Deadwood Dead Men

by Bill Markley

  “As I understand it, Preacher Smith as usual was preaching on the street, standing on a crate and had a good crowd. During the sermon, Calamity Jane grabbed his hat and used it to collect the offering and shamed many to contribute more than they would have been accustomed to give,” Jack said.

  “That Calamity Jane, she is something else!” Charlie said, breaking into a grin.

  “She surely is,” Jack agreed. “Anyway, after the take, they counted it and the combination of dust, coin, chips, and markers added up to roughly two hundred and fifty dollars. Not bad for less than an hour’s work.”

  “Not bad at all,” Charlie said. “Maybe I should go into the preaching business.”

  “After that, Preacher Smith headed north out of town to preach at Crook City. Not more than a couple miles north of town, Indians gunned him down. There are some peculiar facts about this killing of Preacher Smith. The Indians shot him through the heart with a lead bullet. They did not scalp or otherwise mutilate him and they took his money, including the markers.”

  “Interesting that the Injuns would take his money, but even more interesting that they would take markers. Maybe they had a use for them—use them as padding or to start a fire.”

  “Humph, yes,” Jack pondered. “I hear they found nothing that belonged to the good preacher on that brave they killed near him. You would think, if the Indian was the killer, he would have had some sort of trophy on him to cerebrate the kill.”

  “You know, if my pard Wild Bill was still around, this horseshit would soon come to an end.”

  “How so?” Jack asked.

  “Some of the more well-to-do businessmen in town were fixin’ to hire him as the town lawman, even though we don’t really have laws and rules. Wild Bill would have done a good job of knocking heads together and running off those who would want to rob and steal,” Charlie said, shaking his head and looking down past his beaded moccasins to the mud and filth in the street.

  “This is all well and good to speculate, but I better be getting back to business,” Colorado Charlie continued. “I assume your Chicago newspaper will pay for the dispatches in the usual manner?”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Jack said. “By the way, you haven’t seen Laughing Sam this morning have you?”

  “I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him.”

  “Well if you do, tell him I’d like to talk with him about the shooting last night.”

  “I bet if nothing else, you’ll see him during the trial,” Charlie said.

  “That’s right. Jury selection should take place tomorrow and maybe the trial later that day.”

  The tone of the street noise rose in volume and intensity. Jack and Colorado Charlie turned to see what all the commotion was. Two muscular Cantonese men walked up the street, one behind the other. Each carried a staff in his right hand, and a stout pole rested on their left shoulders. Over the pole lay a woven mat to screen the sun. Below the pole and suspended between the two men by bamboo rods was a platform and backrest. This sight alone would cause people to stop, stare, and comment, but the person the men carried was the one who caused the stir.

  A young Cantonese woman sat upon the platform, her limbs and feet tucked under her. Richly embroidered red silk robes flowed down, covering her entire body. A white silk sash gathered the woven silks together at her slim waist. One delicate hand held a fan decorated with painted flowers and birds, which masked the lower half of her face. Combs held her black hair in place, arranged like a frame around her pale face. The fan accentuated her dark brown eyes. The men who had a glimpse of the upper half of her face appeared mesmerized. The few soiled doves who were out this time of day scowled and whispered. The woman was stunning.

  As the two men approached Charlie and Jack, the Asian beauty spoke a sharp command, stopping them. Her dark eyes danced with amusement. She lowered the fan below her face. She was smiling.

  Colorado Charlie and Jack snatched the hats off their heads and stammered together, “Good morning, ma’am!”

  Nodding her head slightly to them, slowly and distinctly she said, “Good morning, gentlemen.” Laughing, she raised the fan to cover her mouth. Speaking a command in Cantonese to the two men, they proceeded on their way. Charlie and Jack stared after the woman, until she and her escort were lost from their sight in the humanity and cattle filling the street. Both men realizing they still held their hats in their hands, quickly returned them to their heads.

  “Was she staring at you?” Charlie asked.

  “No, I think she was admiring your flowing golden locks,” Jack said.

  “I don’t know,” Charlie replied.

  “Do you know anything about her?” Jack asked.

  “Not much. I hear she’s very wealthy, and I would say, looks and acts the part. If she is rich, why is she here? Who would want to come to this God-forsaken place if they could live anywhere they want? She’s bought three lots where Sherman Street runs into Main and she is having workmen construct three buildings on those lots.”

  “Humph, well back to the business at hand, can you tell me where…”

  “Wait a minute,” Charlie interrupted. “I forgot, I have a message for you that arrived yesterday!” He bounded through the Lee & Brown’s door and soon emerged, handing an envelope to Jack. Ripping it open, he quickly scanned the message. It was a letter from his editor. He read it slower the second time.

  July 31, 1876

  Chicago, Illinois

  Dear Jones,

  We have not heard for some time from Macmillan who, as you know, has been with General George Crook since May. We want you to leave Deadwood, find Crook posthaste, and determine the army’s disposition. Find out what it has accomplished, as well as the status of the hostiles, after which you will send a complete report to us. Hire a guide if necessary and transportation. Buy any supplies you may need to procure. We authorize you to have all items billed to the InterOcean. There is no time to lose.

  Your Obedient Servant,

  Obadiah Green

  “Humph! Who’s the obedient servant here?” Jack said to himself.

  “What do you mean?” Charlie asked.

  “My editor thinks I need to chase after Crook and find out what has happened to him and his army. Seems they have disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  “Weren’t you with Crook earlier this year?”

  “Yes, I was with him up until after the fight on the Rosebud. I left after Crook decided to try his hand at fly-fishing for trout in the Big Horn Mountains instead of continuing to pursue the Sioux and Cheyenne. Maybe if he hadn’t dawdled, he could have put pressure on the hostiles, pushing them into General Terry and Custer’s hands. Things might have been very different and Custer and his men might still be with us.”

  “It was a bad deal,” Charlie agreed.

  “When does the express leave for Fort Laramie?” Jack asked.

  “I’ll be sending a rider south in two days.”

  “So I have two days, not more than three, to report on the outcome of Young’s trial, get my supplies together, and find a scout who can possibly locate a missing army that could be anywhere in Dakota Territory,” Jack calculated. And try to figure out what happened to Bummer Dan’s gold, Jack told himself.

  “Charlie, hand me back one of those dispatches, would you?”

  Charlie gave Jack one of the brown-papered packages. Jack produced a pencil from his coat pocket and began to write on the package:

  Dear Obadiah,

  I will attempt to find Crook, but after you read about the recent murder here in Deadwood, you should agree with me that the trial of the murderer is significant and should help the InterOcean’s circulation. I’ll send my report after the trial and then hit the trail for Crook, his army, and the hostiles.

  Your Obedient Servant,

  Jack Jones

  Jack grinned as he wrote “Your Obedient Servant.”

  “As I was about to ask earlier, I know you’re good friends with Calamity Jane…”<
br />
  “I sure am good friends with her!” Charlie responded as he winked.

  “Can you tell me where she is?”

  “Well, she’s likely to be found just about anywhere, but she has been frequenting Al Swearengen’s Cricket Saloon an awful lot. She’s been earning money there as a dance hall girl. If she’s not there, she might be tending those fellas what came down with smallpox at the pest house outside of town. She claims she’s immune to smallpox, and maybe so. She tends to them every day and stays healthy as a horse. And if you can’t find her at those places, come by my camp in the evening. She stops over every now and then.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Charlie. One last question, since I now have to chase after Crook, any idea on a good scout who might be able to help me find Crook and keep my scalp at the same time?”

  “Well, right off the top of my head, no pun intended, you might try California Joe Milner. He knows the Hills and surrounding territory better than any other white man. He rode into town with Wild Bill and me. He’s hard to find though. The more flush merchants hired him to scout about the territory for hostiles and warn the town in case of attack. Seems the good merchants are skittish until the army can round up the hostiles and take them back to their agencies.”

  “If California Joe’s in town, where would I find him?”

  “You could find him at just about any watering hole, but half the time he’ll stop by my camp and freeload off my whiskey. I’ll let him know you’re looking for him. You’re staying at the Grand Central Hotel, right?’

  “Right,” Jack said. “I’m not sure what he looks like.”

  “He’s a blue-eyed man mountain standing over six feet tall, wearing the largest sombrero I’ve ever seen,” Charlie said. “He’s an ugly cuss, although if he cleaned up some he’d probably be presentable. He wears buckskins, but not as clean as mine. His red, bushy beard and long hair are all matted, greasy, and unkept, and he’s quite the talker.”

  “Thanks, Charlie, I appreciate it,” Jack said. “I better move along. I think I’ll nose about the Black Hills Pioneer office to see if they’ll share any news, and I need to stop in at the livery stable and see if they have any news on my horse with the Montana Herd out on Centennial Prairie. I’m concerned about him after the Indian raid on the herd Sunday. I’m hoping he’s not listed among the missing.”

  “I hear the Injuns are still poking around the herd, trying to steal a horse or two more,” Charlie said. “People are saying the Injuns ran off two hundred horses. I usually keep a few mules and horses out there, but during the day of the raid, all mine were away being used. Hope your horse is safe.”

  “Thanks, Charlie,” Jack said. “Come on, Stonewall.”

  Jack decided to first check on his horse and then visit the newspaper shop. Jack and the dog turned left, walking west on Gold Street toward the stable situated flush against the steep gulch wall. Several horses stood motionless in a small corral, except for their tails swishing at flies. The sign over the building’s door read “Montana Feed, Livery, and Stable.” Jack pushed open the door and walked into the main part of the building. Inside it was cool and dark. Aromas of hay, horse manure, and sawdust mixed and competed to overwhelm each other. A row of stalls ran along the right-hand side of the building. Several horses standing in the stalls chomping on hay looked up. A horse in the closest stall nickered a welcome. Jack walked over to the horse, put out his hand for the horse to smell, then stroked the horse’s forehead, and as Jack rubbed behind the horse’s ear, he said, “And what’s your name?”

  “His name is Paco,” a voice with a distinct French accent said from the haymow. A white-haired black man stopped forking hay and asked, “Can I help you, monsieur?”

  “I want to check on my horse with the Montana Herd out at the Centennial Prairie,” Jack said.

  The man approached closer and Jack could see he had led a rough life. Long scars ran across the man’s arms and one ran diagonally across the left side of his face. Stonewall ran up to him. The man bent down to let the dog lick his hand and then the man stroked the top of Stonewall’s head.

  “I must look in the book to see about your horse,” the man said as he walked to a roughly fashioned counter and opened a large ledger book.

  “Your name please, monsieur?” the man asked.

  “Jack Jones.”

  The man flipped through a few pages, running his finger down each page.

  “Ah yes! Here it is, a bay gelding with blaze on his forehead, one white sock on the right foreleg, and a five-inch scar on his left shoulder.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I have no entries beside the horse. The men are still gathering the horses together. Many ran off during the Indian raid. It may be a few days until they have an accurate count and we will know if your horse is with the missing or the found.”

  “That’s fine,” Jack said. “Thank you. By the way, we have not officially met. As you know, my name is Jack Jones and if I may ask, what is yours?”

  “But of course, my name is Hannibal Morris, but you can call me what everyone else does, Old Frenchy.”

  “And you can call me Jack.”

  “Very good, Monsieur Jack.”

  “So you are from France or Louisiana?”

  “Ha! Ha! No, mon ami. I am from French Guiana.”

  “I see. If I may be so bold as to ask, how did you come by those scars?”

  “Ah yes. I was born a slave in 1819. My first master was cruel. I ran away when I was sixteen years old. My goal was to join the maroons and…”

  “Wait a minute, Old Frenchy. What are maroons?”

  “Ah yes. The maroons are escaped slaves who live beyond the settlements and plantations, out in the jungle. They live as free men. And that is what I wanted to be. But I was caught and I was whipped in front of the other slaves to show what would happen to them if they tried to escape. I was sold to another master and again tried to escape. Again, I was caught, flogged, and sold. Five times, I was sold. Finally, my last master brought me to New Orleans with him. The American War Between the States started and when General Butler captured New Orleans, I walked away from my master and never looked back. I’ve been a free man ever since. I am one of the first to reach Deadwood and I have a good job here at the livery stable. I love this country! Ha-ha!”

  “What a story, Old Frenchy! I am glad to make your acquaintance.”

  “And what is your story, if I may ask?”

  “Not much to tell, Old Frenchy. I’m employed as a newspaper reporter for the Chicago Inter-Ocean. And I’m writing a story on last night’s murder of Bummer Dan by Harry Young.”

  “That is a sad story,” Old Frenchy said, a broad smile vanishing from his face.

  “As part of my story, I want to interview Laughing Sam Hartman. You don’t happen to know where I could find him do you?”

  “Ah, mon ami, I do not know the man.”

  “How about Calamity Jane?”

  Old Frenchy broke into a grin. “Who can say with her? She is like the wind. Here one moment, gone the next.”

  “My final questions, do you know California Joe and if so, have you seen him in town?”

  “Oui, I know him, and no, I have not seen him, monsieur.”

  “Well, I thought I would ask. Thank you for telling me your story. I’ll see you around town.”

  “Thank you, my new friend. Bonjour.”

  Jack and Stonewall left the building and walked a few steps to the south on West Main Alley to the new building housing the Black Hills Pioneer. It was sandwiched between two buildings used by women of loose virtue. Jack entered the front office. The overpowering smell of printers ink permeated the air. There appeared to be no one around. Outdated newspapers cluttered the room, and a stack of the latest editions leaned against the wall by the door. A newly constructed pine table served as the editor’s desk and a stump served as the editor’s chair. Papers and bills were strewn in disarray and in heaps on the table. Clangs of metal on metal punc
tuated by swear words came from the back room.

  “Halloo!” Jack shouted. “Anyone about back there? Hide your stories! It’s the opposition!” The backroom door flew open. A stout, smooth-shaven man wearing a printer’s apron over his clothes stood in the doorway. Begrimed with printer’s ink, A.W. Merrick strode into the front room.

  “Oh, it’s only you, Jones,” Merrick said, peering over his spectacles.

  “And I’m happy to see you too, A.W. What’s news today?”

  “Why should I share my hard-earned information with you?”

  “Why not? We both have different readerships. We might as well collaborate.”

  Merrick removed his spectacles, stared at Jack, and grinned. “Care for a shot of whiskey?”

  Jack glanced at the regulator clock on the wall behind Merrick’s head. The clock’s pendulum was swinging with its methodical tick-tock as its hands indicated 10:30 a.m. He took out his pocket watch. It read 10:00 a.m., which he believed was the more accurate time.

  “Humph, why not?” Jack said.

  Merrick turned and entered the backroom, returning a minute later with a half-full whiskey bottle and two battered tin cups. He poured an inch of the amber-colored fluid into each, gave Jack a cup, and held his up to Jack’s.

  “A toast to our successful endeavors!” Merrick said.

  “To our successful endeavors!” Jack responded. They clanked their cups together and downed the whiskey. Merrick smacked his lips, and Jack exclaimed, “Oh Emma!” They both laughed.

  “Now down to business,” Merrick said. “What are you working on?”

  “The main story is the murder of Bummer Dan,” Jack said, “And any follow up there might be to the killing of Preacher Smith.”

  “Those aren’t the real stories! The real story is the growth of this town, and lack of government. If we had good sound government, we could put an end to most of these murders. We could put an end to the disease running rampant through this town. We could put an end to the sharp practices that are gouging our good citizens. Oh Emma! Just look at the streets! Sure, we have the town platted, of sorts, but the streets are filled with filth. Why hell, the damn stumps and boulders are still protruding up from the mud that will suck the boots right off your feet and swallow small children. We need good government and the rest falls in place!”