by Richard Todd
The man at the desk looked up. His eyes widened. Standing before him was a very tall man—physically imposing, disgustingly filthy—with a yellow dog. Kyle’s shirt was stained with sweat and dirt. His hair was greasy, and he had a four-day growth of beard. The man noticed that Kyle had a strange weapon holstered on his thigh. He had never seen anything like it—it was larger than a pistol, though much smaller than a rifle.
The man rose from his desk and called out to Kyle, “How may I be of service, sir?”
“You may introduce me to your bank president,” Kyle replied.
The banker looked at Kyle, incredulous. “I am quite sure that I can assist you with whatever services you require, sir.”
Kyle walked to the desk and looked the banker in the eye. “I am quite sure, sir, that you cannot.”
As Kyle slid his pack off his back, the banker said, “Sir, I am going to need to ask you and your dog to vacate the premises immediately.” The banker motioned for the guard.
Kyle dropped the black nylon pack on the desk with a loud “clunk” and unzipped it. The banker looked at the backpack. He had never seen the material from which it was made. At that moment, the guard put his hand on Kyle’s left shoulder.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Kyle ignored the guard. He reached into the pack, retrieved a 25-pound gold bar, and set it on the banker’s desk. The banker gasped. He picked up the bar. He observed the Swiss Produits Artistiques Métaux Précieux stamp on its smooth contours. He had never seen gold so exquisitely refined. In 2008 dollars, at 1890 gold prices, the bar was worth nearly a quarter of a million dollars.
“Do you have more?” asked the banker.
Kyle pulled a second bar from the pack and set it on the desk next to the first.
“Many more,” replied Kyle. “That is not the right question.”
“May I ask, what is the right question?” asked the banker.
“The right question,” said Kyle, “is into whose bank will these be deposited?”
“Ah, yes,” the banker said, laughing nervously, “I am terribly sorry for the misunderstanding. I am happy to be of service.”
The banker turned to the guard. “Thank you Mr. Johnson,” he said, dismissing him. “That will be all.”
To Kyle, he said, “Please permit me to introduce myself. My name is Daniel Dickinson.”
Dickinson extended his hand to Kyle. Kyle took it with a firm grip.
“Colonel Kyle Mason,” replied Kyle. “United States Army. Retired.”
“Please have a seat, Colonel,” Dickinson said, gesturing toward the polished wooden chair in front of his desk.
“Colonel, regrettably, our bank president, Mr. Salisbury, is, at present, in Salt Lake City, Utah. I am the bank’s vice president. Perhaps I can be of service?
“I hope you can, Mr. Dickinson,” said Kyle. “I am guiding a team of Swiss assayers to a location I am not at liberty to disclose. I’ve been sent here to establish a banking relationship and procure provisions. I am visiting the banks of Deadwood in order to evaluate services and make a recommendation to my clients.
“I am authorized to inform you that my clients will make an initial deposit of 100 bars of gold bullion—2,500 pounds. I have brought two of these bars to open an account.”
Dickinson’s eyes widened. Twenty-five hundred pounds of gold had an equivalent 2008 value of $25 million. He knew that there could be only one possible reason a former US Army colonel would be leading a team of assayers to a secret location.
“Can I assume your clients are associated with a gold strike?” fished Dickinson.
“I am sorry, Mr. Dickinson. I am not at liberty to discuss it.”
“Of course,” said Dickinson. “Please be assured that our transactions will be handled in the strictest of confidence. Have you visited other banks in our town?”
“Yours is the first,” said Kyle. “I just arrived in town.”
“Colonel Mason, if I may,” Dickinson said, “perhaps it will not be necessary to visit the town’s other banks. I have full confidence that the First National Bank of Deadwood can meet all of your clients’ banking needs.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Kyle said. “I have a fiduciary duty to my clients to be thorough in my evaluation.”
“Please,” Dickinson said, “I can see you’ve had a long journey. Allow me and my staff to attend to your needs. May I offer you coffee?”
• • •
Within the hour, Kyle had managed to leverage 50 pounds of gold plus a cock-and-bull story into a $2 million line of credit. Mr. Dickinson personally introduced Kyle to Deadwood’s Main Street shop owners, as well as to a first-class foreman who could organize a wagon train to Kyle’s secret destination. Word spread rapidly of the town’s latest high roller. The residents of Deadwood stole glances and pointed discretely at “Colonel Mason.” Gentlemen made wide detours across the thoroughfare to introduce themselves. Women whispered behind gloved hands, with longing looks at the wealthy Adonis.
The gold Kyle placed on deposit was half of his and Padma’s nest egg to begin rebuilding their fortune in 1966. All that remained of their trillion-dollar treasure were two additional gold bars stashed in their tipi.
The foreman, Pete Webb, was an exuberant man in his fifties, 5’6”, with a chaos of white hair firing in all directions from beneath a brown felt western hat with the front brim turned up. A long gray beard and mustache covered most of his ruddy skin, save for a bulbous nose and bulging, excited eyes. He wore brown canvas pants with leather suspenders hoisted over a tan and cream striped cotton shirt that ballooned over his pants. His trousers were stuffed into leather boots.
Between assignments, Pete was thankful for good-paying work to fall in his lap. Kyle found him knowledgeable and overly eager to please.
Kyle asked Pete to organize a train of a dozen horse-drawn wagons with drivers, packed with food, supplies, clothing, and weapons. He also asked Pete to purchase 500 head of cattle and arrange for wranglers to drive the herd.
“Don’t you worry about a darn thing, Colonel!” said Pete. “I’ll get it squared away. You go get yourself cleaned up.”
Deadwood, SD
September 16, 1890
13:15 hours
Timeline 003
Damp heat from a hot towel melted the stress from Kyle’s face as he reclined in a barber’s chair. He heard the clunk of a shaving soap puck being dropped into a mug, followed by the alternating swishing and clinking of a shaving brush as the barber worked the soap into a lather. The mug was set on a stand by the chair. Kyle heard the slapping sound of a straight razor being sharpened against a leather strap hanging from the chair.
The towel was lifted from Kyle’s face. The barber hovered over Kyle. He was in his early forties, with a round face, handlebar moustache, and combed-over salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a white tunic with silver buttons.
Kyle lifted his head to observe Pete’s progress through the barber’s large glass storefront window. In the three hours since Kyle shook hands with Pete, the foreman had moved at a miraculous pace. On the opposite side of the street from the barbershop, a train of 12 wagons hitched to draft horse teams was now parked on Main Street. Shop workers hustled to load their inventories into the wagons for the big spender who paid double the asking price for their wares. Pete hollered commands to the shop workers in a cracking high-octave voice while making outsized motions with his hands.
Kyle had used the time to clean up, getting a bath and a fresh shirt. After a steak lunch for himself and Hoover, he was now indulging himself with the closest thing to spa treatment a nineteenth-century man could ask for.
Kyle noticed Hoover, curled up asleep in a corner of the shop. Though dogs were not allowed in Deadwood’s businesses, shop owners had learned quickly that if they wanted Kyle’s busines
s, they needed to make an exception for Hoover.
Kyle laid his head back on the chair’s headrest, staring at the surprisingly ornate tin ceiling tiles behind the barber’s face. Gathered leaves in the corners of each tile were connected with curves and swirls, encompassing medallions in the center. Beneath the ceiling was a floor of black and white checkered ceramic tiles.
The barber tilted Kyle’s head away from him, held the straight razor to his cheek, and scraped the blade against his skin. Kyle felt the pull of his beard as the blade sheared it away.
“Been travelin’ long, Colonel?” asked the barber.
“About four days.”
“I hope you don’t mind my askin’, but I’ve never seen a sidearm like that,” the barber said. “What is it?”
“It’s German,” Kyle said. “It’s a rapid-fire pistol.”
“Like a Gatling gun?” asked the barber.
“Yes,” said Kyle, “except you don’t have to crank it.”
“What a remarkable modern age we live in,” said the barber.
“And was is that device on your wrist?” the barber asked, pointing at Kyle’s Breitling chronometer.
“It’s a timepiece,” Kyle said. “It’s from Switzerland.”
“You sure do get around, Colonel.”
“Indeed I do.”
• • •
Kyle stepped out of the barbershop onto the boardwalk, rubbing his clean-shaven face.
He noticed the freestanding red and white striped wooden barber pole standing next to the door. The pole was an icon from medieval times, when barbers performed medical services, like leaching. The red and white stripes represented the patient’s bloody bandages. The cap represented a leach bowl, while the basin at the base of the pole represented the receptacle into which the patient’s blood drained.
Pete moved exuberantly up and down the length of the wagon train, calling out orders to the store workers queued up to load their goods into the wagons. He saw Kyle standing outside the barbershop with a clean shirt and a fresh shave.
“You clean up good, Colonel!” Pete yelled, cackling.
Kyle smiled and waved.
“We’ll have you ready to roll in a jiffy,” said Pete, returning to his work.
At that moment. Someone grabbed Kyle’s hand, startling him. Kyle saw a tiny woman sitting in a rocking chair, wearing a faded blue calico dress. A quilt lay across her lap, covering her legs. Her white hair was worn in bangs with a ponytail down her back. Milky blue white covered her blind eyes. Kyle estimated that she was at least 100 years old.
“You’d best get home to your wife,” said the woman.
“How do you know I’m married?” asked Kyle.
The woman tapped Kyle’s wedding ring with a bony finger. Kyle could see blood vessels beneath her fragile skin. The woman released his hand.
“Go on now,” she said. “Go on home.”
Kyle backed away, shaken. He stepped into a general store next door to the barbershop. Hoover trotted in behind him.
Kyle was struck at the front door by a rich blend of smells—coffee, saddle soap, lamp oil, spices, and tobacco.
The walls of the store were lined with wooden shelves crowded with colorful tins, boxes, jars, bottles, and tools. Dry goods, clothing, tools, and bolts of cloth stood on tables. Sacks of coffee beans were piled on the floor. Sacks of flour, salt, and sugar were piled on a nearby table. A dozen bright red kerosene lanterns sat on the floor next to a stack of tin buckets. Shovels leaned nearby against the wall. Hatchets, saws, rope, and other tools completed the store’s hardware section.
A pot-bellied stove stood in the center of the store. A cracker barrel was parked next to the stove with two wooden chairs. A checkerboard sat atop the barrel.
To Kyle’s left was a long glass display case topped with a wooden counter. A red iron coffee grinder sat on the counter. Next to it was a scale. An open box of Cuban cigars sat on the counter next to two large glass jars, one with hard red candy and the other with yellow. A small pile of the Black Hills Pioneer was stacked neatly next to the candy.
A walk space divided the display case from the shelving on the wall behind it. Tins and bottles of toiletries and apothecary items stood on the shelves.
At the far end of the display case was a bright brass cash register. The shopkeeper sat behind the register. On the wall next to him was a gun rack with rifles and shotguns. Boxes of ammunition sat on shelves beneath the rifles.
The shopkeeper was a plump man in his forties with dark balding hair, a bushy mustache, and sideburns. He wore a white shirt with a band collar, dark trousers with suspenders, and a black vest with silver pinstripes. When Kyle entered the store, he noticed the shopkeeper was reading a red book.
When he saw Kyle in the doorway, the shopkeeper leapt from his seat, placed the book on the counter next to the cash register, and hustled to greet his new favorite customer.
“Colonel! What can I do for you?” he asked.
“That woman outside,” Kyle said. “Who is she?”
“Oh, Grandma Annie?” the shopkeeper said. “Don’t pay her any mind. She’s not long for this world and sometimes says the darndest things. I hope she didn’t disturb you.”
“No,” Kyle said, “it was just…” His voice trailed off.
“Colonel, my name is Mr. Richards, and I am pleased to assist you in any way I can. Your man Pete has already purchased many of our wares, though we still have quite a few for your consideration.”
“Well, perhaps I could see if there is something my wife might like.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Richards replied. “Come this way.”
Mr. Richards guided Kyle to a table with neatly folded clothing—mostly trousers and cotton work shirts. Some boots were parked nearby on the floor. One item on the table stood out from the rest—a parcel wrapped in tissue paper. It smelled of sandalwood. Mr. Richards unwrapped the contents and unfolded a gold robe with bronze embroidery.
“It’s pure silk,” Mr. Richards said. “From the Orient. One of the Chinamen brings these to me from time to time. A cousin of his gets them off the boat in San Francisco.”
“It’s beautiful,” Kyle said, touching the fine silk. He smelled the faint scent of sandalwood infused with the silk. He knew Padma would love it.
“I’ll take it,” Kyle said.
“Excellent choice, sir.”
Mr. Richards carefully refolded the robe in its tissue paper, then took it to the display case, setting it on the counter next to the cash register. Kyle admired the register, brand new with beautiful floral brass metalwork.
Kyle noticed a set of silver brushes and combs in the display case.
“May I have these as well?” Kyle asked.
“Of course, sir.”
Mr. Richards rung up the purchase on the big brass cash register. The mechanical cogs beneath its buttons crunched as the metal tabs signaling the total due popped up in the register’s glass window as its bell announced the sale.
“That will be eight dollars and thirty-two cents, Colonel,” said Mr. Richards. “Shall I wrap these for you?”
“Please,” replied Kyle.
Kyle picked up a copy of The Black Hills Pioneer from the small stack on the glass counter. He gasped when he saw the title of a front-page article:
The Indian Messiah
Tales of the supernatural appearance of an Indian “Messiah” are sweeping the plains with the hellish ferocity of a prairie wildfire. The Redskin Messiah, the alleged product of a savage ritual “Ghost Dance,” is said to bring with her a new day, cleansing the Whites from former Indian lands and restoring the majestic buffalo that once roamed upon them. That the Messiah is claimed to be a woman is simply another cruel twist in the corrupt bargain the Indians have struck with delus
ion, a pathetic hope beyond hope that their former world, long ago destroyed by the Whites in the natural course of progress, will spring new and eternal in the desolate wilderness remains of Standing Rock Reservation.
The proud spirit of the original owners of these vast prairies inherited through centuries of fierce and bloody wars for their possession, lingered last in the bosom of a few remaining warrior chiefs. With their fall the nobility of the Redskin is extinguished, and what few are left are a pack of whining curs who lick the hand that smites them. The Whites, by law of conquest, by justice of civilization, are masters of the American continent, and the best safety of the frontier settlements will be secured by the total annihilation of the few remaining Indians. Why not annihilation? Their glory has fled, their spirits broken, their manhood effaced; better that they die than live the miserable wretches that they are. History would forget these later despicable beings, and speak, in later ages of the glory of these grand Kings of forest and plain that Cooper loved to heroism.
We cannot honestly regret their extermination, but we at least do justice to the manly characteristics possessed, according to their lights and education, by the early Redskins of America.
—L. Frank Baum
Kyle was stunned.
History has already changed! he thought.
Word of Padma’s appearance had caused Baum to write an editorial virtually identical to the one he was to write about Sitting Bull’s murder.
In only five days, without Internet or broadcast media, word of Padma’s arrival had already spread via telegraph to journalists hundreds of miles from Standing Rock. If news had spread to Deadwood, Kyle knew it was also sure to be in Washington DC. The telegraph wires would be burning with orders to the army’s commander at Fort Yates, North Dakota—General Nelson Miles.
The image of the bloodthirsty mob of 70,000 at Jonah Jones’ 2008 hate rally flashed into Kyle’s mind. Padma was now hunted in both the nineteenth and twenty-first centuries.