Calamity

by Libbie Hawker

  You can guess how much sleep I caught that night. I lay awake almost till dawn, toying with the snake ring on my thumb, picturing the woman Bill had married, wondering what she’d say if she knew Bill had given me the ring to hold.

  By and by, I managed to achieve a restless, unsatisfactory slumber. I woke late in the morning feeling groggy and sick. Most of the boys had cleared off—Bill included—and only Timothy remained, for it was his turn to watch camp while the rest of us ventured off to Deadwood.

  I found a spot to piss, off among the willows, then wandered back, one hand newly adorned by the red-eyed snake. Sunlight kept flashing and winking up from my left thumb as I crossed the gully, making me blink—making tears spring to my eyes. The other hand I kept in my trouser pocket, where no one could see my fist locked tight around Bill’s golden watch. A sick feeling of dread followed me as I went about my business. I told myself my heavy fear would soon enough abate, lifting like a winter fog. I told myself we would leave Deadwood any day now, for I was certain the summer heat was letting up. Soon we would be up in the Hills, where no one could tempt Bill into a disastrous game. He would overcome his addiction to faro, just as I had overcome the whiskey. All would be well.

  I wandered back to camp and struck up a conversation with Timothy, trying to make the day fly by faster—trying to carry my heart beyond Bill’s last game of faro.

  “Late morning,” I said.

  “I thought it best to let you sleep in.”

  “Been dancing too much, I guess. I needed a good, long rest.”

  “How rested you feeling?” Timothy asked. “Up for a trek to Deadwood? I could use a few things from the general store, and I’d be much obliged if you would pick them up for me.”

  I agreed, and in the end, Timothy sent me with all his most recently earned bullwhacking money—a few loose coins for the hard-goods store, with the rest of his cash tied up in a little leather bag. I was to locate Bill and give him Timothy’s money that very afternoon. I considered telling Timothy to keep his money and deliver it to Bill that night, for there would be no more venturing into town on Bill’s part. But Timothy spoke up before I could, and said he hoped Bill could make use of the funds while he was still in town, gathering more pick axes and shovels and gravel pans for our expedition.

  What was I to say then? I set off just before noon with everything Timothy had given me. My feet dragged as I paced out the half-mile to Deadwood, for I was caught somewheres between excitement and dread at seeing Bill face to face in the light of day. After the strange intimacy of our conversation the night before—and his fleeting kiss, which I could still feel hot and vivid on my cheek—I wasn’t sure how Bill would react to my presence. By day, I felt sure he would see only my blunt face, my broad shoulders, my lumbering buffalo stride—and he’d recall what a disagreeable woman I was, and thank his lucky star that he had married a proper, pretty young thing, rather than saddling himself with a catch like me. He would take back his ring and his watch, fearful I would tarnish those beautiful things with my ugliness. All that worry over what Bill might do or say—unprotected now by the mercy of starlight—had me so twisted up that by the time I entered Deadwood, I made up my mind to deliver Timothy’s money to Bill first thing. I would not linger more than a minute, and that way, Bill would have no time to think ill of me.

  I set about searching for Bill, peering through the swinging doors of every saloon and pool hall, listening for the sound of his voice. He never spoke loudly, but I was so attuned to him that I could have picked out his murmur or his whisper among a thunder of men. I hunted up and down the main street, but I found no trace. All I discovered was outrage—more of that same boiling anger over Custer’s defeat, more fear of what the Indians would do now that the magic talisman, the undefeated general, had fallen.

  The heat of high noon beat down on the streets, so I leaned against the wall of the general store, cooling myself in the shade of its awning. A narrow alley stood to my right; I could hear two men somewhere in its depths, talking over the Custer misfortune while they pissed out their whiskey in relative privacy.

  “I tell you, Clive; them Sioux will be feeling their victory. They ain’t stupid, like some folks says. They know Custer was our best fighter. They know what it means, to have killed him outright and slaughtered the Seventh Cavalry good and proper. They got the upper hand know. They’ll act on it, soon as they feel the time is right.”

  “But they ain’t organized. Everybody says so.”

  “They can organize, and right quick. Shit, son; ain’t you ever learned a speck of history?”

  “Not an awful lot of specks, no.”

  “Folks Back East used to say, ‘the Indians won’t never organize’, too. And I guess it was true enough, till it weren’t true no more. Along came Tecumseh, and that brother of his who said he could see the future. Raised a whole army of Reds, so vast and wild, they near-about wiped out every settlement in the East.”

  There was a pause. Then the other man said quietly, “You think such a thing could happen here?”

  “I know it. There’s a chief up in the Hills, name of Red Cloud. I already heard he has sworn to carry Indian vengeance beyond the Little Bighorn and Rosebud Crick. And sure as you’re born, the closest white town to Red Cloud is this one. Deadwood. We’ll be dead for sure if we stay here any longer.”

  I didn’t want to listen to their talk anymore. I shoved off up the street again, never mind the heat—and I shivered despite the sun, for I recalled with fierce and sudden clarity my fear that night in the Black Hills, when I had ridden alone up a rise and found the patient red embers of an Indian camp there before me in the darkness. The sooner I located Bill and gave him Timothy’s money, the better off we all would be. Deadwood was a place best put behind us, all right, before danger closed like the spiked jaws of a bear trap.

  At last I reached the only remaining saloon, one I hadn’t searched yet. The sun had crossed its pale meridian; afternoon had arrived. I told myself Bill might be caught up even now in his faro game—the one he had sworn would be his last. There was no-place else Bill might possibly be, except inside that saloon. Eagerly, I stepped inside.

  Though the day was young and hot, still the tavern was crowded, close with a smell of liquor and sweat, the stench of men’s rage. The names Custer and Red Cloud seemed to roll off every tongue. I edged through the crowd, doing my best not to brush against any man, for I didn’t like the crackling in the air, the lightning spark ready to ignite Deadwood’s tinder.

  As I neared the back of the room, I spotted Wild Bill. His back was turned to me where he sat at the card table, just cashing into his first round. There was no mistaking him, even though I couldn’t see his face. He had slung his buckskin jacket over the back of his chair, and his hair was so red, it looked like a flame in the dark. I let out a quick, short breath, a sigh of relief. This business would soon be over, and by nightfall we would all be off, putting Deadwood and Red Cloud and the whole damn combustible world far behind us.

  I gripped Timothy’s money and started toward the faro table, intending to drop the bag on Bill’s lap and depart once more. But before I could reach Wild Bill, somebody else reached him first.

  The man separated himself from the crowd, and I could tell by the way he moved—the purposeful step, the eager tightness of his face—that he intended no goodwill. I froze, halted by the hate that rolled off that man in a black, oily wave, a billow of coal smoke. My eyes fixed to the green scarf knotted at his neck. That was how I knew he spelled ruination—for Bill and for me. I saw the scarf, the gun in his hand, the hateful steel of his eyes, the curl of his lip. I saw it all, and I knew.

  “No!” I shouted, and surged forward, reaching for the man—as if I could do a thing to stop him. But even as I leaped toward Bill, the killer pulled his gun from his holster and fired a single shot.

  I saw…

  What did I see?

  Memory comes back to me—memory has never left, but it’s fractured
, broken. Fragments passing through my mind like shards of glass busted from a window, pointed and shining, tumbling in the light of knowing. Vanishing again in a great black suffocating pain.

  Bill lurching forward, tipping.

  Chairs knocked back as the other players sprang to their feet.

  The cards falling, and blood—hot, red, red as the bluffs. A fan of red across the table, spreading out from Bill’s slumped body, his face flat against the wood.

  A drop of red on the face of a card. And the smell of sulfur hanging in the air. Fuck off outta here, girl, before I shoot you too.

  The tavern erupted in shouts and screams. I could hear it all through the terrible muffled ringing in my ears, the impact of the shot. And I could hear myself howling—a wordless, agonized cry that went on and on, even after I ran out of breath. I kept on screaming as I reached for Bill, kept screaming till there was nothing left in me—but still my body shook with the force of my hollering. I was out of breath, but my cry went on. I believe I howled the very spirit from my body.

  If you think all I did was stand there above my slain true love, screaming like some useless woman, then you haven’t learned much about my nature by now. The man in the green scarf shoved his way through the thrashing, disoriented crowd, thrusting toward the door. I stared after him, wild-eyed, and I saw that the men of the tavern scrambled to get out of his way, fearful he might pop off again with his gun. No one made a move to apprehend him; they was all too frightened, the pack of sorry dogs. So with a great force of will, I sucked in one long, deep breath, and my body stopped shaking. I lit out after the killer, every nerve afire, burning with the need to catch him—hurt him, beat him, make him weep. Take his life for what he did to my Bill.

  I didn’t have either of the pistols with me that day—my pearl-handled gun or Bill’s bright and shining piece. But I wasn’t about to let my unarmed state prevent me from doling out justice. I surged through the crowd, silent as a hunting wolf, and followed the killer out into the streets of Deadwood.

  The sun struck me with all its brutal force; I squinted, blinking tears from my eyes. I kept my purpose fixed to that man’s dark, sweat-blackened shirt. By that time, the commotion inside the tavern had spilled out into the street. Anyone pacing the boardwalks or riding past was obliged to scramble and flee as scores of hollering men poured out the tavern door. I ignored the lot of them. Dogged, desperate, I pursued Bill’s killer. I shoved aside both ladies and men, anyone who had the misfortune to step into my path. I wanted to shout for the sheriff, but my voice was gone. I had no breath for words—only for running, only for revenge.

  The killer and me both broke free of the confusion, onto an open stretch of road. He was only a few paces ahead; I don’t know whether he knew I was on his heels, but he ran as if Hell itself pursued him. Hindered no more by the crowd, he lit off down an alley. I stuck to him tighter than a burr. Now and then, I came almost close enough to tackle him, but by sheer luck he evaded my hands. I could hear men shouting along Deadwood’s main street—“He went down that alley, Sheriff!” “He’s still armed!”—and the pounding of hooves. The law was coming for him. He must have known it, surely as I did. I ought to have yielded the chase, let the sheriff do his work. But that man had stolen the one good thing in my life—ripped Bill away in a clap of thunder. I had a right to vengeance, and I intended to take it.

  By that time, the killer seemed to know the sheriff was after him. I could see his rotten head twisting this way and that on his coward’s neck as he ran. He was searching for a hole to dive into—must have realized he wouldn’t get out of Deadwood alive, at least not till nightfall, when he might hope to evade the law under cover of darkness. The killer and I spotted an empty butcher shop in the same moment (no doubt the butcher and his customers had taken off running when they heard the riot from the tavern, curious to see what grim and inevitable fate had befallen the town.) The killer dodged inside the butcher shop, and I followed hard on his heels.

  The interior of the shop was cool and dim; as I sucked desperately for breath, the thick, coppery taste of blood filled my mouth and damn near closed my throat.

  The killer swung around to face me over the great, flat bench of the butcher’s block. The wood of the block was pitted and lined with chop-marks. Flies rose from blood that had pooled here and there along its surface. A cleaver, shining like fury, was stuck point-down in the wood.

  The murderer gasped for his breath, staring at me in disbelief.

  “You fucking pig!” My voice came roaring back. It filled the shop, shook its walls, silenced the buzzing of the flies. “You rotten heap of shit! Why did you do it? Why?”

  The man just stared at me, dumbstruck by my size or my rage or by the hellfire emanating from my eyes, from my raw, burning throat.

  “Why?” I demanded again. “Tell me, you cockless shit-stain. Tell me why.”

  He found his words. They snaked out of him with a greasy little laugh. “Got sick of his bragging. And his cheating at cards. The great Indian fighter won’t swindle nobody no more. Pretty boy Hickock is dead, just like he deserves.”

  I surged toward him; my hips hit the edge of the butcher’s block and its legs screeched against the brick floor. My hands was like claws, bent at a desperate angle, sharp with the need to catch him—to savage him, make him bleed. He dodged around the block, keeping it between him and me.

  Because I couldn’t catch him—not yet—I screamed at him. I screamed. “I loved him. I loved him, you scum, you worthless bucket of piss! I loved him!”

  The man laughed again. “Guess old Wild Bill’s luck ran out in more ways than one. Who’d want to be loved by an ugly bitch like you?”

  He raised his gun, pointed it at my chest. I went silent and still in a heartbeat. I stared into the dark hole of the pistol’s muzzle. That gun had ended my true love’s life minutes before. It was fitting that it should take me, too—take me out of this world of misery. Let me go wherever Bill was then—let me ride beside him in the ineffable bliss I had found with him on the trail. Let me never take my eyes off him, the West cloaked in the flesh of a man, all beauty and brilliance made whole. I accepted my death in that moment. I even welcomed it. The killer’s thumb pulled back the hammer with a soft click. I waited placidly for my end.

  But when he pulled the trigger, only a small, pathetic snap issued from the gun. I raised my eyes to his, and found him staring in confusion at his piece, turning it slightly in his hand as if to ascertain what went wrong. Either he had fired his last bullet into Wild Bill’s head, or the piece had jammed. Whichever the case, I wasn’t about to die—not that day.

  The realization that I must go on alone, without my Bill, resurrected every scrap of my considerable fury. I wrenched the butcher’s cleaver from the block and darted around the bench before the killer could train his gun on me again. Then I kicked the piece right out of his hand, so hard that the force of my blow spun that bastard halfway around. He cried out in pain while his gun went skittering across’t the floor. Then clutched his hand against his chest. I think I broke a few of his fingers. My only regret is that I didn’t kick his hand clean off his wrist.

  Before the cry had even died on his lips, I shoved him hard against a wall, pressing the bloody cleaver to his throat. He strained up on his toes, trying to edge away from me—from my weapon, from my unchecked hatred.

  “You pathetic fuck,” I hissed in his face. “You low-down, yellow, whipped-ass dog. You sorry excuse for a man.”

  He twisted, but I leaned my whole weight against him, pinning him hard, holding him at my mercy.

  “You’ll do exactly what I say, you son of a bitch. You’re gonna come with me outside, and I’m gonna hand you over to the sheriff. And as God is my witness, I’ll see to it that the sheriff hangs you by your worthless neck. I hope it’s a slow and miserable death. And when you get to Hell, be sure to tell the Devil it was Calamity Jane who sent you.”

  With Bill gone, there seemed no point in avoiding liquor.
There seemed no point in living, I confess—and since the killer’s gun had failed to do its job, I suppose I resolved to do the job myself. Once I handed that stinking murderer over to justice, I hauled my numb, stupefied self to the nearest saloon and ordered up a whiskey. Then another. The barkeep kept them coming till my senses and my sorrow both dulled down—till I had no more awareness of anything but the taste of the liquor and the way it never stopped burning a path down my throat, into my splintered soul.

  Some time later—I knew not when—I found myself lying in an alley. I could tell it was morning ’cause birds sang from the rooftops of Deadwood, even though the alley was dark with shadows. I laid on my stomach, pinning both my arms to the ground, and the first thing I did was feel for Bill’s snake ring. It was still on my thumb, just where he had placed it.

  Through a thick haze of confusion, a terrible pounding in my head, I puzzled out that the barkeep must have rolled me outside and left me there to tackle the night however I would. I guess no one had noticed me in the alley. If they had, they surely would have robbed my half-dead corpse. Carefully, I shifted onto my side and reached into my trouser pocket. The watch was still there, too.

  And then knowledge of all that had transpired came back with cruel, inexorable force. I cried, though I was so dried-up from liquor that no tears fell. I laid on the cold earth with the stench of alley piss all around me. I sobbed out my grief till the sobs turned to heaves. I spewed out a thin stream of bile, then I wept all over again, for I knew if Bill could see me, he would never approve.

  But Bill would never see me again.

  By and by, a murmur of familiar voices edged into the boundless reach of my misery.

  “There she is.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “Yes, thank God.”

  “Shit—look at her. What a state.”

  Someone crouched beside me, tapping my cheek as if trying to rouse me. “Calam. Can you hear me? Calam!”