Calamity

by Libbie Hawker

  I spent a few fruitless hours drifting about the streets, searching for some way to drive the image of Wild Bill’s corpse from my head. The alleys and lanes of Cheyenne was all filled with angry shouts, with the tight, coiled tension of violence waiting to be unleashed. Big and strong I may have been, but I didn’t wish to encounter any men that night. Their fear and grief made them unpredictable. I wasn’t keen to be any man’s victim, so I stuck to the patches of light that spilled out of taverns and saloons; I hung about the hitching posts and patted horses’ necks, listening to cries of disbelief that seemed never to end—listening to the pianos in the bars, playing too loud and forceful to sound happy. An ill omen had descended upon Cheyenne, all right—maybe on the whole damn West.

  Finally, I knew my lonesome state would drive me mad, even there in the midst of the crowded Cheyenne streets. I resolved to find a card game and join in, just for the sake of having someone to talk to, though I knew already that no one would talk of anything but Custer’s disastrous battle. And joining a card game meant stepping foot inside a saloon. I had kept myself well away from whiskey since leaving the road ranch; the persistent headaches had only vanished a couple days before.

  You ought to go back to the boarding house and take to your bed, I told myself even as I made for the nearest bar. No good will come from putting yourself within reach of a glass.

  But I couldn’t bear the thought of laying in my hard, narrow bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. There, I would read no answers to the questions that chased themselves around and around inside my head. Shut up at home like a proper lady, the not-knowing would eat away at my soul. Long before morning came, I would surely go mad with fear on Wild Bill’s account, and then I’d be of no use to anybody, least of all to myself. I needed answers—or at least some conversation to distract me from my thoughts. That’s how I found myself in a saloon called the Swinging Bucket, bellied up to a game of faro with three subdued and pale-faced young men.

  One of them looked up from his misery long enough to study my face. “Ain’t you Calamity Jane?” he said. “I swear I saw you shoot in a fancy dance hall some two years ago.”

  “No sir,” I said, lowering my eyes to study my cards. “My name is Margaret Bird. But I heard a time or two before that I resemble the famous Calamity.”

  That was enough to throw the boys off my trail—or so I devoutly prayed. Talk turned at once to the news of the day.

  “Damn shame about the Seventh.”

  “Damn shock, is what it is.”

  “I call it treason,” said the third fellow. “There’s no way a pack of Reds could have pulled one over on Custer. Some white man turned his coat and slipped the Reds some secret or other—the General’s plans. I guarantee it.”

  “Martin Wells, that is the stupidest fucking thing I ever heard you say, and by God, I’ve heard you say more than your fair share of stupid things.” That fellow tossed a few chips into the kitty, then seemed to recall that I was there. He nodded in my direction. “Begging your pardon, Miss Margaret.”

  “I promise you, some traitorous white man was involved,” Martin said. “The truth will come out, sooner or later.”

  The man who had begged my pardon sighed, long and deep. “You’ve always underestimated the Indians. That’s your trouble. You can’t conceive of the Sioux defeating Custer because you think they’re all as dumb as you are. If you ever dealt with them yourself—if you seen what I seen out there with Dodge—you wouldn’t make such a foolish mistake.”

  I studied my cards even harder while my cheeks burned. So that man had been on Dodge’s expedition. He wasn’t the fellow who had seen me shoot, and I had counted it unlucky enough to encounter one man who might recognized me. What about this other fellow?—I couldn’t help but wonder. Dodge’s rider hadn’t so much as blinked when I’d given my name as Margaret Bird. Maybe he never came close enough to see me, on that trek from Fort Laramie to the fateful crossing of the crick. Or maybe recognition just hadn’t caught up with him yet. I should have gone back to the boarding house, after all. Martha, you damn fool!

  Warily, speaking with the most casual tone I could muster, I said, “Oh, was you on Dodge’s expedition in the Black Hills? What was that—more than a year ago? I recall I heard some tell of that expedition, months gone by.”

  “Yes’m, I was on the very same detail.”

  “He was only there for half of it,” Martin said peevishly. “Makes out like he’s some great Indian fighter, but he spent a couple weeks riding with Dodge—that’s all.”

  Dodge’s rider cut his friend a long, dark stare. Then he said to me, “True enough, that I was only along for a few weeks. I didn’t join up till the end of the summer. Had to make my way out from Kansas first, and by the time I got to Fort Laramie I missed the departure and had to wait around till a shipment of supplies went out. I joined up then. But,” he added, “a few weeks of action was plenty of time to become acquainted with the Sioux. And plenty of time to know that you, Martin, are full of shit.”

  I slumped in my chair while the game went on, for the relief of knowing I wouldn’t be recognized had turned my backbone to water. I played my hand rather half-heartedly and listened while my table mates ribbed one another without the least mercy, and predicted in dire tones what Custer’s defeat would mean for Cheyenne. They was all unanimous in their belief that the tragedies at Rosebud Creek and Little Bighorn brooked nothing good for any white man. Or woman. I ought to have fretted more over the promised disaster, and I knew it—but till I’d heard some definite word of Wild Bill’s fate, I could attend to nothing else.

  After a spell, a lull fell over the conversation. I took advantage straight away. “Say, that trek you made with Dodge. Wasn’t there a fella attached, by the name of Bill Hickock?”

  The rider perked up at once. “Wild Bill?” He tossed another handful of coins into the kitty and grinned at me. “Sure was. He was a damn fine scout, I must say.”

  “A dandy is what Bill Hickock is,” said Martin sourly. “I never heard of no fancy-man being much good for anything.”

  “Then I reckon you haven’t met an awful lot of fancy men,” said the third player. He leaned over the table, looming toward Martin Wells. “You better tread carefully, son. Never know who’s hiding his fanciness under his clothes.”

  I broke in before they could inflame themselves enough for a fight. I didn’t much care whether they took it out into the street or not, but I wasn’t about to let the talk die out before I’d learned what I could about Bill. “No reason to come to blows, friends,” I said. “I was only curious. I must have read about Wild Bill in a newspaper back in Fort Laramie. I heard he’s the best scout who ever lived, and a great Indian fighter, too.” I swallowed hard, toying with my cards to stall for time. I longed to know, yet I was frightened of the truth, too. “I guess Wild Bill must have joined up with Custer, seeing as how Custer went to fight the Sioux. Nothing much else makes sense.”

  “If he joined up with Custer,” Martin said, “then he’s nothing but a pile of bones on the banks of the Little Bighorn now. Fat lot of good Wild Bill’s vanity did him, in the end.”

  My heart stopped beating. I felt it freeze in place, felt the surge of panic and pain, the rush of blood to my head. My ears roared loud as a waterfall, loud enough to drown out the wails of despair and drunkenness from the dark streets of Cheyenne.

  Then Dodge’s rider spoke, nice and short and dismissive. “Very likely Wild Bill would be dead, if he’d been with Custer. But he wasn’t.”

  “He wasn’t?” Cards fell from my trembling fingers; I scrambled to retrieve them before the men saw what I’d held. “How do you know?”

  “’Cause I seen him.” The rider laid down his cards—a devastating hand—and scooped the kitty towards himself. “After Dodge’s expedition, all manner of patrols went out around Wyoming to search for more gold. I ran into them plenty, while I worked here and there. I caught sight of Bill Hickock at least half a dozen times over the past
year, and never was he in proximity to General Custer.”

  “He’s a coward; that’s why,” Martin said.

  I rounded on him at once. “Bill Hickock ain’t no coward. I never heard such horse shit in all my days.”

  The men laughed in appreciative shock—even Martin. Then he said, “How would you know whether he’s a coward or not, Miss?”

  “Just what I read in the papers,” I muttered, and tossed my useless cards down on the table.

  “You all right?” asked Dodge’s rider. “You come over flushed all-a-sudden.”

  “I’m fine. Guess the news about Custer is finally catching up with me.” I pressed my hands against my burning cheeks. My heart was a drumroll inside my ribcage, loud and rattling. Never in my life had I known such relief; the sheer giddiness of certainty made my head spin, even though I was sitting down.

  “You look just about sick, Miss Margaret.”

  “I feel all right. Don’t you boys worry none about me.”

  “You do seem awful peaky,” said the third man, the one who had threatened Martin. “You ought to have a tonic to bring you back around. Let me buy you one. Least I can do, since you was kind enough to call Martin out on his horse shit.”

  Wild Bill was alive. He hadn’t been slaughtered with the Seventh Cavalry. He had been roaming free throughout Wyoming Territory—free and easy, blending into the vast beauty of the land that was his and mine. My joy in that moment was boundless—so great and fierce and shivering, it made me reckless.

  “If you’re buying,” I said, “I’ll have a whiskey.”

  “By God,” Dodge’s rider chuckled. “She swears and she drinks. No wonder you’ve oft been mistaken for the infamous Calamity Jane.”

  Moments later, the glass bumped down in front of me. I could smell the warm welcome of liquor, the biting promise of revelry and comfort, and above all else, forgetfulness. Whiskey was the only door I could close between myself and the assortment of dreads and terrors and black, looming shames that haunted me in my lonesome moments. What did fear and shame matter that night? What did Custer matter that night, or the Sioux, or the inevitable downfall of the West? Wild Bill was alive, and I alone—of all the residents of Cheyenne—was in the mood to celebrate.

  You won’t believe me, Short Pants, but I don’t recall much else of that night. Next I knew, my three friends from the faro table was gone. So was the Swinging Bucket Saloon, and God knows how many empty glasses—which I had drained, I suppose, while my new friends cheered me on. First I became aware of a terrible chill—a biting cold—and the faint dampness of dew in the air, the smell of dew-covered sage. Then the pale gray half-light that looms up from the eastern horizon just before the sun rises. I heard crickets in long grass, and the first twitter of a lark, away off across the prairie.

  And then I heard a man shout, “Miss, I said to put it down and come toward me. Keep your hands where I can see them. Miss! This is the sheriff talking!”

  There was something bunched up in my hand. Cloth. A great quantity of cloth, and it was slightly damp from the dew, just like all the rest of the world. I let the bunch of fabric unfurl from my hand. It was a woman’s dress, fine and beautifully made, with pintucks and ruffles all down the chest and silk ribbons at the collar. I stared at the thing astonished, never knowing how it came to be in my possession, nor why I was standing in the middle of Cheyenne’s main street just before dawn, far on the south side of town.

  I’ll spare you a recollection of my trial. It’s a long and sordid tale; even now I blush with shame to remember. All you need to know is this: I was spotted nicking dresses off of clotheslines in the yards of all the best homes of Cheyenne. It seems that day a great many women forgot to bring in their wash, which is understandable, considering they had all convinced themselves that an army of Sioux was likely to descend upon the place any minute and scalp them all to death—now that the protective talisman of General Custer had been so thoroughly destroyed. I was over-bolstered on whiskey, and took it into my head to improve my wardrobe—or so I presume. I can’t imagine what else would have inspired me to go raiding from clothesline to clothesline in the dark of night.

  I spent three weeks in that beautiful new red-sandstone jail for theft, as well as for a general raising of Hell. The jail wasn’t near as pretty on the inside, and those three weeks of confinement rank among the worst days of my life. I had nothing to do but dwell on my foolishness, endlessly berating myself for the whiskey and my gluttonous tendencies. The whiskey had proved itself an abominable way to celebrate Wild Bill’s continued survival, for hadn’t I sworn I would come clean and never touch the stuff again, all for his sake? Worse, I had ruined my fresh start in Cheyenne, and no mistake. If I’d thought it tough to find honest work before, I knew I’d be in for a devil of a time now that I’d become a known quantity in that city.

  The only saving grace of my tenure was that the sheriff had been kind enough to retrieve my goods from the Skipton House. He carried my boarding fee to Silkie’s livery stable, too, so my horse was safe and seen to while I did my time. The sheriff stowed my personal effects in an apple crate at the far end of the jail, well beyond my reach, but I scarce took my eyes off that box while I stewed in remorse. Wild Bill’s gun was among my goods. I never would have forgiven myself if I had lost my true love’s pistol.

  By and by, my three weeks of imprisonment concluded, and I was escorted from my cell to a small, stuffy room furnished only by a table and two chairs. Through a narrow window, I could see the prairie stark and yellow, dried and oppressed by the violent summer sun. The flat plain rippled in the heat, all the way out to a pale-blue horizon, to the line of the Medicine Bow range crouching low in the distance.

  The sheriff entered the room carrying my box full of goods. He had found my black sombrero, too; it sat atop the whole lot like the finial lid of some improbable tureen. He set the box on the table. “You gave your name to the court as Margaret Bird,” he said. “You were under oath, so I must assume you told the truth, even if I can’t quite make myself believe you.”

  I swallowed and said nothing.

  “Let me tell you how it’ll be, Miss Bird. This town has enough troubles just now. The night I picked you up, the whole place was on the verge of a riot on account of Custer’s downfall. It took my deputies considerable effort to restore order to Cheyenne, and I am not eager to see that order dashed again. There’s no place in this town for a woman who drinks herself into wildness and then flits around in the dark of night, outraging her neighbors with larceny. Such behavior won’t be tolerated again. If you don’t behave like a proper lady—” Here he paused and lifted my sombrero gingerly, as if he feared he might find a rattler sleeping underneath. Instead he found my trousers and my guns, which he seemed to consider equally upsetting. “—you will be sent out of Cheyenne for good. We are upstanding citizens, here. We aim to make this a fine city—fine as any Back East. If you can’t keep yourself under control, you’ll find yourself on the road to Fort Laramie or some other place. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes sir,” I said at once, “perfectly clear. And I’m real sorry for my bad behavior.”

  He pushed the crate toward me. I was free to go. But of course, after three weeks ruminating in a small, dark cell, I was convinced—and rightly so, I believe—that no one in Cheyenne would give me a chance now. My only hope was to leave the town altogether and light out for a new destination.

  Now, seeing as how I’d been gifted free room and board for three weeks, courtesy of the town of Cheyenne, I had more money in my purse than I had expected. And I liked the look of my worldly possessions packed neatly in that crate; it made a nice change from my usual state of affairs, which was to cram everything I owned willy-nilly into saddle bags. I determined to give myself a little treat, and leave Cheyenne in higher style than I’d entered, so I proceeded at once to the livery, where I sprang Silkie from her own confinement, retrieved my tooled-and-silvered saddle, and rented a cracking sharp buggy with a
team of four.

  The livery man squinted at me in doubt when I put forward my request. Ladies didn’t drive themselves unless it couldn’t be helped, but I had learned the secrets of driving a team many years prior, and I was itching to relive the experience. Besides, I didn’t look much like a lady by that time, for I had changed out of my calico dress and back into trousers and chaps—a more agreeable costume by anyone’s standards. It took a fair heap of cajoling and the addition of some extra pay, but by and by, I wore that livery man down and drove out of Cheyenne alone, perched proudly in the driver’s seat with my team of four stepping out smartly to my command and Silkie tied to the back. I ain’t too proud to admit that as I left Cheyenne behind me, I saluted the whole place with one vigorously extended finger, a gesture I learned from an Italian railroad man who had called on me more than once during my hurdy-gurdy days.

  Many a story has followed me over the years; many legends have attached themselves like burrs to my name. Some are untrue—dreamed up by scribblers like you, Short Pants, all in the name of earning a buck. I bear you no ill will, nor any of your kind: the dime novelists and sensationalist writers who have come west seeking my legend, seeking the ghosts I left along my countless lonesome trails. We all must earn our pay; no one knows that better than old Calamity Jane. Most of those stories can only be called fabrications, but some ain’t—or at least, some contain more truth than fiction.

  The famous tale of how I drove ninety miles from Cheyenne to Fort Laramie blind drunk, though—that is a scurrilous lie, and I will insist it’s a lie till I finally turn to dust and blow away on a prairie breeze.

  I am so vociferous in my denial because once I was let out of jail, I was dead set on coming clean. I knew Wild Bill still lived, and so my motivation to transform myself redoubled. God and the Sioux may have taken Custer from all of us, but my love had been spared. I was apt to believe in miracles that summer—even the most unlikely miracle of breaking whiskey’s hold on me for good. New wings of gratitude had me flying high; I faced the lonesome trail and my future with pluck and vigor. No thirst plagued me on that journey, save what I could slake at any ordinary crick or spring. I had no clear idea of where I ought to go, for every town in Wyoming Territory seemed as unlikely to afford me comfort as Cheyenne had been. The budding city fell away behind me—its haphazard boarding houses, its beautiful new jail, its bubbling Custer-induced fear. But I didn’t mind. I had set my heart not on fear but on love, and I chanted under my breath as the team of four swung out onto the open prairie. Take me wherever Wild Bill may be. Take me to my love.