by John Jakes
“I’ll bet this Sims won’t even appear. He’s probably nothing more than a braggart.”
“Miss Sedgwick, you don’t know—” The woman’s attempted protest was feeble.
“We’ll conduct the meeting even if he does attend. Even if he shows up armed to the teeth.”
“Miss Sedgwick!”
“I am going to conduct the meeting, Mrs. Oates. I can deal with troublemakers. Nothing will happen—to me or anyone else.”
But her stomach suddenly hurt as she said it.
Chapter VIII
Death in Deadwood
i
THE MEETING WENT far better than Julia expected—at least for the first half hour.
Myrtle Oates’ husband had moved the tables out of the dining tent and rearranged the benches auditorium style. Then he’d rolled up the tent’s canvas sides and tied them, so the audience could enjoy the spring breeze blowing along the Gulch. Oates was a huge, docile man who dutifully posted himself outside the tent to check on each new arrival. The one he was waiting to intercept, Sims, hadn’t shown up by the time Julia rose and began her lecture. She’d wanted Mrs. Oates to introduce her but the older woman was too nervous.
Julia’s audience consisted of fifteen women and the same number of men. Oates had relieved one of the miners of a quart of forty rod, and his wife had shushed two of the prostitutes who wouldn’t quiet down voluntarily; there were nine such women present, all young, all homely, and all dressed in their best gowns. Neither the girls nor the miner caused any serious trouble. Julia spoke from behind one of the dining tables, on the side of the tent nearest the stream. Four lanterns lit the airy enclosure. And although the men smirked at her, and nudged one another, they paid attention.
As usual, she began with a brief history of the movement in the United States. She spent a few moments on the careers of Margaret Fuller and Fanny Wright, then moved on to the first woman’s rights convention in Seneca Falls, New York, in 1848. She came eventually to the work of Susan Anthony, Elizabeth Stanton and Lucy Stone.
Her eyes sparkled as she launched into the story of Lucy’s birth. She was always nervous at the start of a lecture, and had been tonight. But the feared interruption by Mr. Sims hadn’t materialized, and she was beginning to feel increasingly sure of herself because she had attentive listeners. The women genuinely wanted to hear her message. The men were content to scoff in silence while they gazed at a fancified Eastern woman. On her trips west, Julia had learned that it paid for her to lecture in her best dress and a fancy hairdo. It helped keep the men distracted.
“—and from that time forward,” she said as she finished the story about Lucy, “the lady who has been called the morning star of the women’s movement has dedicated her life to the fight to free the one class in this country still truly enslaved.”
“Oh, jeez, come on,” one of the miners groaned. Some of the ladies shushed him but he paid no attention. “My old woman don’t feel she’s enslaved, Miz Sedgwick.”
Julia smiled. “Is she here to verify that statement?”
“No, she’s back home in Missouri, waitin’ for me to hit the pay dirt.”
“Maybe she’s never told you how she feels. Have you bothered to ask?”
“Ain’t necessary. I already know she’s content to do woman’s work. Care for the cabin. Plow our acreage. Raise our eight boys—I know that satisfies her.”
“It does?” Julia seized the unexpected opportunity to use one of Elizabeth Stanton’s best rejoinders. “What a pity. I never met a man worth repeating eight times.”
Loud laughter—from all except the miner who’d interrupted. But even he had a grudging smile after a moment. Julia was about to resume when she heard boots plopping in the mud on the far side of the tent.
Standing guard back there, Mr. Oates turned toward the noise. Myrtle Oates, seated on one of the front benches, craned to see. Julia drew a tense breath. Was Sims showing up at last?
She was startled when the new arrival came strolling out of the dark. It was Jason Kane.
He was hatless, freshly barbered, and wearing clean gray trousers, a bottle green frock coat, a linen shirt and flowing cravat. A bulge under the coat showed he’d brought at least one revolver.
He saluted her with a small wave, and smiled a rather bleary smile. He headed for a seat at the back but stumbled over the bench before sitting down. Evidently he’d gotten over his pique about not being recognized; perhaps spirits had helped him.
She smiled to acknowledge his presence, but she wasn’t sure he saw, because his eyes closed briefly. When they came open, it seemed to take him a moment to focus them.
She continued her presentation with some comments on antiquated state laws which permitted husbands to assume virtually complete legal dominance over their wives. She described the difficulties women faced in obtaining divorces from brutal spouses. “The situation is only slightly better in New York State, where certain amendments to—”
She stopped. Heads were turning to the left. A yellow-haired chippy in an orange silk dress tugged her companion’s arm. The second girl’s rouged mouth rounded into a startled O. All at once Julia saw the cause of the concerned expressions.
Outside the tent, a man had planted himself at the edge of the lamplight. A short, thin, undernourished miner in a stained gray work shirt and jeans pants stippled with mud. He had thin brown hair lying close to a balding scalp, bad teeth, and needed a shave. He held a shotgun in hands that were none too steady.
Myrtle Oates’ husband jumped to his feet at the back of the tent. The miner pivoted to glare. Julia’s palms turned cold.
Like everyone else, Oates saw that the new arrival was seething. After a moment’s hesitation, he tried to do something about it, though his voice was none too strong.
“Lute, you’re not welcome here when you’re in such a state. Point that scattergun at the ground before it goes off. Then go home.”
Sims ignored him. He gave Julia a venomous stare. “This meeting’s over.”
He was about fifty, she judged. A worn-out man. She felt sorry for him. Yet she couldn’t permit him to take control.
She glanced at the shotgun. How much resistance did she dare offer? No way to tell. And she wasn’t the only person who could be hurt if he started shooting. She didn’t want to be responsible for a massacre.
She was uncomfortably aware of heads turning back her way to see what she would do.
ii
A moment later Julia addressed Lute Sims in a firm but polite voice.
“No, the meeting is not over. You’re welcome to find a seat and listen to the rest of it.”
The man’s stubbled face wrenched with rage. He swept the audience with the shotgun, jerking it from left to right in a menacing arc. One of the chippies shrieked softly and clutched her ears.
“Lute, for God’s sake put that thing down!” Oates pleaded. “If your finger gets a mite nervous, someone could be mortally injured.”
Again the embittered, rheum-filled eyes sought Julia. “That’s exactly what’ll happen unless this sinful affair’s brought to a halt.” A couple of miners ducked when Sims brandished the shotgun again. “Go back to the hotel, woman. Go back to the East with your wicked, deceiving gospel.”
A fanatic, Julia thought. He angered her unreasonably, as fanatical men always did. Despite the risks of the situation, she spoke out.
“Nonsense, Mr. Sims. I’ve heard about you. I don’t intend to let your threats stop me from talking to these ladies and gentlemen. I’ve never liked boors or bullies, and you’re both. Now sit down or leave!”
Sims’ tired, ugly eyes reflected the flame of a lamp. “Hell, I will. If you know about me, I guess you know what happened to my missus back in Ohio. She read one of your damn sermonettes—”
“Not mine, sir. I don’t write pamphlets.”
“Then it was written by one of your scarlet sisters—you’re all the same. My Carrie read it, and it gave her crazy ideas. Damn shame her pa permi
tted her to learn readin’ at all. She took every sinful, blasphemous word to heart and one night just up and ran away.”
“I can certainly understand why.”
Several people’ snickered. Julia instantly regretted the sally. Sims’ glower became even more ferocious.
“You shut up!” Spittle flew from his lips. “You’re through talking here tonight. It’s because of the notions of people like you that my Carrie ran off. She thought she had to be free. Thought she had to be equal to a man, for Lord’s sake. Even thought she should have the right to vote for presidents, can you believe that?”
She’d seldom been so infuriated by an antagonist. She shot back, “I not only believe it—I agree.”
The miners applauded and whistled, enjoying themselves at Sims’ expense. Julia knew she should walk out of the tent to prevent the situation from getting worse. Before she could, Sims screamed at her.
“You’re just spoutin’ a lot of damn godless shit!”
Silence.
The breeze snapped a piece of tent canvas back and forth. The respectable women looked ready to faint. Oates took a step forward, eyes on the shotgun. Julia was growing frightened. Hoping to force Sims to strain to hear her, and thereby distract him, she pitched her voice very low.
“Mr. Sims, I don’t believe further argument would serve any purpose.”
Where was Kane? Evidently he’d slipped out of the tent some time ago, unnoticed. Perhaps he’d been bored. She wished he were still there. Her knees trembled under her petticoats as she continued in a near-whisper.
“I don’t think I can change your mind about—”
“Anything!” he cried. “The Bible says a woman’s supposed to submit to her husband!”
“Yes, I’m familiar with that shopworn—that argument.”
Restraint did no good. Sims fulminated at the audience.
“Why are you listening to her? Can’t you tell what she is? She’s one of that free love crowd.” He jabbed the gun in her direction. The violent motion made her start. “Isn’t that right? Don’t you believe in free love too?”
“Mr. Sims,” she said, “the Bible states that the essence of God is love—” She tried to signal Oates with her eyes, to urge him to get behind the miner and attempt to disarm him while she kept his attention diverted. Oates was too upset to understand the signal. His eye remained on Sims’ trigger hand.
“And I don’t believe in a woman giving herself away like a piece of cheap yard goods. But if two people love one another, I see no reason why they require a piece of paper contrived not in heaven but on earth just to sanction—”
“You’re a whore!” Sims screamed, triumphant. Myrtle Oates lowered her head and sobbed into her hands. “A whore preaching a whore’s doctrine!”
Terrified, Julia realized that her attempt to create a diversion had only enraged Sims to the point of total irrationality. Something close to glee shone in his eyes. He licked wet lips and went on. “I knew that. But I wanted you to admit it”—the shotgun came up, leveling at her stomach; men and women dived for the dirt floor—“so I’d have justification for blowing you to—”
“Shut up and turn around, you son of a bitch,” said a voice from the dark behind him.
iii
For a moment Lute Sims acted confused, as if he couldn’t believe he’d heard correctly. Then the voice sounded again, pleasant yet with a hard edge to it.
“I said turn around. You’ve annoyed these good people long enough.”
Slowly Sims pivoted, straining to see into the darkness. By then Julia had recognized the voice. Jason Kane took two steps forward, into the light.
His right hand held back the side of his coat so the butt of his revolver was in the open. Kane hadn’t left out of boredom, she realized, but because Sims had shown up and he wanted to get around behind the miner—exactly as she’d hoped Oates would do.
She was immensely thankful, then abruptly disturbed by the amusement in Kane’s dark eyes. His body was tensed, hunched slightly forward. And by contrast, Sims no longer looked menacing, just scrawny and pathetic. He even seemed to handle the shotgun clumsily, as if he were unfamiliar with it. He tried to intimidate the younger man.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Name’s Jason Kane.”
Several of the miners and chippies obviously knew the name. So did Sims. He nearly dropped the shotgun. His Adam’s apple bobbed and sweat broke out on his forehead despite the breeze. As soon as Kane reached out and disarmed him, the danger would be ov—
Julia’s hand flew to her mouth. Kane’s right hand was moving with fluid grace toward the ivory grip of his holstered gun. Sims gaped, fumbled with the shotgun and stained the crotch of his jeans pants all at the same time.
“I want you to remember the name when they ask who sent you to hell.” Kane smiled, the revolver out and aimed from the hip.
The shot missed.
Sims yelped and dropped his shotgun into the mud. Kane’s face contorted with anger. Sims ran. Two staggering strides. Three.
His face almost as maniacal as his victim’s, Kane shot.
Shot again.
Again.
Sims shrieked, lurching to the left, then to the right as the bullets hit. Kane’s revolver kept roaring. Finally Sims fell face-first, a torrent of blood pouring from the holes in the back of his work shirt.
Jason Kane lowered the revolver. His hand was shaking. His eyes had a peculiar glint. It faded, and the cruel set of his mouth softened. He took one deep breath and looked around, waiting for the crowd to come to him with congratulations.
iv
He was disappointed. Perhaps it would have been different if his first shot had hit the mark. But the miners and the women were subdued by the sight of Sims’ corpse with four wounds in its back. The people left the tent in silence and passed Kane without so much as a word. Only Oates went to his side, stepping on Sims’ shotgun and then his outstretched arm, half submerging both in the mud as he pumped the young man’s hand.
Men streamed from the street, drawn by the noise of the fusillade. Myrtle Oates was the last to gain her feet. She dried her eyes with the worn lace at the wrist of her gown, then extended her hand to Julia by way of apology. But Julia was hurrying toward Kane. When he saw her coming, he shoved Oates aside to be ready to receive a compliment.
He failed to get it.
“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Mr. Kane, and I suppose I will. We do owe you our thanks for stepping in when you did. There’s no telling what that man would have done with that shotgun—”
“Quite right, Miss Sedgwick.” He sounded testy; he saw no friendliness in her eyes.
“But he was beaten. He was running. You didn’t need to shoot him in the back, did you?”
She was shocked at the way he shrugged and said, “He was worthless. Besides, I enjoyed it.”
She could smell the gin on him. And something worse. Corruption. He had no comprehension of what he was saying.
“Enjoyed it? How is that possible? Were you angry because your first shot missed?”
From his sudden scowl, she knew she’d inadvertently struck the truth. She retreated a step, fearful he might take his hand to her. Or his revolver.
Fear—that must be why he’d done it, she thought. Kane had a reputation similar to Hickok’s. Missing an easy target would probably be frightening to him. Might make him wonder whether his prowess was fading. Might goad him to prove it wasn’t.
Still, that couldn’t justify cruelty. And she didn’t care for the way he’d reacted to what she said.
“Don’t look so contemptuous, Mr. Kane. I’m not the one who did the shooting. What kind of man are you?”
Red-faced, he said, “Obviously not the kind who’s good enough to be a friend of yours. I hoped we might get better acquainted. I had some questions I wanted to ask about—about conditions in the East. I won’t waste my time. Good night, Miss Sedgwick.”
He spun away, waving and shouting, “I’ll
buy the first round!”
A crowd of miners surrounded Sims’ corpse. At first none of them responded to Kane’s offer. Finally, one man with the look of a derelict separated from the others and tagged along, a sycophantic grin on his face.
“Sure enough, Mr. K., sure enough—it’ll be my pleasure to join you.”
In the crowd around the corpse, someone muttered, “Leroy drinks with anybody.”
Julia didn’t know which of her emotions was the more powerful—the loathing she felt for Kane as he swaggered off with the shabby man, or the pity. How could someone ever take pleasure in killing? How could a man bring himself to shoot an unarmed man in the back?
Slowly, the miners and the chippies and the merchants’ wives straggled away. Oates began to extinguish the lamps in the dining tent. Canvas snapped in the night wind, like echoes of Kane’s revolver.
Through a break in the crowd, Julia saw him glance back at her. A scathing glance at first. Then it softened and, for a moment, grew sad. He faced away again. Clapping his arm over the shoulders of the derelict, he vanished out beyond the Miner’s Rest. That was the last time she saw him in Deadwood City.
v
Oates attended to the removal and burial of Sims’ body. The following evening Julia repeated her lecture for a larger audience, completing it without incident. The women and a few men who’d come in from other camps along the Gulch listened politely, and gave her a solid round of applause at the end.
Next morning she descended from her canvas-walled cubicle on the second floor of the Miner’s Rest, said goodbye to the owner, and departed on the regularly scheduled southbound stage. Just before she took her seat in the Concord, she heard the driver say to his shotgun messenger, “—the drink’s besotted him, Joe. They say he missed with that first bullet, and then shot his victim the coward’s way. If it’s true, Jason Kane ain’t the man he once was.”
As the coach got under way, she couldn’t get the killing—or Kane—out of her thoughts. Kane’s voice bore an uncanny resemblance to Gideon’s, but that was merely a distracting coincidence. What preoccupied her—angered her—was Kane’s character, and her own failure to read it correctly. She felt deceived, defrauded by his initial politeness and seeming gentility.
