In Calamity's Wake

by Natalee Caple

  Now suffrage came to the West years before it came to the East. Wyoming gave women the vote in 1869. New Jersey and New England actually gave the vote to women earlier, but that was by accident. They forgot to recognize a difference between citizens in the laws. Many of the wives in town were suffragists and by and large they did not like either Dora or Calamity Jane. You can guess what they thought of soiled doves and ladies dressed as men. They clashed. But they were on the same side regarding political representation. Women lawyers were being admitted to the bar in California, Wyoming and Colorado, and Franca had come to Deadwood from Wyoming. Maybe it was because Deadwood was so lawless and events so rarely came to court—a citizen was more likely to see a doctor than a judge after a dispute—but no one ever bothered Franca. Or maybe it was because the town liked having a real lawyer who lived there, even a woman, even if she only played piano.

  Dora told Franca the girls needed some uncompromising love. You see, said Dora, I have my parrot,

  Fred, who eats out my mouth and tells me all the time that I am wonderful. So I know what a difference even a little bit of animal love can make.

  Franca went into the office of the Pioneer and said, My name is Franca Gordon and I’d like to place an advertisement. Richard Hughes, a reporter for the newspaper, was working that day and he asked what type of ad should be placed. Franca was very proper. She dressed like a church lady, all dark colours, high collars and straight sleeves. She was broomstick skinny with bulging eyes. She was so grave everyone listened to her, afraid to miss the news of their own death. In her most professional voice she said, I wish to purchase a dozen cats.

  What are you going to do with a dozen cats? Mr. Hughes asked.

  Rodents, said Franca. She explained that she was an attorney who presently was employed as a piano player at Dora DuFran’s Green Front Hotel. And, like the other establishments on lower Main Street in Deadwood Gulch, the Green Front was crawling with rats. This was only partly true. Dora was particular about keeping the rooms immaculate but outside the kitchen, in the alley, where the garbage collected, there were, undeniably, inevitably, rats. Consequently, said Franca, the ladies are unable to concentrate on their work and the customers are complaining.

  Hughes claimed there were no cats or rats in Deadwood. He said they had some rats before but some magic evening they all wandered into the forest and coyotes got them. He was the sort who thought if he did not know a thing it was not true. Franca lifted her tight little hat and adjusted her hairpins. Now, she said, that is frustrating. I am sorry to say that I have seen the rats. They are most real and it is essential I locate and purchase at least a dozen cats. Do you know anyone who could bring some cats into town?

  Mr. Hughes, in spite of his doubts, thought for a second, then told her Charlie Utter would be pulling out for Cheyenne to buy supplies soon and he might be able to accommodate. I’ll take you to Charlie, he offered.

  Had I known, said Franca, you would direct me to Charlie Utter, Dora would have gone herself.

  Left alone with Charlie, who was a friend to all, Franca was honest and explained Dora’s plan to put a cat in each of the Green Front rooms.

  Well, I am moved, said Charlie, by her sensitivity, her human compassion. My God, she is an angel! Please tell Dora I will procure the finest felines and deliver them forthwith.

  Well, in no time at all Charlie travelled and when he returned he delivered a wagonload of purring cats, and soon the Green Front was the only completely rat-free building, much less brothel, in Deadwood. The girls were happy, the customers were happy, Dora was happy, and after a small reciprocal gesture, Charlie was happy too.

  But Madam Mustachio was not at all happy watching customers line up for the Green Front. She went to Al Swearengen and Mollie Johnson and asked that all the brothel-owners in town join forces to put pressure on the mayor and city council to bring legal action to stop the public nuisance created by crowds forming at the Green Front. Evidently, the clerk didn’t understand what was going on. He drafted an ordinance that outlawed houses of prostitution within the city limits. Well, this had Al and Mollie stomping and crying bloody murder. But by that time the wives of the town had discovered the mistake and they were overjoyed, insisting the ordinance be passed as written.

  Dora was fit to kill and suddenly all the brothel-owners were again on the same side even if it was the wrong side of the town. But no matter what fuss they made, no matter the deadly threats implied by Al Swearengen or the secrets to be revealed by Mollie Johnson, city hall was packed with spectators when the law was unanimously adopted. Franca and the girls carried Dora, screaming, out of the hall. Franca tried to staunch her employer’s fuming. Dora, she said, you have to trust me. Now I can prove that I’m not only a great pianist; I’m also a great lawyer. Dora slapped Franca and stormed home. Franca stayed in good spirits right behind her.

  The next day the law went into effect and the sheriff arrived at Dora’s door. She was allowed to stay at the Green Front under house arrest until her trial the following Tuesday. Dora was on her way to trial the next day when Charlie appeared. Charlie stood in front of her braced in his finest posture and cleared his throat. Dora, he said, could I ask you to please give Franca a message in response to her inquiry?

  Sure, why not? Dora snapped. I’ve got nothing important to do. What do you want me to tell her?

  Just let her know that I’ll have my wagon parked where she told me to, Charlie said and he bowed and walked away. Dora was too irritable and distracted to give what he said much thought. She walked into court, gave Franca the message in her best damn-you-all-to-Hell voice and stood before the judge.

  That judge was as indignant as Dora was unrepentant. He waved the piece of paper that the ordinance was written on in the air and demanded the defence. Franca stood beside Dora, excited at last to be acting as a lawyer.

  Miss DuFran, said the judge. Yew, he whined, are charged with violating the city ordinance that prohibits houses of prostitution. How do you plead?

  Before Dora could start swearing, Franca answered. Your Honour, the accused pleads not guilty and waives her right to a jury trial.

  Dora had thought a jury was a grand idea, given how popular the Green Front was. The judge turned to the city attorney and asked if he was ready to proceed. He was and so Dora watched as wife after wife testified to the noise and danger caused by the men waiting their turn outside the Green Front doors. No matter how many times Dora poked her, Franca declined to cross-examine any of them.

  Eventually the smug prosecutor rested. Franca rose and ambled like a lioness up to the bench.

  Your Honour, I move that the charges against my client be dismissed for lack of evidence, she said. Even Dora gasped.

  There was a buzzing in the courtroom as if a beehive had erupted. Naturally, there were many madams and prostitutes in the crowd as interested parties. The judge pounded his gavel for a full minute to quiet the spectators. Miss Gordon, he said at last, do you take me for a fool? Kindly explain your argument.

  Franca bowed to him slightly. Thank you, Your Honour. My reason is quite simple. A house of prostitution must be inhabited by prostitutes.

  So? said the judge.

  Franca pointed to the prosecutor. The prosecution has established the popularity of my client’s place of business. However, he failed to prove that the popularity of the Green Front Hotel is due to its being a house of prostitution. I assure you that it is not such a house.

  The judge fairly roared. If the Green Front is not a whorehouse, then what the hell is it? he demanded.

  Franca smiled. I sincerely appreciate your indulgence, Your Honour. And I understand the error. But the Green Front is a zoological exhibit, a residence for felines, very special, very precious felines. In fact, Miss DuFran is so fond of these furry sweet little four-footed friends that she provides a personal guardian for each and every one of them.

  Everybody laughed. Dora sank in her chair and seethed with embarrassment. The judge banged on
the desktop with his gavel. When the hullabaloo abated, he stared at Franca.

  She stepped closer to the bench. In a loud, clear voice she said, Sir, if I’m not mistaken, it was just a few days ago I observed you during your visit to the Green Front. You were holding and petting Miss Trixie’s little black pussycat in the drawing room.

  The judge fell back in his chair. His wife stood up in the gallery with her arms crossed over her chest. Franca turned to the courtroom as she said, I’m sure, Your Honour, we all know you would not have been in the Green Front Hotel if you did not also share Missus DuFran’s love for cats. You see she provides an outlet for all the town’s citizens by hosting such a vast array of loving creatures.

  The judge lowered his head for a moment, then looking up with a queer smile he tapped his gavel and made his ruling.

  After reviewing the facts, I find this ordinance is not applicable to cat houses, he said. Case dismissed!

  Charlie Utter pushed through the crowd and announced in a loud voice, On the corner of Main and Wall streets, I have available for a limited time, one hundred and eighty-five of the finest felines ever seen in Deadwood Gulch, selling for a price of just fifty dollars each!

  Martha

  SHE TRAVELLED TO COEUR D’ALENE IN IDAHO at least twice. She followed the stream of gold miners and lost soldiers, the two hundred men a day who arrived in the mining region in the spring of 1882. She left the railroad with the other women at Rathdrum and took a stagecoach along the Coeur d’Alene River and then from Kingston rode horseback to Jackass.

  Hell, she exclaimed. I could have gone to New York and back in the time it took to get to Jackass!

  From Jackass Junction she crossed the divide into Beaver and Eagle City. It was in Eagle City that she performed for the first time.

  The night began in a long tented barroom. Bloody angels in the snow made clear the sort of crowd she could expect. Whisky was fifteen cents a shot and the shots were passed hand to hand over the heads of the already drunk crowd. The bartender’s head glittered with gold dust from his casual hands pinching the correct amount from miners’ pouches and then running his fingers through his hair. Later, he would pan his bathwater. There was an orchestra of four fiddlers dressed in matching plaid suits and black hats and a semicircle of a stage separated from the crowd by calico curtains. The fiddlers played “Life Let Us Cherish,” “Till Death Sounds the Retreat,” “All’s Well,” “The Sisters” and other popular songs. The smallest fiddler was struck in the forehead by a flying glass and put down his instrument to appeal to the audience.

  LADIES! GENTLEMEN! he cried. We are not tin monkeys before you. We are real entertainers. Show us some respect.

  One musician put aside his fiddle and blew a trumpet to announce a change in program. The curtains parted and on the stage stood Martha in woollen pants and a jacket. She had a gun at one hip and a lasso on the other.

  Everybody dance! she commanded. The fiddlers began a waltz and the women and men parted into two factions on either side of the room. The pretty girls were soon drawn to the floor by the Beau Brummells. There were far more men than women and so a system of turns was silently established and the women were handed neatly off at musical intervals. Of course this system was abused and short tempers erupted and fights broke out, though the dancing continued. Blood spatters across the walls were wiped away assiduously by the bouncers. Light from the hanging lamps swung softly over the moving figures.

  Jane watched. When the inertia finally set in and the remaining celebrants were quiet, draped over chairs or slumped by the walls, she began a monologue about her life. They listened, through bleeding ears, and watched, through swollen eyelids. She was young and her profile clear-cut, her whole countenance resolute and defiant. She wore lifts that made her tall as an elk. Her hands, spinning the lasso by her feet, or juggling knives to make her point, were so quick they were almost invisible. Impersonating a grizzly bear she growled so effectively the little fiddler and several women in the crowd screamed. She seemed to the unschooled miners, the bullwhackers, the gamblers, and even to the prostitutes, to be a thing beyond Creation—both awesome and bizarre.

  She began her speech.

  YOU MAY have heard of Old Two-Toes, the grizzly that has haunted the Dakotas for a dozen years. I had heard of her and seen the one survivor of her attacks: a man missing one eye, one cheek, half of his lower jaw and an arm. This man had to hold his face closed while he drank or chewed. His jaw made a terrible grinding sound whenever he moved it. He told me by Indian signs one night over cards about the attack and how he had seen the paw of the beast descend upon his face, the two claws more than enough to gouge out his eye and leave the wet jelly of it running down his neck.

  I pitied this man and bought him his dinner and a night upstairs with a blind girl. But I have never been afraid of beasts, human or otherwise, so when I was asked by a friend to join him fishing in the area I thought of the bear, but only briefly.

  My friend Su is a Chinaman. He runs a laundry but he is also an artist who paints images of the Black Hills the way they rise out of smoky mist; his pictures are so lovely they might be the patterns followed by the Creator. He asked me one day to join him on a trip and show him Spearfish Canyon. We were camping out by the water at night, fishing in the morning, and hiking all day. I was good at fishing and Su was a good cook. He treated me as a guide and paid me with liquor and cash. On the third day we spent the better part of the morning practising with longbows.

  After hours of target practice, shooting at trees, we set out on a hike. Snow had fallen overnight, and the hunting conditions were perfect because our steps were muffled. We climbed up, winding our way through the snow clouds. By mid-morning Su had downed a pretty doe. At my friend’s insistence we said a brief prayer of thanks for the animal, then dressed it and hung it in a tree, planning to return the next day with help to carry it home.

  The sun rose and warmed the hills, the early snow melted, and the woods were fragrant and very damp, making it easy to move along quietly over the soggy ground. We came to the top of the hill and I saw movement in the trees off to my left. At first it was a shadow, too hard to fathom. And then I saw Old Two-Toes facing me. At the sight of me she roared and I felt the air shake. She charged. She closed in on us with great strides. I remember seeing those gleaming eyes, and her high shoulders pumping as she ran. Su was twenty yards up trail, so I ran towards him, screaming, It’s a bear, get away! But he was frozen, entranced. I couldn’t leave him so I turned and for a minute the bear stopped. We swayed in each other’s gaze. What a beautiful, magnificent, adult animal she was. So clean and healthy, maybe four hundred pounds. Clear eyes set in a broad forehead. Big black claws clutching the dirt. She was perfectly made to live in the hills. I thrust my bow at her and yelled at her, For Christ’s sake, get out of here!

  She lunged at Su, ignoring me and biting him in the face and neck. I could see, and so I could feel, his face ripping. Then I was on the sow’s back. I heard her teeth crunching down on Su’s head. I took my arrow and I climbed to her head. I heard Su screaming, She’s killing me! She’s killing me! And then I drove my arrow into her ear, and pounded the end to drive it deep into her brain. She fell on Su and he moaned but he was alive. I rolled the dead bear off of him and carried him all the way down the mountain and draped him over my horse and rode them back to town.

  In Deadwood the lady doctor, Dr. Stanford, sewed Su’s face back on. I trusted her the most because she had treated me for pneumonia, and because she trusted me with her daughter, sick little Emma, when she had to travel to care for folks. Su’s own doctor, an elderly Chinese man who spoke no English, administered acupuncture to help manage the pain and herbs to stave off infection. The two doctors showed appreciation for each other. When Su awoke he assumed he was dead and he apologized to me for devising the trip. It’s all right, I said. We’re alive. He didn’t understand and so I brought him a mirror. He looked at himself a long time and turned his face to see every angle
.

  I had to kill her, I said. I felt terrible about everything. He nodded and said a short prayer. He thanked me profusely and sent his attendant to bring me gifts, a painting of an enormous waterfall, a silk jacket and an orange. I had never tasted anything so bright, so much like childish joy.

  THE AUDIENCE was silent when she finished. The room had emptied while she spoke. A few sleepers were draped over card tables or collapsed against the walls.

  Calamity Jane spun her lasso at her feet and considered what to do.

  Come and see me at the Pan-American Exposition, she said at last. Tired, she exited the stage by the side steps, walking through the bar to the door.

  The Pan-American Exposition

  The Exhibit of Human Nature

  THERE ARE WOMEN IN RUSTLING ROBES WHO drive to the Lincoln Park Gateway and view the fair through lorgnettes; and women in short skirts and shirtwaists who come in the trolleys and get much more for their money. There are thoughtful students and giggling girls…. There are brides and grooms who are bored by the crowds, and crowds who are delighted with the brides and grooms. There are strait-laced dames who could not show you the way to the Midway; and tight-laced dames who could not show you the way out of it; and fair American girls who would not know when they were in it; and types from Hawaii and the Orient that make a violent background for American womanhood. There is every type at the Pan-American Exposition that ever was known, and the harmonious blending of them all proves advancement in the material exhibits.

  The first type that greets you is the gateman belonging distinctly to the Sphinx species. The second is one of an ambitious squad of boys, who informs you that a daily permit at fifty cents per diem is necessary for your camera. You declare it’s an outrage; but you’ve got the Kodak craze, and deserve to pay. Mentally, you resolve to take all your pictures in one day. Actually, you bring the camera every day of your stay, making daily unsuccessful efforts to evade the squad. This type is the detective in embryo, and closely resembles a small animal known as the ferret.