by Bill Markley
“That night I talked with Ma. She said I was old enough that I could choose to do whatever I thought best and Pa had no problem with it. I lay in bed with my little sisters snuggled in all around me. I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking, ‘This may be my one chance to see the world.’ The next morning I said ‘Yes! I will do this.’ But I told Uncle Jack I wanted a portion of my earnings to be sent to Ma and Pa and he said that could be arranged. I was so happy I spun in circles laughing, as my sisters jumped and squealed for joy.”
Jack could see Lil was smiling, forgetting for a moment the tragedy she had just witnessed.
“So how did you come to the Black Hills, Miss Rochelle?” Pete asked.
“Uncle Jack taught me the finer points of singing, how to read music, dancing, and acting. We traveled throughout the West, mostly mining camps. We were in a Colorado mining camp when word reached us of the bonanza in Deadwood Gulch. Uncle Jack said we need to go where the money is, so here we are!” Lil ended with a flourish of her uplifted hand and laughed. “And what is your story, Mr. Adams?”
“Please, Miss Rochelle, call me Pete.”
“Sure, Pete, and please call me Lil. Now, tell us your story.”
“Here’s a coincidence for you, I’m from an Iowa farmstead too. My story is about the same as yours, Miss Lil, with the depression, a poor harvest, and my mother and father needing to feed lots of mouths. With one added horrible twist—a plague of locusts just like you read about in the Bible! Hoards of locusts invaded our farm this spring. They covered everything and then ate it. When they were done and they moved on, there were no crops left in the fields. They stripped the leaves off the trees and even ate the bark.
“I left the farm to strike out on my own. I got a job working as a bullwhacker with the wagon train that just came to Deadwood. The boss told me I could return with him, or if I wanted to stay here, he would pay me off in greenbacks. So after seeing Deadwood Gulch, I think there’s plenty here a young man like me can work at and make my pile. So I told him to pay me off.”
“Which trail did you come in on?” Lou asked.
“The Fort Pierre to Deadwood Trail,” Pete answered. “It was lonely but beautiful out there. Stark scenery, no people.”
“No people? You didn’t see any Indians?” Lou asked.
“Not one.”
“Most of them are probably trying to get back to the agencies and claim they weren’t involved in the fight at the Little Big Horn,” Jack said.
“That might be so, Mr. Jones,” Pete responded. “It was tough work on the trail handling those oxen, but at times when you looked off into the distance—it was as if you were looking into eternity. When we reached Pino Springs, I thought it was like an oasis right out of the Arabian Nights stories I read as a boy, the swift babbling stream, the trees, and lush vegetation. I remember when we climbed that steep hill west of Pino Springs and I could look back from whence we had traversed, I looked into that distance eastward that seemed to disappear with the curvature of the earth and thought, ‘There’s no turning back now. I am so far away. Will I ever see my mother and father again? Will I ever see my brothers and sisters? My boyhood chums?’ It seems such a long way to get home again.”
“What did you think when you first saw what the Sioux call Paha Sapa, Hills Black?” Jack asked. “For my part I was taken with their dark, foreboding beauty, stretching across the western horizon as if an island in a vast sea of prairie.”
“When I first saw the Black Hills,” Pete said, “the first thing that went through my mind was ‘I got to go over there and see that!’” The rest of them chuckled. Pete’s discourse made Jack think of home and loved ones left behind, and as he forced himself free from his introspection, he could see the others had also turned inward with their own thoughts of home and family.
“And then,” Pete continued, as Jack realized Pete felt free and comfortable to express his deepest innermost thoughts and to express those thoughts to complete strangers. “And then, the night sky. Have you seen that sky?”
Everyone murmured a soft yes.
“The night sky was vast and inexpressible—the deep dark of the night. The sweet smell of the sage. The munching, breathing, rustling sounds of the cattle. The howls of the coyotes on the distant ridges. But above all was the night sky, and the myriad of stars—so many it was hard to make out the constellations that my granddad had pointed out to me when I was little. The Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon! It seemed I could reach out and touch it. I just laid on my back, watching with awe and wonder. The world seemed insignificant, the night sky was everything.”
Jack looked at Lou and Lil. They were enthralled with Pete’s discourse on the heavens.
“Humph,” Jack cleared his throat. “I agree. You are very perceptive for someone your age. How did you develop this?”
“I don’t know,” Pete said. “I’ve always been fascinated with God’s world—plants, animals, people. I’m enthralled with life. I want to experience as much of it as I can.”
“Well said, Pete,” Lil responded.
“I agree,” Lou added.
“But I am sorry,” Pete said. “I dwell too much on myself. Aunt Lou, what is your story, if I may ask.”
“It’s a different story than any of your lives have been,” Lou responded. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“Yes,” they all replied.
“All right then, I was born a slave, a slave owned by my white uncle, Martin Marchbanks. Think about that. Not only did someone own me, but it was my own uncle. Don’t get me wrong, they treated me very well, but you have no idea what it is like to have no control over your own life. You have to get permission to do anything out of the ordinary.
“To begin with, I was born March 25, 1833, near Algood, Tennessee. I was the oldest of eleven children so I had to help Momma with the younger ones. As I grew older, I was trained to help with housekeeping and to help in the kitchen. That’s where I learned to cook.
“I got to go west during the California Gold Rush. One of Mr. Marchbanks’s daughters insisted on going to California, and I went along as her traveling companion. I got to see gold fever strike sane men and realized it’s where the money is. So when the War Between the States was over and I was free, I left the Marchbanks and struck out for Colorado, cooking my way from mining camp to mining camp until now, and here I am! And I’m happy to be here. Everyone appreciates my cooking!”
“They sure do,” Jack responded.
“Captain, tell us a little about yourself,” Lou said.
“Not much to tell,” Jack said. “I was born and raised on a farm in eastern Pennsylvania, and I got a good public school education. I joined a Pennsylvania volunteer regiment during the war, and my neighbors and relatives in our company elected me captain. I saw a little fighting and then got out when my enlistment was up. I tried my hand at farming, but didn’t care for it, headed west and got a job reporting for the Chicago Inter-Ocean newspaper, and I’ve been reporting from various locations ever since.
He looked across the table at Lil. She was smiling and appeared calm.
“Lil, do you mind if we talk about Bummer Dan?”
“Go ahead,” Lil said. “I feel I can talk about it now.”
“Captain Jones?” Lou asked. “Can you start from the beginning for me?”
“And me,” Pete added.
“Well, there’s not much to tell,” Jack said. “Laughing Sam and Harry Young had a little ruckus in Saloon Number 10 tonight. Harry threw Laughing Sam out of the saloon and said if he ever came back, he would kill him. Earlier I had a talk with Bummer Dan, and he left the saloon before Laughing Sam. When I walked out of Saloon Number 10 to come here for supper, I saw Laughing Sam and Bummer Dan talking together across the street. After supper, I heard there was a shooting. I returned to Saloon Number 10 where I saw Lil holding Bummer Dan’s body. He was wearing Laughing Sam’s hat and coat, which to me is very odd. The crowd apprehended Harry Young for shooting Bummer Da
n, but Harry claims he thought he shot Laughing Sam and not Bummer Dan. That’s all I know. Lil, does that sound right to you?”
“Yes.”
“Lil, is there any more to this story you can shed light on?”
“No.”
“Did you see Laughing Sam at any time after the shooting?”
“No.”
“Bummer Dan always kept his haversack close to him. When I examined his body, the haversack was not on him. Did anyone take his haversack off of him, before I got there?”
“No. I was one of the first people to reach him when he fell to the ground. As I told you before, there was no haversack on him. Why are you so concerned about a haversack?”
“There is something of importance to Bummer Dan in that haversack. I would like to find it, try to find out if he had any family, and send them his possessions.”
“I see,” Lil said.
“I need to find Laughing Sam,” Jack said, more for himself than the others. “He might be able to help me locate the haversack.”
“That Laughing Sam is a bad character,” Lou said.
“Why do you say that?” Jack asked.
“I hear he did something bad to that working girl, Tid Bit.”
“What did he do?”
“Not sure. You’ll have to ask Tid Bit or her friend, Calamity Jane.”
Calamity Jane Cannery. Jack thought. Well, I suppose I can track her down and hear a few of her tall tales. “You think Calamity Jane or Tid Bit might be able to tell me where Laughing Sam is?”
“I don’t know, but it might be as good a start as any other,” Lou said.
Jack pulled out his Elgin watch and saw the time was approaching midnight. “I suppose that will have to wait until tomorrow. It’s almost tomorrow.”
“I must get back to the theater,” Lil said. “Uncle Jack and Auntie must be worried sick that I’m out so late.”
“I’ll escort you back, Lil,” Jack said.
“Let me pay for the coffee,” Pete said as he pulled a leather wallet stuffed with greenbacks out of his coat’s inner pocket.
“No, no, no!” Lou said. “This coffee is on the house. And put those bills away, young man, or some ne’er-do-well will surely take them from you.”
“I agree with Aunt Lou, Pete,” Jack said, then laughed. “You must be a member of the Greenback Party!”
“No sir!” Pete said. “It’s just that my boss paid me in greenbacks.”
“First thing tomorrow,” Jack said, “put most of those greenbacks in the bank for safekeeping before anyone finds out you have them. Banknotes and hard cash are scarce commodities around these parts.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Pete said. “I’ve never been partial to banks after what I saw they did to neighbors who were in dire straights, what with poor crops and the depression.”
“Suit yourself,” Jack said. “Where are you sleeping tonight?”
“Oh, the boss said I can continue to bed down with the bull train until they return to Fort Pierre, which will probably be in a day or two,” Pete answered.
They all pushed back from the table and stood up.
“Good night to you all,” Lou said. “I still have some cleaning to do, and I need to prepare for tomorrow’s breakfast. No rest for the weary.”
Jack lit Lil’s lantern as the threesome, followed by the dog, left the hotel and stepped out into the street. Directly across the street from the Grand Central Hotel stood the Deadwood Theater. The Grand Central and the Deadwood Theater were the largest buildings in town. The theater was still far from complete, having an unfinished floor and canvas for a roof.
“It was nice to meet you both,” Pete said. “I hope I can count you as my first new friends in Deadwood.”
“Of course, Pete!” Lil said as she reached on tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. Jack stretched out his hand and gave Pete a firm handshake, “You bet, Pete. Friends indeed! See you tomorrow.”
Pete disappeared into the night.
“Lil, are you feeling better?” Jack asked.
“Yes, Jack. Thank you for everything tonight,” Lil said, as she again stretched upward on tiptoes to kiss Jack, not on the cheek, but a full kiss on his mouth. Jack, still holding the lantern in his right hand, circled Lil’s waist with his left arm. He held her like that for what seemed to him only a second, but wanting it to last an eternity.
A loud theatrical cough brought them back into awareness of their surroundings. In front of them stood Uncle Jack Langrishe, holding a lantern and wearing a nightshirt and sleeping cap.
“Lil, it’s late,” Langrishe said. “It’s time to leave Captain Jones to his own devices. We need our sleep so we can rehearse the new acts tomorrow. Good night, Captain.”
“Good night, sir. Good night, Lil,” Jack said as he handed her the lantern.
She flashed a smile at him. “Until tomorrow, Captain!” Lil patted Stonewall and left arm-in-arm with her uncle.
Jack watched them disappear into the darkened theater to their sleeping quarters. He continued to stare into the darkness long after they had left. I think I’m beginning to grow fond of that girl. He realized he was still smiling. He looked up into the night sky. The brighter stars were visible, despite a waxing quarter moon. Images of his beloved wife, Mary, and his child, Sarah, flooded his mind. The smile vanished. Sadness gripped his heart. He turned and walked slowly back toward the hotel in the darkness of the street, and in the even deeper darkness of his soul.
CHAPTER THREE
Wednesday Morning, August 23, 1876—Jack Jones stepped through the Grand Central Hotel’s front door onto the porch. He breathed in the cool, crisp air, stretched his arms upwards, and yawned. Stonewall emerged by his side following suit, stretching out his hind legs and yawning. Aunt Lou had just finished stuffing breakfast into man and beast. The sun peeked over Hebrew Hill in front of Jack, briefly blinding him. Jack had finished writing his dispatch describing last night’s shooting. He planned to send it and a second dispatch concerning the recent murder of Preacher Smith to his editor via express.
Loud shouts punctuated the murmur of hundreds of human voices. Someone slowly plunked a banjo. A continuous racket of rockers and sluice boxes, sawing wood, hammering nails, pickaxes striking rock and shovels scooping gravel overrode the tinkling, gurgling music of Whitewood Creek, attempting to flow through its course as prospectors working their placer claims constantly changed and diverted its waters to assist their search for gold flecks. Small arrastra mills grinding rock on rock added to the mix of sounds. A pistol shot rang out far up the gulch, then another and another in steady succession. “Someone must be doing a little target practice,” Jack said to his hound.
A team of oxen headed south, pulling an empty, rattling freight wagon. Several men wearing slouch hats and work clothes rode on the wagon. One of them spied Jack, then waved his arms over his head.
“Mr. Jones!” Pete shouted. “I mean Captain! I mean Jack! Good morning to you, sir!”
“Pete, good morning to you!” Jack shouted back. “Where are you off to?”
“We’re headed up to Lead!” Pete shouted. “I got a day job loading ore into wagons. They plan to haul the ore to the smelter in Omaha. I’ll be back when the loading is done!”
“Good! Track me down when you get back. I’d like your report on the hard rock mining in Lead!” Jack shouted.
“Yes, sir! I surely will do that!” Pete shouted as the wagon rolled up the road.
Jack pulled out his pocket watch and flipped open the lid. The time was ten minutes after eight o’clock. He always synchronized his watch with the Grand Central’s regulator clock. After all, the Grand Central was where he could find his three square meals.
“Well, Stonewall, let’s see if we can find Colorado Charlie and send out these dispatches,” Jack said. He stepped into Main Street, joining the throng of miners and those living off the miners. He and Stonewall walked three doors down to the Lee & Brown Store on the corner of Main and Gold St
reets. A shingle with Pioneer Pony Express burned into it hung below the building’s main sign. Sitting on a stump, dressed in beaded buckskin, the always dapper Colorado Charlie Utter was using a rag to rub grease into the headstall of a newly fashioned bridle. Charlie looked up from his work as Jack approached. Stonewall ran up to him and licked his hand.
“Well, good morning, Stonewall,” Charlie said, rubbing the hound behind his ears. “And how are you today, Captain Jones?” he said, standing up.
“Good, Charlie. Have a little business for you if you’re interested,” Jack said, grasping Charlie’s outstretched hand.
“Always interested in a little business, Captain. What do you have for me this time?”
“Two dispatches for my newspaper. One concerns the death of Preacher Smith and the second concerns last night’s murder of Bummer Dan.”
“That sure is a shame about old Bummer Dan. Why the heck do you think Harry Young had to go and shoot him?”
“I’m not sure. Harry claimed he didn’t mean to kill him. He thought he was shooting at Laughing Sam.”
“Why would Harry think he was shooting at Laughing Sam?”
“Well, that is the strange thing about this case,” Jack said. “Bummer Dan was wearing Laughing Sam’s hat and checkered coat. So I can imagine in the dim light of Saloon Number 10, it might be easy for Harry to mistake him for being Laughing Sam, especially when he was wearing Laughing Sam’s clothes.”
“Is there bad blood between Harry Young and Laughing Sam?” Charlie asked.
“I don’t know, but I did see a confrontation between them last night. Maybe their feuding was going on before that.”
“I couldn’t tell you,” Charlie said. “I don’t know much about those characters. Although, Wild Bill knew Young from before Deadwood and thought well of him.”
“The killing of Preacher Smith is an even sadder tale,” Jack said.
“That it is. It’s such a shame the Injuns had to go and kill him. He certainly was a man of God. What’s your understanding of what happened? I was out of town making my express run to Fort Laramie and back, so I missed all the excitement.”