by Bill Markley
Jack paused and looked up at the bright blue sky, the pines gently swaying in the breeze.
“But I promise you this, Pete,” he said. “This is not over. This is not over by a long shot.”
Jack placed his hat back on his head, turned from the grave, and slowly walked down the hill.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A Night in November 1876—The drunk weaved through the empty back alley behind several of Denver’s many saloons. He pulled his coat tight against the crisp night air, shoved his hands into his pockets and belched.
Light spilling from a few cracked backdoors or the rare window punctuated the darkness. Laughter and shouting tried to compete with the lively piano music drifting out of the nearest establishment, a rousing rendition of “Camp Town Ladies.”
“Frank.”
The drunk stopped in his tracks, peering into the dark shadows.
“Who’s there?”
“Frank, it’s Johnny. Johnny Varnes.”
“Oh, Johnny. Ya scared me.”
“Frank, I think you got something for me.” Varnes stepped out of the shadows. “Don’t you?” Varnes asked, inches from Frank’s face.
“Johnny, I ain’t got your money yet. Give me a couple of days and I’ll have it for ya.”
“Why, you miserable, drunken idiot! You had enough money to go get yourself soused now, didn’t you? I need that money and I need it now!”
“How? I ain’t got…”
Varnes’s left hand shot out and grabbed Frank by the throat. His right fist smashed into Frank’s face. Frank fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Varnes gave Frank a swift kick to the ribs, forcing a scream from the injured man, but no one inside the buildings heard over their self-generated racket.
“I want my money and I want it now!” Varnes shouted as he kicked Frank again, this time in the groin. The helpless, sobbing drunk pulled into a fetal position. Varnes bent down and began searching Frank’s coat pockets for money.
A dog’s snarl a few feet away brought Varnes to a stop.
“What the …”
“Varnes,” a man’s voice spoke from the dark.
“What? Who’s there?” Varnes said as he stood erect.
“Johnny Varnes.”
“What do you want? Show yourself.”
The silhouette of a man stepped in front of the meager light spilling from the nearest saloon’s backdoor, turned, and faced Varnes.
“It’s time you pay up.”
“Pay up for what? I don’t owe you nothin’. People pay me. I don’t pay nothin,” Varnes said. His right hand imperceptibly inched toward the grip of his holstered pistol.
“Say, I know you. Get out of here now and I won’t hurt you like I hurt this drunk,” Varnes sneered.
“It’s time to pay up for Wild Bill,” the silhouette said.
Varnes’s hand reached the pistol grip.
“It’s time to pay up for Preacher Smith.”
Varnes slipped the pistol from out of the holster.
“It’s time to pay up for Carlos, Poncho, Bummer Dan, and the others.”
Varnes slowly brought up the pistol’s barrel level alongside his holster waist belt.
“But most of all, it’s time to pay up for Pete Adams.”
Varnes’s finger slid to the trigger of his double-action pistol.
“Bummer Dan was a useless fool, and that kid was just as stupid,” Varnes sneered, his finger applying pressure to the pistol trigger.
The crack of a pistol shot.
The beat of a heart.
The crack of a pistol shot.
Two blinding muzzle flashes flared the alley into false daylight.
Varnes dropped to the ground, his life ebbing out of a bullet hole through the heart. The silhouetted man stood erect, smoking pistol in hand.
The piano player continued to tickle the ivory keys. The revelers continued to laugh and shout.
The silhouetted man walked over to Varnes. He nudged Varnes with the toe of his boot. No response. The man stooped over the body. The nearest barroom’s meager light reflected off a watch fob and chain. The man unfastened the fob from Varnes’s vest and pulled out a pocket watch. He found a lucifer in his coat pocket and struck it. The flaring flame revealed the fob bearing the emblem of the Grand Army of the Republic and the watch of Elgin make. The man tripped the button and checked the time—ten p.m. Grunting a “humph,” he snapped the cover closed, dropped the watch in his coat pocket, and stood.
The dog sniffed at Frank, who was moaning, oblivious to everything but his own engulfing pain. The dog licked Frank’s face, giving a little whimper.
The silhouetted man holstered his pistol. “It’s all right, Stonewall. It’s all right.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In Deadwood Dead Men, I wanted to try to get the setting and feel of Deadwood as correct as I could for August, 1876. I read the newspapers and old-timer reminiscences; and asked questions of many folks who have more knowledge than I do. It was fun to put this story together and I want to thank all the people who have helped me along the way. First, thanks to Steven Anderson and all the folks at Goldminds for believing in my story and presenting it to the world. Thank you, Rose Speirs, for checking all aspects of the story and being my Deadwood connection on such things as when does the sun first appear in Deadwood Gulch and when does it disappear over the western ridges in August? Jerry Bryant, thanks for contributing your historical factoids. Nancy Plain, the Comma Queen, thank you for all the help with my grammar; I am a comma minimalist. Mike Pellerzi, Pard, thanks for your help with all things Western! As Mike says, “Keep your power dry and cinch tight!” Sherry Monahan, thank you for guiding me through the game of Faro. Slainte! Lucia Robson, thank you for your Asian advice, Abrazos! Cheryl Stein and Kathy Elijah, thank you for explaining Victorian customs and fashions to this novice on a hot August day along the banks of the Cheyenne River. Richard Bickel and Jim Hatzell, thanks for your help. Joe Nadenicek, thanks for your legal review of the Harry Young trial! King Bennett and the Camptown Shakers, thank you for your musical advice. If anyone wants to hear what the music in Deadwood would have sounded like in August 1876, listen to the Camptown Shakers. Thanks to the folks of the Adams Museum and the South Dakota Archives for all your assistance during my research. I know there have been others who have helped along the way, and if you know me, you know I have a faulty memory, so thanks to all those who have given me support and help during this writing. Thanks to my Mom and brother Doug for their support. Thanks to my wife, Liz, for putting up with my long hours of hogging the laptop and asking, “Hey, how do you spell…?” Thanks to my kids, Chris and Becky, for your support. In all I do, thank you, Lord, for all you have given me. It is a wonderful life! Last but not least, I want to thank you the reader, for time-traveling with me to Deadwood, August, 1876.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A member of Western Writers of America (WWA), Bill Markley is a staff writer for WWA’s Roundup Magazine. He has written three nonfiction books, and also writes for True West, Wild West, and South Dakota magazines. He earned a master’s degree in Environmental Engineering, has worked in Antarctica, and currently works for the South Dakota Department of Environment and Natural Resources. Raised on a farm near Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, Bill has always loved history. He reenacts Civil War infantry and frontier cavalry and has participated in movies, including Dances With Wolves, Far and Away, and Gettysburg. Bill and his wife Liz live and work in Pierre, South Dakota, where they have ra
ised two children, now grown. Deadwood Dead Men is Markley’s first novel.