Dragon Teeth

by Michael Crichton

  Apparently Johnson knew the rudiments of retouching photographs; by the judicious use of pencils, it was possible to soften signs of scarring and to make other adjustments.

  Not everyone wanted his picture taken.

  On September 12, Johnson was hired to photograph the interior of the Deadwood Melodeon Saloon, a drinking and gambling establishment at the south end of the main street. Interiors were dark, and he often had to wait several days for strong light to carry out a commission. But a few days later the weather was sunny, and he arrived at two o’clock in the afternoon with his equipment and set up to make an exposure.

  The Melodeon Saloon was a dingy place, with a long bar on the back wall and three or four rough tables for playing cards. Johnson went around throwing back the curtains on the windows, flooding it with light. The patrons groaned and cursed. The proprietor, Leander Samuels, cried out, “Now, gents, be easy!”

  Johnson ducked under the cloth of his camera to compose the shot, and a voice said, “What the hell you doing, Foggy?”

  “Taking a picture,” Johnson said.

  “Like hell.”

  Johnson looked up. Black Dick, the Miner’s Friend, had risen from one of the card tables. His hand rested on his gun.

  “Now, Dick,” said Mr. Samuels, “it’s just a picture.”

  “It’s disturbing my peace.”

  “Now, Dick—” Mr. Samuels began.

  “I’ve said my say,” Dick threatened. “I’m playing cards now and I don’t want no picture.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to step outside while the picture is made,” Johnson said.

  “Perhaps you’d like to step outside with me,” Dick said.

  “No thank you, sir,” Johnson said.

  “Then you just take yourself and your contraption out, and don’t come back.”

  “Now, Dick, I hired Foggy. I want a picture for the wall behind the bar, I think it’d look fine.”

  “That’s all right,” Dick said. “He can come back any time he likes, long as I’m not here. No one takes my likeness.” He poked a finger at Johnson, showing off the snake tattoo on his wrist, which he was vain about. “Now you remember that. And you git out.”

  Johnson got out.

  That was the first sure indication that Black Dick was a wanted man somewhere or other. Nobody in Deadwood was surprised to hear it, and the mystery it added to Dick only increased his reputation.

  But it was also the beginning of trouble between Johnson and the three Curry brothers—Dick, Clem, and Bill—that would later cause him so much misery.

  But while his business prospered, he didn’t have much time to amass his profits. On September 13 he wrote:

  I am generally informed that the mountain roads close with snow by Thanksgiving latest, and perhaps by November first. I must be ready to make my departure before the end of October, or remain until the following spring. Each day I record my accounts and my costs. For the life of me, I do not see how I can possibly make enough money in time to leave.

  His journal for the next few days was filled with despairing comments, but two days after that, Johnson’s fortunes again underwent a dazzling change.

  “My prayers are answered!” he wrote. “The army has come to town!”

  The Army Arrives

  On September 14, 1876, two thousand miners lined the streets of Deadwood, firing pistols into the air and shouting their welcome as General George Crook and his column of the 2nd Cavalry rode through the town. “It would be hard to imagine a more popular sight to the locals,” wrote Johnson, “for everyone here fears Indians, and General Crook has waged a successful war against them since spring.”

  The arriving army presented a notably rugged appearance after their months on the plains. When General Crook signed into the Grand Central Hotel, Perkins, in his polite way, suggested that the general might wish to visit the Deadwood baths, and perhaps also to obtain a set of new clothing from a dry goods store. General Crook took the hint, and was cleaned up when he stepped onto the Grand Central balcony and made a brief speech to the throng of miners below.

  Johnson viewed the festivities, which ran long into the night, with an entirely different perspective. “Here at last,” he wrote, “is my ticket to civilization!”

  Johnson asked Crook’s quartermaster, Lieutenant Clark, about joining the cavalry for the march south. Clark said that would be fine, but he would have to square it with the general himself. Wondering how to meet the man, Johnson thought perhaps he should offer to take his picture.

  “General hates pictures,” Clark advised him. “Don’t do it. Go up directly and just ask him.”

  “Very well,” Johnson said.

  “One other thing,” Clark said. “Don’t shake hands. General hates to shake hands.”

  “Very well,” Johnson said.

  Major General George Crook was every inch a military man: short-cropped hair; piercing eyes; a full, flowing beard; and ramrod-erect posture as he sat in his chair in the dining room. Johnson waited until the man had finished his coffee and some of his admirers had departed for the gambling halls before he approached and explained his situation.

  Crook listened patiently to Johnson’s tale, but before long he was shaking his head, murmuring that he could not take civilians on a military expedition with all the hazards involved—he was sorry, but it was impossible. Then Johnson mentioned the fossil bones he wished to take home.

  “Fossil bones?”

  “Yes, General.”

  Crook said, “You have been digging fossil bones?”

  “Yes, General.”

  “And you are from Yale?”

  “Yes, General.”

  His whole manner changed. “Then you must be associated with Professor Marsh of Yale,” he said.

  After the briefest hesitation, Johnson said that he was indeed associated with Professor Marsh.

  “Marvelous man. Charming, intelligent man,” Crook said. “I met him in Wyoming in ’72, we went hunting together. Outstanding man. Remarkable man.”

  “None quite like him,” Johnson agreed.

  “You’re with his party?”

  “I was. I became separated from it.”

  “Damned bad luck,” Crook said. “Well, anything I can do for Marsh, I will. You are welcome to join my column, and we will see your fossil bones safely to Cheyenne.”

  “Thank you, General!”

  “Have your bones loaded on a suitable wagon. Quartermaster Clark will assist you in any way you need. We march at dawn, day after tomorrow. Happy to have you with us.”

  “Thank you, General!”

  Last Day in Deadwood

  On September 15, his last full day in Deadwood, Johnson undertook two final photo assignments.

  In the morning, he rode out to Negro Gulch to photograph the colored miners who had made a fabulous strike there. Six miners had been taking out nearly two thousand dollars a day for weeks; their ore was shipped home, and they had already sold their claim. Now they were posing, putting on their old work clothes and standing by the flume for the photograph, then dressing again in their new duds and burning the old clothes.

  They were in high spirits, and wanted the picture to take to St. Louis. For his part, Johnson was pleased to see miners so well disciplined that they were taking their findings home with them. Most left their earnings in the saloons or on the green felt of the gaming tables, but these men were different. “They are ever so cheerful,” Johnson wrote, no doubt cheerful himself, “and I wish them the best of luck in their journey home.”

  In the afternoon, he photographed the facade of the Grand Central Hotel for its owner, Sam Perkins. “You photographed everyone else,” Perkins said, “and since you’re leaving town, it’s the least you can do.”

  Johnson was obliged to set up his camera across the street. Had he set up closer, the passing horses and carriages would have kicked mud in the lens. The intervening street traffic would appear to obstruct the view of the hotel, but Johnson knew that mo
ving objects—horses and wagons—would not leave more than a ghostly streak in a time exposure; for all intents and purposes, the hotel would appear to stand on an empty street.

  Indeed, it was a problem when photographers tried to represent the busy street activity of towns, because the movement of horses and pedestrians and wagons was too quick for the film to record.

  Johnson made his usual exposure—F11 and 22 seconds—and then, since the light was especially strong and he had a spare plate that was wet and waiting, he decided to try to capture the street life of Deadwood in a final quick shot. He exposed the last plate at F3.5 and 2 seconds.

  Johnson developed both plates in his darkroom at the Black Hills Art Gallery and, while they were drying, purchased a suitable wagon to transport his bones with the cavalry. Then he went to the hotel to load the fossils, and have his final dinner in Deadwood.

  He arrived just in time to see a body carried out into the street.

  Norman H. “Texas Tom” Walsh had been found strangled in his room on the second floor of the Grand Central Hotel. Texas Tom was a short, feisty man who was rumored to be a member of the Curry gang of stage robbers. Suspicion of murder naturally fell on Black Dick Curry, also staying in the hotel at the time, but no one was brave enough to make an accusation.

  For his part, Black Dick claimed to have spent all afternoon in the Melodeon Saloon, and to be innocent of any knowledge of what might have happened to Texas Tom.

  And there the matter might have ended, had not Sam Perkins decided to stop by Johnson’s table and ask, during dinner, about the hotel portrait.

  “Did you make it today?” Perkins asked.

  “I did.”

  “And how did it turn out?”

  “Very nicely,” Johnson said. “I will have a print for you tomorrow.”

  “What time’d you take it?” Perkins asked.

  “Must have been about three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “Aren’t there shadows then? I’d hate the place to look all depressing, with shadows.”

  “There were some shadows,” Johnson said, but he explained that shadows made a picture look better, giving it more depth and character.

  It was then that Johnson noticed that Black Dick was listening to their conversation with interest.

  “Where’d you take the picture from?” Perkins asked.

  “Across the street.”

  “Where, over by Donohue’s store?”

  “No, farther south, by Kim Sing’s.”

  “What’re you fellers yammering on about?” Black Dick asked.

  “Foggy took a portrait picture of the hotel today.”

  “Did he.” The voice went cold. “When was that?”

  Johnson instantly felt danger in the situation, but Perkins was oblivious to it. “What’d you just say, Foggy, ’bout three o’clock?”

  “Something about there,” Johnson said.

  Dick cocked his head; he fixed Johnson with a watchful eye. “Foggy, I warned you once about photographin’ when I was around.”

  “But you weren’t around, Dick,” Perkins said. “Remember, you told Judge Harlan that you were at the saloon all afternoon.”

  “I know what I told Judge Harlan,” Dick growled. He turned slowly to Johnson. “Where’d you take the picture from, Foggy?”

  “Across the street.”

  “Turn out good?”

  “No, as a matter of fact it didn’t turn out at all. I’m going to have to take it again tomorrow.” He kicked Perkins under the table as he said it.

  “I thought your pictures always turned out.”

  “Not always.”

  “Where’s the picture you did today?”

  “I scrubbed the glass plate. It wasn’t any good.”

  Dick nodded. “All right, then.” And he turned back to his meal.

  “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Perkins asked later.

  “Yep,” Johnson said.

  “Texas Tom had a room right at the front of the hotel, facing out on the street. Middle of the afternoon, sunlight would shine right in. Did you look real close at your picture?”

  “No,” Johnson said. “I didn’t.”

  At that moment, Judge Harlan came in, puffing. They quickly told him the conversation with Black Dick. “I can’t see as there’s any case against Dick at all,” he said. “I’ve just come from the Melodeon. Everybody swears Dick Curry was playing faro there all afternoon, just like he says.”

  “Well, he must have paid them off!”

  “There’s twenty or more seen him. I doubt he paid ’em all,” Judge Harlan said. “No, Dick was there all right.”

  “Then who killed Texas Tom?”

  “I’ll worry over it at the inquest, in the morning,” Judge Harlan said.

  Johnson intended to pack after dinner, but curiosity—and Perkins’s urging—led him to the Black Hills Art Gallery instead. “Where are they?” Perkins asked when they had locked the door behind them.

  They inspected the two exposed plates.

  The first exposure was as Johnson had remembered—a deserted hotel, with no people visible at all.

  The second plate showed horses in the streets and people walking through the mud.

  “Can you see the window?” Perkins asked.

  “Not really,” Johnson said, squinting, holding the plate to a kerosene lantern. “I can’t see.”

  “I think there’s something there,” Perkins said. “You have a glass?”

  Johnson held a magnifying glass to the plate.

  Clearly visible in the second-floor window were two figures. One was being strangled by a second man, who stood behind him.

  “I’ll be damned,” Perkins said. “You took a picture of the murder!”

  “Can’t see much, though,” Johnson said.

  “Make it bigger,” Perkins said.

  “I have to pack,” Johnson said. “I’m leaving with the cavalry at dawn.”

  “Cavalry’s drunk in the saloons all over town,” Perkins said, “and they’ll never leave at dawn. Make it bigger.”

  Johnson had no enlarging equipment, but he managed to rig an impromptu outfit and exposed a print. They both peered into the developing tray as the image slowly appeared.

  In the window, Texas Tom struggled, his back arched with effort, his face contorted. Two hands gripped his neck, but the killer’s body was blocked by the curtain to the left, and the killer’s head was in deep shadow.

  “Better,” Perkins said. “But we still can’t see who it is.”

  They made another print, and then another still larger. The work became slower as the evening progressed. The rigged system was sensitive to vibration at great magnification, and Perkins was so excited he could not stand still during the long exposure.

  Shortly before midnight, they got a clear one. At great magnification, the picture was speckled and grainy. But one detail came through. There was a tattoo on the left wrist of the strangling arm: it showed a curled snake.

  “We got to tell Judge Harlan,” Perkins insisted.

  “I got to pack,” Johnson said, “and I got to get some sleep before I leave tomorrow.”

  “But this is murder!”

  “This is Deadwood,” Johnson said. “Happens all the time.”

  “You’re just going to leave?”

  “I am.”

  “Then give me the plate, and I’ll go tell Judge Harlan.”

  “Suit yourself,” Johnson said, and gave him the plate.

  Back in the Grand Central Hotel lobby, he passed Black Dick Curry himself. Dick was drunk.

  “Howdy, Foggy,” Dick said.

  “Howdy, Dick,” Johnson said, and he went up to his room. It was, he observed in his journal, a fine ironic last touch to his last day in notorious Deadwood.

  He had been packing for half an hour when Perkins showed up in his room with Judge Harlan.

  “You take this picture?” Judge Harlan said.

  “I did, Judge.”

  �
��You doctor this picture in any way, pencil touch-ups or whatever?”

  “No, Judge.”

  “That’s fine,” Judge Harlan said. “We got him dead to rights.”

  “I’m glad for you,” Johnson said.

  “Inquest will settle it in the morning,” Judge Harlan said. “Be there at ten o’clock, Foggy.”

  Johnson said he was leaving town with General Crook’s cavalry.

  “I’m afraid you can’t,” Judge Harlan said. “In fact, you’re at some risk right here tonight. We’re gonna have to take you into protective custody.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Johnson asked.

  “I’m talking about jail,” Judge Harlan said.

  The Next Day in Deadwood

  Jail was an abandoned mine shaft at the edge of town. It was fitted with iron bars and a solid lock. After spending a night in the freezing cold, Johnson was able to look through the bars and watch the cavalry under the command of General George Crook ride south out of Deadwood.

  He shouted to them—shouted until he was hoarse—but no one paid any attention. No one came to let him out of jail until nearly noon, when Judge Harlan showed up, groaning and shaking his head.

  “What’s the trouble?” Johnson said.

  “Bit much to drink last night,” the judge said. He held the door wide. “You’re free to go.”

  “What about the inquest?”

  “Inquest’s been cancelled.”

  “What?”

  Judge Harlan nodded. “Black Dick Curry hightailed it out of town. Seems he got word of what was coming, and chose the better part of valor, as Shakespeare would say. An inquest’s beside the point, with Dick gone. You’re free to go.”