A Deadwood story -- Plain Jane, part 5

~~~

At this point in her interview with JJ Drinkwater, Martha “Calamity Jane” Canary paused and looked around.

“Dio?” she asked in a small, almost child-like voice. “Ya got any o’ Miz Estwee’s pie about? I am feelin’ a mite peckish.”

“Yep.” answered Dio. “Got some o’ her apple crumble. I shall fetch plates for you an’ JJ, should he care to join ye. An’ fer that matter, when was last time ye had anythin’ o’ substance fer vittles?”

Martha looked sheepish at first and then defiant. “I am quite sure that I ain’t got the goddamndest recollection...but that don’t matter bein’ as the likes o’ me kin live off’n seegars ‘n red eye quite nicely, thank ye very much...why, I kin...”

The older woman held up the gold 20 dollar piece. “No ye cain’t. Goddammit, girlie, ye know I was wooin’ John Barleycorn for a many a year m’self. Hence, I understand all too well what drinkin on a em’ty stomach’ll do to yer innards. So hesh up raht now ‘fore ye win me this bet only half way through the afternoon.”

Martha Canary laughed and mumbled something about “yes mother.” Dio then brought over plates of Estwee’s highly regarded apple crumble for her and the writer, even though JJ had not actually asked that she bring one for him.

In fact, he had not said anything at all throughout this exchange. He appeared to be lost in thought--very deep thought. Suddenly he roused himself and looked at the young woman across the table from him, fixing her with a gaze that that was both piercing and at the same time tinged with empathy.

“Martha,” he began in a slow, clear voice that picked up momentum as he spoke. “You were perhaps thirteen years old...your parents were both dead...you had no other relations to draw upon for support...and you got your siblings placed with families that would care for them, but you yourself...you were on your own?”

Calamity Jane nodded enthusiastically. “Yessir! Master o' m’ own fate. Captain o' m’ own ship, by Gawd!”

“I have to ask...what did you do to get by...to survive?” said JJ Drinkwater.

“OH hell, scribbler, it were better than mere survival.” The young woman grinned. “I followed the railroad camps as the line got built through Wyoming an’ Montana, an’ spent time around the army posts like Fort Russell an’ Fort Sanders. Yeah, I did things to get by...like I said before, singing songs in saloons fer spare coin...then I moved on to dancing in the hurdy gurdy houses...sometimes, I was doin’ a bit o’ laundry ‘n cookin’ fer the boys who built or guarded the line, an’ the ones haulin’ the supplies. Then as I got older, yeah...I got into workin’ the road ranches, sellin’ m’ company. But don’t get me wrong. It was a great time fer a gal like me. Bein’ aroun’ sojers, teamsters, ‘n the railroad men...an’ often bein’ like a mascot to ‘em...I also learned all manner o’ things...useful things like handlin’ firearms passable well; how to win at cards; the way’s o’ proper drinkin’ ‘n cussin’...an’ even how to handle a team o ‘ mule or oxen.”

The boisterous activity in a dance hall or "hurdy-gurdy" house of the type that Martha Canary worked in.

The writer sat back slightly surprised at this answer. He looked over at Dio, who nodded, chuckling, “She ain’t pullin’ yer damned leg, there JJ. She’s a right decent bullwhacker an’ muleskinner. She ain’t the best lady teamster I ever seen, but by God, she’s better’n a good many o’ the men who follow the trade. Martha’s got the two mos’ important skills ye need fer it--she handles the big whip like one born to it...an’ she kin cuss like one o’ the divil’s dockhands.”

JJ turned back to Martha. “So...rather than what is related in all these stories...stories about you being a scout...fighting indians...you were...a camp follower?”

“Yeah...purty much sums it up, I reckon.” Calamity Jane agreed. “But mind ya, I did actually go on a couple o’ military expeditions.”

“Indeed? I had heard a story that you were on General Custer’s 1874 Black Hills expedition, and...”

“OH HELL NO,” Martha interrupted. “I warn’t never along with any o’ the column’s commanded by Yella Hair. But I did go along on Mr. Jenney’s expedition in 1875, with the rock men lookin’ to confirm the presence o’ gold in the hills. Well...I was along with ‘em as far as their camp at French crik, an’ then the officer o’ the troops that was with ‘em, he found out I’d been passin’ m’self off as one o' the young men o’ the column, an’ he sent me back with the supply wagons to Ft. Laramie. That was m’ first time in the Black Hills!”

The young woman smiled and shoveled the last bit of apple crumble into her mouth. “Say Dio, could I get me another cuppa joe here, t’ warsh the pie down?”

While the older woman refilled the coffee mugs all around, Martha Canary continued her narration. “T’other military expedition I went on was Crook’s campaign against the injuns in June o' 1876. Got to go along on that lil’ jaunt by dressin’ an' workin’ as a muleskinner in the pack train o’ the column.”

“What happened that time?” asked JJ

“Oh, well, damn if I didn’t get caught once agin, an’ was sent back to Ft. Fetterman with the wounded after the fight on the Rosebud.”

The writer looked pensive. “Tell me, Martha, what possessed you to want to go along on those expeditions?”

Calamity Jane smiled. “Goin’ with Crook...well sir, it certainly was an adventure...but mostly twas fer bizness purposes. As a matter o’ fact they was two o us...me an’ another workin’ gal known as ‘Little Frank.’ She dressed like a feller too, ‘til we got caught. But they was a surprising amount o’ money to be made on a trip like that.”

Quite actually, JJ Drinkwater was not particularly surprised to hear this. Marching through the wilderness, there wouldn’t be anything else for the men to spend their pay on. Even if the girls only managed to conceal themselves for a short while, a couple of prostitutes obviously would do very well working amidst a column on campaign. But Martha Canary’s next statement did catch him a bit off guard.

“On the other hand,” Martha said with a sigh, “I went on the Jenney expedition in order to be with this fella--a sargint in the army--who I fancied more than others. Just so ya know, Mr. scribbler, I ain’t always flexible with m’ affections. In point o’ fact, I prefer to be settled down with an agreeable man. An’ I have done so...at times, steadily enough to regard the fella as m’ husband--tho’ without benefit o’ clergy, o’ course. It’s in between those occasions that I have turned to whorin’...”

It was at this point that JJ Drinkwater had something of an epiphany. In her wandering from place to place, attaching herself to closely-knit groups--soldiers, bullwhackers, railroad navies--not to mention floating in and out of more-or-less monogamous relationships with “husbands”...Martha Canary probably was looking for a new family, a place to belong...a situation to fill the void once occupied by parents and brothers and sisters...

And her habitual sessions as bar-room raconteur and every man's congenial drinking buddy...ultimately, that too was most likely about wanting to feel “at home” someplace. Even the temporary companionship of saloon “pards” can seem like a form of family for a little while, especially when the companionship is lubricated by the sharing of plentiful liquor and some whacking good stories.

JJ paused for a moment and then asked his next question in a quietly earnest voice. “While we are on this subject...the subject of men for whom you formed a particular affection...might I ask about your connection with James Butler Hickok?”

“Hehe, WILD BILL!” laughed Calamity Jane, “now that was a MAN!”

Suddenly Martha stopped and looked over at Dio, who was frowning...and who had resumed spinning the gold double eagle. She smiled wanly at the older woman and sighed before continuing.

“Yessir, Wild Bill was one hell of a man. He warn't a’feared o’ nothin’ this side o' Satan’s outhouse. He dressed ‘n acted like a real gennelman...an’ was probbly the finest pistolero, cardplayer, former scout an’ sometime lawman you could ever hope to meet. An’ no...while I thought he hung the goddamned moon, he had no interest in me. Bill ‘n me never took up together. He’d jus’ got married to some lady from Ohio, after all. But we got here in the same wagon train, ya know...ya see, I’d kinda gotten in a little bit o’ trouble around Ft. Laramie ‘bout the time that Charlie Utter’s outfit was restin’ up near there for the last leg o' their trip t’ the Black Hills. The provost marshal at Laramie kinda suggested it might be a good idea if’n I accompanied the Utter party to the gold fields.”

Martha chuckled and took a big swallow of her coffee. “I knew some o’ the boys who was workin as teamsters fer Colorado Charlie, an’ they talked him into lettin’ me jine ‘em. An’ in all honesty, there was, in fact, a man I formed an attachment to in that party...but it warn’t Wild Bill. Twas Charlie Utter’s brother, Steve. We got on quite well, him an’ me..fer a while anyhow. But Bill...he...he liked me...I think. I made him laugh sometimes...’til he got irritated with me, an’ then he’d send me off ...or one time, he give me some money, tellin’ me to get cleaned up an’ dressed like a gal...”

She laughed and slapped her knee. "That was somethin’ it was! Good ol’ Steve, he done took me to the Whitewood crik an’ give me a hand with the scrubbin’...Wild Bill an’ the others claimed they din’t even reckanize me when I was done gettin’ all dolled up. Bill made much o’ askin’ t’ be interduced to this ‘new lady’ when I come around to show him how I looked...but no..that was what m’ connection with James Butler Hickok amounted to. It was kinda like bein’ a mascot to the sojers or the bullwhackers agin...or mebbe...mebbe like a lil’ sister who ya tolerates an’ then lose patience with after a spell...”

Martha Canary’s voice had softened and taken on a slightly plaintive edge. “I took it right badly when that mud-eatin’ cocksucker McCall shot Bill in the head. Took it even worse when that miners’ court let him off an’ jus’ tol’ him to get the hell out o’ town. McCall got what he truly deserved in the real trial in Yankton. But that warn’t gonna bring Bill back. Things jus’ warn’t the same with any o’ us after his killin’...”

JJ Drinkwater nodded. “Martha...how did people come to start calling you by the ‘Calamity Jane’ nickname?”

“Well ya see, pard, it’s like this,” answered Martha in a very serious tone, “they’s actually a number o’ Calamity Jane’s from here to Montana...an’ it’s just that when someone like me enters the scene, all peace an’ quiet is generally disturbed by the great rumpus I will sooner or later set in motion...we's like a calamitous event that stirs things up! But I think I am most likely the best known o’ any o’ the Calamity Janes...”

Dio nodded in agreement. She rose and stood behind Martha Canary and placed a hand gently on the plain-featured young woman’s shoulder. “Yessir, that’s a good explanation fer the name...this here gal is like a force o’ nature...some calamity like a whirlwind or a flood or a wildfire that’ll turn things upside down..an’ like she says..make one hell of a distrubance...but some o’ us think it’s a bit more’n that....Martha’s had her some hard luck o’er the years. We all catch some bad breaks...part o' goddam life...but ye kin argue that she’s had more’n her share in her time.”

JJ Drinkwater closed his notebook. He was not going to disagree with Dio’s assessment.

~~~
to be continued...

A Deadwood Story -- Plain Jane, part 4

~~~

Suddenly, Calamity Jane looked at Dio with apparent suspicion. “Wait a goddamn minute. Yer puttin’ up a gol’ double eagle in this wager...what if I lose?”

The older woman smiled benevolently. “Oh I reckon I shall give ye a choice, Martha. If’n ye should not be able to go all afternoon without tellin’ any fabrications to Mr. Drinkwater, I shall require of ye either one o’ yer pistols, OR that ye take the temp’rance pledge and abide by it fer at least a month. Yer choice.”

Martha “Calamity Jane” Canary looked somewhat alarmed for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Done. Though I ain’t fer certain as to how yer gonna know if'n what I sez is the God’s Honest ‘r not.”

“Well, hon,” I reckon we’ll sort that out as we go,” replied Dio. “Should I doubt the veracity o' some tale or statement, I shall challenge ye on it...and we shall settle it as best we can.”

The young woman laughed and slapped her knee. “Allright, I reckon the two o’ us kin figger it all out...Mr. writer gent, ya may proceed.”

JJ Drinkwater smiled and took out a notebook and set of already sharpened pencils from the pouch that carried his writing materials. “Splendid, Miss..ah..um...would you prefer that I call you Miss Canary, or Jane or...”

“Martha,” brusquely answered the young woman, without waiting for him to finish. “Jane ain’t m’ real name, an’ Miss Canary sounds...oh hell’s gatepost, it sounds like yer talkin’ to someone else, not t’ me. Most o’ m’ friends ‘n associates do call me Jane, an’ have fer years...but i would not give ol’ Dio there the satisfaction o’ me conveyin’ somethin’ that ain’t the absolute truth so early on in our conversation. I have no wish to allow the grizzled ol’ sack o’ buzzard guts any excuse to retain that 20 dollar gol’ piece. So Martha it shall be fer the duration o this conversation.”

Dio chuckled at this as JJ nodded and wrote something at the top of a fresh page in his notebook. Then he looked up, and asked in a quietly serious voice, “We should begin with your origins--what can you tell me about your family and your birth...starting with the when and where of it.”

“Well, sir,” began Martha, “I was born in the year o’ 1856, near Princeton, Missouri. M’ pa, Bob Canary was a farmer from Ohio, an’ m’ ma, Charlotte, she was mostly yer ordinary sort o’ farm wife...she bore a number o’ young’uns while we was in Missouri, m’self, an’ a brother, an’ a couple o’ sisters. I was the oldest. We left there when I was oh, mebbe ‘bout 8 year old.”

“Why did you depart from Missouri and where did you go?”

The young woman sighed. “Oh, best as I understand it, m’ pa had legal troubles. Owed folks money, that sort o’ thing. So we took off fer the gold fields of Montana, though I recall we tarried in Iowa fer a spell with fam’ly. Pa figgered he could make a decent livin’ diggin’ the yella’ metal in Montana. But he couldn’t nor didn’t.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“I ain’t fer certain, but after a while he was tryin’ to live off gamblin’...an’ m’ ma was takin’ in warsh fer other folks...an’...well, I was tasked with lookin’ after the younger chillun’...was on m’ own most o’ the time with that...even had to do a bit o’ beggin’...fortunately miners kin be generous fellers when they got some color in they pokes...oh yeah, I oughtta mention that Ma had her another babe durin’ this time, so I was carin’ fer a infant sister t’ boot, whilst Ma was tryin’ to make some money.”

JJ looked up from his notebook. “That...must have been...very difficult.” He was impressed that Martha was describing her family’s misfortune in such matter-of-fact, undramatic terms. Dio was giving off a very different affect as well. Her cocky, smug expression had melted into something softer, a sort of half-smile...and she was no longer flipping and spinning the gold piece. She left it laying on the table as she rose and went over to pour two mugs of coffee from the pot on the small iron box stove. As she returned to the table, she sat one mug in front of the writer, and one in front of Martha. Then she gently patted the younger woman on the shoulder as she sat back down.

Martha looked at Dio with an odd little smile and then turned back to JJ. “Ya do what ya gotta do. Lots o’ folks face hard times now ‘n then...people lose their farms or have t’ sell ‘em fer less than they paid...they work brutal hard t’ get by, an’ then some goddamn thing 'r other happens...a lawsuit, the cholera...or the war...an’ ever’thin’ goes t’ shit, spittle ‘n ruin. So ya try to find a way t’ get back on yer feet. But with us’n, it din’t get no better, fer Ma died a couple years after we got t’ Montana, an’ then Pa passed a few years after that in Utah. Reckon I was ‘bout 12 at that point.”

“What did you do after that?”

Martha shrugged. “I was tryin’ to keep us all together as best I could...I done things like goin’ in saloons an’ singin’ songs fer the boozehounds, tryin’ to squeeze a coin ‘r two out of 'em here ‘n there....o’ course, thing is, even then, I couldn't sing worth a good goddamn.”

The young woman laughed and took a long swallow of black coffee and then frowned.

“Some folks offered to take us in...an’ I tried to get along in those circumstances, but I’d gotten used to bein’ m’ own boss by that time. Eventually, I found sitiations where m’ sisters ‘n m’ brother had fam’lies to stay with...folks who would do well enough by ‘em. But by 13 or 14 years o’ age, I was purty much a free agent, settin’ m’ own course.”

~~~
to be continued...

A Deadwood story -- Plain Jane, part 3

~~~

JJ Drinkwater and the Widow Kuhr had stepped back out from the cool darkness of the Bonanza dance hall, blinking in the bright afternoon sun. Noticing a dark dampness that had been left behind after the day's shooting victim had been carted off, Dio scuffed some dust over the spot with her boot.

Her new friend, the writer, watched her in a glum silence. When she had finished more or less camouflaging the blood that had spilled in the street, she looked up and smiled a little sadly.

Yer feelin' a tad let down, ain't ye pard?

JJ Drinkwater tipped his bowler back on his head and stared thoughtfully back into the depths of the dance hall.

"No...not really," he said after a bit. "I've come to expect most stories that I chase to prove to be something less than I was led to expect. I suppose...well, I suppose I'm just a little bit tired."

Dio nodded. "Been a long day I 'spect. Ye got ye a place to rest yer carcass?"

JJ shook his head. "No, Miss Dio, I do not. I should attend to that. I stopped in your establishment almost immediately after having got down from the coach--I had no opportunity to investigate the possibilities."

Well, I tell ye what, pard, I shall take ye tothe Grand Central an' interduce ye to Miz Cookie an Aunt Coodnank who runs the place. I shall see to it they pervide ye with suitable 'commodations." Dio gave a bright little grin. "I think yer gonna like them ladies. Miz Cookie, well, she come from a high-falootin' N'Orlins famly which musta fallen 'pon hard times...an' she is just as charmin as the devil's butler...as well as bein' purt near a madwoman, unless I'm greatly mistaken."

This comment had its intended effect. JJ suddenly snapped out of his vague reverie and suddenly looked a bit intrigued. "Indeed? Mad, yet she runs a hostelry?"

"Yep," continued Dio. "Oh, an' her friend an' associate, Aunt Coodnank--she's this grand mountain of a colored creole woman, a gal o' some respectable age an' substantial wisdom...who is in point o' fact known to converse 'n make idle chit-chat with deceased folks...tho' in all honsety I do at times get to wonderin' what it is that they who've crossed o'er would have to talk about. Seems to me bein' daid probbly don' offer all that much in the way o' fodder fer lively conversation"

JJ looked at the compact figure of the frontierswoman, hands on her hips, her face wreathed in a smile of genuine enthusiasm, and he could not but help smile as well.

"Miss Dio, it would be an honor and a pleasure to meet your friends. I am immensely indebted to you for whatever you are able and willing to do in the way of suitable introductions."

"My pleasure pard, " Dio replied."I think yer gonna find Cookie 'n Coodnank an' their tales will be o' great interest to a scribbler like yerself--an' I can assure ye that Cookie fer one shall be most tickled pink with yer manner o' speech an' the way ye carry yerself. She's oft bemoanin' the lack o' real gentlemanly gents in these parts. An' I am more than happy to make ye known to various other folks who I trust yer gonna find intriguin'...tho'...I tell ye what...would be shame fer ye to come here an' not talk to the personage ye was orignally seekin'....I'm gonna talk with Sam at the Bonanza an request that he have Martha Canary call upon ye when she has once again got up a proper head o' steam suitable fer navigation."

Before JJ could say anything or protest that such an arrangement was unnecessary, Dio had strode purposefully into the dance hall. A moment later, she returned, and with a broad grin and a wink, announced, "Miss Clamity Jane shall meet us at the Number 10 tomorrow, bright and early, somewhere towards the crack o' noon.

Well, Miss Dio was as good as her word on all counts. She did get JJ introduced to some extremely colorful characters that evening, including the aforementioned Miz Cookie and Aunt Coodnank, and the good Mr. Drinkwater, depsite his exhuastion, did in fact find them all to be uniquely delightful.

Likewise, Dio had done a proper job in making arrangements for JJ to meet the actual object of his visit. Shortly before noon the next day, as he sat in the Saloon Number 10, sharing a newspaper with Miss Dio and her friend, Roku, the gunslinging courtesan, JJ was was startled by a harsh, strident voice baying from just outside the saloon, "Cockadoodlefuckin'doo DIO! HERE I AM! Bright an' goddam early as promised, ya dried-up ol' harpy!"

The widow Kuhr looked up from her piece of the paper. "MARTHA! ye scrofulous sack o' miscellaneous ill-used woman parts! Get yer miserable rye-soaked ass in here!"

JJ was surprised, not so much at the impolite vocabulary that decorated the greetin's that were exchanged, as much as he was by the expression on Dio's face.

She looked sincerely pleased to see Miss Canary, who in turn, was grinnin' like a dead possum at Dio. Roku on the other hand, did not even bother to look out from behind her paper, and from JJ's vantage point next to her (he could glimpse her face around the side of the newsprint page she held up), he could see that Roku's expression was not at all friendly.

He didn't have long to reflect on that however, as Dio was already introducing him to the woman who was already the centerpiece of numerous stories being told in places like Laramie and Cheyenne and beyond. He stood and extended his hand without hesitation--Martha Canary grasped it firmly and shook it in a very man-like way.

While Mrs. Kuhr made the introductions, JJ took mental notes about this woman who stood before him. She was of middling height and slight build, with dark, shortish hair and a plain but not unpleasant face. She was considerably tidied up since he had seen her yesterday--he could smell the fragrance of lavender soap from her--and her hair had been washed and neatly combed. Miss Canary wore a different dress...a better one than yesterday. It was a tiny bit frayed at the cuffs and collar, but clean and carefully pressed. There was something...something that JJ found curiously likable about the young woman.

Dio had previously suggested to JJ that he begin proceedings by buying a round of lager for all present (coffee in Dio's case), which he did, and this seemed to get things off to a good start. Martha Canary sipped her beer and sighed happily, and then looked at JJ.

"To yer very good health, pard...an welcome to the Black Hills."

JJ wished her good health as well and raised his glass to their hostess who clinked her coffee mug against all their glasses...including Roku's which had magically appeared for a wordless toast from behind the paper she was still reading.

"So Sam tells me that yer a writer, and that is why ol' Dio wished fer me to come meet ya?" asked Martha.

"Yes," answered JJ. "There are stories related about you down in Cheyenne and thereabouts...you know, there are even some things that have been written about you..."

The writer pulled out a modest booklet from his satchel--Dio could see the words "The Black Hills and American Wonderland by Horatio N. Maguire" on the cover.

Martha Canary took the pamphlet from JJ's hands and regarded at it for a moment with an oddly wistful look. Then she passed it back to him saying, "Pard, I would be greatly obliged if'n ya would read fer me the passage what mentions me...I ain't never larned no readin."

Mr. Drinkwater opened the small volume to a page that had a corner turned down and began to read a section that described how the author, on arriving in the Black Hills, inquired of an "old pioneer" how far it was to Deadwood. The man pointed to a figure on a horse and said, "About a mile and a half; that girl on a horse is going there now." The author said that rider appeared to be a boy rather than a girl, and the old pioneer assured him that it was most certainly a female, a girl known as "Calamity Jane."

The story made Martha Canary laugh.

"Yessir," she snorted, "I do get called that. But that story...tis amusin'...however, let me tell ye some REAL stories about ol' Calamity Jane..."

There was a sudden rustle as Roku put down her paper. She rose without a word and put her empty beer mug on the bar. Finally she spoke, "Thank ya fer the lager, scribbler. If ya care to invest in somethin' truly memorable, come down an' visit me at the Bella. See ya later, Dio." Without looking at Martha, she strode out. Nor did Martha acknowledge Roku's comments or departure. She simply sat with her face fixed on JJ Drinkwater, a stiff sort of smile etched into her features.

Suddenly, JJ was aware of a faint ringing sound. Dio was spinning a bright yellow coin on the table.

"Martha," she said in a quiet voice, not looking up from the spinning coin, "Yer a bettin' woman. I got a 20 dollar gold piece that says ye can't spend the entire afternoon talkin' with JJ here, tellin' him stories about yerself, all of which are nothin' but the absolute, rock solid, unvarnished truth."

Martha Canary looked slightly perplexed and stunned...then a grin slowly spread across her face.

"An afternoon o' stories--an' nothin' but the God's own truth?"

Dio smiled a slight, sardonic smile, and nodded.

"All right, ya goddamn heartless crone, yer on," spat Calamity Jane.

~~~

A Deadwood Story -- Plain Jane, part two

~~~

Without a word Dio rose from her seat at the 10’s lone table where she sat with JJ and some of the other raconteurs. Malachi--an older colored miner who worked on the side now and then as a bartender for Dio--was on duty that day, and he reached under the bar to pull out the canvas haversack which held her medical gear. He tossed it to her as she strode past. JJ Drinkwater suddenly found himself sitting in an empty saloon as everyone present had quickly followed in Dio’s wake. He looked around for a moment, and then realizing he was missing an opportunity to be a first-hand witness to the brutal nature of life on the frontier, he rose and went to see if he could find the scene of the shooting.

It wasn’t all that hard. A considerable crowd had gathered around the dance hall, which prominently featured its name, the “Bonanza” painted in large white letters on its false front. He pushed through the ring of onlookers to see his new acquaintance, Mrs. Kuhr, kneeling over the body of a man who lay in the street. She was evidently feeling for a pule on the victim’s neck. Next to her stood a stocky, heavily-muscled young man with tired face and short-cropped hair. Pinned to his expensive-lookin’ waistcoat was a star-shaped badge. He did not look like he was happiest man in the world at the moment.

Dio looked up at the young lawman and shook her head. He nodded and then turned towards the open door of shabby dance hall, his hand on the butt of his pistol.

“Goddammit Shortribs!” bellowed the deputy, “The stupid sonofabitch has gone ‘n fuckin’ died! Now come on out and let’s get this over with...”

An angry voice replied from the depths of the Bonanza, “Sweet Mother o’ Christ, Badger! What manner o’ fuckin’ damn fool do ya take me for? Twas a damned accident I hit that wretched greenhorn! Was tryin’ to shoot Dirty Jon Swenson, cuz he drew on me an’ shot first!”

Another voice--undoubtedly that of Mr. Svenson, and obviously drunk--enthusiastically chimed in from the dance hall’s interior, “Aye, Badger, thas’ right! Me ‘n Shorty was shootin’...but I ain’t mad no more...din’t mean for no one to go get shot...you ain’t gonna try to hang good ol’ Shorty, are ye?”

The deputy spat on the street. “Jeezus fuckin’ Christ, Swenson! Ya goddam drunken witless oaf! That ain’t for me to say...judge has to deal with that...but I gotta bring both o’ you silly bastards in for all o’ this!”

The crowd went dead silent as a man appeared in the doorway. JJ assumed this must be the one called “Shortribs” due to his diminutive stature. Although the writer’s powers of observation were somewhat slowed due to his consumption of substantial quantifies of excellent lager beer during the conversation at the 10, he did focus on an important detail: Mr. Shortribs had his gun drawn. To further complicate the situation, in a blink of an eye, with a rapidity that even in his somewhat befuzzled state JJ found quite impressive, the deputy--whose name was evidently Badger--had drawn his own weapon and had it pointed at the small man in the door of the dance hall.

Suddenly, JJ Drinkwater was starkly aware that the entire crowd of onlookers had evaporated as if by magic. The only ones besides himself who were still present were Badger and Shortribs--both still holding their guns on one another--along with Dio and the dead man. JJ then also noticed there was a tall, shapely blond woman, dressed in men’s clothing and wearing several guns, who was causally leaning against a porch post not twenty feet away, watching the proceedings with a studied indifference. Otherwise, the vicinity was utterly deserted.

“You ain’t takin’ me in, Badger. Twas a accident,” hissed the short man.

“Goddamit Shortribs,” replied Badger, “That man there is deader’n hell’s breakfast. Can you get that through your thick little skull? I can’t let ya walk away from this...”

JJ wondered how this was going to turn out. Neither man apparently really wanted to shoot--otherwise they would have already started pulling triggers--but neither was apparently willing to back down. Then JJ noticed Dio very slowly getting up from her kneeling position next to the body. In a deliberate, almost stately fashion she casually strolled over and placed herself directly in between the two men with the drawn firearms.

When she spoke her voice was eerily gentle and calm.

“Come on boys. This ain’t makin’ no sense. Shorty, if ye go quiet-like, ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to ye. Ye said yerself, ye drew in self defense, an’ Dirty Jon admits it...he shot first. The feller ye hit--twas a accident. They ain’t gonna hang ye fer that. An’ Dirty Jon, he’ll probbly only do a lil’ time fer drawin’ on ye an’ tryin’ to kill ye...hell, folks do that alla time, an' it sounds like he’s sorry. Ye are sorry, ain’t ye Jon?”

“YES MA’AM!” came the cheerful inebriated reply from inside the Bonanza. “Damnably sorry ‘n regretful!”

“Now look, Shorty,” Dio continued, “yeah, ye kin try to shoot it out with Badger, and ye might get kilt, or ye might kill him. But if’n ye do kill him, law won’t ever let ye alone. They’ll hunt ye down like a goddam rabid dog, once ye’ve taken the life of a lawman.”

She turned to the deputy.

“Badger, pard, listen...tis best we try to work this out peaceable--if’n ye have to kill Shorty tryin’ to take ‘im, well, shitfire, ye know the man has a great many friends in this sorry lil’ town. Some of ‘em would mos’ likely come gunnin’ for ye as a consequence, an’ then things would jus' get real goddam complicated. How about ye promise Shorty he’s gonna get a fair trial--then I shall count to three, an both o' y’all just reholster on three.“

Badger looked thoughtful for a moment and then nodded.

“Allright, Shortribs--ya got my word...fair trial...all on the up and up. I will put away my gun when Dio counts to three, if you will...”

There was a pause. Finally the short man answered. “I’m agreeable.”

Dio slowly counted to three and the men cautiously reholstered their weapons. It was simple after that: Badger did not even bother to put handcuffs on Shorty, though he told him he would have to take his weapon when they got to the jail. Taking Swenson in proved simple as well, as in his drunken state he insisted that he would happily accompany Shortribs, in order to keep him company. Dirty Jon was at that stage of inebriation where he was rather comically declaring his undying friendship for the little man, and repeatedly expressed his sincere regret for having tried to kill him.

Before Badger led them off to the calaboose, Dio gently laid a hand on Shorty’s shoulder.

“Thank ye fer bein’ reasonable. So what was it...arguin’ o’er a gal?”

Shortribs laughed sardonically, “Ain’t it always gonna be about a woman?”

Dio sighed. “Goddam good thing ol’ Dirty Jon is such a piss-poor shot.”

The little man grinned a bit. “Don’t hurt that I’m a turrible target, as well...”

Dio chuckled and then turned to wave at the tall young woman leaning against the porch post. The well-armed blond nodded and ambled off down the street. Meanwhile, JJ Drinkwater had come up to stand next to Dio as she repacked her medical bag. Some of the men who had disappeared when the guns had been drawn were slowly reappearing, and Dio asked them to fetch a cart and take the dead man to Mr. Sorrowman’s.

Finally JJ spoke,

“Miss Dio...that was quite remarkable...and...well...standing in between two men with drawn firearms like that to stop them from....I must say, I’m just...”

Dio interrupted him. “Aw hell’s britches JJ! Twarn’t no dreadful great act o’ bravery or nothin’...I figgerd they din’t really want to shoot or git shot o’er such foolishness...an’ ‘sides..that tall gal who was o’er yonder...she had m’ back...if’n one of ‘em had showed signs o’ makin’ a move to actually fire, she’d a had iron out faster than ye can say grandma’s knickers and ventilated ‘em.”

A look of comprehension suddenly passed over the writer’s face. “Oh my word..was that..was that the female scout known as Calamity Jane? I have read about her in some publications..there’s this guide to the Black Hills that a gentleman named Horatio Maguire has written...and tales I heard in Sidney, but really didn’t give much credence to...”

Dio shook her head and laughed. “Oh satan’s whiskers, JJ! In the name Jeezus an his happy horn-blowin’ angels, don’t EVER say such a thing to that gal’s face. That ain’t Martha Canary--that’s Roku Hallard--she’s a sometime security guard and sometime courtesan, an’ a good friend o’ mine...an’ she would take great offense at bein’ mistaken fer such a creature as Calamity Jane. You go ‘n ask her if’n she’s that person, an’ she mos’ likely would rip yer arm clean outta its socket, an’ then wallop ye o’er the head with the damned thing to chastise ye fer insultin’ her so.”

JJ Drinkwater looked puzzled.

“Would ye care to meet the actual Calamity Jane?” asked Dio. “Come on then..she’s more’n likely right there in the Bonanza. She works pretty regular as a dance hall gal, among other things.”

Dio walked over to the door of the dance hall and peered in. “Hey Sam!” she called out. “Is Martha in there?”

Whoever Sam was, he replied in the affirmative and Dio gestured for JJ to follow her into the dim interior of the Bonanza. She led him back to a table at the rear of the hall, where a slightly-built woman in a stained and mended dress was slumped over, apparently passed out from a session of personal interaction with a bottle of red eye that stood nearly empty by her elbow.

Dio grasped a handful of the short greasy hair on the back of the woman’s head and lifted it so JJ could see her plain, worn face.

“Mr. JJ Drinkwater, may I present to ye Miss Martha Canary, alias Calamity Jane,” said Dio in a very formal tone.

She then let go of the woman’s hair allowing her head to slump back on to the table top with a dull “thunk.” Dio noticed the look of consternation and disappointment that marked the writer’s face.

“Sometimes feet o’ clay extend all the way up t’ the neck,” she commented dryly.

~~~
to be continued...

A Deadwood story -- Plain Jane, part one

~~~

You know, to read some of the various accounts of life in the Black Hills during the Gold Rush back in the seventies, you would think that the only women present were either dissolute members of the demi-monde, or the occasional starched and proper lady, struggling to impose some element of civilization upon the situation.

Of course, truth is, it weren’t that simple. Truth never is.

In fact, there was actually a considerable variety of women of all classes, dispositions, and degrees of moral turpitude present in 1876 to ’77. Certainly they were greatly outnumbered by the men folk, but they were there nonetheless--hardworking laundresses and cooks, sturdy and capable farm-wives who followed the men who followed their dreams of golden wealth, and even more than a few enterprising businesswomen--as well as the numerous chippies and dance-hall gals, and the very occasional proper lady or two. And if you really want to get at the quartz-bearing, bed-rock, honest-to-Peter reality of it, in those days it was actually pretty challenging to fit a great many of the Black Hills women-folk into one hard-and-fast category or another.

Nossir, finding truth of any kind is not a simple thing.

The difficulty of sorting out truth and myth of the Gold Rush days did not stop many writers and journalists from being drawn to the Dakota Territory at the time, lookin’ for a good story. But then after all, most of those scribblers only had at best a nodding acquaintance with truth. And more than a few of them were downright strangers to the concept. Even so, there were a handful who had more than a a passing interest in uncovering good tales that also had the benefit of some foundation in reality.

Like there was this one gent named Drinkwater who came through Deadwood in the early part of ’77. Mr. Drinkwater stands out in memory as he was one of the few who actually expressed a genuine commitment to accuracy.

If you been there when J.J. Drinkwater got off the stage from Sidney and walked across the bridge into town, you would have seen a tall, thin fellah with small spectacles, a tad on into middling age and a bit balding on top in the back, but still attractive with sharp features and these piercing eyes that bespoke a curious mind and hard-edged intelligence of the sort that one don’t encounter all that often. He strolled down Main, his modest carpet bag in one hand and a leather dispatch pouch for the tools of his scribbler’s trade slung over his shoulder, surveying the bustle as he went. If you had encountered him on that day, you coulda told he was takin’ it all in, takin’ mental notes....makin’ no judgments as of yet, but still deeply engaged in the process of breathing in and absorbing all the clues and evidence and details that were laid out to be seen by those who, like Mr. Drinkwater, had a desire to actually look for ‘em.

He stopped in front of the Saloon No. 10. A woman, probably in her 40s, was busily engaged in sweeping the porch. Drinkwater observed that she was eccentrically dressed by eastern standards, wearing a plain black wool skirt with an impeccably clean apron, a stylish man’s gray wool waistcoat with shining brass buttons, and beneath that, a red flannel workman’s shirt, buttoned to the neck and with the sleeves rolled up. The woman’s skirt was a little shorter than was normally considered acceptable by most proper ladies, ending slightly above the ankles--undoubtedly, thought Drinkwater, to keep the hem from trailing in the mud and appallingly diverse shit that made up the street surfaces in this town. The shorter length of the simple skirt revealed a pair of well-worn, tall-heeled, pointed-toe boots of the type favored by Texican cowhands. But most interesting of all from the writer’s perspective was what she wore around her waist: a sturdy leather belt with a large oval Confederate army “CS” buckle; and hanging from the belt, an immense holster that was weighted down with an equally massive revolver.

Mr. Drinkwater could not help thinking that clearly, he was not in Chicago anymore. He walked over and tipped his hat, smiling politely.

“Good day to you, madam.”

“Well, a good day to you as well, sir,” replied the woman, looking up from her sweeping with what Drinkwater found to be a surprisingly genuine and welcoming smile. He had gotten used to small town folk, especially on the flint-hard edge of the frontier, to often be somewhat taciturn or downright hostile in the presence of someone like himself who came across as a bit of a “dandy.”

“Might I enquire if this would be the same Number 10 saloon where James Butler Hickok was assassinated?

The woman’s friendly smile flickered and faded slightly, and her face took on an expression that was one of cool politeness.

“Yessir, indeed it is. But if yer wishin’ to gaze at the very chair he sat upon when he was shot, or the actual table stained with his gore, ye need go elsewhere--there are multiple examples o’ both available for viewing at a number o’ establishments in this town...an’ some other towns as well, unless I am very much mistaken.”

Drinkwater could tell this was not the first time--nor the fiftieth--that the woman had been asked this question. He sat down his carpet bag, took off his hat, and unapologetically looked her straight in the eye.

“No, madam. I assure you I have no desire to stand transfixed by artifacts of spurious provenance...nor even to look upon genuine mementos of the tragedy for that matter. I merely wished to study the site of the event, in order to gain some additional perspective on what actually transpired. Allow me to introduce myself: JJ Drinkwater, at your service. Forgive me if I came across as some mere tourist with a taste for the macabre and sensational--I am a writer, and my interest is the true and real stories of our western frontier.”

The woman’s expression softened slightly, but she apparently was still experiencing some uncertainty. Drinkwater felt like her gaze was giving him careful consideration...as if she was sizing him up, reading what was in his eyes as well as in his words. Suddenly she stuck out a brutally scarred, heavily calloused hand to shake.

“Pleased to meet ye. I’m the widow Kuhr, tho’ mos’ folks hereabouts call me Dio. Yer welcome to do so, if’n ye care to.”

The writer unhesitatingly took her hand and gave it a firm shake. “I am pleased to meet you as well, Miss Dio. I would be gratified if you would call me JJ. Might I ask who is the present owner of this establishment?”

Dio laughed. “Yer shakin’ paws with her, pard...I took it over sometime after the death o’ Mr. Hickok. Kin I interest ye in a mug o’ lager beer? Maybe some grub, bein’ as it looks as tho’ ye just got off’n the coach.”

JJ was more than happy to take advantage of her offer, and was again surprised when the woman refused payment for the first beer and the plate of hot venison stew she provided him. He went through a good many more beers in the course of the afternoon--all of which he paid for, along with rounds he bought for various and sundry locals who came by and joined in the conversation. Mrs. Kuhr and her customers went into considerable detail with him regarding what they knew about Wild Bill Hickok--often from first hand experience.

He was quietly thrilled to learn that his hostess had evidently come in on the same wagon train that had brought Hickok to Deadwood in July of ‘76. Yet she made no grand claims of close friendship with the man or personal involvement in any of his adventures--something that inclined JJ to give greater credence to what she told him. She’d had only a passing acquaintance with the famous gunfighter, and had some random observations to share regarding Wild Bill’s brief sojourn in the Black Hills, but her real value to Drinkwater’s research was in her running commentary on the stories that were told by others. She served as a well-grounded Greek chorus, either confirming the accuracy of certain tales, or lambasting the storytellers when they strayed from the truth as she understood it, often doing so with the aid of some extremely colorful vocabulary. She also spent some time explaining the changes she made to the interior of the Saloon No. 10, so that JJ could better picture in his mind how it appeared and functioned at the time of Hickok’s murder.

Suddenly, this pleasant and entertaining storytelling session was interrupted by the sound of gunfire from down the street. Moments later, there was sound of small feet pounding down the boards of the sidewalk and a small flaxen-haired girl, who looked to JJ to be about 10 or 11 years old, burst through the door of the saloon.

“Dio! They say you’re needed down at the Bonanza dance hall! Some man got shot and they can’t find Doc Morpork!

~~~