by Bill Markley
“Thank you, Old Frenchy! That’s good news. I must be on my way. I’ll stop back tomorrow to see if there’s anything new on my horse.”
“Bonjour, mon ami.”
Jack strode out of the livery stable. Now at least he had a good chance of tracking down California Joe. He walked over to the Black Hills Pioneer building.
Maybe Merrick has some new information, he thought. Jack tried the door handle but it was locked. Then he saw the sign, “Closed. Be Back Soon.”
“Humph,” Jack grunted. Merrick must have left early for the jury selection.
He walked back to Main Street, turned left and headed north, scanning the crowd for Laughing Sam or anyone who might look like California Joe.
Jack did not see either of them, but he did see a familiar figure—Fat Jack. He was standing in front of a building, a party to one of the many outdoor faro games. Jack walked up and joined the small crowd of onlookers. The dealer drew a card. Fat Jack looked at the checks he had laid on the wrong card. “B-Busted!” he cried.
“Ha! Ha!” the dealer laughed. “Care to wager again?”
“I said I’m b-busted. I’m b-broke!”
“Then get yer carcass out of the way,” one of the onlookers said. “So someone who’s flush can win this bloke’s pile.”
Fat Jack stood and moved away, dejection written across his face.
“Fat Jack!” Jack said. “A moment of your time?”
“S-Sure, Captain.”
“Any sightings of Laughing Sam or California Joe?”
“N-Nothing on Laughing Sam, but I do know where C-California Joe is.”
“Where?”
Fat Jack grinned, fishing a pair of cotton socks out of his pocket. “You n-need socks, don’t you?”
Jack could not help but smile. “Yes I do, Fat Jack. Yes I do,” He handed Fat Jack fifteen cents and took the proffered socks.
“I saw C-California Joe not more than a h-half hour ago at the S-Senate Saloon. He should s-still be there. If you see a m-mule tied to the hitching rail, you’ll know he’s s-still inside. He was working on a t-tankard of beer when I s-saw him last.”
“Thanks, Fat Jack!”
“H-Happy to be of service to you, Captain,” Fat Jack said sweeping off his top hat and bowing. He quickly straightened and, placing his hat on top of his head, muscled his way through the crowd back to the faro layout shouting, “M-Make way, boys, for a man with m-money!”
Jack smiled, shoved the socks in his coat pocket, and walked back up the street to the Senate Saloon. A saddled mule stood at the hitching rail outside the building. The same sign still hung on the outside wall, “No Dogs Allowed.” Fortunately, Stonewall had run off to join a pack of mongrels roaming the street for whatever dog mischief they could get into.
Jack walked through the door into the cool, dark barroom. A different bartender was serving the already larger than normal crowd for this time of day. They were getting primed for the big show, the trial proceedings set to soon begin.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Jack spied a mountain of a man who appeared to fit Colorado Charlie’s description of California Joe. A long-haired, red-bearded, blue-eyed, buckskin-clad man wearing a wide sombrero was regaling an enraptured crowd with his hair-raising narrow escape from certain death at the hands of Indians during Custer’s attack on the Cheyenne village at the Washita.
“Oh Emma! Those Injuns came boilin’ out of their teepees upriver and downriver,” the man mountain exclaimed. “If we hadn’t skedaddled when we did, we all would have been butchered and our topknots would be adornin’ those Cheyenne and Arapaho braves’ lances, just like what happened to Major Elliot and his men, who Custer left behind. Old Hard-Ass Custer must have tried his same tricks at the Little Big Horn that he did at Washita back in ‘68. He must have been thinkin’ his luck would hold out again and that he could get away with it. But Custer’s Luck didn’t work for him this time!”
The man mountain took a break from his harangue, puffed on his pipe, and hoisted a tankard of beer. He took several large gulps, slammed the tankard on the table, and shouted, “More beer!” as he swiped a greasy sleeve across his lips. The bartender walked over to the table and picked up the empty tankard. Jack motioned to the bartender and said, “Is that fellow doing all the talking over there California Joe Milner?”
“He’s the one and only California Joe,” the bartender answered.
“Thanks. I’ll pay for his beer and bring one for me, too. And I’ll take it over to him for you.”
“Thank you,” the bartender said. “He’s been a handful!” He returned with two frothing tankards and Jack paid him.
California Joe continued to expound on the state of the countryside. “Most of the Injuns are tryin’ to make it back to the agencies without the troops catchin’ them. The Grey Fox probably won’t catch any of them.”
“Grey Fox?” one listener asked.
“The Grey Fox, that’s what the Apaches named Crook. He was relentless. They finally gave up and made peace with him, after he hired Apaches to hunt down Apaches and used mules to haul his supplies instead of using wagons. But here the Grey Fox ain’t got no Lakota or Cheyenne huntin’ their own people. They’ll stay out of his way until they get back to the agencies and claim they were nowhere near the Little Big Horn.” California Joe’s thirst got the better of him.
“Hey! Where’s my beer!” he shouted.
“Right here,” Jack answered. “And I’ve already taken care of its payment.”
California Joe looked up and squinted at Jack as he set the tankard on the table in front of him.
“Well, that’s right neighborly of ya, Mister! Mister? Can’t say as we’ve met before.”
“We haven’t. My name is Jack Jones.”
“Jack Jones. Say, is you the feller some people call Captain?”
“That’s correct. I was a captain in a Pennsylvania regiment during the war.”
California Joe stretched out a begrimed hand. “Glad to meet ya, Captain. Pull up a stool. One of ya loafers who ain’t bought me a beer, give your seat to the Captain here.”
California Joe glared at the man sitting next to him, and the man stood up and left. Jack took his stool and after taking a drink, set his beer on the table. His boot struck something firm but at the same time soft. Whatever it was, it moved. He looked under the table and came eye to eye with a large hound.
“What’s this?” he said.
“Why, that’s my hound dog, Lester,” California Joe said.
“But the sign outside reads “No Dogs Allowed,” Jack said.
California Joe took another drink, puffed on his pipe, and then thoughtfully said, “That’s a silly sign. Everyone knows dogs can’t read.”
Everyone around the table roared with laughter as Jack smiled and shook his head.
“So, Captain, why are ya bein’ so neighborly to old California Joe?”
“I’d like to talk with you about a little business when you have some free time.”
“I have free time right now! The rest of ya loafers clear out of here. The good Captain and I are goin’ to conduct a little business.”
Jack and California Joe each took a gulp of their beer as the others cleared away from the table.
“I need to find Crook,” Jack said. “And I hear you’re the man who can take me to him.”
“I’m the only man who can take you to him and keep your topknot intact,” California Joe said, then took another long drink. “Why do you need to find Crook?”
“I’m a reporter for the Chicago Inter-Ocean. My editor wants me to find out what Crook and his men have been doing and report back.”
“Hell, you can stay right here, because I’ll tell you what Crook’s doin’. He’s runnin’ in circles, using up his supplies, and not findin’ any Injuns.”
“Thanks. I believe you, but my editor requires I physically find him. I’ll pay you ten dollars a day and a bonus of twenty-five dollars if you find him for me withi
n ten days.”
California Joe picked up his tankard and drained it.
“Buy me another beer, would ya?”
“Right,” Jack said and shouted to the bartender, “Another beer for California Joe, if you please.”
The bartender walked over to the table and took the empty tankard. California Joe stared at the ceiling. “If I did this, I’d want thirty-five dollars bonus. I’m currently employed by the good folks of Deadwood to patrol the perimeter to ensure Injuns don’t attack the town. I could stretch my patrol further to the north, takin’ ya with me. But once we find Crook’s troops, I leave ya there and return to Deadwood, as I must make sure Deadwood is protected. Also, ya would pick up all the provisions.”
The bartender returned with California Joe’s beer and Jack paid him for it.
“Agreed,” Jack said and held out his right hand. “Agreed!” California Joe said, shaking Jack hand.
“I’m having Star and Bullock prepare a list of provisions for us. I plan to stop there later today to check the list. If you get the opportunity, you should do likewise and add to it if you see something I left off.”
“I can do that later today.”
“I also plan to rent two mules to haul our supplies.”
“Good move. I love mules. I ride one myself. When do we leave?”
“My hope is to leave as early as Sunday. I want to stay around town for Harry Young’s trial.”
“That’s a travesty right there, if ya ask me,” California Joe said.
“In what way?”
“Somethin’s awry there. I heard that weasel Bummer Dan walked into Saloon Number 10 wearin’ Laughing Sam’s clothes. And you know what I hear tell, that Laughing Sam was seen sneakin’ into Saloon Number 10 just as Bummer Dan walked in wearin’ his clothes.”
“What!” Jack said, about to take a drink of his beer.
“That’s right, friend. I hear Laughing Sam was in the saloon when Bummer Dan was shot by Harry Young.”
“If true, what does that mean?”
“It means it was a setup, a setup that went wrong,” California Joe said. “I think Laughing Sam was goin’ to kill Harry Young. Here’s how I sees it. Bummer Dan is the distraction. Harry was to see Bummer Dan and focus on him, meanwhile Laughing Sam was goin’ to sneak up on Harry when he wasn’t lookin’ and shoot him. The problem was, Harry got nervous and shot Bummer Dan thinkin’ he was Laughing Sam come to kill him. Laughing Sam seein’ Bummer Dan shot and killed, runs out into the dark and leaves town before anyone puts two and two together.”
“You put two and two together.”
“Right, and do you see Laughing Sam anywhere in town?”
“No.”
“I rest my case. I bet ya won’t see him at jury selection or at the trial, even though his good friend and partner was murdered.”
“I won’t bet against that.”
“I’ll tell ya what, if they hadn’t assassinated my good friend, Wild Bill, none of this bullshit would be happenin’.”
“What do you mean by ‘they’? Jack McCall shot and killed Wild Bill.”
“I mean ‘they’ put McCall up to it. He was the instrument of the murder, he pulled the trigger, but they paid him to do it to get Wild Bill out of the way.”
“Who are they? And why did they want Wild Bill out of the way?”
“Why? Hell, everybody knows there’s a criminal ring in this town controllin’ things. Some of the good folks in town wanted to hire Wild Bill as a lawman to control the criminals. The criminals got wind of it, paid McCall to do their dirty work for them, then set it up that he could make his getaway.”
“How so?” Jack asked.
“First of all, they had a horse tied to a rail outside Saloon Number 10. If McCall could have gotten on that horse, he would have been able to ride out of town before anyone could mount a good pursuit. The stupid bastard forgot to tighten the cinch before walkin’ into the saloon and assassinatin’ Wild Bill. When he went to mount up, the saddle, not bein’ cinched up, slid with him as he tried to get up. It wound up under the horse’s belly.” California Joe took a gulp of beer and let out a loud, long belch. “So the ring of criminals had to come up with another plan to save their boy from the noose, as he was about to be hung. And they sure as hell didn’t want him to rat on them. They cried for law and order so the mob relented. The ring then made sure they had enough people on the jury to make sure McCall got off and that’s exactly what happened. I hear from Colorado Charlie Utter that the weasel is down in Cheyenne, braggin’ about killin’ Wild Bill. If he ever runs into me, I’ll be the last thing that son of a bitch sees.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“Proof! Hell! I ain’t got no proof! What do you expect them to do? Write it down on paper? Publish it in the Black Hills Pioneer? It’s all hearsay. People whisper and say Johnny Varnes is the head of it too!”
“What!” Jack said.
“You heard me,” California Joe said.
“Prove it,” growled a voice behind them.
They turned and there stood Texas Jack.
“You heard me,” Texas Jack said. “Prove it, you greasy windbag.”
“I don’t need to prove nothin’ to you, ya bastard polecat!” California Joe shouted, whipping out an Arkansas Toothpick. But as he stood with knife in hand, Texas Jack leveled two Army Colts at his gut.
“I repeat,” Texas Jack said, his face contorting in a snarl, “prove it.”
“I can’t,” California Joe said.
“Then shut up! You can’t go around badmouthin’ good honest citizens without any proof of wrongdoin’. The next time I hear you spoutin’ off your nonsense, I’ll end it with a bullet in your fevered brain.” Texas Jack holstered his pistols and swaggered out the door. California Joe picked up his tankard and drained it.
“I’ll need another,” he said to Jack.
“Me too,” Jack said. “Barkeep, another round if you please.”
The bartender returned and took the tankards. That was ugly, Jack thought.
“Texas Jack, he’s one bad hombre,” California Joe muttered. “I ain’t shuttin’ up because of the likes of him.” He motioned with his hand for Jack to lean in closer. It was hard for Jack to do because of California Joe’s stench, but he did. California Joe continued in a low voice, almost a whisper, “You know, Texas Jack and Mason were the first to find Preacher Smith’s body. Who’s to say, they didn’t kill the good preacher themselves and then pilfer the collection. And who’s to say Texas Jack didn’t get greedy and gut shoot Mason just to keep all the loot for himself. Then how convenient that poor Injun comes ridin’ along, makin’ the sign of peace. Texas Jack kills him too, slices off his head, rides into town, claims the Injun done it, and takes credit for revengin’ the poor old preacher. He wins every which way.”
“That’s an interesting theory,” Jack said.
“Theory!” California Joe shouted, then realized he had shouted. “Theory!” he said in almost a whisper again. “Why, it ain’t no theory. Where’s the money? Huh? If the Injun killed the good padre, Texas Jack should have recovered the money, and he didn’t. Or so he says.”
“So you think Texas Jack killed Preacher Smith for his collection, then killed Mason to keep it all for himself.”
“Ha! For a reporter feller, you’re catchin’ on quick.”
“It is a plausible story, but wouldn’t hold up in court.”
“Court? There ain’t no court! Not that so-called play that will take place later today. Mark my word, nothin’ will come of that trial. The only judge, jury, and justice out here in Dakota Territory is a man who can back up his word with his gun. Remember that, pilgrim.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
Jack finished his beer. I need to get out of here before he wants me to buy him another round, Jack thought, and then said, “I need to get down to Star and Bullock’s and see about that supplies list. I’ll tell them you’ll stop by and add to the list anything you think use
ful.”
“I’ll do that as soon as I finish here. Most of the foodstuffs should be food that we can eat without cookin’. Most of our camps will be cold camps. We don’t want to attract no Injuns with our camp smoke. After I stop by Star and Bullock’s, then I’ll have to head back out on my patrols through the Hills.”
“As I said, I want to leave Sunday. How about we meet at the livery stable at sunrise on Sunday?”
“That sounds good. I’ll be there then.” They shook hands, Jack pushed back from the table, and left California Joe and his beer.
Back out on the street, Stonewall joined Jack as he slowly walked toward the emporium. His mind was racing. What if everything California Joe says is right? A ring of criminals running the town behind the scenes? If so, who is involved? They assassinated Wild Bill Hickok to protect their illicit business, which is what? Robbery? They murder Preacher Smith for his gold. Was Bummer Dan killed for his gold? But that was probably a case of mistaken identity. How many unsolved killings in town and disappearances are due to this ring? If indeed a ring exists. Maybe I can spend a little time with Bullock and Star and see what they think.
When Jack reached Star and Bullock’s, he realized he would not be able to spend any time alone with them. Men filled the store, examining the latest goods that had arrived by bull train. Jack did not see Bullock. Star had his hands full collecting gold dust from his customers. Jack worked his way to the makeshift counter behind which Star stood. Star looked up from weighing gold dust on a small set of scales.
“Why, good morning, Jack,” Star said. “How are you this fine morning?”
“Good, Sol. And you?”
“Very good, and very busy, as you can see.”
“Where’s your partner?”
“He has gone to watch the trial proceedings. He was so excited about it, I told him to go, I could handle the store, but oy vey iz mir, I had no idea I would have a mob of shoppers descend upon me. I have your list of supplies right here, if you wish to take a look at it?” Star said, opening a lidded box, removing a sheet of paper, and handing it to Jack. “Look it over and add anything you think we missed,” Star said returning to help the next customer.
