by Bill Markley
“We know Laughing Sam has not been seen since before the murder,” Jack added. “We know Bummer Dan probably did not tell many people about his gold. Harry Young knew, and I would say that most likely Laughing Sam knew as well.”
“And it appears Laughing Sam has not been to his home since last night,” Wong continued.
“Unless we’re missing something, I think Laughing Sam is the one who dug up Bummer Dan’s gold,” Jack concluded. “I doubt Laughing Sam will show up in court tomorrow. I doubt we’ll see him again in Deadwood.”
“I think you are right,” Wong said and then changing topics, “Can I interest you in more tea, some rice, and a bit of pork?”
“Thanks, Fee Lee, but I have supper waiting for me at the Grand Central Hotel and I promised a young lady I would attend the theater and watch her performance this evening. But I would like to come back for more tea tomorrow evening so we can further discuss this murder and you can further my education in Cantonese culture.”
“I would be happy to do that. How about tomorrow evening when the sun is disappearing over the ridge? I will delight your tongue with more Chinese tea.”
“Agreed!” Jack said.
“Jack, take this lantern with you. I have one and Bummer Dan will have no need of it anymore.”
“Thanks, Fee Lee,” Jack said as he and Stonewall left their new friend and began to pick their way through the shantytown toward the Lee Street Bridge.
Walking through the hodgepodge of dwellings, Jack heard the faint strains of a tune and voices singing. A banjo, fiddle, and spoons accompanied men’s voices. As he approached, he recognized the old Irish tune Devilish Mary. He had not heard it for years. It was their song.
It’s tararinktum, tararinktum,
Tararinktum ready!
Meanest girl I ever did meet and her name was Devilish Mary!
Jack thought back to that hot August night of his youth in Pennsylvania. Friends had invited his family to a barn dance. There were people from all over Schuylkill County, many he had never met before. Even some Pennsylvania Dutch were there. He never did figure out until he was older why they called these Germans by the name Dutch. One German girl caught his eye, and he was sure he had caught her looking at him a time or two. He asked a few acquaintances who she was, but they had no idea. She hung back with the Dutch crowd and it seemed that all their boys were constantly getting the nod from her to dance with her.
Well, I went down to London town,
They called it Londonderry,
An’ there I spied a purty little gal,
They called her Devilish Mary.
The chief fiddler called out to the crowd that the next dance would be the hat dance. With this dance, Jack was bound and determined to get close to the girl and meet her. Two lines of people formed facing each other, one line all men and the other line all women. Three chairs were set up at the front of the two lines. The chief fiddler selected a man, a boy, and a girl to sit in the chairs. He placed the girl in the middle chair, with each of the males to the right and left of her. The chief fiddler handed the girl a top hat, which she placed on her lap. The chief fiddler returned to his position with the other musicians and started up the tune for the dance. It was “Devilish Mary.”
We got to courtin’ very fast
An’ got in the devil of a hurry;
We made up the match that very day
An’ got married the very next Thursday.
The girl sitting in the middle looked at the man on the right and the boy on the left, then handed the hat to the man on the right and sashayed off with the boy on the left, down between the two lines of men and women until they reached the end and joined the lines. The man moved to the middle chair and waited for the next two women to sit on each side of him. Then he had the chance to choose with whom he would dance down between the two lines of people clapping and moving to the rhythm. Jack calculated where he needed to be in line to be able to sit at the same time the beautiful German girl would be sitting. He weaved out of the line and then back in again, excusing himself to the males he squeezed between. It worked! She was sitting in the middle and he was sitting to her left. She looked at him, smiled, then handed him the hat and danced away laughing with the German boy on her right. A dismayed Jack moved to the center chair, gave the hat to the woman on his left, who appeared to be twice his age, and danced down between the lines with a girl taller than him.
We hadn’t been married but about three weeks
Till she looked as mad as the devil,
An’ ever’ time I said a word
She hit me with the shovel.
The German girl looked at Jack, smiled, and then gave a wink as they proceeded to the head of the lines. Again, he worked his positioning so he was sitting with her in the middle. The girl placed the top hat on her head and grinned. She looked at Jack, then looked at the other man, then back at Jack and gave the hat to the man sitting on the other side of her. She grabbed Jack’s hands and they danced between the lines of fellow dancers. Her smile made Jack the happiest he had ever been in his entire life. When they reached the end of the line, the song ended, and they still held both their hands and stared into each other’s eyes.
“What’s your name?” Jack asked.
“Maria Schultz. But you can call me Mary—possibly Devilish Mary!” And they both laughed. “Come, let’s step outside for a breath of fresh air,” she said. Outside the barn, Mary looked up into the sky and said, “Look! It’s a waxing moon. Maybe it’s a sign?” And she smiled at him.
We hadn’t been married but about four weeks
Till I told her it was best we parted;
She didn’t say nary a word to me,
But she gathered up her duds an’ started.
Jack was smiling, thinking of the good times this song brought back. Then the lump built in his throat. The smile disappeared from his lips. He felt as though a hand gripped his heart, and tears welled in his eyes. He moved quickly away as the chorus concluded:
It’s tararinktum, tararinktum,
Tararinktum ready!
Meanest girl I ever did meet and her name was Devilish Mary!
As man and dog crossed the bridge over Whitewood Creek, the nightly ritual of “Oh Joe!” began back in the camps and washed like a wave of voices down the narrow gulch. Jack, with Stonewall by his side, entered the Grand Central Hotel. The regulator clock above the front desk showed the time as fifteen minutes to nine.
“Good evening, Captain Jones,” Charlie Wagner said.
“Good evening, Charlie,” Jack replied.
“It’s been an eventful twenty-four hours, has it not?”
“That it has been,” Jack replied and handed Wagner the lamp. “Here’s a present for the hotel. Compliments of Bummer Dan, who won’t be needing it anymore.”
“Why, thank you, Captain. We can always use another lamp around here!”
Jack walked into the dining room filled with men. One small table was open for him. He would be eating alone, which was just fine with him. He wanted to collect his thoughts from the day. Lou and her staff were busy waiting on customers and had no time to chat. Stonewall ran off to the kitchen for his repast. One of Lou’s helpers brought Jack a plate of tonight’s dinner—ham, peas, and mashed potatoes, all delicious and washed down with a bottomless pot of coffee.
When he was done, the helper punched his ticket, and he got up to leave. Stonewall had not returned from the kitchen, but this was nothing unusual. Sometimes he spent the night there with the help, and why not? It was nice and warm and he was always able to get a snack if he begged just enough.
Jack climbed the stairs to the common sleeping room he shared with other men. He found his trunk in the dim lamplight and removed a set of clean clothing. He returned down the steps to the hotel’s washroom, where the attendant provided him with a pitcher of hot water and a large washbowl. He stood in front of the only mirror and trimmed his beard and shaved off facial and neck hair that grew in the wrong
places. He then removed his clothes and washed up the best he could. Come Saturday, it would be time for his weekly bath. He felt refreshed after completing all his toiletries and putting on fresh clothes for the evening’s festivities.
It had been quite awhile since he had last attended a play. He had seen The Streets of New York years ago. It was one of those classic standbys most people could see again and again. Jack gave the washroom attendant a tip and handed him his dirty clothes to be washed and cleaned at the nearby Chinese laundry. Actually, there were no other laundries in town other than Chinese.
He walked by the Grand Central’s barroom, but saw no one he knew. Jack looked at the regulator clock over the front desk as it started to chime. It was 10 o’clock, still plenty of time before the play was to begin. He left the building and walked down Main Street past the Deadwood Theater to the Senate Saloon. A crowd of people were lining up to enter the theater and others were in the saloon, having one last drink to get themselves in the proper mood before heading into the theater. Jack entered the Senate to see what, if anything might be going on, and to have one brief drink before entering the theater. He approached the bar. The same bartender who he had talked to earlier in the day came over to him.
“You need more information or are you drinking this time?” the barkeep asked.
“Drinking,” Jack responded.
“What’ll it be?”
“Got any Old Crow?”
“You bet,” the barkeep answered as he found a bottle on the backbar. He poured Jack a shot and said, “That will be twenty cents.”
Jack found a quarter and said, “Keep the change.”
“Thank you, sir,” the barkeep said. Jack took a sip of the whiskey and turned. Leaning his back on the bar, he surveyed the dimly lit room. Sitting by himself toward the back was Texas Jack. This might be a good time to ask him a few questions, Jack thought.
“Barkeep, another shot of Old Crow,” Jack called to the bartender. After receiving and paying for the second shot, Jack carried both drinks over to the table where Texas Jack sat with his Bowie knife out, whittling a stick.
“You look like you could stand a shot of good whiskey,” Jack said.
“I sure could,” Texas Jack said. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“My name’s Jones, Jack Jones,” he said as he stuck out his hand. Texas Jack shook Jack’s hand without standing up from his stool. Jack handed him the drink as he pulled up a stool.
“Mind if I join you for a minute?” Jack asked.
“Well, it looks like you already did. What can I do for you?”
“I have several questions I’d like to ask. But first, I should tell you I’m a reporter for the Chicago Inter-Ocean newspaper.
Texas Jack’s demeanor changed. He sat up from a slouching position and became more animated.
“You say you report for a newspaper?”
“That’s right.”
“And you want to write about me, maybe make me famous?”
“Well, I can’t guarantee I can make you famous, but I would like to get some information from you that could add to the story of the murder of Preacher Smith.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Jones.”
“Jack, just call me Jack.”
“Sure thing, Jack.”
“The first thing I’d like to ask has nothing to do with the story, but it’s information you might have that can help me out. Do you know California Joe and do you know where I might be able to find him?”
“To the best of my knowledge, California Joe is still out prowling the hills around Deadwood lookin’ for Injuns to keep the town safe.” Texas Jack downed the whiskey in one gulp. “What else do you want to know?”
“Do you know where Laughing Sam is?”
“No sir, ain’t seen him since yesterday.”
“You were at the incident last night where Harry Young was almost hanged. You were one of the two men who placed the noose around Harry’s neck.”
“So what if I was? Young had it coming. He shouldn’t have gunned down poor old Bummer Dan.”
“I imagine we’ll find out tomorrow what his fate will be after he stands trial.”
“I suppose so,” Texas Jack said. “All this talking is making me thirsty. You want to buy me more whiskey?”
Jack looked at his pocket watch. It was twenty after ten. It probably wouldn’t hurt if he was a little late for the show, and after all, he knew the plot. As long as he was there before the end, Lil probably wouldn’t mind.
“Yes,” Jack said.
“Hey, Jim!” Texas Jack shouted to the bartender. “Send over two more shots of that whiskey this feller bought. He’s buying two more!”
“Sure thing,” the barkeep responded. He walked over with the Old Crow bottle and poured them both another shot. Jack handed the barkeep a half dollar and said, “Keep the change.” Turning back to Texas Jack, Jack said, “You were one of those who first found Preacher Smith’s body. Is that correct?”
“That’s so,” Texas Jack responded.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“Sure,” Texas Jack said. “We was out huntin’ in the hills around Crook City and we was on our way back to Deadwood.”
“Just out of curiosity, what were you hunting? Deer?”
Texas Jack’s face broke into a nasty grin. “We was huntin’ Injuns. That’s what we was huntin’. Didn’t find none though, not until later.”
“Go on,” Jack said. This is going to take longer than I was thinking, Jack thought.
“Me and the boys, we was on the trail headed back to Deadwood when we came upon this body. One of the boys reckoned it was that preacher feller. We looked around, took out our pistols and carbines and were ready in case the Injuns were still lurking about.”
“How did you know Indians had killed Preacher Smith?”
“Well, hell! Who else would have done such a thing? No white man would go an’ kill a man of God! They’d roast in hell,” Texas Jack said, with indignation dripping from his lips.
“What signs did the Indians leave behind? I hear he wasn’t scalped or otherwise mutilated.”
“That’s right. Those Injuns didn’t harm a hair on his head. He looked so peaceful with his eyes closed, lying there on his back, his hands clasping his Bible to his chest. There was even a slight smile on his lips. He looked angelic. He looked as if he was only asleep—except for the bullet hole through his heart.”
“None of this proves Indians killed him. I heard that his offering was taken—dust, coins, chips, and markers. You didn’t find any of those on him?”
“What do you take me, Texas Jack, for? A criminal that would go through the pockets of a dead parson? For shame!”
“You still haven’t told me why you think Indians did it.”
“Think about it, Mr. Know-It-All Reporter,” Texas Jack spat and poked his finger in Jack’s chest. “It was the same day those heathen devils attacked the Montana herd out on Centennial Prairie and drove off hundreds of horses and killed two good men—the same day!”
“Still, that doesn’t prove those Indians killed the preacher.”
“What about this then?” Texas Jack spoke with the voice of authority. “As we was gettin’ ready to bring back the preacher’s body, a crafty Injun slowly and deliberately walks his horse toward us, makin’ the sign of peace. I can tell you, that crafty devil was just trying to deceive us so he could get close enough to murder us all, just like he did to the poor old preacher. I shot at the Injun and wounded him and Lou Mason shot and killed his horse. The Injun ran into the brush. We fired at him and he fired back for a time, but then all was quiet. Lou says, ‘He’s got to be dead. I’m goin’ in after him.’ The rest of us boys told him to be careful, but he was all-fired certain that Injun was dead. Well, he wasn’t. Lou got close to that Injun and he gut shot old Lou then and there. We poured in the lead into that Injun’s hidin’ place until a gopher couldn’t survive in there. Then cautious, we went in
and found the Injun dead. I took out my skinnin’ knife and cut off his head. While the others took care of Lou’s and that preacher feller’s bodies, I raced my horse back to town to show the folks we had taken revenge for the preacher and the others. It was a fine time. I took that head around to all the saloons. All the boys bought me drinks and when I was done showin’ off my trophy, the good businessmen of Deadwood paid me fifty dollars in gold dust for the head. They took it and buried it out behind the Cricket Saloon. Not sure why. It was fun to look at and carry around.”
“So you believe Indians killed Preacher Smith because one of them approached you near where Preacher Smith was killed and made the sign of peace to you.”
“That’s correct, Mr. Reporter,” Texas Jack said, slamming his empty glass on the table. “Don’t you think I deserve another drink for that?”
Jack looked at him and was about to say no, that Texas Jack didn’t know that the Indian had killed the preacher, but then thought better of it. Why cast pearls before swine? He thought. “Sure, Texas Jack. One more drink for you, but I must go. I have a show to catch.”
Jack called the bartender over and paid for one more drink for Texas Jack. Jack tipped his hat to the headhunter and walked away.
He looked at his pocket watch. Time had flown. It was well past eleven o’clock. He hurried out the door and walked next door to the Deadwood Theater. He approached the doorman.
“I’d like to buy a ticket, if you please,” Jack said.
“I’m sorry, sir, it’s too late. I can’t let you in,” the doorman responded.
“I’ve seen the play before. Can’t I just sneak in the back? I’ll be quiet.”
“Sorry, sir. It’s the theater’s policy.”
“Oh, policy be damned!” Jack said.
“Oh, really, sir?” the man said as he unbuttoned his coat to reveal a holstered pistol hanging from a waist belt.
“Humph!” Jack said, turning away fuming. He marched down the street, with no particular place to go, his thoughts dark and brooding. The nightlife in town was loud and raucous. Some buildings had music spilling out into the street. Most of it was either from banjos or fiddles. When is someone going to ship a damn piano to this hellhole? Jack ranted to himself. After walking as far as the Cricket Saloon, he had cooled down considerably. Now what? He thought. “I suppose I’ll head back to the Deadwood Theater, wait until it’s over, find Lil, and apologize.” Jack said aloud to himself. He turned around and headed back up the street.
