Sam’s belongings,” Wong said.

  “Except those squirrels,” Jack responded. “I’d hazard a guess he has not been back to his shanty since last night.”

  “I agree,” Wong said. The two men stepped outside the hovel. The twilight was rapidly fading into the blackness of night.

  “So where does this leave us?” Jack said.

  “We know last night, probably after Bummer Dan was killed, someone entered his home to search his belongings and found the hole where he buried his gold, took it, and covered up the hole to hide what he had done,” Wong said.