In the words of Duncan Aikman: “The Joan of Arc of the Indian Wars, the angel of mining camp mercies, the tragic bearer of an erotic nemesis, the imp spirit of the frontier’s female wilderness, she was becoming folklore.”
And here is the legend of how Calamity Jane got her name.
How Old Calam Got Her Name
Some say “Old Calam” got her moniker because her life was one calamity after the other. Others say with conviction that she got her name because, shortly after making her acquaintance, gentlemen were stricken by a venereal calamity. Not so, say the dime novels written in her honor.
In the year of 1873, if an observer could have gazed upon the Goose Creek Valley of Wyoming, he would have seen a thrilling sight. Far ahead over the vast plain a fugitive white man was flying on his swift, foaming steed, enveloped in a cloud of dust. Behind him galloped a score of savages, their painted, gleaming visages distorted with the passion of exultation, vengeance, and the lust for scalps, their warbonnets streaming after them in the wind. Whipping up their ponies, they yelled like all the devils in hell, their strength pressed to the utmost limits. But even though the red fiends whip their horses until crimson flecks of foam spurt from their nostrils, they cannot gain upon him who wears the uniform of a captain of cavalry, riding erect on his magnificent charger, scorning his pursuers. It is Captain “Pat” Egan, the gallant cavalier, who is riding for his life.
But, egad, what is this? His horse flags as a lone slim figure, watching from a hilltop, spies the arrow shafts imbedded in the noble animal’s flanks. And behold, the horse is faltering, slowing to a labored walk as the savage foes come nearer.
The valiant Egan glances back: “I will sell my life dearly! God help me!” he utters prayerfully, but it seems that Satan himself is helping his red disciples. The foremost warrior looses his whirring arrow. It flies true and lodges between the shoulder blades of the stalwart officer. A loud report, and he is hit in the thigh by a bullet from a gun a vile, money-grubbing trader sold to the bloodstained miscreants in defiance of the law. Egan sways in the saddle. His steed sinks to its knees, its noble head touching the ground. Unafraid in the face of death, Egan confronts his foes. The chambers of his Colt are empty now, except for a last bullet he saves for himself. With triumphant howls, like coyotes circling a campfire, the savages surround the wounded soldier, giving a wide berth to his “arme blanche.” They want him alive, savoring in advance the fiendish tortures they mean to inflict upon him. He cannot escape. Nothing can save the brave captain. Death stretches out its bony hand to seize him.
But hark! Do you hear the thudding hoofbeats, the crack of a repeating rifle! IT IS THE BEAUTIFUL WILD JANE TO THE RESCUE!
Swift as lightning Jane Cannary came dashing down the hill from which she had surveyed the scene, a living sculpture astride her little black Mexican cayuse Trick, the animal running at the top of its speed, vaulting over every obstacle in its path—still the daredevil Wildcat of the Plains retained her seat as if glued to the animal’s back, her tresses flowing wildly back from beneath her slouch hat, her eyes dancing with excitement, every now and then her lips giving vent to a ringing whoop, which was credible in imitation, if not in volume and force, to that of a full-blown Comanche warrior.
Twice more in succession the trusty rifle cracked and each unerring bullet dropped its man, either dead or wounded, from his pony. A second more and she was by the captain’s side, heedless of the surprised and awed savages milling around in confusion, helping the wounded Egan to mount up behind her. One more exultant yell burst forth from her throat as she spurred Trick into a full gallop, and thus rescuer and rescued sped away as fast as the wind. They were not followed. The savages had learned to fear the daring maid’s marksmanship, seemingly a miracle of the whites’ Christian God. Discouraged, they gave up the chase.
When Jane and Egan arrived at the fort, the captain for the first time had a chance to thank and to gaze upon her who had saved him. Jane Cannary was the possessor of a form both graceful and womanly, and a face that was peculiarly handsome and attractive, though upon it were lines drawn by the hand of hard usage. The lips and eyes still retained in themselves their girlish beauty, the lips their full, rosy plumpness, and the eyes their dark, magnetic sparkle, and the face proper had the power to become stern, grave, or jolly in expression, wreathed as it was in a semiframework of long, raven hair that reached below a faultless waist.
Her dress consisted of buckskin trousers, met at the knee by fancifully beaded leggings, with moccasins of dainty pattern upon her feet; a velvet vest and a flowered shirt, open at the throat, partially revealing a breast of alabaster purity; a short velvet jacket, and Spanish broad-brimmed hat, slouched upon one side of a regally beautiful head.
She had dismounted and Egan feasted his eyes upon her with wonder and more than just thankful admiration. She smiled at the gallant officer: “Jane Cannary, at your service. But let’s take care of that cussed arrow first.”
“It’s nothing much, miss, and the leg, too, is only a scratch not worth making so much fuss about, or getting your dainty hands bloody. It’s all in a day’s work for us fellows in this man’s army. You saved my life. How can I ever thank you?”
“Oh, shucks, don’t mention it. Here’s my paw. Put her there. I’m as glad to see yo’re not badly hurt as a b’ar is to hug a human.” Calamity lightly vaulted back into the saddle.
“Hold on!” Egan protested. “Shall we not meet again, Jane?”
“Probably, as I’m gen’rally around. Whar there’s mischief, there you’ll find me.”
“I shall call upon you presently,” he said with a smile, making light of the pain his wounds caused him. “You are quite a woman. Were you a man, I am sure you would have risen to be a general. Jane, you are a wonderful little woman to have around in a calamity. I name you Calamity Jane, the Heroine of the Plains!”
And as Calamity Jane she was known from that day onward.
Calamity Jane Meets a Long-Lost Lover
Calamity Jane left the town, and riding up the gulch, turned off among the mountains, through a dark, lonesome ravine, through the bottom of which a small creek dashed noisily, and where but little of the light of day ever penetrated.
She was mounted on her thoroughbred cayuse, which had few rivals in the Hills, and well-armed with a sixteen-shot Winchester rifle, and a brace of holster revolvers, besides those she wore in her belt. Every bit of a mountain knight she looked, as she rode along, scanning everything around her with a sharp gaze.
Ahead of her, around an abrupt bend, came clear and sharp the ringing thud of hoof-strokes—then a fierce shout that echoed around the hills with clanging reverberations.
“Hello! Someone coming this way, I reckon!” Calamity muttered, wheeling her horse to one side, just behind a clump of manzanita bushes. “Either red-skins or road-agents, I predict, after some lone pilgrim.”
She had not long to wait to learn that her prophecy was correct.
A single horseman came dashing around the bend, with his horse running at full speed, while sitting with face backward; he was grasping a rifle in his hands, ready for use.
He managed to retain his seat with as much ease as though he occupied a fronting position, which evinced superior horsemanship.
From her position, Calamity could do no more in the way of a glance than to make him out as a young man—his face she could not see. Nearer and nearer he came; then a band of five horsemen burst forth into view around the bend, yelling like so many Comanche redskins.
They were road-agents, all armed with carbines of Winchester pattern, and were in hot pursuit of the lone fugitive, whose easy riding so attracted Calamity’s admiration, that she wheeled her cayuse out into the ravine with a ringing shout.
’ “Let ’em have it, pilgrim—plug et to ’em like blazes, an’ I’ll back ye! Hurra! Whoa up thar, you imps o’ Satan, fer ef ye buck agin’ Calamity Jane yer bound ter get snagged agin’ an earthquake!”
The words were
loud enough to be heard by the pursuers and pursued; then the girl dare-devil raised her rifle to her shoulder, and sent a death-dispatch with unerring aim into the road-agents, killing one outright, and wounding a horse.
Seeing that he was re-enforced, the fugitive opened fire, also dropping one of the desperadoes from the saddle, although the wretch was only wounded. Three others were left, and they came on with furious oaths and curses, beating their animals with the carbines to increase their speed, and then firing wildly.
One chance bullet struck the fugitive’s animal in the ear, and penetrated to the brain. Instantly, the poor brute began to stagger, then stumbled and dropped dead a few feet from where Calamity had taken her stand. Luckily, the rider was prepared, and he leaped lightly from the saddle, and escaped injury.
At the same instant Calamity’s rifle again cracked twice in succession and each unerring bullet dropped one stage-robber, either dead or wounded, from his horse; seeing that he now had no chance, the remaining outlaw turned his mount abruptly around and took the back trail, urging on his animal in mad desperation, with both spurs and voice. Bound to finish the victory, Calamity fired the remaining thirteen cartridges in her repeater, but only succeeded in wounding him, as he disappeared from view.
Then she turned to the rescued fugitive, who was standing by his dead horse, and gazing at her in admiration and wonder.
He was a man of some five-and-twenty years, with supple, handsome form, and a light, jovial face, which, while it possessed no particular beauty, was a good-naturedly, good-looking face, with perfect features, dark brown eyes and hair, and a slight dark mustache. He was attired in a gentleman’s garb, and armed with a rifle and a pair of revolvers.
Clearly, he was astonished at his sudden rescue, for he stood gazing at Calamity as if she were something more than mortal.
And she laughed in her cool way, as she crossed one shapely limb upon the neck of her horse, and returned the gaze in genuine Black Hills fashion.
“Guess you war purty nigh glad to get away frum them agents, pilgrim, warn’t ye?” she demanded at length, while she lit a cigarette.
“Indeed I was!” the man replied, with enthusiasm. “I had all the road-agent experience I care for, since I’ve been fighting the devils for the last half hour. There were twelve of the fellows when they commenced the chase, a couple of miles back.”
“An’ ye dropped ’em all, eh?”
“All but the three you fetched down and the fellow that escaped.”
“Wal, then, you’re a brick—thet’s all! Couldn’t a-done better myself. Reckon you’re a fresh ’un in these diggins, eh?”
“I am. I only arrived at Deadwood yesterday, and, purchasing a horse, set out for a ride to Whoop-Up, wherever that may be, having no idea the distance was so great. But excuse me, please, you’re a woman, are you not?”
“Well, yes, I reckon I am in flesh, but not in spirit o’ late years. Ye see, they kinda got matters discomfuddled w’en I was created, an’ I turned out to be a gal instead of a man, which I ought to hev been.”
“Indeed? There is something in your face which reminds me of a girl I used to know six years ago, before I went East, from Denver. What is your name, ma’am?”
“Calamity Jane, at yer service.”
“What? Janie was my little sweetheart’s name!” the stranger exclaimed. “It cannot be that YOU are indeed Jennie Forrest—the same I once knew. She left Denver for Virginia City a couple of years after, since when I have never heard from her.”
“Yes, I am Jennie—she that was Jennie Forrest,” Calamity replied, slowly, “but who can you be?”
“I am Charley Davis—don’t you remember me? Six years ago, on your sixteenth birthday, you promised to wait for me and become my bride!”
“YOU Charley Davis?” the girl exclaimed delightedly; “then thar’s my paw—grab it! I’m as glad to see you as a heifer is to see a bull.”
The stranger eagerly accepted the proffered hand and shook it warmly, while he gazed admiringly into the face of the girl-scout.
“You have greatly changed, Jennie, but it is for the better, excepting your attire. Why dress thus, when the attire of your own sex is more becoming?”
“I don’t allow ye ken beat men’s togs much fer handy locomotion an’ so forth, an’ then, ye see, I’m as big a gun among the men as any of ’em. An’ ef ye’re goin’ to Whoop-Up, let me advise you in one respect; snatch off yer b’iled shirt, an’ put on a flannel caliker. Reckon they’d set you up as a swell ef ye war to go in that way.”
“Oh, I’ll run the risks. But, Janie, isn’t your attire unmaidenly, considering your sex?”
“Maidenly—unmaidenly?” Calamity muttered, staring hard at him. “Charley Davis, when you left me, with a betrothal kiss clinging to my lips, I was a maiden, and as modest as they make ’em. But terrible changes have come since then. I am now a world’s dare-devil, people say. Ask me nothing, for I tell yer the same measure—nothing. In Whoop-Up—this trail takes you there, by turning to your left at the canyon below—in Whoop-Up you may by chance hear all that the world knows of the story. Go hear, and then you will not be surprised.”
She spoke with a fierce earnestness that was thrilling, and then drew up her bridle as if to go.
“Hold on, Jennie, shall we not meet again?” Davis exclaimed, very anxiously—“very soon, I hope.”
“Probably. I’m not hard to find,” saying which the girl dare-devil rode on up the ravine, leaving the stranger to pursue his way on to Whoop-Up afoot.
CHAPTER 12
The Man Who Never Was
Calamity Jane was about one-quarter fact and three-quarters fiction. Closely connected to her in legend was Deadwood Dick, a character who existed solely in penny dreadfuls written by Ed Wheeler, a Brooklyn city slicker. Real or not, thousands of his readers steadfastly believed that Deadwood Dick was a real live western hero. Does it matter?
Deadwood Dick
Calamity Jane, Wild Bill Hickok, and Buffalo Bill gave pleasant employment to dozens of pen-pushers grinding out a never-ending stream of dime novels in which the three famous frontier characters lent their names, unwittingly and unwillingly, to the most improbable yarns ever spun in western literature. A New York brownstone dweller by the name of Ed Wheeler, a so-called “penny-a-liner,” intended to horn in, but was in great need of a chief character. After searching long and diligently, but in vain, he decided to let his imagination run amok by simply inventing his own hero, “The Man Who Never Was”—Deadwood Dick! Wheeler cranked out a flood of dime novels featuring his mythical hero, using real Wild West characters, such as Calamity Jane, for a supporting cast. His readers were convinced that Deadwood Dick was a living person of flesh and blood, and soon the Man Who Never Was took his place among such folk heroes as Hickok and General Custer.
In 1926, when America celebrated its 150th birthday, Deadwood, South Dakota, celebrated “Black Hills Days of ’76,” glorifying Old Yellow Hair, Sitting Bull, Wild Bill, and such like. The trouble was that they were all dead. Nobody knew what had happened to the great Deadwood Dick. Could he possibly be still alive? A frantic search uncovered an old geezer named Dick Clark, found shoveling manure inside a Deadwood stable. Smelling free drinks and bundles of green frogskins, the manure shoveler confessed that he, indeed, was the long-lost one-and-only Deadwood Dick. Well, his name was Dick, and he was a native son, and he was willing to let his hair grow and wear a buckskin jacket and a “hogleg” in his belt. Deadwood Dick alive! The news spread like wildfire. The nice old fellow was the hero of the hour, the willing centerpiece of the big celebration. He even was brought to Washington to shake hands with President Calvin Coolidge. In no time he had convinced himself that he was what he claimed to be, cadging drinks at the old Nuttal and Mann Saloon, regaling the patrons with stories which invariably began: “Waaal, one time, when I an’ Calamity an’ Buffalo Bill was scouting fer Gen’ral Custer …”
Deadwood Dick and the Grizzly
Dea
dwood Dick was in a fix. He had accidentally run into the biggest, meanest, most ferocious bear that ever tried to hug a human being. The terrifying beast was enraged to find Dick on what it considered to be its own private trail. Dick climbed to the top of a stone outcropping, surrounded on two sides by smooth, vertical, towering cliffs, and on the two others by a yawning abyss. If he had hoped to be rid of his pursuer, he was to be quickly disappointed.
Dick’s was a situation few men could wish to find themselves in. There he was marooned upon the plateau, with the positive assurance that he must enter battle with the huge grizzly who had followed him with growls that were anything but music to Dick’s ears. The bear fixed Dick with malevolent eyes in evident contemplation of a fine meal, while Dick faced bruin, not sure how to handle this antagonist. He had his two six-guns, but these were puny weapons, sure to fail to penetrate the thick matted fur and layers of hide and fat of the mighty beast.
Dick accordingly drew his Green River knife and edged out into the center of the plateau, near the ugly brute. He had no wish to be crowded off the plateau into the bottomless abyss below. As he advanced, the grizzly reared up on his hind legs, towering over the fearless westerner, and came on with a reverberating growl that would have chilled the blood of everyone but our gallant Deadwood Dick. The man braced himself. He knew that he faced a life-and-death struggle, and he set his teeth together, determined to sell his life as dearly as possible.
On came the monster, with his frightful jaws wide open, Dick feeling its hot, foul breath upon his face. He sprang forward, plunging his knife deep into the bear’s breast, but before he could dodge, Dick received a tremendous blow from one of the grizzly’s paws that sent him reeling halfway across the plateau. Instantly drawing one of his Smith & Wesson revolvers, Dick fired, in quick succession, six bullets into the yawning wound he had opened with his knife. His heart was pounding as he was seized by a strange excitement, close to elation. The bullets had staggered the huge brute, and blood was spurting from the wound in a sickening stream; yet the maddened giant attacked once more with a mighty roar that seemed to shake the hill to its foundation.
Legends and Tales of the American West Page 35