Deadwood Dead Men

by Bill Markley

  Saloon Number 10 was silent. Then three slow, loud handclaps sounded from the crowd along the far side of the bar.

  “Haw! Haw! Haw! That’s a tall tale if I ever heard one!” shouted a man in a colorful checked coat as he walked up to the pine-planked bar and leaned on it, glaring at Young. “And I don’t think you were ever friends with Wild Bill, you liar!”

  Jack looked up from his cards. The clapper was the gambler, Laughing Sam Hartman. Laughing Sam was known for his practical jokes that always amused him more than the fellow who had the joke pulled on him. Hartman was given the moniker Laughing Sam because of a scar on his right check that made him look like he had a perpetual smile on his face.

  Young’s left hand, the size of a small ham, shot out and clamped on Laughing Sam’s throat. Young drew back his right hand balled into a fist, yanking Laughing Sam across the bar until their faces were inches apart.

  “You dare mock me!” Young shouted in Laughing Sam’s face as he squeezed tighter on his neck.

  A gurgling noise erupted from Laughing Sam’s mouth.

  Young tossed him backwards, pulled out a pistol from under the bar, and aimed it at Laughing Sam’s forehead. “Get out, you son of a bitch!” he roared. “Come back and I’ll shoot you down like a dog.”

  Red faced, gasping for air, Laughing Sam staggered backwards.

  “Next time you see me, it’ll be the last thing you ever see,” Laughing Sam swore.

  He stormed from the bar, the man in his flamboyant coat cutting a swath through the miners, making a stark contrast against their drab clothing. Someone opened the door for him and with a cool blast of air, Laughing Sam was gone from Saloon Number 10.

  Young broke the stunned silence. “Come on, boys! Drink up!”

  “Humph,” Jack grunted as he pulled out a small leather-bound notebook and pencil from the side pocket of his coat. Scribbling a few notes, he mumbled to himself, “Tuesday evening, August 22, 1876, minor ruckus at Saloon Number 10…”

  Jack finished his solitaire hand, and then he tied up the deck with a string, put it in his coat pocket, downed the last of the whiskey in his glass, and corked the bottle.

  Reaching in his vest pocket, he pulled out his Elgin watch and pressed the button to flip open the lid. The time was eight p.m. He returned the watch to its pocket, rubbing the Grand Army of the Republic fob between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Stonewall,” he said, nudging the dog with his foot. “Time for a little grub?”

  Walking to the bar with Stonewall tagging by his side, Jack handed his bottle to Young for safekeeping under the bar.

  Stonewall growled, baring his teeth at Young.

  “What’s wrong with that damn mutt of yours? Why does he only growl at me?”

  “Don’t know, Harry. He hasn’t told me yet,” Jack said with a grin.

  “You won’t be printing this little shouting incident in your paper now, would you?”

  “Well, I’ll be kind.”

  Young frowned, but said nothing.

  Jack, with Stonewall trotting ahead of him, made his way through the crowd. To his left he passed the four men playing poker. Johnny Varnes, the professional gambler, with a pile of newly acquired chips stacked in front of him, glanced up at Jack, nodded with just the trace of a smirk, and went back to studying the eyes of the yokels losing to him.

  Jack reached for the door and stepped outside onto the dry, rutted mud of the street. He breathed in the crisp, invigorating, evening air. Acrid campfire smoke punctuated the pine fragrance. Stonewall ran to the corner of the saloon building, sniffed, and hoisted his leg. A babble of tongues assaulted Jack’s ears, everything from precise English accents to exotic Cantonese lingo. Miners, and those living off miners, filled Deadwood’s Main Street this evening.

  And why not? Jack asked himself. Jack knew that prospectors discovered gold here last December, and the camp did not start growing until this spring’s thaw. Deadwood was the largest, fastest growing town in Dakota Territory, even if it was an illegal town within the Great Sioux Reservation. Everyone there wanted to make a buck during the Centennial Year of our country’s founding. Maybe, Jack thought, they will find enough gold to bring us out of our economic depression?

  Deadwood’s buildings were a mix of log cabins and canvas tents, but newer buildings were being constructed of rough-hewn boards as sawyers had a ready supply of trees for lumber and there was an increasing demand for building material for homes, businesses, and mines.

  Bawling teams of yoked oxen and oath-shouting bullwhackers alerted an excited crowd that a bull train—large, covered freight wagons loaded with tons of goods—had just arrived. People were trying to get a look at the latest goods that were stashed away in the wagons. Jack spied a young bullwhacker gawking at the sights of Deadwood.

  “Howdy, young fella,” Jack said. “First time to Deadwood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man said.

  “My name’s Jack Jones, reporter for the Chicago Inter-Ocean newspaper. Got a minute for a few questions?”

  “Sure, Mr. Jones. By the way, my name’s Pete Adams.”

  “What are you hauling, Pete?”

  “Mostly food, dry goods, miners’ supplies—picks, shovels, crowbars, and other hardware.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “We started from Fort Pierre on the Missouri River. About a two hundred and forty-mile trip in two weeks.”

  “I’ve been over the trail. Not much by way of human comfort out there.”

  “That’s for sure, but fortunately it was uneventful. No problems with Indians or bandits.”

  Faint shouting started from the upper end of the gulch. The shout grew in volume as residents of Deadwood repeated it until people around Jack and Pete were shouting the phrase “Oh Joe!” and then others down the gulch picked up the shout of “Oh Joe!” It continued down the gulch as a wave. An earsplitting wolf howl broke through and overwhelmed the shout. The citizens of Deadwood laughed and went back to what they had been doing.

  “What was all that?” Pete asked.

  “It’s a little Deadwood tradition. One night a few weeks ago, a prospector who had too much to drink fell into a pit. He was so drunk he couldn’t climb out, and all night long he called ‘Oh Joe!’ for his partner to help him. So now, every evening, people will wait until someone begins the call up the gulch and then it travels as a wave all the way down. The wolf howl is an added touch by a prospector named Smokey Jones.”

  “That howl’s enough to make my blood run cold!”

  “Well, I’m off for my supper. Nice to meet you, Pete.”

  “Sure, Mr. Jones, likewise.”

  Jack turned away from the commotion surrounding the bull train’s arrival and walked up Main Street, avoiding large rocks and tree stumps no one had bothered to remove, not to mention animal manure and garbage tossed into the street. The stench of a poorly constructed, not well-ventilated privy overrode all other smells for a brief moment.

  Across the street, silhouettes of two men formed in the dim light that spilled out of a saloon. As they came into view, one had a distinctive checkered coat, and the other had a haversack slung over his shoulder. Laughing Sam and Bummer Dan appeared to be in deep conversation.

  That’s odd, thought Jack. Didn’t know those two were chummy.

  Jack continued up the street to Deadwood’s imposing Grand Central Hotel, where he shared a room bunking with others for a buck a night. It was always hard to get to sleep with a room full of snoring, wheezing, foul-smelling strangers. Regardless, he knew it was the best place in town to room and eat three square meals.

  Jack opened the Grand Central’s front door and walked into a small lobby. Pine boards made up the walls, ceiling, and floor of the sparse lobby. To the left was a pine counter, and on the wall behind the counter hung a regulator clock. A balding, mustached Charlie Wagner, the proprietor, stood behind the counter. He had removed his coat and wore a white shirt, dark vest, and tie as he worked on his boo
ks.

  “Good evening, Captain Jones,” Wagner said, looking up from his work.

  “How are you, Charlie?”

  “Good, Captain.”

  “How’s Aunt Lou’s cooking tonight?”

  “Same as always, mighty fine.”

  Jack walked past the counter, back the hallway, turned right, and entered the dining room. The warm fragrance of fresh baked biscuits greeted his nose, causing his mouth to water and his stomach to rumble. The dining room was not fancy, but functional, with rough plank floors and walls. Coal-oil lamps dispelled the darkness. Only a few customers sat at the tables. They were enjoying the food, one man wolfing it down as if he had not eaten in days.

  A stern-faced, middle-aged black woman addressed Jack as she bustled out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl of new potatoes. “Are you going to stand there gawking, Captain Jones, or are you going to sit down so I can feed you?”

  “Thanks, Aunt Lou,” Jack replied to Lucretia Marchbanks. Her hair was pulled back into a bun. She wore a white blouse, and a pleated, charcoal-gray skirt. A long white apron protected her clothing.

  Lou leaned down and scratched Stonewall behind the ear. “And I suppose this loafer hound of yours wants some table scraps too?”

  Stonewall’s tail wagged in anticipation of his nightly treat. Lou returned to the kitchen, followed by Stonewall.

  Jack sat down at an empty table with a coal-oil lantern. He brought it closer to him. It would shed enough light for his purposes. He pulled out his notebook and reviewed his notes for the day. Lou appeared beside him with a satchel and a steaming mug of coffee. “Here’s your writing paper, Captain.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Lou,” Jack said, as he handed her his meal ticket. “I do appreciate you keeping my papers safe for me. Not sure they would remain untouched up in my room.”

  She punched the ticket and gave it back to him. “Lord knows what kind of men we have here from all over the countryside, if not the world.”

  Lou left for the kitchen as Jack began to write his report for the newspaper.

  A few minutes later Lou returned with a plate of steaming roast beef, potatoes, gravy, and biscuits. “Move those papers so you can eat,” she said. Jack complied and Lou placed the plate in front of him and handed him a napkin, knife, fork, and spoon.

  “Got a little time for some table talk?” Jack asked.

  Lou looked around the room at its few occupants well engaged with their meals, and said, “Certainly.”

  She pulled up a stool, sat down across the table from Jack, and sighed.

  “How’s business?” Jack asked.

  “It’s been brisk. So what do you have to write about today?”

  “Not much. Harry Young threw Laughing Sam Hartman out of Saloon Number 10 and threatened to kill him if he came back.”

  “Um hum. What else you got?”

  “Another bull train just arrived this evening, but neither of these will whet the interest of my Chicago readers, or even people living in Deadwood Gulch,” Jack said, then shoveled a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

  “It surely is a shame what happened Sunday to Preacher Smith,” Lou said, shaking her head.

  “That was a shame, being ambushed by Indians… just outside of town.”

  “They say the Indians didn’t scalp him because they saw he was a man of God.”

  “I don’t know,” Jack said. “Then there were the other three men killed by Indians the same day. I finished that story to send to my newspaper earlier today.”

  “Truly sad news.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “Aunt Lou!” a patron shouted. “Another cup of coffee when you get a chance.”

  “No rest for the weary!” Lou said, standing up and walking to the kitchen.

  Jack dug into the beef and potatoes. Looking up from his meal, he saw a well-dressed customer standing in the dining room doorway.

  “Judge Kuykendall!” Jack called out. “Care to join me, sir?”

  The man looked over at Jack, nodded his head, and walked to his table. Jack stood and stuck out his right hand and Kuykendall took it with a firm grip. “I’m Jack Jones, reporter for the Chicago Inter-Ocean newspaper.”

  “I guess you already know I’m W. L. Kuykendall. I own a dry goods store over on Sherman Street.”

  “Have a seat, Judge.”

  “Please call me W. L.,” Kuykendall said. “I see by your GAR watch fob you must have served for the Union.”

  “Yes, I was a captain for eight months, with the Pennsylvania 129th Volunteer Infantry,” Jack said. “Saw a little action at Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville. After being mustered out at the end and experiencing the stupidity of the generals who followed after McClellan was dismissed, I didn’t re-enlist.”

  “I take it you’re a fellow Democrat then?”

  “No, but I thought Little Mac was a good general. Lincoln just wouldn’t let him do his job. Did you serve in the war?”

  “Yes, only I was on the opposite side. I’m from Missouri and served in the West. Started out a lieutenant, was captured, paroled, worked as a recruiter, and then served as a major. The war wiped me out financially so I headed to Colorado and other places in the West, working at sundry jobs and entered the legal field in Wyoming. Then I arrived in the Black Hills last winter.”

  Lou approached the table with two steaming mugs of coffee. “Judge, what will you have?”

  “I’ll have the same as Jack. It sure does look and smell good.”

  “Very well,” she said.

  “So W. L., what are your thoughts on the present situation of Deadwood and the Black Hills in general?”

  “I would think you would agree with me that we need some form of government. Even though we are an illegal town, we need to have law and order. We need to hold elections and elect a mayor and town council.”

  “Do you think the federal government will send in troops to evict us as it’s done in the past?”

  “I don’t think so. I believe we’re here to stay. Think about it, General Crook is out there somewhere chasing Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, and their brigands. The army can’t afford the troops to evict us. Meanwhile, I know the federal government is working to buy the Black Hills from the Indians. Just think what opening up the Black Hills will do for the economy. The mining of gold is creating jobs to service the mining industry. Just look at what we have here, the Miners and Mechanics’ Bank, hotels, a variety of stores, not to mention saloons. Why, J. J. Schlawig has even opened a brewery in town.”

  Lou returned with Kuykendall’s plate of steaming beef, potatoes, and gravy.

  “Thank you, Aunt Lou,” Kuykendall said.

  “But what about the rights of the Lakota, Cheyenne, and other tribes?” Jack asked. “The Fort Laramie Treaty created the Great Sioux Reservation strictly for their use.”

  “We can’t let a few Indians hold up the progress of the country. Just think of what can happen. There are already farms and ranches starting up to supply food to Deadwood and other mining camps. We need the military to establish a fort nearby to protect the citizens. The stage lines should soon reach town, followed by the telegraph, then hopefully the railroad. This should all lead to building up the economy and help bring our nation out of its financial depression.”

  Lou walked past their table with a stack of dirty dishes. “Judge,” she said, “eat your food or it’s going to get cold.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Lou. I’ll stop talking and eat.”

  They both concentrated on the food before them, eating in silence for a few minutes. Stonewall emerged from the kitchen, padded up to Jack, sat back on his haunches, and gave out a soft whine. “Stonewall, when I’m done,” Jack said.

  “Your dog’s name is Stonewall?”

  “Stonewall Jackson is the full name. There’s a story to it.”

  “That’s one I’d like to hear.”

  “I was working on a story about the Manassas, Virginia, countryside, and how it was recovering after the war
and its first great battle. Walking along Bull Run Creek, I heard a pup crying. After searching the area, I found the pup. It was in the creek and it was trying to climb onto the bank. I fished him out and then went around to the nearby farmhouses, but no one would claim him. So I decided to keep him. I reckoned I needed to name him something significant. I thought of Moses since I rescued him from the water just as pharaoh’s daughter had rescued Moses from the Nile, but I settled on Thomas ‘Stonewall’ Jackson, hero of the Battle of Bull Run.”

  Kuykendall chuckled. “That’s quite a story.”

  After they finished eating, Jack dropped a chunk of gristle into Stonewall’s mouth.

  “Care to join me at the hotel bar for a liquor and cigar?” Kuykendall asked.

  “Yes, I would be happy to do so.” Jack said as they both stood from the table.

  “I’d like to hear your take on the Jack McCall trial. I arrived in Deadwood after the murder and trial.”

  “Yes, quite a travesty of justice, if you ask me,” Kuykendall said with a shake of his head. “There had been some talk among the more respectable element in the Gulch to hire Wild Bill as our lawman before he was gunned down. He would have made some of the more brazen criminals cower.”

  The two men walked across the hallway to the barroom. It was empty except for a few customers quietly talking at the bar. The atmosphere was a complete change from the boisterous Saloon Number 10.

  “Brandy and a good cigar for my friend here and me,” Kuykendall said to the bartender. After their drinks arrived, and they had the cigars well stoked, Kuykendall said, “Let me begin the sad tale of the McCall trial.”