A Deadwood story -- burials

~~~

Dio left China Row lugging a huge basket of potatoes and onions that she had obtained in a trade with one of Bu's nephews. The vegetables would go into the stew pot with some venison and a bit of flour for thickener, and that stew would soon be bubbling away on the little iron stove in the Saloon No. 10. The miners and bullwhackers who made up much of her clientele seemed to enjoy having something of substance to ingest along with the lager that Dio was getting from those nice German boys with the little brewery up in Gayville.

As she struggled with the basket past the undertaker's at the corner, the faint perfume of death wafted from its open doors. She stopped to rest a moment, and Eugene, the proprietor of the place, happened to come out just then.

"Mornin' Eugene," said Dio with a slight, tired smile.

"Mornin' Miz Dio," the undertaker replied in his predictably morose monotone. "Powerful big basket o' taters ya got there."

"Yessir, gotta make a new batch o' stew fer the boys."

"Say Miz Dio?"

"Yes, Eugene?"

"Would ye be so kind as to take a look at two fellers who got brought in last night? Got their throats cut, I'm afraid. But no one seems to know 'em. I'd be very much obliged if you'd see if you recognize 'em."

Dio nodded resignedly, and followed the undertaker into his shack. There, in two rough plank coffins were the men, their faces a pallid, pale gray...with ragged openings under their chins where their throats had been slashed. Dio peered at them for a moment and then shook her head.

"Sorry Eugene," she said. "Cain't help ye. Don't know these boys."

Eugene sighed. "Oh well, reckon they can set here a spell until maybe someone claims 'em. Be nice if someone would come along to pay fer a decent burial for em."

Dio nodded and went back out to retrieve her big basket of stew makings. As she lifted up the load, the handles biting into her hands, she started to get mildly irritated. By the time she got the basket back to the 10, she was downright fuming, thinking about the two men. She kept thinking about those ash-colored faces, wondering if there was someone somewhere missing them. Dio also wondered how long they'd have to lay in Eugene's grim little shack before someone saw to it that the decent thing was done. She slumped on her bed in the back room of the saloon, intending to rest for just a moment...

...and her mind drifted back to a hot summer day on a grassy ridge in western Kansas...

Dio was prone, using every bit of cover so the buffaloes wouldn't see her. She was doing a good job of it--they weren't going anywhere right now, just stupidly milling around the victim of her last shot, worrying over their wounded fellow as the big bull bled out into the hot, trampled grass. If they caught even a glimpse of her, or a tiny suggestion of her scent, well, shit, that would be it. She'd have to start stalking and crawling all over again. Nothing made them run like it did when they became aware of a human's presence. But for now, they were staying put.

Laying in the brittle grass, she felt a rivulet of sweat running down her forehead and her nose, making her glasses slip just a touch--there was hardly a breath of wind stirring along the ridge. She vaguely wondered why the dumb wooly bastards didn't somehow associate the sound of her shots with humans. But, oh well--the situation seemed to be offering her the promise of a good run of kills among the small herd.

She levered down the breech block of the massive Sharps .50 caliber rifle and slid another of the big .50/70 cartridges into the chamber. It was about 300 yards--nothing special--a normal shot for the buffalo hunting business, and she set to drawing a bead on a youngish-looking cow just to the right of the dying bull.

Suddenly she became acutely aware of some rustling noises in the weeds behind her. She silently rolled on her back and swung the muzzle of her Sharps towards the sound. A soft voice called gently but with some hint of urgency, "Señora Dio, it is only Miguel, do not be concerned. I beg your pardon for interrupting the business, but Señor Roberto--he is not well at all--he is much worse, in fact."

Goddammit, she thought irritably, if that miserable, worthless old cockchafer is gonna die, I wish he'd dammed well get on with it. At the same time she was pleased with Miguel for having had the good sense to not just come running up the slope shouting for her. More than likely, Bob had told him to go fetch her post haste. But instead of dashing up and scaring off the money-makers, Miguel, bless his heart, had taken the time to crawl up the ridge and to pass on the news of her partner's deteriorating condition without startling either Dio or the buffaloes. But then of course, doing so also might have gotten Miguel shot at, and an onrushing soft-lead fifty propelled by 70 grains of black powder isn't exactly something you can dodge or catch with your teeth.

"All right, Miguel," she whispered. "Lemme just make this one shot here and get one more for us to take t' the bank."

Dio rolled over again, and patiently prepared to line up the cow again. It had barely moved from its spot near the bull, who now seemed to have passed on, judging by the way his heavy, magnificent head had slumped forward. The hunter took a breath, let half out and then relaxed, aimed, paused a moment, and squeezed the trigger.

The Sharps roared like a small cannon, the sound shattering the hot stillness on the ridge. The cow dropped to her knees without a noise, and sank the rest of the way into that sitting position in which the buffaloes so often went to meet the Great Spirit.

"Well done, Señora."

Dio stood and smiled slightly at Miguel.

"Muchas gracias, mi amigo. I would be much obliged if'n ye'd go get Luis and collect those last couple o' hides there"

She and Miguel strolled back down the slope she had so carefully belly-crawled up over an hour before, and hiked over the next slight rise where Laughing Wolf patiently waited with the horses. Miguel took his horse and nodded to the Indian.

"I will find Luis as you ask and bring the wagon to get those hides, Señora."

As the young man rode off, Dio made signs to Laughing Wolf that she would go back to camp. The tall Indian signed an inquiry as to how many buffaloes had been shot. Dio shrugged and held up two fingers. Laughing Wolf shrugged in return and silently handed the reins of Dio's horse to her. The Indian turned to follow Miguel, while Dio rode off back in the direction of their camp.

When she arrived, Bob was weakly cursing at Miguel's sister Maria and Bright Water, Laughing Wolf's wife. They were busying themselves with camp chores and were clearly ignoring the old man's insults and complaints.

Dio swung off her horse and casually took her time unsaddling the animal and setting him out to graze, hobbled to a picket line.

Bob feebly called out, "Woman! you worthless piece o' secessionist white trash! Don't you go saunterin' about, a payin' me no never-mind! These stinkin' lazy whores have been actin' like they's deaf, and I been waitin'..."

She cut him off, "Bob, shut the hell up, you whiny old drink-addled sorry sonofabitch. I was trying t' to keep makin' this party some cash t' live off of, and I don't..."

She abruptly broke off when she looked at him.

Damn, he did look a lot worse.

Miguel was right. The decaying mess who had been their front man--the one who did the deals in a world that would not have willingly done honest business with a hunting team made up of a middle-aged woman, some Arikaras and a couple of young Mexicans--was obviously on death's doorstep. He had always looked like shit, but as Papaw would say, now he sure as hell looked like week-old shit after the herd had all took turns trampin' over it.

Bob, seated on a trade blanket, propped against a barrel in the shade of one of the hide wagons, was once again cursing her, the other women, Miguel and Luis, and the uncaring world in general, in between coughing dark blood into a dirty cloth.

The party had already discussed what to do when this point arrived as they all knew it would. The business arrangement that had held them all together was at an end. Without the well-known "Buffalo Bob" Harrison as their front man, they could not do business. No one else but the team knew Bob hadn't shot a buffalo in years. But his contacts, his reputation, and his standing in the community of buffalo hunters--as well as his race and gender--had made him a vital part of the team. But the time had come. They would trade or sell this last batch of hides for what they could get, and go their separate ways.

Dio realized that the two other women of the team, Maria and Bright Water, weren't doing normal camp chores. Against a background of Bob's insults and curses--something they had all put up with since first forming the team--they were breaking camp, packing up the last of the hides that had been staked out to dry.

The two women looked up from their work at Dio. She looked at them and nodded. The team had discussed drawing straws for the final duty, but in the end, Dio said she would take care of it. She sighed, and without a word, walked over to where Bob was coughing and cursing.

Miguel, Laughing Wolf and Luis were still a short ways from the camp, bringing in the other hide wagon and the skins from the last animals Dio had just killed, when they heard a single shot from the direction they were heading, and then silence. They continued riding at the same leisurely pace, unconcerned, knowing what they would find. When the men arrived at the campsite, the gear was already packed, the hides bundled, and the women were mounted or seated in their places on the main wagon. For the first time in memory, the air around the team was quiet, the usual barrage of oaths and insults was blissfully absent.

Miguel looked at the solitary, frail figure laying on a blanket in the midst of the trampled grass that marked their last campsite together. Luis crossed himself, while Laughing Wolf sat staring impassively for a moment...and then spat on the ground.

"Señora Dio?" Luis asked somewhat tentatively. He was the youngest of the team.

"Yes, Hon?"

"Should not perhaps we bury Señor Roberto?"

Dio answered in a quiet hard voice, "Hon, I figger the coyotes would just dig him up agin anyhow. And he left plenty o' carcasses, both man and beast, out unburied on the grasslands. One more don't matter."

And then she spat on the ground, in the same manner as Laughing Wolf.

The team turned east, and headed out. None of them looked back at the small, lonely shape on the blanket.

...Someone came into the saloon, and at the sound of the door opening, Dio was shaken out of her thoughts...

She stood up to go see what she could do for the customer. As she was leaving the back room, she noticed a large empty tin she had been saving for some reason or other. She picked it up and took it into the main room of the saloon.

"Howdy Dio," said Old Bill. "What's the can for?"

Dio placed the tin on the bar. "Eugene's got a couple o' unknowns back at his place...gonna take up a collection an' make sure those boys get put to rest in a decent manner 'fore too much time passes."

~~~

A Deadwood story: a scar to be proud of

~~~

This is a story that comes out of an impromptu RP situation that happened in the sim's early days. I told the tale on the fly at the founder's day storytelling session at Miss Addison's boarding house this last Saturday night, and got a kick out of telling it, so I thought I would polish it up a bit as a first-person story and tell it here. Once I committed it to text, I suddenly realized that combined with the previous story, it might give you the impression that I was responsible for accidentally shooting many of my friends and acquaintances. While that is not entirely untrue, I would like to point out that none of them ever died from it.


I jus wanted to tell y'all a story from when I reckon most o’ ye warn't here yet...somethin’ what would kinda give ye an ideer o’ what town used to be like back in the early days.

Now mind ye...one o’ the things what set Deadwood apart from other towns was how when somethin happened, it warn't just up to lawmen to take care care of it

Well, fer that matter, we din't have too many lawmen around back in those days...some times none at all.

But even so they was this one gang leader...a feller who terrorized other towns somethin' turrible...but he said one time he hated tryin to raid in Deadwood, cuz he said "when ye raid some other place, the folks stay inside peeking out their curtains waitin’ fer the lawmen to fix things. But in Deadwood, when ye make trouble, every man, woman, chile, dog an’ cat with a gun comes running tryin to kill ye."

Anyhow this is a story o’ that kind o thing, which made us sorta famous:

One day -- I’m thinkin’ twas in early November o’ 76 -- I’m on the street a’ talkin with m’ friend Lockmort...big bear of a man, ye know, an’ usually a peaceable feller. But as we was talkin’ we heard this commotion: "Some rascal is tryin’ to rob the bank!" somebody shouted.

"An’ they has taken a hostage!" someone else yelled.

"Who's the hostage?" says Lock.

An’ the feller who was tellin us this says, “Tis lil’ Geoff the orphan boy...an the feller has dragged him up to the second floor of the store next to the Red Bird, sayin’ he's gonna kill the boy if'n we don't give him the money out of the bank!!"

Now Lil’ Geoff was a young’un, mebbe 7 or 8 year old, whose Ma had abandoned him in town an' went off. Funny, good natured lil’ feller, he was. Matter o’ fact, Me an' Sepp done took him in later on, though we ne’er officially sought to adopt him as he had great confidence his Ma would be back fer him someday, an’..well...we jus’ couldn’t see fit to disabuse him of his faith in the woman what had brought him into this sorry, sad world.”

Well...anyhow, when we hear this about him bein’ the hostage, oh, you shoulda seen the look what come over Lock! His face went from its normal sunny an’ cheerful affect to looking like a sky with a thunderstorm a’coming! An’ he growled like a bear, an’ then roared, "I don't take kindly to no one harmin’ no young'uns!!!"

He right up and tears off like a mad bull buffalo, across the street to that store. Well, the bankrobber feller had locked the door, but o’ course that didn't stop Lock. Hell, it barely slowed him down. He threw hisself at the door like a big hairy cannonball an' smashed right thru it! He barreled towards the stairs in back and was startin’ up, when the robber popped around to the landing...then some shots rung out an’ Lock grunted an’ fell back clutchin’ at his leg! Now I had been not far behind Lock, plus there was this other feller who had gone into store right with us. This other gent went next, leapin’ o’er Lock’s sizable frame, an’ as he was rushin’ up the stairs then HE got shot an’ tumbled back...

Well, now I was mad. Not jus’ cuz o' this peckerhead holdin’ a lil’ orphan boy hostage an' settin’ to kill him, but cuz he shot Lock, who I really goddam liked. Real good gunsmith too. Cain’t tell ye how many enjoyable hours I have passed in the company o’ that gentleman talkin’ about firearms an’ studyin’ his various projects. So ye should understand I was sorta seein' red

I proceeded to jump o'er Lock an’ the other feller who’d been shot, an’ I started goin’ up them stairs m’self, firin’ as fast as I could. Now ye see, I had this Spencer carbine, which I had got from...um..lessee, man number six: the miner, ye might recall. An’ with a Spencer, ye kin chamber an’ fire a round in mebbe 3 seconds...an’ ye got seven shots. So I commenced by lettin' off a couple o’ rounds as I was goin up towards the first landing, just to make him stay back. An’ when I got the landin’ an' could aim up at him, I used another four rounds as fast as I could lever ’em into the chamber an’ fire.

I shouted fer Geoff to get down, an' hoped he could do so. But I had no idea if he heard, cuz there was smoke an’ splinters an’ muzzle flash goin’...hell of a noisy mess.

Then with the one last round in the gun, I charged the rest o’ the way up the stairs...

...an found I din't need it.

A couple o’ the shots I had fired in goin' up the stairs had found their mark, an’ the robber feller was a lyin’ dead as a goddam doornail...which made him...um...man number 9.

Anyhow, there I was, jus’ all pleased with m'self, an’ I looked aroun’ fer Geoff, an’ there the boy was looking like a cat what ate the canary, a big ol’ grin on his face, all happy like...

...but a’holdin’ his leg...

...an' he says with great enthusiasm, "Oh Miz Dio! You saved my life!!!”

...then adds somewhat plaintive-like, "but how come you shot me doin’ it?"

"Oh hell," says I, "let me look..."

Well, the boy had been hit fairly bad by a ricochet, so I bound it up an’ got him to Doc Alcott as quick as I could. As I was carryin' him o'er to the Doc's I tol' him he waa gonna have a dandy scar on his leg...

"REALLY?!!" he says, all excited like.

"Yep," says I. "Yer a gonna have a good story an' a scar to go with it, t' share with yer gran'kids."

Oh, and Lock an’ the other feller who got shot tryin' to help, we patched up as well, an’ they made it, I’m sure you will be pleased to know...

...but from that time on, lil’ Geoff loved to tell the story about "when Miz Dio saved my life an’ shot me all in the same day!!"

An' I have every confidence that some day, many years from now, he's gonna be settin' with a passle o' grandchillun' an' shall be happily showin 'em that scar an' tellin' the tale o' how I give it to him.

~~~

"Yeah, I shot the sheriff" -- conclusion

~~~

At right, the key figure in this story: Hawk Auebach. This image was taken some time after this story takes place. You can tell that because ol' Hawk is really cleaned up at this point. No kidding. You shoulda seen him when he first came to town!

Old Bill’s eyes narrowed. “That Hawk feller, he’s outside?”

Dio looked up from bandaging Pel’s leg. “Goddammit. Me an Bill shoulda kilt him that last time...woulda saved ever’one a whole lotta grief...”

“What’s that?” Sheriff Dazar Perun looked confused. “What last time? What did he do that you shoulda killed him for, Miss Dio?”

Mahaila was now visibly upset. She turned to the sheriff, hoping she could clarify the situation without making it worse: “You see Daz, Hawk was...um...he was just...”

As Mahaila’s voice trailed off, the ever helpful Mrs. Kuhr interjected, “That goddam rascal Hawk was bein rude to Mahaila, tryin’ to take liberties with her.”

“WHAT?!!” yelled Daz. His face turned bright red, and the others in the room could tell he was ready to explode. On the frontier, even in a primitive mining camp like Deadwood, society at large generally took a very dim view of any man who tried to force his attentions on a respectable woman such as Mahaila. In this case, Daz Perun’s reaction was understandably ten times worse, being as Mahaila Bertrand was his sister.

“It ain’t jus’ a problem with Miz Mah, Sheriff,” said Jesse. “He be rude to all the women!”

Mahaila began trying to explain, “He came into my office...”

Daz looked at her with a fierce expression. "Why in hell was he in there?"

“Oh he was probably drunk,” offered Old Bill. “He gets drunk n’ causes all sorts of problems...but only with the women, he don’t fool with the men.”

Dio could see where this was going. “Pel, I suspect I am gonna have to be steppin’ outside in a minute or so.” She handed him another bottle of whiskey. “Here...if the pain starts troublin’ ye, have a swig o’ this an’ jus’ hold on ‘til I get back.”

Pel gratefully accepted the bottle, and looked at it for just a moment. He then pulled out the cork with his teeth, spat it on the floor, and commenced drinking.

Meahwhile, Daz was getting even angrier. “That son of a bitch! Insulting my SISTER! Where the hell is he?!!”

Old Bill glanced out the Bella’s door. “He’s still out in the street there by the Gem, Sheriff. He don’t seem to be in no hurry to go anywhere...”

Daz Perun charged into the street, followed by his sister, who was now truly concerned that she had set in motion a chain of events that would end in violence.

“You comin’ along too, Dio?” asked Old Bill.

“Reckon I’ll be there presently, Bill.” Dio answered. Old Bill nodded and went out into the sunlit street.

Dio was retrieving her new double-barreled shotgun from behind the Bella’s bar when she heard Marshal Rau shouting for her and Sal to come out. They looked at one another and without a word, they proceeded from the Bella’s dark interior into the windy street. Cold weather was already setting in, and the frozen ground and stones of the street crunched beneath their feet. The two women walked over to the area in front of the Gem’s broad front porch. There, they found a small crowd gathered in a circle around Hawk Auebach and Dazar Perun.

Daz was not a terribly big man. He was muscular, but somewhat slightly built and like his sister, not especially tall. This made his antagonist, Hawk, look even bigger than he actually was. And Hawk was, in fact, a hugely imposing creature to start with. He stood at least a head taller than most of the men present. He was broad-shouldered, with massively muscled arms, and huge, grimy hands. And he definitely was not a thing of beauty to behold, His clothing was rumpled and stained, and he exuded a ripe stench of someone who had not bathed in a very, very long time: a miasma of stale sweat, old tobacco and rotten teeth. His hair and beard were a long, tangled mass that framed a ruddy, filth-spattered face, with burning dark eyes and a bulbous, pock-marked nose.

He was laughing at Daz.

“Yer a skinny-looking lil’ feller t’ be accostin’ me,“ he chortled. “What did I do now?”

Marshal Rau motioned for Dio and Sal to come over and explained why he had called for them: “Miz Dio, I figure we’re gonna need ya to be doctoring somebody or other here before long. Sal, is that the fellah who shot your bartender?”

“Sure as hell is,” a replied Sal quietly.

“AND you made the mistake of insultin’ my sister, ya miserable sonfofabitch!” hissed Daz. The Sheriff drew back his fist and let fly with a punch to Hawk’s face. The big man took the blow to his chin with barely a flinch.

Everyone in the crowd looked on, visibly impressed.

After a moment, Sand broke the silence.

“Damn.”

That one word pretty much summed up everyone’s reaction. It was a good punch, thrown with everything Daz could put behind it. Mahaila commented later that she had never, ever seen her brother hit a man like that without the recipient of the blow going down.

Dio moved over next to the marshal and made a quiet suggestion. “Sand, I do believe ye might wish to simply go ahead an' shoot the big ol’ cockchafer an’ be done with it...though there may be a risk it’ll only serve t’ irritate him further.

Meanwhile, Hawk looked Daz in the eye and laughed again. “That all ye got, sissy?”

Daz was holding his hand, which obviously hurt a great deal. "Jesus, you’re ugly...and I think your face is made of stone...”

Hawk grinned, “This face been thru more than you can ever think about giving me...”

Sand turned to Dio and noted dryly, “If I try to arrest him, I don’t think he’s likely to come quietly...got any suggestions?"

Although Dio had no particular wish to see anyone get killed -- even Hawk -- she figured that the threat of being shot might make him more cooperative. Therefore, Dio loudly responded to the marshal, “Well ye kin always say ye shot him whilst he was escapin’ or somethin’...or do I gotta shoot him for ye? After all, he done shot Pel the bartender at the Bella...he’s a violent cuss, an’ he’s more’n likely gonna get plugged sooner or later. Might as well save ourselves some trouble an’ get it over with.”

Sand seemed surprised by this suggestion: “Ok, woman, settle down now.”

Dazar sighed and drew his gun. He was quite seriously debating whether or not he should just shoot the man where he stood.

Suddenly, Mahaila stepped in between Hawk and her brother.

“Wait, please,” said Mah. The crowd was dead silent, except for Jesse from the Bella who was quietly praying for everyone involved.

Hawk, smiled at Daz through the undergrowth of his beard. “Go ahead and shoot me. I got no gun on me to defend m’self. But yer never gonna find m’ gold.”

Mahaila ignored Hawk’s odd statement and went on: "Nobody should be getting shot right now. This is a perfect time to use our actions to show we are serious about law in Deadwood.”

“I’m not going to be shooting him, Miss Bertrand,” replied Sand.

“They’s a better than even chance that I won’t either, Mah,” added Dio.

Mahaila looked over her shoulder at Hawk and went on. “We’ve been talking about making this a more civilized place. Well, let’s act like it. Why not a trial? Sure it would be makeshift, as we don’t really have a justice system set up yet......but couldn't we do some sort of bail or something?"

Dazar's eyes traveled up and down the big man's form, and he concluded that indeed, Hawk seemed to have no weapon on him -- he must have tossed away the gun he had used to shoot Pel. And Daz wasn’t about to gun down an unarmed man. “Mahaila, you can step aside. I ain’t gonna shoot a man when he’s not carrying.”

Mah smiled and did as Daz had asked. As soon as she had done so, her brother turned his pistol in his hand and swung it at the side of Hawk’s head, striking the troublemaker on the temple with the butt. Hawk staggered back several steps and dropped to one knee.

“I don't need your goddamn gold,” hissed Daz. "And if you ever go after my sister I’ll kill you...”

The look in Hawk’s eyes was one of pure murder. He stood up, his fists clenched and he took a step towards the Sheriff. Mahaila gasped and retreated back towards Sand.

“Oh satan's huge red testicles,” hissed Dio. She wasn’t about to kill an unarmed man either, but she figured a warning shot might give him pause and keep him from ripping the sheriff into small pieces. She pointed her new shotgun at the ground in between Daz and Hawk, thumbed back a hammer and let go with a blast to the frozen ground.

A ten-bore shotgun with a three-and-a-half inch chamber holds one hell of a load. And when that load is discharged, it makes one hell of a noise. It certainly got Hawk’s attention, and Dio was pleased to see him stop in his tracks and look at her with astonishment. She was much less pleased as Sheriff Dazar Perun made an odd grunting noise and fell to the ground clutching at his leg.

“Wrong man, dammit,” noted Sand.

“Thanks, Sand. I mighta not realized that if ye hadna pointed it out,” answered Dio.

Jess had dropped to her knees and was praying harder than ever. Mahaila looked to be in shock, and then she screeched, “DAZ! Oh my GOD Daz is shot!”

Old Bill, like many of those present had not realized what had happened. He looked at Sand and said with disgust, “Damn marshal, that wasn’t too good o’ shootin’ there.”

Sand was deeply offended: “Hey! I didn’t shoot him.”

“No, I did, goddammit,“ said Dio.

Hawk shrugged and commented in a toneless voice, “I guess I’ll get the blame fer that too.”

All of sudden, Dio found herself starting to like the big man.

Mahaila was frantic: “DAZAR!!!!!!!!!! DAZ...Daz..Dio..why?” She crouched next to her brother, who was doing a good bit of cussing. She pulled off her cloak and pressed it against Dazar’s wounded leg to staunch the bleeding.

Sand glared at Dio. “Dammit woman, How in the hell did you miss a huge, ugly-ass man like that one? I mean, how in the world...”

Dio cut him off, “Oh hush up, Sand, I stopped him from tearin’ Dazar limb from limb, din’t I?”

She stepped over to the fallen Sheriff and looked at his wound. “Dammit Daz, yer just nicked in the leg. Don't be a big goddam baby about it. I seen people hurt worse playin’ checkers.”

Dazar was still not mollified. Holding his leg, he snarled at Dio, “Goddammit! You shot me!” He pointed at the hulking figure of Hawk and said incredulously, “How the hell could you miss THAT?!!"

Dio, cradled her shotgun like a beloved child. “I was TRYIN’ to miss him, goddamit. I wasn't tryin to hit him...jus’ make him shit his trousers an’ pause a moment before he tore yer fool head off an' spit down the gapin’ hole. I ain’t about to shoot a feller what ain’t armed. So I was aimin’ in betwixt the two o’ y’all. But it hit the frozen ground an’ a pellet done ricocheted up an’ nicked yer leg.”

Mahaila shook her head and tore off a piece of her cloak to wrap the injury. She was still worried beyond words. “Daz, you need to get to a doctor...this could be worse than it looks...”

Dazar Perun sighed and told his sister, “I ain’t seeing no Doc -- not fer something like this." As his sister frowned and glared at him, Daz pushed her hands away and unwrapped his wound to look at it. “Jeezus Dio, what you got in that thing? Sounded like a damn cannon going off!”

Dio smiled. “10 bore, 3 and-a-half-inch shell with double-aught buck.” she replied proudly.

Dazar looked impressed. “Shit,” was pretty much all he could say.

While Dio and Mah looked after Daz, U.S. Deputy Marshal Sand Rau turned his attention to the large bearded man who was still standing there, watching with interest as the scene played out.

“Hawk,” asked Sand, “did you shoot a man tonight? Yes or no?

Sal answered for him, “Yes he did! Right in front of me!”

Hawk shook his head in assent: “Yeah..I sure did. He accused me of stealing.”

“Stealing what?” asked Sand.

“A cigar,” replied Hawk.

Now Sal was just livid. “He asked you to pay for cigars -- two cigars! Not one, but two! And you shot him for it!”

Jesse stopped her praying and looked up at the big man. “You don't got to go shootin' someone over seegars, mister!”

Now it was Hawk's turn to get indignant. “Hey, he called me a thief. I’da paid fer them seegars sooner or later...”

Before he could continue Mahaila walked up to him and struck him in the face as hard as she could. Hawk simply gazd at her blankly, but Mah stood there looking at him, her face burning with anger. And then she turned around, gripping her hand, gasping in pain.

"Man has a face just like rock, don't he, sis?" commented Daz in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

Hawk turned back to the marshal. “Listen, if I wanted that man in the Bella to be dead, he would be dead right now. He just needed a lesson.”

Sand nodded. “Well I tell you what...you say you got gold somewhere...you pay Miz Sal here for the damage to the Bella and for the medical care to look after her bartender...” He paused and looked at Sal for a moment before he continued, ”AND for the two seegars...and I shall let you off with a warnin’ this time.”

Hawk grunted and pulled a leather bag out of his pocket and tossed it to Sal, who caught it. “Oughtta cover it,” said Hawk. Sal weighed it in her hand and nodded.

Hawk yawned and commented to no one in particular, “Well hell, I need me a whiskey.”

Daz swore and shouted, “Auebach! you get the hell out of town right now!”

Old Bill added his two cents worth as well. “Hawk! You bother Miss Bertrand again an’ I am comin’ for you!”

Hawk looked at them both for a moment...then shrugged, and went in to the Gem.

Dio began helping Daz to his feet. “Hey Sheriff, sorry I shot ye, pard.”

Dar Perun smiled at Dio. "No big deal, m’am. As often as I been shot, it’s kind of a nice for a change gettin’ shot by a friend.

“Oh, and I am sorry I called ye a big baby,” Dio went on. “You ain't nothin’ o’ the kind.”

Dazar laughed, "Been called worse, Miss Dio...much worse"

Jesse looked towards the Gem. “Well, that's done I guess.. he gone to the Gem fer some more whiskey...probbly Miss Foxy'll take care of him. If’n he ask her fer a kiss, she'll give him a bullet. I expect to hear a gunshot any minute now.”

But no gunshot rang out. Hawk was going to keep making trouble in Deadwood for some time to come...and then...well, that's another story for another time.

~~~

A Deadwood story -- yeah, I shot the sheriff, part one

~~~

This is a story based on an rp scenario that just happened -- nothing planned, but it all worked out remarkably well. It was a complete hoot to be a part of. The original transcript that it was developed from is posted on the The Road to Deadwood forum.

The side by side, break-action double gun that features prominently in this story...still well loved today even if sort of retired...

Dio had just acquired a new toy: a lovely Belgian-made break-action, breech-loading, double-barreled 10-bore shotgun, with a 3-and-a-half-inch chamber and 32-inch damascus barrels. It was big, the barrels had a gorgeous browned finish, and Dio had it loaded up with double-aught buckshot--18 big pellets to each round. It was, quite simply, a monster...and Dio was in love with it. As she was heading up Main street towards the hills to try it out, she was suddenly distracted by as series of noises -- shots, and then shouting -- from the direction of the Bella Union. Dio instantly rushed over to find a small crowd gathering outside: Sal, the Bella’s manager, a cluster of her working girls, and Federal Deputy Marshal Sand Rau.

“What happened Sal?” asked Dio.

Jesse, one of the Bella girls replied, pointing up the street at a large figure that was disappearing towards the creek, “That man there! The one walkin' down the street...he shot Pel!!”

Sal interjected in an air of disgust, tinged with anger, “That Mr. Hawk shot Pel, my new bartender, when he asked him to pay for his cigars...”

Jesse went on somewhat frantically, “He's walkin' down toward the river...past doc's office!...He jes’ up and shot 'im! Fer no reason ‘cept a seegar!!!”

Dio peered up the street at the man, who even at this distance she could tell was unusually tall and solidly built. She turned to Marshal Rau and said calmly, “Go git ‘im Sand, I'll look after the feller what got shot.”

As the lawman took off loping up Lee Street, and the other girls tried to get Jesse settled down, Dio accompanied Sal into the Bella. There, leaning against the bar was a thin, strikingly handsome man. This apparently was Pel, the new bartender. Old Bill Deerhunter was pressing a bloody bar rag against the man’s leg trying to staunch the flow of blood.

“Let’s get him settin’ down, so Miss Dio can look after him,” said Sal in a calm and determined voice. Dio carefully set her new shotgun behind the bar, while Old Bill and Sal assisted the injured man in hobbling over to the sofa.

“How bad ye hit, pard?” Dio asked, as the others helped Pel to ease painfully down on to the poor sofa, the upholstery of which already had more than the usual number of stains from various body fluids that had leaked out of Sal’s customers and employees over the last few months.

Pel, grunted and lifted up the bloody cloth. “I believe it is nothing more than a wound through the flesh...I don’t think the bone was hit, but it does seem to be bleeding rather freely...”

Dio was about to say something about how she “had seen worse,” when suddenly, Marshal Rau dashed in.

“Hey who was it or who am I lookin’ for?"

Old Bill looked exasperated. “Twas that blasted Hawk again!”

Sal looked even more irritated. “DAMMIT SAND...MR. HAWK!”

“The big man, with a big beard!” added Jesse.

Old Bill chimed in again, “His name is Hawk and he just went down the street!”

Marshal Rau still looked a bit perplexed.

“Yes,” said Sal...he’s a large bearded man....a bit ripe, you can’t miss him.”

Old Bill nodded. “Ugly too. Ugly and MEAN.”

The light of comprehension seemed to be dawning in Sand’s eyes. “Which way?” he asked.

Miss Zoe came in at that moment. “Hawk? He was just walking down the road right behind me!”

Jesse had an expression of extreme frustration. “Like I said before, past the doc's office!”

“OK!” said Sand and he rushed out again. Old Bill looked at the people in the room and shrugged. He then followed the Marshal.

Jesse watched them go and sighed. “Nobody ever hears me,” she commented plaintively.

Meanwhile, Dio was concentrating on Pel’s wound. She unsheathed her skinning knife and cut away the blood-soaked cloth of his trouser leg. The bullet seemed to have passed through Pel’s upper leg, going at an angle from the front to the side. Dio noted that the entry wound seemed fairly tidy, but the exit point was a bit more ragged and appeared to be the source of most of the bleeding.

Sal came over to watch. “Can you fix him up Dio?”

Without looking up from her work, Dio replied matter-of-factly, “Reckon so, Hon...say, Sal, could you start boilin’ some water, heatin’ up a poker in the stove, and git me some clean cloths?”

“All right.” Sal nodded and set her girls to the requested tasks.

“Oh, and I'll need some whiskey, too,” Dio added.

“So will I,” said Pel.

Sal smiled at him. "Well I know Miss Dio wants the whiskey to clean the wound...I assume you want some of that whiskey to take the edge off?"

Pel tried to force a smile. “Ladies, I trust you won’t think any the less of me that I could use a drink right now.”

“Of course not,” Sal said gently, as she handed Pel a glass of rye, and then passed a full bottle of the cheap stuff to Dio.

“Thanks, Hon,” Dio nodded as she took the bottle of raw whiskey and began cleaning the area around the wound. While mopping up the oozing blood with a towel, she peered at the various holes in Pel’s leg. She took some large tweezers from her hunting bag and carefully pulled some bits of cloth out of the entry hole in the man’s limb.

Pel made a hissing noise and his eyes watered slightly.

Dio grinned at him in spite of herself. “Oh, by the way, Pel, did I mention that most o’ this was gonna really hurt?” She began cleaning out the wound with the whiskey, pouring it liberally over the injury. “Matter o’ fact I guess I shoulda let ye know it was gonna hurt jus' like the Divil himself was pissin’ brimstone into that hole there.”

Pel was a greenhorn, and something of a dude at that. Educated, well spoken, a lawyer back east. All in all, Dio was pretty favorably impressed with how he was handling this ordeal so far. But he needed to be prepared for what was coming.

“Pel, I am gonna fix yer bleedin’ by puttin’ on a hot poker to sear it closed. If’n ye thought the cleanin' part hurt, this is gonna be like a visit from the grandmother o’ that pain...Sal, I’d be obliged if’n ye’d give him some more whiskey.”

Sal came back over and handed Pel a bottle. Without a word, the man began draining its contents. Sal looked at Dio and asked, “Ready for the cauterizing and then bandaging?”

Dio nodded. “Ready, Hon.”

Sal turned to Jess and instructed her to fetch bandages and the poker from the stove. The girl brought over the clean cloths and the poker, which was now glowing a dull cherry red at the tip. She looked at the wound and winced.

Dio carefully took the poker and noting Pel’s blissfully vacant expression she went ahead and pressed it to the source of the bleeding in the exit wound. Pel’s eyes went wide for a moment and then he made a curious gurgling noise through his gritted teeth. Otherwise he was remarkably quiet.

The room filled with the pungent fragrance of burning flesh and blood. Dio handed the smoking poker to Sal who set it into the coal scuttle by the stove.

"Done with it?” Sal asked.

“Yep.” answered Dio. “I think we’re good.“

To her surprise, Dio looked up to find that Pel was watching her intently, his face streaming with rivulets of sweat.

Dio smiled at him. “Yer gonna be fine I think...we din't havta cut out the pistol ball or nothin’....looks to be you took it clean through the fleshy bit o’ thigh here.”

Pel grunted, “Did it have to be the painful fleshy bit?”

Dio shrugged as she bandaged the wound. "Well shit pard, better than hittin’ a bone or big blood vessel or some such...Jess, Hon would you bring me that pot o’ water what’s a bilin’?”

Jess wrapped a cloth around the handle and brought it over. Dio dipped the last clean towel in the hot water and began washing off the blood that had run down Pel’s leg. Then she began washing the clotted gore from her own hands.

At that moment Sheriff Daz Perun entered the Bella. “Good lord! What the hell is goin’ on here?!”

As Sal was explaining the situation to Daz, Old Bill came in, his eyes flashing with disgust and anger. “Lost his blasted trail down around the chinaman’s place...Sand is still lookin’ for him, though...”

Just then, Mahaila Bertrand entered the Bella and dryly observed, “Well if Sand is still looking for the man, he’s just going to have to go in a big circle.”

Everyone in the Bella bar room went silent and as one, looked at Mahaila with a mixture of curiosity and befuddlement.

Mah looked back and continued, “Sand’s looking for Hawk, right? Big, crazy bearded man, right? Well he’s right outside -- across the street by the Gem.”

to be continued

~~~

Miss Dio's story continued -- life is a series of meetings and partings

~~~

The following story was oringally posted on "The Road to Deadwood" forum, and may be seen as a reflection of the soft spot I have in my heart for the American soldier. I think the soldiers of the the old frontier army generally haven't gotten very fair treatment in popular media in the last 30 or 40 years. And the way they are represented in contexts such as SL is usually just downright silly and offensive.

Above is a photograph by Grey Villet of extras on the set of the John Wayne/William Holden film, "The Horse Soldiers," taken in 1958. In my mind, I picture the members of Sepp's provost marshal detail looking something like these guys.

~~~

The days had passed into weeks, stretching unnoticed into late summer and early fall. Dio spent at least half of her time out of town, "shamelessly ignoring her responsibilities at the laundry" (according to a certain lady bank manager), in order to spend days riding with Sepp and his provost marshal's detail, looking for signs of hostiles and tracking deserters. She also spent nights camping out with her old one-eyed horse soldier, discreetly bedded down some distance from the rest of the group, so as to...um...not disturb the sleeping troopers or distract those on watch. It reminded both Sepp and Dio of the old days, when she would join his ranger company on patrols when she was "too goddam pissed off" at Jack to stay at the ranch.

Iniitially, the members of the detail had been somewhat surprised to see First Sergeant Bogart's "lady" falling in with them on their patrols. But the young troopers were quickly disabused of the notion that she would be a hindrance or a distraction from their duties, espcially as she could out-ride and out-shoot most of the them, except maybe Corporal Brill, and was as a good a tracker as either Sergeant Bogart or Dan Wolf, the civilian scout who accompanied them. Any idea that "Miz Dio" was in any need of looking after on the trail began to evaporate when one of them figured out what the odd decorative peices on her saddle actually were. All remaining doubts were finally and completely erased when the detail ambushed a gang of horse thieves, and Dio brought down two of them with three rounds from her carbine, and then finished off the wounded one with her belt knife. Although the Sergeant prohibited her from taking any "souvenirs" that time, they did overhear her telling the "old Dutchman" as they rode away from the scene of the ambush that he "really knew how to show a gal a goddam good time."

By the time the leaves were turning, the members of the detail thought of her as one of them--just one who peridocially had to return to Deadwood to "warsh other folks' soiled knickers fer a spell." Her long stories, the interesting variations of camp cooking she introduced to their routine, and her regular and prolific stream of incredibly profane commentary gradually brought even the most hardened of them to feel a strange attachment to this strange woman. They therefore took it doubly hard on the day that First Sergeant Sepp Bogart, 3rd U.S. Cavalry, was informed that he had orders to turn the detail over to Corproal Brill to lead it on the return to Ft. Fetterman, while he himself was to report to Jefferson Barracks in St. Louis, to spend the remaining 11 months of his enlistment period training green troopers. They realized they were losing not only the presence of their lead man, but his lady as well. As they tightened saddle girths and checked their gear before breaking that last camp, a couple of the younger ones seemed to be on the verge of getting "a bit maudlin."

Noting this as she shook their hands, Dio smiled and said, "Aw come on boys, don't be so goddam hang-dog 'bout this. Hell, when y'all git back this way y' can come an see me in Deadwood City... and shit, this ol' Dutchman 'll be there too, once his hitch is up, right First Sargeant Bogart?

Sepp smiled as he checked the loads in his revolver, appreciative of the fact that she had finally stopped calling him "Hon" in front of the men. "Absolutely. I 'm sure we'll see each and every one of you gentlemen again before too terribly long."

"Damn right, Hon," she grinned at him. "And it's like m' ol' grandaddy used to say--life is a series o' meetin's an partin's, but what makes it worth livin' is what y'all do with the parts in between. An I reckon we all done some purty good livin' together in this part what we done had betwixt meetin' up and right now."

Sepp grinned back as he swung up into his saddle. "Damn right, Hon," he agreed. "Carry on Corporal..and good luck boys." As he took up his reins, she rode up next to him and leaned over and gave him a long parting kiss, while the provost marshal's detail whistled and huzzahed, and then turned their mounts westward.

~~~

A new Deadwood story -- signs of the times

~~~

Hey kids, I just got back from a week on the road and wanted to give you a completely new story. I worked some of this out while on the plane from St. Louis to Phoenix, while stuck squeezed into a seat next to a really nice but decidedly uber-rubenesque gal. We had to put up the arm rest that was between us in order for her to fit, and then ...well, there’s that oddly uncomfortable sensation of a stranger’s thigh pressed up against yours for three and a half hours. To distract myself from that, I thought up Dio stories, including this one:




It was about the middle o’ the day on a Wednesday, back in October o’ ‘76, an’ I was standin’ on Lee street, jus idly chattin’ with a couple o’ the workin’ wimmen from the Bella, when along comes m’ esteemed neighbor Mr. Bu.

“Well, Howdy there, Mr. Bu!” says I, an’ he responds in his usual way with a slight smile, an’ a lil’ bow.

“Missus Di-oh, good day! And Bella Union ladies! Good day as well!”

He give the gals another o’ his smiles an’ a lil’ bow, an’ they giggled an’ curtsied like proper courtesans, an’ we commenced to chat until this wagon come along, driven by a couple o’ micks. We made way fer ‘em an’ it drew to a halt jus’ beyond us, in front o’ the newspaper office. Now mind ye, not the office o’ the current fine publication what Neil runs in his sober moments, but the one that preceded his newspaper. Twas run by a feller named Williams -- not one o’ m’ favorite people in the world, but that ain’t neither here nor there -- and this Williams feller comes outta his office when this wagon pulls up.

He begins a’shoutin orders an’ instructions at these two Irishmen an’ they set to unloadin’ a big sign fer the newspaper office outta the back o’ their conveyance. Oh and it was jus’ one helluva sign, too. Musta been at least mebbe seven feet across an four feet tall, an’ judgin’ by the look o’ the letterin’ an’ decorative flourishes, it had been painted up nicely by a professional sign painter. The wood, I could tell, was planed and sanded smooth, with the boards fitted all tight and neat -- either tongue an’ groove, or at least pegged -- an’ then surrounded by a frame o’ first rate s-curve mouldin’, all squared together with perfect angle joints at the corners. It was jus’ the kind o’ sign that if the thing had been a gentleman sign an’ you happened t’ be a lady sign, you woulda been in grave danger o’ bein’ swept off’n yer feet, an’ at great risk o’ havin’ yer signly virtue compromised. It was just that goddam handsome of a sign.

So we was all admirin’ this shinin’ example o’ carpentry an’ the signpainter’s art, watchin’ as the two Paddys hoist the thing up over the porch o’ the newspaper office an set to attachin’ it to the front wall o’ the buildin’. I sighed an said, “I tell ye what folks, I certainly would be a happy ol’ woman to have a sign even half as nice as that on the front o’ m’ laundry.” ‘Bout that time, Williams, the publisher, espies us an’ comes o’er. He don’t even acknowledge the existence o’ the Bella gals an’ Bu -- instead he starts right in a’babblin’ t’ me about how I need to begin purchasin’ advertisement space in his newspaper, an how it would be a boon to m’ business, a sure-fire means o’ drawin’ more trade than I could handle. An’ I’m startin’ to think to m’self, “Yeah, that would be even better than a big ol’ sign -- would be kinda like havin’ a sign where the whole damn town could see it, an’...”

Then somethin’ happened that kinda changed my mind real quick.

Bu was listenin’ to this Williams prick a’gibberin’ on about the powers o’ newspaper advertisin’ an’ when he finished Bu smiled an said in his quiet, philosophical ol’ gent’s voice, “Notice in newspaper, make much sense. Perhaps Bu could do this for bathhouse...”

He got no further than that before Williams exploded, “No chance of that, you heathen monkey! I’m not going to sully my paper by promoting some vile enterprise like yours...in fact, the sooner people come to realize that you and your kind are a menace to civilization, and we drive you from these shores, the better! Mrs. Kuhr I would think you would have better judgment about the kind of company you keep, instead of associating in a public thoroughfare with chinks and common...”

He was glarin’ at the two gals from the Bella as he was sayin’ this, so he never saw what was comin’ in the form o’ m’ right hook what caught him square on the side o’ his jaw. He sank to one knee an’ was lookin’ up at me with considerable astonishment an’ pain as I launched into him like a un-fed hawk on a fat pigeon.

“DON”T you even THINK o’ goddam TRYIN’ t’ tell me who t’ associate with, ye puffed-up, tin-plated, bile-spewin’ limp-membered TOAD! And FURTHERMORE I would sooner shove a goddam sharpened stick in m’ fuckin’ eye than buy adverstisin’ in yer wretched lil’ rag, what ain’t got no value beyond use in the outhouse!!!”

At this point something of a small crowd was gathering to view the entertainment. My friend Ron the gunsmith told me later that I had gotten to within several inches of the man’s face and was pokin’ him repeatedly in the chest with m’ finger to emphasize the finer points o’ m’ oratory, tho’ I don’t actually recollect that. Ron compared Mr. Williams’ role in the whole episode to someone tossin’ lamp oil into a burnin’ camp fire an’ then bein’ puzzled as to why they ain’t got no eyebrows left no more. Anyhow, I warn’t done quite yet.

“NOW you listen to me, an try to unnerstan’ this as well as yer tiny lizard brain will allow, ye slack-jawed, cockchafin’ greenhorn half-wit! If you EVER, an’ I mean EVER say another goddam word to me, I SWEAR, by the name o’ Jeezus an’ his horn-blowin’ angels, I will goddam slit yer worthless, weasel-fuckin’ carcass clean open, from NECK to NAVEL, an’ then I shall damned well RIP yer mealy lil’ lump of a heart clear outta yer chest with m’ BARE HANDS, an’ feed that sonofabitch t’ the goddam coyotes!!!!”

He din’t reply. He din’t even nod yea or nay. He jus’ got to his feet, never taking his eyes off me, his mouth slightly agape, an’ then he turned an’ went into his office.

The Bella gals were suppressin’ a fit o’ giggles, an ol’ Bu was jus’ standin’ there with that slight smile o’ his. He shrugged a tad, an’ said quiet-like, “As Missus Di-oh now not put anything in paper, may Bu and his nephews make sign for Missus Di-oh laundry?”

Without thinking I replied, “Yes, Hon, I would greatly appreciate that...”

“What you wish it to say, Missus Di-oh?”

I thought a minute and pulled out a scrap o’ paper an’ a grease pencil from m’ haversack an’ carefully printed out the words:

Laundry.
Washing and Ironing
D.A. Kuhr & Co.

About a week later, I was still asleep in the back room of the laundry when I was roused by a vigorous knocking at the door. I shouted something about “hold yer goddam horses, I’m a’comin’ pard,” then I pulled the coverlet about me fer some semblance o’ modesty, picked up m’ Walker Colt just in case, an’ stumbled out to see who it was. Through the front window I could see one o’ Bu’s “nephews,” wavin’ an’ grinnin’ like a bobcat what had found an unlocked hen house. I went out an’ greeted him in cordial fashion, an’ found him an’ some companions -- other “nephews” I imagine -- proudly standin’ there with a very large sign.

“Uncle Bu send this for Missus Di-oh. He say we show you, make sure is good...then put up for Missus Di-oh.”

I nodded, still not quite awake, and began looking it over. It was made from first rate lumber, planed and sanded smooth, pegged tightly together and framed by perfectly jointed mouldin’ that...well, was suddenly looking very familiar. It was painted quite nicely...a creamy colored background an’ rich brown lettering that had been very carefully an’ exactly copied from the wording I had written out for Bu the week before: there even was the period after the word “Laundry” that I had included when I wrote it.

“Tis fine work, boys,” I said. “Far better than what I fear I can afford...”

The head “nephew” waved his hand dismissively. “Missus Di-oh no worry. Uncle Bu make this gift for Missus Di-oh. We put up now.”

And they set t’ placin’ ladders an climbin’ on to m’ porch roof to hang the sign. As they began their task, m’ friend Mahaila came strollin’ up with a basket o’ washin’ fer to be done.

“Good morning Dio. Oh my, that is a grand-looking sign you have there.”

“Mornin’ to ye, Hon. And thanks. Tis a gift from m’ esteemed neighbor Mr. Bu.”

Mahaila and I watched Bu’s “nephews” as they efficiently hoisted up the sign and began fastening it to the front edge o' the porch roof.

After a moment of peering at the sign, Mahaila dryly commented, “Funny thing about signs...you know just last week, I heard this terrible commotion in the street and I went to find out that someone had stolen the fine new sign off the front of Mr. Williams’ newspaper office, just a day after it had been placed there....”

I looked at Mahaila, and she looked at me. I could tell she was tryin’ not to laugh.

I called up t’ the head “nephew” on the porch roof, “Say pard, ye must convey to yer Uncle Bu m’ thanks an’ gratitude -- tis a very good sign...much nicer than I coulda hoped for...might I ask where ye found such nice finished lumber an mouldin’s fer the sign?

Head “nephew” was still grinnin’ as he replied “Oh, Missus Di-oh, we find this wood some place.”

“Ah...ye found it?”

“Yes! We find it!”

I arched an eyebrow at Mahaila, and then asked the question I jus’ hadda ask. “Um...outta curiosity, is it perhaps best if’n Missus Dio doesn’t know about where ye boys found the wood fer that sign?”

With no change in his cheerful countenance, the head “nephew” answered, “Oh yes! Missus Di-oh really does not want to know where we find it."

I turned to Mahaila and said quietly, “Well, Mah, I cain’t take it down. Tis a gift from Mr. Bu an’ while I don’t know much o’ the celestial way o’ lookin’ at things, I expect tis not unlikely they look on gift-givin’ in the same way that injuns do -- as somethin’ o’ great significance an’ not t’ be taken lightly. I would not wish to offend Mr. Bu fer the world. But I am sure that as soon as that slimy, mud-eatin’ peckerhead Williams sees that new sign o’ mine, he is gonna put two an’ two together an’ it shall be cause of a great kerfuffle...which don’t concern me very much -- I kin hold m’ own, an’ then some -- but it could be some real trouble fer Bu an his people if’n they get connected t’ the situation ...”

Mahaila looked unperturbed. “Dio, does Mr. Williams ever bring his own laundry back here to be done?"

“Hmmm, no he usually sends one his printer’s boys....”

Mahaila went on, "I would also imagine he does not come back here to use Mr. Bu’s bathouse, nor the opium den, nor the Celestials' grocery and butcher, does he?”

“No, Mah, I can safely say I have never seen him back here on China Row.”

My friend smiled. “I should think not...you know...I have some first-hand knowledge about people who are burdened with hate.”

I nodded. When I had first met Mahaila she was having a dreadful time in Dodge City, in large part because she had the misfortune to fall into a romance with a man who had native blood in his veins. Her words on such matters carried some true weight in my estimation, and I encouraged her to share her thoughts on the issue.

She went on, “People often respond with hate to that which they fear. Mr. Williams, I think has expressed substantial hatred towards the Celestials, and I suspect that is a reflection of his equally substantial fear of them. So naturally, though he may call for their removal, he is not likely to ever change his habits and come back here where he may see your excellent sign. Simply put, he is too afraid of your Chinese neighbors to wander back here. I also gather, he has good reason to avoid ever running into you again. While his fear of the Chinese may be misplaced and unnecessary, I suspect any fear he has of you is perfectly justified.”

I grinned at her an’ we turned to see that Bu’s nephews had completed the task and were admiring their handiwork. We applauded them an told them “job well done” an’ in thanks to them I gave them some bottles o’ wine I had taken as payment from Miz Sal at the Bella fer....well that’s another story fer another time.

But sure enough, I never did see that Williams feller back there on China Row, an’ the matter o' the source o' m’ excellent new sign n’er did come up.

Tis still up there, if’n ye care to see it.

~~~

A story from Deadwood -- one warm afternoon in the Gem

This is one of my favorite stories from the early days of the Deadwood sim, re-posted from the Road to Deadwood Forum. It didn't start out as a story, it was actually an impromptu bit of roleplaying that happened between myself and my friend Sepp. We did this scene, pretty much as you read it here, with both of us making it up as we went along. Sadly I did not save an actual chat transcript (we didn't have the forum at the time, and there seemed to be no reason to do so), so I had to reconstruct it from memory. It 's a bit cleaner and a bit more polished than what actually transpired, and some of the descritpoive elements have been fleshed out to give it some depth. But the spirit of what you are going to read here is as true to the real encounter as I could make it. And yes, Foxy and Lil were eavesdropping, thank you girls. And thank you Sepp.

The Gem saloon in the Deadwood sim, ca. late 1876.
Photo courtesy of Mr. Rod Eun

Dio was back in the corner at the end of the bar, drinking her coffee and trying to not pay much attention to the usual Gem noises. Willie the bartender was breakin' wind like a buffalo with bad digestion, Foxy was yelling at someone about something or other, and a couple of drunks were arguing and threatening each other in that vaguely hilarious way that only dimwitted inebriates are capable of. Lil was, as usual, in the back "medicating" herself.

All in all, it was just another normal afternoon at the Gem Saloon, Deadwood City, the Dakota Territory.

Dio's ears, attuned to picking up new noises from the usual din, noted the sound of boots moving towards her across the broad uneven planking of the Gem's floor. Instinctively she turned, expecting to see good ol' Lefty or Daz, or one of the other boys that made the Gem more than just another booze parlor.

Instead, it was a figure that was not one of the usual cast of characters--yet at the same time it was strangely familiar...not too tall, slightly stocky....and dressed in a manner that set the wearer apart from the usual run of cowpokes and miners, trail trash, drifters, confidence men, dandified grifters, and pointlessly arrogant pistoleros that seemed to make up the bulk of the male population in this wretched little tin-plated piss-pot town.

He had on a blue army shell jacket of an obsolete pattern, decorated with faded yellow cavalry piping; a battered old-style forage cap; yellow-striped blue breeches, stuffed into riding boots; and a heavy revolver--a venerable cap and ball model that had been converted to cartridge, she noted--and he had it worn butt-forward, set at the perfect angle to be efficiently drawn while fighting from horseback.

Her eyes traveled up to the face...sun and wind burnt, rough features with a small, neatly trimmed beard..and a eyepatch...the surviving eye, looked straight into hers, and she knew him, then and there. Even with all the changes that can be wrought by the passing of 16 years, by traveling thousands of miles on bad coffee and worse food, by taking the impact of yankee shell fragments and prison camps and witnessing the deaths of friends and enemies at close hand, living out an endless life in the saddle and carrying out orders that may or may not have made any sense to a man who loved reason and logic and human decency...through all the damage that had been done over time and distance to the young man she had once known...she recognized him.

He stopped next to the bar, a good eight feet or so away from her. Not all that far, really. But it felt to her like a great chasm still stood between them, and he seemed to understand and respect that. After a pause, a voice, soft but deep, spoke to her, quietly, but at the same time cutting through the surrounding din, like the light of a hand lamp piercing the dark of night.

"Hello Diogenes. Some gentleman told me I could find you here."

She could still only look at him blankly.

Another pause followed, but he never took his one-eyed gaze away from hers.

His voice was still quiet. "I am sorry about Jack. For what it is worth, I wanted to let you know that I did my best to keep him alive. I am desperately, truly sorry."

Finally she spoke. "Hello Sepp."

Then the words came out like a small flood, "Cap Johnson's boys come to see me after they got sent home. They tol' me he din't suffer none. An they give me his ol' forage cap. An' they needed them some money..but wouldn't accept a gift nor a loan from me, so the eldest, Mo, he done give me his calvry sack coat an let me give him some money fer it..an...well shit...please, tell me the truth, Sepp...and goddam you to hell for ever if'n yer lying to me...was it quick? Did he really feel nothin'? did..."

The old horse soldier did not flinch, his expression was like stone: impassive, grim, but still looking straight into her eyes. "On my honor, Dio, it was as quick as a soul can depart this world...one minute we were all sitting there on our mounts under some trees, waiting to move out. And all of a sudden there was a woosh and a bang, like a huge clap o' thunder, and we all went down..and Jack was gone. Same shell killed his horse, and my old bay, Ceasar, and took my eye, and few other less noticeable pieces of me, and it hurt one o' the other boys something dreadful..."

Sepp dropped his gaze to the floor for a moment and then looked up into her eyes once more. "Dio, if I thought there actually was a God, I would swear to you on his Holy Book that Jack felt no pain in his passing."

"I...well...the boys told me that...but you know how fellers'll tell a widder just about goddam anythin' tryin' to spare her feelin's. I'm right glad twas the truth. I believe you Sepp. Funny...I still got Mo's gray woolens, but damn me if'n I din't lose Jack's cap somewhere..." Her voice trailed off.

Silently the soldier reached into a haversack he carried, and pulled out a very battered old gray military cap. It had dark brown stains around jagged holes..the kind of holes that no moth can make.

He gently set it on the bar, in the gap in between them. She stared at it as if it was some strange creature...

"I found it on your kitchen table at the ranch Dio," he said. "I got there just as the foreclosure auction was ending. You were gone...no one knew where...but I saw the cap and I picked it up, I thought maybe you might want it some day."

She continued to stare at it. Her face was impassive, set with a determination that would have held a world of meaning for Sepp's Apache and Tonkawa rangers from before the war..those men would have understood what her face meant, and would have appreciated it. A single tear slowly etched it's lonely path down her cheek.

"He loved you very much Dio," Sepp continued. "Jack was not a man of many words, he didn't have much to say a lot of the time, but there wasn't a day that didn't go by that he didn't think about you and miss you terribly."

For the first time he took his single eyed gaze away from hers. He looked at the floor. "I had something I wanted to give you...to make sure you knew how much he loved you...that locket with your picture...when I came to, I ... I got it from Jack's..well Jack's mortal remains...I had it with me all these years...I was determined I was going to give it to you..show you how much he loved you..that locket, that picture that when he thought no one was looking, he would pull out and gaze at it, and, well...he loved you more than can rightly be put into words."

He again raised his one eye to meet hers. "But damn if I didn't lose it..just a few weeks ago..must have been a careless damn fool and lost it on the trail somewhere..."

Now it was his voice that trailed off.

For the first time she smiled. A tight, wry, ironic smile.

"It's allright, Sepp. Someone I know..well..by god, they, um... sort of found it." She pulled it out of the pocket in her buckskin skirt.

For the first time since he had walked into that barn-like shithole of a saloon, he smiled.

Suddenly her expression changed.

"Sepp?"

"Yes?"

"That note you left for me..with Mr. Bu..."

"The old Chinese gent, your neighbor?"

"Yes."

"What about it?"

"In it..well...you told me to stop hunting for you up in the hills, to wait down here in town..."

"Yes. It was too dangerous for you to be doing that, Dio."

"In it..you said...you said you din't want nothin' to happen to me...cuz you loved me."

"Yes."

"That true?"

"Yes it is. Dio, I've always loved you."

She regarded him in silence for a moment and then slowly, quietly asked, "Even back then...when we was young an just bein' foolish?"

"Yes. And if your next question is did I love you just like a sister...or a right good friend...No. I loved you the other way. But Jack was my best friend. I was always happy for you two. You two being married...well, it was the best a fellow could hope for under the circumstances."

"That how come you never got hitched?"

"Well, it wasn't all of it, but yes, by God it was a big part of it. No woman ever seemed to quite measure up to you, Diogenes."

Suddenly, without a word she moved closer to him. She slowly put her arms around him and pressed her head against his shoulder and began crying. Huge heaving sobs, as years of pain and loss and emptiness poured out in a wave that wracked her slight body. He gently put his big paw-like hands around her and held her... even as she began hitting him on the chest.

"Goddamit" she hissed. "Goddamit to hell and back, you lousy ol' good fer nuthin' feckless saddle-tramp sonofabitch! And you know somethin' else? You look like a goddam idjit in that blue monkey suit."

For the first time in years, the old soldier laughed. He laughed so hard tears came to his eyes.

They kissed...gently, tentatively at first, and then the kiss lengthened and became more intense. And then, arm in arm, they walked out of the Gem and down the street towards her new home in the back of the laundry at the end of China Row, in that very good location right next to Mr. Bu's popular opium house.

Neither noticed that they had left something behind on the bar: an old gray military cap. Later the next day, she would remember it was still there and would go retrieve it. But life, as it does, seemed to have moved on...

~~~

Dio's Story, part seven -- the search in the hills

reposted and edited from the The Road to Deadwood Forum:

She knew it was going to be hard finding Sepp and his detail up in the hills. She just hadn't realized how hard.

"Shit," she thought at one point, "these boys are pretty goddam good."

She had figured that Sepp would use every trick he knew to stay hidden from both the miners and wandering groups of hostiles or bandits. And by God, he didn't disappoint her.

Sepp had been trained by the same old rangers and hunters who had taught Dio how to not make obvious trails; to move noiselessly; to leave no evidence of having passed by or where you were going. When she talked to the men in the gold camps, asking if they had seen any bluecoats, they could only tell her vague stories about grim and silent riders who seemed to move like ghosts, suddenly swooping out of the dusk to grab a suspected deserter for a "little chat," or pouncing without warning on small groups of road agents or horse theives.

The only signs she could find were the occasional blurred and masked set of tracks, more often than not suddenly vanishing into a creek bed or over a rock face. And every now and then, Dio came across some freshly mounded dirt, marked with a bit of board or a slab of bark stripped from a nearby tree, and bearing grease pencil inscriptions such as "unknown hostiles," or "deserter," or "unknown bandit, executed 1876."

Dio would spend several days or a week at time, trying to pick up Sepp's trail. When she ran out of supplies, or the signs were cold or nonexistent, she returned to Deadwood, making a brief visit to rest her horse, pick up fresh ammunition and food, and maybe even do a few loads of washing in order to raise some needed funds. But within a day or two, she would be heading back into the hills to continue the search.

Even as she tried to follow Sepp's detachment, she knew she had to be as careful and cautious as they were. One time, Dio thought she had found their trail. She had come across the tracks of a small group of shod horses, hidden as much as possible, deliberately obliterated or made misleading by means such as backtracking in streams--all the tricks that someone like Sepp would be using. But when the freshness of the tracks told her she had caught up with the group she was following and that they were probably just over the next hill, she didn't simply go riding over the ridge like some feckless greenhorn. Instead, experience and instinct told her to tie her horse some distance away, and silently belly crawl up the slope to take a look first. There, she saw not a squad of army scouts and troopers, but a little band of Cheyenne warriors, resting a small herd of horses they obviously had stolen from some white settlers or miners--hence the tracks of shod horses, rather than shoeless Indian ponies. As quietly as possible she backed down the hill on her stomach, made a dash for "rented hoss" as she called her mount, and got the hell away from there as quickly as she could.

Meanwhile Sepp also made some stops in town--but always by himself, never bringing in his detachment. This was partly to keep them from falling prey to the trouble that lay waiting for tired, thirsty, recreation-starved soldiers in a place like Deadwood, but also to conceal how small his detail actually was. During the course of one of these stops in town to pick up supplies, he learned the truth--that Dio was alive, that she was in this town--this miserable little boomtown--and that she was out in the hills looking for him. On discovering this, he left a note with an elderly Chinese gentleman who lived next door to Dio's laundry, telling her to stay put, that he would come find her, that going out into the hills on her own was too dangerous.

And it certainly was dangerous.

Inevitably, Dio let her guard down for just a moment while taking a rest and was surprised by a miner who thought he could have his way with her. As he worked on undoing his trousers, he never saw the sudden flash of the boot knife that caught him in the throat. With a second and third quick slash, Dio cut his jugular vein and then sat panting, as she watched him bleed out. Seeing the man die before her eyes, Dio 's rage grew--every flint-hearted banker, drunken bastard, lecherous swine and greedy prick she had ever known in her jumbled life became personified in this gasping, wreck of a human, staring at her with terror and pain in his eyes. That look of terror grew as she told him what she was about to do.

When he finally expired, she grimly stood up and began taking everything he had...horse, gun, gear, clothing, and finally, the kind of mementos she had learned to take from a fallen enemy when she rode with Sepp's Apache and Tonkawa rangers.

The next day, when a party of prospectors stumbled upon the naked, scalped, and emasculated body of a white man whose throat had been cut, they assumed it was evidence of yet another attack by hostile Indians. When they noted that his chest had been opened and some major organs removed--and apparently left out to feed the wolves and coyotes--they were convinced that here was a clear message from the Sioux, telling interlopers such as themselves to leave the Black Hills or suffer the consequences. A couple of them did actually decide to give up and return to Iowa that night.

Even as the frightened fortune hunters were packing their gear to head back east, a small figure in buckskins and a battered, broad-brimmed hat slowly rode into Deadwood, leading an extra horse and cradling a new carbine. The old slouch hat was curiously decorated with a few wild daisies stuck in the band. Her saddle had even more curious decorations--a scalp and what appeared to be a severed set of male genitalia.

Deadwood was not a place for those who were faint of heart or weak of stomach. Dio was neither. And she had no intention of going anywhere else.

~~~

Dio's story, part six -- a face from the past

reposted from The Road to Deadwood forum

Dio and Sepp had no idea how close they finally were to each other.

Sepp was now a First Sergeant in the 3rd U.S. Cavalry, under General Crook at Ft. Fetterman, in the Wyoming Territory. As the lure of gold enticed soldiers to take "French leave" and take up mining in the area around the new settlement known as Deadwood, First Sgt. Bogart was dispatched with a small detail of troopers and scouts as a provost marshal's detachment to round up deserters. In the course of his work, Sepp began periodically stopping in the town seeking information on stray soldiers and to get supplies for his little command, but he never happened to encounter the woman he had been seeking since the war.

Then one night he happened to visit the Gem, where Miss Lil, in one of her "entrepreneurial moments" picked his pocket. All she got for her troubles was a battered locket, which she tossed in one of her jewelry boxes without even opening it. When he realized he had lost the locket, Sepp felt a huge emptiness inside--he thought he must have carelessly let it slip out while he was on the trail, never imagining that it had been stolen. He had carried that little trinket since Jack was killed, hoping to give it to Dio so she would know how much her husband had loved her, and that he had been thinking of her every day while he was gone from their west Texas ranch. Now it had evaporated, and he felt it was a sign that he would never see her again.

Not long afterwards, Deadwood's folks were having one of those days: a day when everything seemed to be going from bad to worse, to just downright unbelievable. Lil had been sick, gone through a botched operation, and was dealing with the consequences, including infection, excruciating pain and delirium. Dio had befriended a newcomer--a young man from the slums of New York who went by the name Amsterdam--who subsequently had to be talked out of killing himself, and then prevented from shooting Deac (which Dio accomplished by standing in between the two of them when they were about to pull their weapons).

Afterwards, called upon to help Miss Lil--as no one else with any medical knowledge was around to alleviate her suffering--Dio found herself re-bandaging the woman's wounds and administering some morphine from Mr. Bu's supplies. In between facing down and cussing out an irate Percy (livid that Dio had protected someone who had threatened his brother and frightened Miss Estwee), and trying to keep various friends and strangers from wandering into Lillian's sick room, Dio was given an odd gift by the Gem's owner. For some reason, the delirious and heavily drugged Lil decided to give Dio a memento to thank her for her help--and the piece she chose to give the widow Kuhr was an old locket she had "found."

When Dio opened the strangely familiar object, she found a familiar face smiling up at her from the picture inside the locket. It was her own, in a tintype taken over 17 years before.

Once she had recovered from the shock, Dio got some semblance of an explanation from Lillian, and realizing that Sepp was patrolling the hills near Deadwood, she returned to the laundry. She grabbed her pistol, and dug out her old buckskin trail clothes from the immigrant trunk she had acquired from yet another disappointed fortune hunter who had given up the hunt for gold. After one final round of exchanging harsh words with Percy and preventing him from killing Amsterdam, she set out on a rented horse to begin looking for Sepp.

She suddenly wanted to reconnect with her lost past very, very badly.

~~~

A story -- Bu saves my life and why I pack iron, as a rule

this is a new story, written today because HeadBurro has been asking for Mr. Bu stories. It's based on a situation that happened in the first months of the Deadwood sim--it wasn't really rp, because the man who attacked us was little better than a second-rate griefer -- no rp at all, just pulled a gun and started shooting. But Bu did in fact gun him down, and it provided the inspiration for the invented aspects of this story:

Ye know, nowadays, when the stage rolls into town an disgorges yet another sweet young thang -- or hell, even some pinch-face, leather-handed crone like m’self -- I generally get ‘em aside at the earliest opportunity an express to them the opinion that in Deadwood, it don’t hurt fer any gal over the age o’ twelve to be packin’ iron. I know everyone don’t necessarily agree that this is fittin’ an' proper, but ye do understand I have been a proud resident o’ this misbegotten hog-wallow purty much since dirt was invented. I reckon m’ suggestions fer a healthy, long life bear some consideration.

Oddly enough when I first got to Deadwood ridin’ shotgun on one o’ Colorado Charlie’s big freight wagons from Cheyenne, I was so flat-ass, stony broke I din’t own a firearm o’ my own. The big ol’ double-barrel Belgian I was usin’ fer the trip was borrowed, an I had to surrender it to the wagon master upon completion o’ the journey. But I figgered, what the hell, I had m’ skinnin’ knife in a belt sheath an' m’ boot knife in it’s usual abode: I’d be able to look after m’ self in a more than satisfactory fashion. At least fer a spell...right?

Well, not too long after I had taken on runnin’ the laundry back on China Row, I was haulin’ some water for to boil a goodly number o’ miner’s shirts what had accumalated in a malodorous pile on the “to do” table. An’ as I was headin’ up from the crik, I saw m’ neighbor, the esteemed Mr. Bu, out in front o’ his very popular an' well-run opium parlour, a-brushin’ down his favorite donkey. He looked up an’ smiled in that beatific sort o’ way he had, an’ waved, so I strolled o’er to say how-do.

“Afternoon, Mr. Bu, I trust you an' yours are well.”

He replied in his gentle, grandpa-type voice, “Ah, greetings. Missus Dy-oh. All are well. Bathhouse girls very happy, using Missus Dy-oh stove for heating of wash water. Very happy, they are. So...Bu is happy..."

I had jus’ set down m’ bucket to continue exchanging pleasantries when suddenly, in less time than it takes to explain it all in words, his eyes went wide. He sprang like a hungry cat on a lazy songbird, knockin' me to one side as he shouted, "DOWN! MAN WITH GUN!" And whilst I rolled one way, I could see Bu rollin’ t’other an' pullin’ a short-barrel revolver from Christ-knows-where, an’ openin’ up in the direction o’ the crik.

I looked o’er that way to see a grubbly-lookin’ white man with a drawn weapon who was blazin’ away in our direction. Best as I could tell it looked to be an’ ol’ cap an’ ball Navy. Rounds seemed like they was flyin’ all around, an' I knew some of ‘em was close, as bits o’ wood from the porch post next t’ me was spatterin’ in m’ hair. Anyhow, Bu proved to be the better man, or mebbe jus’ had Providence smilin’ down on him that day, for I saw the mud-eatin weasel what had assailed us go down, a-clutchin at his leg an’ yowlin’ like a kicked dawg. He scrabbled off, headin' up Deadwood Street, outta’ sight around the side o’ the lunch tent.

Bu jumped up an’ called out in his native lingo, and before ye could say “the divil pisses brimstone” a squad o’ Chinamen had suddenly appeared out from multiple doors, an' mebbe a window or two, all well equipped with axes an' clubs. They was listenin’ to ol’ Bu, tensed an ready to go into action. Altho’ at that time I understood but a few words o' the Celestials' language (mostly what I got was, “Somethin’, somethin’, Cocksucka! somethin’...” comin’ rapid-fire from Bu’s mouth), I could tell from his manner he was issuin’ orders...

An’ it struck me, it was a very different man I was seein'. Instead o’ my friendly neighbor, the soft-spoken, smilin’ ol’ gentleman who was like some gran'fatherly philospher o’ times past, here was this fierce elder o’ his people, talkin’ fast an hard. Even with not understandin’ the words themselves, I had no doubt he was settin’ in motion a response that was gonna be of a decisive nature, an’ that would conclude with a harsh finality. Clearly, if’n ye elected to fuck with the man who was m’ neighbor back on China Row, ye was doin’ so at yer own peril.

He gave one last command to his axe-wieldin’ posse an’ pointed up Deadwood Street. They all nodded as one an’ shouted somethin’ in unison that I reckon was “yes Boss!” an’ they was off.

He turned to me, an’ while his eyes was still hard as flint in winter, the gran'father voice had returned.

“Missus Dy-oh, you not hurt?”

“No, Bu, I’m fine..are you...”

My voice trailed off, as I saw a look comin’ o’er his face, an I turned to follow his gaze. I saw right away what he was starin’ at -- his beloved lil’ donkey had gone down, struck by a couple o’ pistol balls fired by the cockchafin’ rascal who had tried to kill ol’ Bu fer some reason or t’other.

Probbly just bizness...

Anyhow...almost as quickly as the look of pain and grief had evidenced itself, Bu’s expression returned to its usual calm, unreadable state. He walked quietly o’er to the fallen beast an knelt down to gently caress it’s fuzzy lil’ chin. Though obviously hurt dreadful bad, the donkey was an exemplar o’ the patience an resilience o’ his kind, neither bawlin’ in pain nor thrashin’ about. He jus’ looked up at his master with them large dark eyes.

Mr. Bu smiled slightly an’ said softly, “Missus Dy-oh, he good Donkey. “

Then he opened the loadin’ gate on his short-barrel revolver, an’ ejected the empty casin’s. He proceeded to slip in another cartridge, advanced the cylinder to line up the round, an’ without another word, shot the por lil’ fucker in the head.

I was not shocked nor disturbed by his action, bein’ as in my time, I have had to do the same to more than a couple o’ critters, as well as a man or two. But what did trouble m’ heart was that I had been caught flat-footed in a life-or-death situation that I could take no hand in, other than to keep m’ head down an’ hope it warn’t m’ turn just yet to pass on to the Other-Side Camps.

Next day, I took some o’ the earnin’s from the laundry an’ went down to Dryke’s store to peruse his case o’ used revolvers. Found a big ol’ Walker Colt like the rangers used to carry, an fer it’s age, twas in fine condition--nice an’ tight, an’ not shot-out at all.

Now mind ye, I was grateful to m’ esteemed neighbor, the elder o‘ his people in Deadwood. I shall never fergit that of a certainty, he saved m’ life, bein’ as when that belly-crawlin, spit-dribblin’ puke pulled iron to take his shots at Bu, I was in betwixt ‘em. But I had no intention o’ havin’ in future to rely solely on the marksmanship o’ others to ensure m’ own hide would stay intact.

~~~

Dio's story, part five -- So what was life like in Deadwood in those early days?

well, since you asked....this is reposted from The Road to Deadwood Forum, and essentially summarizes the early months of rp that Dio experienced in the sim:

In a remarkably short time, Dio found herself adapting to life in the rapidly growing mining camp. The taciturn Mr. Dryke proved to be a a fair and very businesslike landlord. It seemed to be more important to him that the town have decent, reliable laundry service available than his turning a quick profit: he was quite reasonable in allowing her to begin work and start making some money before requiring the first rent payments on the wash house. An old hand at getting everything from blood to beer out of filthy work clothes--and more than used to working long hours--Dio quickly began turning a profit that allowed her to make the necessary payments. Almost immediately, she was able to begin making some improvements to the place.

She traded for some lumber to wall off a bit of living space in the back. In short order, she rendered her new quarters more than comfortable with some second-hand furnishings acquired from greenhorns who were already having trouble making it in this new El Dorado. Among these acquisitions was splendid sheet-iron wood-burning stove, which expanded output at the laundry by increasing the speed and convenience with which she could heat water for washing and soaking clothes. This in turn helped Dio generate more income.

She rapidly realized that the best way to make your fortune in a mining town was not necessarily with a pick and shovel.

The majestic triumph of technology that was her new stove also helped Dio to make her first friends in Deadwood. The business next door turned out to be a Chinese opium den and bath-house, and the girls who worked there quickly noticed that Dio was no longer heating her wash water over an open fire. They were delighted when she struck a deal with them: in exchange for their help in gathering wood and hauling water, she allowed them to use her stove for heating the water they needed to provide baths. The business arrangement with the bathhouse girls--and their affable employer, Mr Bu, who was in fact, the owner of the white beard and bamboo hat she had seen on her first night in town--soon turned into friendship. Some old friendships were reestablished as well--her cowhand friend Adar Merlin appeared in town one day. And Mahaila Bertrand, the Dodge City friend in whose cause Dio had been severely wounded, turned out to be in Deadwood as well, running the newspaper.

As violent memories from her past were rekindled by seeing "Mah"--along with seeing the abuse and violence that Bu and other hard-working "celestials" were subjected to--Dio quickly concluded she needed to acquire some firepower and brush up on her skills with firearms. This determination was reinforced one night when she and Adar overheard a drifter talking about robbing the bank. When the would-be thief was confronted about his plans, he made the mistake of calling Dio a liar. As Adar said, "she took after the man like a rattler" with her knife. Although the robbery was prevented, the leering ruffian told Dio he "was going to remember' her. The skinning knife she wore at her waist and the boot knife that had been a constant companion since Dodge City were soon joined by a well worn surplus army revolver.

Dio also began making new friends. Her colorful profanity and ready, rough frontier wit made her a welcome regular at the Gem, the same saloon where on that first night in town her offer to help treat the wounded owner, Miss Lillian, had been so forcefully rebuffed by Lil's associate Foxy Innis. There, Dio would drink coffee and tell stories, or simply share observations about what was taking place in town. The Gem's ladies, as well as male employees like bartender and security guard Lefty Fargis, seemed to like her as they found her explosive commentary on life in Deadwood hilarious. Others, like her landlord's younger brother Deacon Dryke, became friends with her on the basis of her less obvious qualities: a kindness, and a practical wisdom that came through in her quieter moments.

Some, like Mahaila, found a sense of what could only be called sisterhood with Dio, in the course of late night discussions of their shared loss and heartbreak.

For the first time in many years, Dio was starting to feel as though she belonged somewhere--that even in this squalid setting, and the rapidly shifting social fabric of this town on the edge of possibility and nothingness, she had friends, some shred of purpose, and reasons to let the past fade and disappear.

Then one night--a night, when after 12 straight hours of washing other people's filthy garments, Dio decided to skip heading to the Gem and instead collapsed on her bed in the tiny back room of the wash house--a solitary figure rode down from the hills in the dwindling light.

A horse soldier in federal blue--no longer young, but not yet ready give up the only life he had known for years--swung down from his creaking old cavalry saddle and tied his mount to a porch post. He surveyed the rowdy little town as it began to come to life in the dusk. He wore his battered forage cap and an obsolete-pattern shell jacket like an old campaigner, and the eye patch that covered one eye suggested that he had been through some dirty business in his time.

He wore his army Colt in a curiously adjusted butt-forward position like someone who had learned combat on horseback in certain style favored in certain circles. In his saddle bag was a crumpled gray cavalry cap, marked with brown stains that had dried long ago, and holes of the type made by small pieces of red hot iron produced when an artillery shell blows into fragments. Within the inside breast pocket of his shell jacket, in a small leather bag, there rested a tarnished locket that had lost most of its gilding over time. Inside that locket was a small ferrotype image of a youngish woman, dressed in clothing of a style from before the war, wearing small oval glasses, a slight sardonic smile, and her hair worked into two braids that framed her face.

Even as she sought to move forward with her life into what she hoped would be a better future, a part of Dio's past was about to resurface...

~~~