Trees must still die -- Books of interest on Western History

~~~

When you look around online, you can find an awful lot of information about any subject, and the history of the American Western Frontier is no exception. And, as is true of most other subjects researched online, a huge percentage of what you will will find is utter bullshit, salacious crap and mind-blowingly shallow, simplistic, and/or unsubstantiated nonsense. A good bit of it is just the same old shit being being copied and regurgitated from one half-ass source to the next.

How do you tell the difference between the swill and the good stuff?

In a lot of ways it's just like how you judge books: you look to see if there is documentation, you look at what sources are cited, you get to know who to trust and who is blowing smoke up your ass, and you eventually get used to relying on your instincts. But ultimately, judging information and interpretation of information--whether it comes to you in electronic or printed form--still requires that you spend time looking at a lot of books. Real, honest-to-god, dead tree publications. Which is why, as a public service (and to earn freebie points to get more books for myself), I have entered into the Amazon.com "Associates" program which enables me to put widgets on This Here Blog that will highlight publications that you might find enlightening or just plain fun.



This concept hadn't occurred to me until I saw this being done over on the blog of the exquisite and consistently interesting Emilly Orr, and as I have always been one who enjoyed cobbing a good idea from my betters, yea and verily, I didst go forth to ape and adapt.

The grand thing about this system is that you get to pick what YOU feel is a good match for your particular brand of e-rant. For Emilly, it's mostly horror books, chocolate, and useful electronic gizmos. Logically for me on this blog, it's mostly going to be books on Western history, including publications that I have read and found useful as source material for my stories and rp in deadwood, and books that I want to read someday because they look intriguing. I also stuck in a slew of titles that I just happened to find while perusing Amazon, and thought that they might have potential to be useful and somebody ought look at them.

This is key--I spent time going through Amazon's voluminous offerings and picked these things out. It's not just the crap that gets automatically generated with the little message that says "a while bunch of other morons who bought this claptrap ALSO pissed away their hard-earned money on these titles, mostly because the cover art included a lady with an immense rack."

Because, just like on the internet, there is a lot of hard-copy ink and paper crap out there as well. As my friends in the military history biz used to say,:

"Any idiot can write a book...and most of them do."

Anyway...I digress.

You will find there are two widgets on the blog:

First of all you will see right below the masthead, a slideshow of some books, DVD's and even a CD that I thought y'all might find of interest. And yes, you will note that the show features some items that are not just pure western history-related, such as "Her Best Shot," Larua Browder's book on women and guns in America (which I found fascinating for obvious reasons), or "Boilerplate," which I have reviewed elsewhere on this blog. Mind you, I included "Boilerplate," along with the Leonard Bernstein CD of Aaron Copland's (mostly) western-themed music, and a few great John Wayne classic DVD's, just because they are pretty fuckin' awesome. Yeah, the DVD's and the CD aren't exactly source material, but goddammit, they sure as hell can get you revved up for some rp fun. And "Boilerplate" just kicks ass, both in concept and execution, and if I can help Paul Guinan and Anina Bennett sell a few more copies of their wacky and delightful book, then by Hecate's drawers, I will do it.

The second widget (not a widget really, more like a big-ass picture and a simple "click here" doodad) is a link to an "a-store" that I created through Amazon (as far as I know the "a" in "a-store" stands for Amazon, and not the usual things which are, of course, running through all your sophomoric humor lobes right now). You just click there, and it will take you to this collection of books that you can peruse and purchase--books that include some of the same ones I put in the slideshow--such as historian Watson Parker's works on 19th century Deadwood and the Black Hills, which are pretty much the freakin' non-bullshit bibles that serve as the foundation for doing rp in the Deadwood sim. I have also included some of Cathy Luchetti's books in both places.

I really like Cathy Luchetti--mostly what she does is collect stunning and intriguing and evocative historic images and use them to illustrate and supplement stories of western women, told in their own words, with a minimum of editorial mucking about. I am particularly fond of her chapter in the book "Women of the West," regarding Helen Wiser Stewart, a Nevada ranch wife of the 1870s-90s who took over running a ranching operation after her husband was murdered. It's great primary source material that contradicts an awful lot of our assumptions about life and gender in the old west. And it also gives us some other interesting insights, such as the fact that many ranches employed Native Americans as hands. And because these rely heavily on actual diaries, letters and personal memoirs written by genuine 19th century people of various socio-economic circumstances, they can give you an idea of actual 19th century speech patterns and vocabulary.

In addition to Ms. Luchetti's stuff, I selected a number of the other books specifically because of what they can do to challenge our assumptions:

Books about the U.S. military on the frontier that highlight the roles of infantry, Native American scouts, and the Black regiments, rather than just the white cavalry units;

Books about frontier military posts that show how most "forts" didn't look like the ones in "Fort Apache" or "F Troop," but instead were "open plan," un-walled posts;

Books on archaeology of mining towns and battle sites (specifically Virginia City's saloons, and Custer's defeat at the Little Bighorn), that offer hard evidence about what really happened in these places, rather than what the mythology indicates;

Books like Joe Rosa's attractive and highly readable "Age of the Gunfighter," which documents how the actual level of violence in the West--and how most gunfighters and lawmen actually used their guns--was different from what the movies portray.

I also threw in things like Phil Schreier's book about guns of the old west, because Phil is an ol' friend of mine and goddammit, he's a good guy and it makes me happy when friends sell their books.

A lot of what I included are nice little paperbacks with lots of photos and artwork--you know, the Osprey and GI series books and crap like that. Admittedly, these can be kind of expensive for their length, but hey, you can always buy a used one for cheaper. These provide nice visuals that I think could be of real help to designers of old west stuff in SL, plus they are great as bathroom reading being as they ain't so heavy that your legs are going to fall asleep from supporting the weight of them.

So I encourage you to check out what is offered, and if you have suggestions of other books that you think would be of interest to other people who stumble across this rambling mess, give me a holler.

~~~

A Deadwood story -- consequences, part 6

~~~

Dio looked down at Zedekiah and sighed. This wasn’t turning out how she had hoped it would.

The doctor had just left to begin his 20 mile trek back to Madison. Dio had told him she was dreadfully sorry having called upon him to come so far, but he said it was fine, he’d see some patients along the way and probably stay the night with one of them. He in turn apologized to her that he could not do more for Zed.

The young man was not getting better. In fact, he was feverish and his leg was hot to the touch. Dio had been reasonably sure for a few days he was going to die before too terribly long, but she she had sent for the doctor nonetheless, just to see if he could do anything.

He had said he really couldn’t, and yes, he agreed with her that in his opinion Zed wasn’t going to last much longer. And much to her frustration, the dying man still showed no inclination to tell Dio what she wanted to know: the name of the woman who had induced Zedekiah Quinnell to kill Al Husar.

Just then, Asa Johanesen came into the room. Asa had by this point firmly established himself as Dio’s assistant in all and sundry matters while she remained in Ortonville. In all honesty, she had come to rely on him for quite a bit--everything from watching Zed while she slept, to fetching herbs for a poultice, to bringing her meals from the kitchen at the drovers’ hotel.

“Miz Dio?”

“Yes, Asa?”

“There is a gentleman outside wishin’ to speak with you--a Federal Dep’ty Marshal in fact.”

“Ah. Will ye oblige me by watchin’ o’er Zed while I do?”

The boy nodded and took up his usual post. He was still armed with his ancient Hall’s carbine, but now he carried it slung. It was pretty unlikely that in his present deteriorating condition, Zed was suddenly going to jump up and try to dash off. Dio went out onto the porch of the small cabin to find a tall man in a black suit waiting. A US deputy marshal’s badge glinted on the man’s lapel.

“Good day t’ ye sir," said Dio. “I am told you wish to speak with me.”

Yes M’am. I’m US Deputy Marshall Everett Wilkins. I have been informed by Mr. Orton that you are holding and looking after a fugitive from the Dakota territory. A man wanted for murder...”

“An’ attempted murder, as well, sir,” Dio added. “The feller killed an acquaintance in my presence and then did his best to kill me.” She pulled down the cloth she still kept wrapped around her neck to prevent chafing on the now mostly healed wound. Mr. Wilkins glanced at the evidence of her close call and nodded.

“This man is one, Zedekiah Quinnell?” he asked.

“Yessir.” Dio replied. “I confirmed the identity o’ the man durin’ my pursuit o’ him. When I was confident twas Quinnell I was after, I had sent tel’graph messages to US Deppity Marshal Sand Rau, and the victim's employer, so I assume that is how you are aware o’ this man’s name an his crime?”

“Yes Ma’am. It was communicated to the various offices in the region by Marshal Rau that this man was wanted, and that a special deputy D.A. Kuhr was in hot pursuit of the miscreant. I’m out of St. Cloud, and just happened to be passin’ through when Mr. Orton told me of the situation you have here.”

“I see,” Dio said quietly. She had a bad feeling about this, but she tried to not let it show. Time for the poker face.

Deputy Marshal Wilkins went on, “Mr. Orton told me that you are that special deputy...I trust he misunderstood something...”

Dio turned down the collar of her buckskin jacket in order to reveal the badge that she had fastened to her shirt, as the pin back did work well on the heavy material of the jacket.

“Nossir, Mr. Orton had things pretty well nailed down. Special US Deppity Marshal, D.A.Kuhr from the Dakota Territory, at yer service, Mr. Wilkins.”

Dio could see something flicker across the man’s face, and she was reasonably sure it wasn’t an expression of any kind of approval of this state of affairs.

After a pause, Wilkins stated dryly, “Well...regardless...I have directed my colleague to obtain a wagon so that we may take charge of the prisoner and transport him back to other more suitable accommodations..to keep him until he is in condition to be sent on for trial, most likely at Yankton, I should think.”

Dio already suspected that this was where the conversation was going. She wasn’t real happy about it, being as she was still hoping Zed might give up the name of the woman who was behind everything. But, having been somewhat expecting a development of this sort, she managed to remain surprisingly calm, determined to still maintain the affect of a disciplined and professionally-minded officer of the law.

“He will not survive transport, sir,” she said in an even, emotionless voice. “The wound I gave him has taken to festerin’, an he runs a high fever.”

The US Deputy Marshal arched an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected Special Deputy Marshal D.A. Kuhr to turn out to be a middle-aged lady in buckskins, and he certainly hadn’t expected to be told that she had shot the wanted killer. But he had been on the frontier a lot of years, going back to the pre-war days, and he had been in Minnesota during the great Sioux uprising back in '62--he was used to seeing a good many strange and unusual sights. At this stage of his career, it took something truly out-of-the-ordinary to leave him gobsmacked. All of this was coming pretty darn close, but Ev Wilkins was a fairly good poker player himself. He was managing to stay as stony-faced as Dio.

“Well Ma’am,” he drawled, “being as the wanted notice I saw on Quinnell indicated that he was armed and dangerous and was to be brought in either dead or alive, the odds of him surviving a trip in a wagon are pretty much irrelevant. If he passes during transport, it will make little difference in the eventual outcome.”

Dio nodded. Truth be told, she really wanted to be done with this. She'd had enough of playing law officer, she worried about her businesses back in Deadwood, and she was reasonably sure that Zed was never going to betray the woman he loved. He might very well die in the night from the wound, without ever saying another word.

“I kind o’ figgered ye’d look at it that way,” Dio commented in a matter-of-fact tone. “If you are insistent on the point...I must say, I shall not grieve at the man’s demise, nor the fact that he will suffer greatly in being jounced an’ jostled as he is driven o’er these roads in the back of a un-sprung farm wagon. I will however, insist on interviewin’ him once more ere you take him.”

Ev Wilkins was about to respond argumentatively to this condition, but he saw something in the woman’s eyes that led him to keep his mouth shut and just nod his assent.

“Very well. I’ll see how my colleague is progressin’ with arrangements for that wagon and team,” he said, and then walked off.

Dio went back in the cabin, and asked Asa Johansens to step outside.. Once he had done so, she picked up the pitcher, poured some water into the wash basin and dashed the water on Zed’s face.

”Quinnell! wake up, goddam you!”

Zed started awake, red-rimmed eyes jerking open and a thin gasp escaping his throat.

“There is a regular US Deputy Marshal here right now, an’ he is fixed upon takin’ you away and out of my hands. This is your last chance to tell me if you will give up the name o’ that woman who set you on this course o' yer own self-destruction. If you will work with me on this, I will do my utmost to stave off this fello’ an’ see if I can preserve ye from his intentions. Will you tell me or no?”

Zed looked at her, not seeming to really understand..but then he coughed and slowly, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.

No sound came from his lips, but his mouth silently formed the single syllable.

“no”

Dio scowled. “You do realize it is highly likely this gal ne’er had any intention o’ taking up courtship with ye? It is most probable that you are, as Asa said, the biggest goodam idjit ‘tween here an’ the Sierra Nevadas--that the object o’ yer affections has used you ill, in the most heartless fashion possible, an’ made a great fool o’ ye?”

Zed could only shrug slightly. Dio decided she was over and done with it.

“Very well,” Dio said with more resignation than anger. “I shall leave you then into the the hands of justice that will, I suspect, be far less interested in keepin’ ye alive than I have been.”

Zed feebly raised a hand off the blanket a little way and made a gesture for Dio to come closer. Curious--and slightly hopeful--she leaned in to catch his words.

“I...am...sorry...” he breathed.

She straightened and started for the door, then turned.

“Sorry? Sorry fer killin’ a man who never did anythin’ directly to harm ye? Sorry fer tryin ‘to kill a woman who just happened to be inconveniently situated when ye carried out that crime? Or ye jus’ sorry ye got caught?”

Zed said nothing. But he did smile slightly.

Not long afterwards, Asa and Dio helped Everett Wilkins and his special deputy, a man named Jerry, load Zedekiah Quinnell into a bed of straw and blankets in the back of a rented wagon with peeling red paint. As Dio and the boy watched them drive off towards the East, she gave Zed’s Navy Colt to Asa, and told him that she hoped if he ever felt the urge to come visit the Black Hills, he would seek her out in Deadwood. He assured her that he would. After giving a respectable little wad of banknotes to the lady who owned the cabin where she had cared for Zed for almost a week, Dio made her way to Orton’s combined store and post office. She needed to get a few supplies before starting the trip back, as well as wanting to bid farewell to the gentleman.

She found him sorting through some paperwork.

“Ah, Missus Kuhr, fixin’ to head for home?”

“Yessir, Mr. Orton,” she replied, “I have sent Mr.Quinnell on his way with the US Deputy Marshal from St. Cloud, and now I am lookin’ forward to returnin’ to things as a normal biznesswoman.”

Mr. Orton smiled to himself. He rather thought “normal” wasn’t the right term to be applied, but he elected to make no comment to that effect. Instead he busied himself with bundling up jerked beef, coffee and hard crackers for Dio’s journey. When she pulled out some banknotes to pay him, he shook his head and refused to accept them.

As he walked her to the door, he said, “Missus Kuhr, it has been a pleasure and an adventure having you here. I am confident that you have given us a story that folks will be telling their children and grandchildren in years to come. But I am curious about something...”

Dio smiled at him. “You may ask me whatever you wish, Mr. Orton. I owe you an’ yer neighbors an’ immense debt for your consideration an’ support o’ m’ task. What would you care to know?”

Mr. Orton looked slightly uncomfortable. “May I ask how you will be settling the matter of the rewards with Deputy Marshal Wilkins?”

Dio stopped smiling.

“Ah...um...rewards?”

“Yes Ma’am. When he came into the store earlier today, and I mentioned that you were holding Quinnell, he took out some handbills he had, looked through them, and then I overheard him telling his associate that there might be some substantial rewards being offered for the killer of Mr. Husar. Something about the territorial government and one or two of the mining companies possibly having put forth a not inconsiderable sum.”

As Dio stared at him, Mr. Orton suddenly had a minor epiphany.

“Oh...you didn’t know...and he didn’t think to mention it to you, did he?" he said somewhat sheepishly.

Dio turned and looked eastwards for a moment. Then she turned back to the storekeeper.

“Papaw always used to say that money kin have a detrimental affect on a man’s memory.”

Then she shook Mr. Orton’s hand, tucked her bundle of provisions under her arm, and set off to get her horses and saddle up.

~~~

A Deadwood story -- consequences, part 2

~~~

As the assassin galloped towards the Main Street bridge and the route out of town, he was very pleased with himself. He was sure his target was dead, and that he had tied up the loose ends.

Behind him, the California was wreathed in the lingering fragrances of burnt black powder and blood. There was no movement, no sound...except one...

“sonofagoddamBITCH!!!”

No, he had not done a perfect job.

He had, in fact, not succeeded in tying up all the loose ends. He had been instructed to see to it there were no witnesses. He thought he had done so, but actually had failed. There was a witness, and she was utterly, inexpressibly pissed off.

Now, keep in mind, that while this witness’s degree of irritation was arguably in the realm of the inexpressible, she did, nonetheless, make a spirited effort to find words that would serve as a pretty fair approximation of how she felt at that point in time:

“Goddam, no-good, cowardly, cocksuckin’ WEASEL-FUCKER!”

Dio pulled herself up from the floor, her pistol drawn, clutching at the bullet-graze on her neck as blood dripped from between her fingers. She staggered the few steps to where Al’s body was slumped over the counter. Dio looked at Al Husar for only a moment and then lurched towards the door. There was no need to bother with checking for a pulse. The ex-soldier’s Navy had done its work: the entry wound wasn’t too bad, but the exit wound where Al’s right eye used to be was relatively impressive. Blood, and some bits of skull and brains were splattered across the counter and the basket of biscuits.

The interior of the California restaurant,
showing Miz Estwee's lunch counter

There was also no point in trying to find Estwee--she’d be hiding, terrified. Instead, Dio decided to try the closest place that someone was likely to be this time of the morning: the Collier Boarding House, run by her friend Foxy Innis, just up the slight rise at the end of Main Street.

As she headed for the boarding house, she muttered bits and pieces of phrases that made it pretty clear how she felt.

”...no-good cowardly....ah, sonofabitch that hurt....goddammit it to hell an’ back...."

Finally she staggered through the door of the Collier House, calling out, “Hey, anyone here?...Deac?...Foxy?...Goddammit!...DEAC!...FOXY!!"

Deacon Dryke, the 15 year-old younger brother of provisioner Percy Dryke, was upstairs in his room at the Collier House, suffering with a bad head cold, when he heard some kind of noise downstairs. He sat painfully up and shook his head, sneezed, and then began crawling out of bed. “Hello?” he asked stuffily, “why are you yelling like the house is burning?”

“I'm down here, Deac,” answered Dio somewhat weakly. “No, the house ain't burning...but I'm shot...and Al Husar is dead.”

Deac was just in the process of blowing his nose but this news roused him to a better semblance of wakefulness. Nonetheless, “Wha..ahh.. whaat?” was all he could manage to say.

The boy pulled on his trousers and stumbled down the steps to find Dio sitting at the boarding house dining table, a huge hog-leg of a revolver in one hand, while her other hand was pressed to her neck, dark blood oozing out between her fingers.

Deac sneezed one more time, then hurried closer to take a better look. Dio did not seem happy to see him as he pried her sticky fingers away from the wound in her neck.

“Goddammit,” was all she said.

Deac was horrified, “Do ya need something? Is a doc around? What can I do?”

Dio pointed to the stove. “Hot water...towel...”

Deac got the idea and grabbed a towel which he handed Dio so she could press it to her neck. Then he raked up the coals, stoked the fire in the stove, and put water on to boil. While he was doing so, Dio became more talkative.

“We was at the California,...some belly-crawlin’ sonofabitch come up behind us...asked Al something and said he had an answer to his message...an' he shot him in the back o' the head...then took another shot an' grazed me.”

Deac had found another towel and dipped it in the water heating on the stove, and had begun trying to clean up the wound, to see if it was still actively bleeding. His hands were shaking as he did so.

Who was it?” asked Deac as he held the towel to her neck hoping that the bleeding would stop soon.

Dio didn’t seem to have heard the question. “Don't know how the hell the feckless cocksuckin puke missed me at that range, 'cept I was already rollin out of m' seat an pullin’ m' iron...”

“OH my God,” said Deac in a congested but clearly excited voice, “Al is dead...”

Dio looked up at the boy who was now pressing the towel onto her neck harder than was really necessary. “Holy Christ and his horn-blowin' angels...you ever had someone let off a Colt right next t' yer goddam head? Sonofabitch, that was fuckin’ loud...”

Deac nodded, “Yes at the last shooting contest, someone fired when I was right next to them...I was half deaf...”

Dio looked at him a moment and then commented drily, “Well hell, try it with the goddamm piece pointed at ye...fuckin’ deaf ain’t the word to describe the ringin’ I got in m’ ears right now...oh and we’re gonna need to wash all round that wound, get the burnt powder outta m' skin..."


Deac glanced under the towel, and noted with relief that the bleeding seemed to have stopped. He went to the stove and got the pot of water that was now boiling.

“So who do you think did it? One of Hearst’s men maybe?” he asked, as he began cleaning her neck and shoulder

Dio shook her head. “I have no goddam idea....twas some unemployed sojer...a kid I seen around here now an agin, but never talked to him more'n a few words."

“Is he still outside?” said Deac in agitation, “We have to call the sheriff!”

The boy settled into a sneezing fit after he made this exclamation. Dio waited until he was done and then answered calmly, "No, Hon, I think he was most likely long gone by the time I got up an’ looked to see if Al was gonna mebbe make it. Oh, by the way, after we’s done gettin’ this wound bound up, you better go clean up Estwee's lunch counter for her...goddam blood an’ brains an’ bits o’ skull all over that sonofabitch...Estwee ain't got the stomach fer cleanin that up, I reckon...nice gal but..you know, she takes a fright at things quite easily, an’ I fear she won’t have much enthusiasm fer such a task.”

Deac nodded, even though he had gone a bit pale and clearly was lacking enthusiasm for the job himself.

Dio looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know how come this happened like this?...Al was tellin' me the mayor tol’ him he couldn't bring his security men to town with him. He had no guard. Left him him wide open to struck down in this fashion...”

Deac looked confused. “The mayor did what?”

Dio sighed. “Well, ye know, Al had hired fellers from town to guard the Gold Star office an’ the mines...an’ to shadow him in case he got jumped. Mayor said he couldn't do that no more....well, shit...now he's lying at Estwee's with a big fuckin’ hole where part o’ his face used t' be.”

She sighed again. Deac was unsure of what to do next. He had things pretty well cleaned up but was not certain of his next step. As if sensing this, Dio looked up and began instructing him, “Deac, yer gonna need to wash that wound with some whiskey and we'll need to put a poultice and bandage on it. Ye think Foxy has any cheap likker around here?”

“I’ll look," he said, and trotted off to the boarding house pantry to look through the shelves.

As he searched, Dio suddenly realized she was still holding the Walker. She slid it into its holster. She was very calm now, and was starting to make a mental inventory of what she would need.

“I can’t find any here,“ called out Deacon.

“No matter, hon.” Dio repleid, “We’ll go by the Gem. Hell, the sun’s up. They’ll be open fer the early drinkers. Papaw allus tol’ me to wash wounds with whisky...seems to make em get better...got no goddam idea why, but it does....Deac would ye walk with me down to the Gem?”

“No, no,” said Deac in consternation, “you should sit!...and rest! I’ll find some whiskey...”

Dio, however, was already standing up, slowly but steadily. Deac know he had already lost this argument. He nodded and ran upstairs to buckle on his gunbelt, stuff his feet into his boots, and then dashed back down. Next, he rather bravely decided to try taking Dio by the arm, to help her just in case she got wobbly--even though he was fully expecting to get slapped for making the attempt.

Surprisingly, Dio just smiled at him. “You ain’t really gotta do that, Hon,” she said gravely. But she did let the boy take her arm. Truth be told, she was actually quite fond of Deacon Dryke, and thought very highly of the boy.

“Ye shouldn’t fret so, Deac.” She went on, “Ye know I done been hurt worse than this, lots worse. An’ usually I’d just do like a cat, go lie under the kitchen table an look after m' self ‘til I either die or get better...an I ain't a gonna die from a fuckin’ lil’ ol scratch like this...”

Deac was not reassured. “Can’t I take you to the Doc’s or something?"

“Naw, it's allright, Deac. Ye done plenty...ye helped me stop the bleedin’ n all, cleaned me up...now jus walk with me in case he's still out there.”

“He?” asked Deac, “he who?”

Dio was starting to look a little irritated. “The feller what shot Al o’ course...who did ye think I meant? Al? Al's still there I know..he ain't goin’ nowhere."

The walked slowly down the street to the Gem, which, yes, was in fact, already open.

“Jemima,” called out Deac, “whiskey fast!...a whole bottle...I’ll pay ya later!”

Deac took the bottle that Jemima held out to him and then turned to the table where Dio had sunk heavily into a chair. He placed the bottle in front of her, “Here..have a sip,” he suggested.

Dio frowned, “I ain't havin none o’ that pizzen in me. It’s goin’ on the outside o’ this wound, not inside o' me.” She picked up the bottle, pulled the cork out with her teeth and began splashing the liquor onto her handkerchief. As she began washing off the wound with the whisky-soaked cloth, her face was impassive, but she did make a small involuntary hissing noise.

“Does it hurt much?” asked Deac solicitously.

Dio briefly looked at him with a fleeting expression that suggested she just might rip off his head and spit down the gaping hole, as her Papaw used to say. Instead, she composed herself and answered him in a very soft voice.

“Yes, Deac. Yes...it does...indeed...hurt.”

Deac, who now was feeling a renewed sense of panic, tried to help by lifting one of her braids out of the way. Dio responded by slapping away his hand.

“Ow,” he said in a small voice. Actually it was his feelings, rather than his hand that had been injured by her slap, but it did serve to calm him down some.

What’re you going to do now?” he asked.

Dio completed cleaning the wound. “Go back to the laundry, finish bandagin’ this...then grab some ammo fer the carbine and some supplies, an I’ll get hoss...”

Deac and Jemima looked at each other. Deac was now feeling the panic set in again, but Jemima just shrugged.

“Yeah,” Dio went on, “I reckon I got me a job fer a spell...gonna have to find that feller an’ kill him. Oh, and thanks fer the whiskey.”

She was already starting out the door of the Gem.

Deac did not feel good about this. “But isn’t there something I can do?”

“Yeah,” replied Dio in a flat voice as she headed for China Row. “See to it that Al gets taken care of properly. An’ clean up Miz Estwee’s lunch counter, fer chrissakes.”

Deacon Dryke watched Dio disappear around a corner. Then he looked up towards the California restaurant where he knew he had a job to do.

“Oh goddamn,” he moaned plaintively. “Why me?”

Finally, after a pause, he squared his shoulders, sighed, and started up the street towards Estwee’s place.

~~~

Some of my favorite western images

~~~

Poker game at Lawman's Hall, Deadwood



Women wading in a stream in Nevada on a Sunday afternoon, 1880s

The three graces, me, Astolat and Sal in the Bella


Sadie Austin, daughter of a Nebraska rancher in the 1880s-90s (Nebraska Historical Society)

~~~

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.

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Dio's backstory, part one -- on the edge of the Comanacheria

this is the first post in a series describing Dio's background, copied and slightly re-edited from the Road to Deadwood forum:

By now, quite of few of you probably know this tale as I talk waaaaay too much. But maybe I can tie some loose ends together.

As you see her now, Dio is a middle aged, recovering alcoholic confederate widow, slowly trying to rebuild her life.

Diogenes Aurelia Kuhr was born in 1831, in West Central Texas, on the edge of the region known as the Comancheria--the land ruled by the Comanche people. Her grandfather, Marcus Aurelius Kuhr, and her father were former "mountain men" who had come to settle in Texas when it still belonged to Mexico. Her father married an Irish immigrant girl, who bore two daughters and a son. Diogenes was the middle child, and was apparently her grandfather's favorite. He taught her a number of things, including how to shoot his old long rifle, to track and hunt, and to play the fiddle. Along with some of the boys from neighboring ranches, she learned even more about riding, shooting, practical medicine and the fine art of creative profanity from "Cap" Johnson, an old Texas Ranger who lived in the vicinity. After a raid in which her brother Harry (Heraclitus Kuhr) was taken by the Comanches (and we assume killed), Dio's father suffered a breakdown and lost interest in everything, including his younger daughter.

As her mother and sister then focused on looking after her father, Dio moved in with her "Papaw Marcus," and he took full responsibility for raising her. She also spent a good deal of time in the company of two of the boys whose families lived nearby: Jack Kuhr (a distant cousin) and Sepp Bogart. They became best friends and were almost constantly together until Sepp, the son of educated German immigrants and oldest of the three, eventually went east to Cincinnati to study medicine. Then, when Dio was 14, Marcus ultimately suffered a wound in a Comanche raid that proved to be mortal.

In 1846, when Dio was only 15, her parents and sister died from what was most likely cholera, and Jack, only a few years older than her, took it upon himself to propose marriage. With the dust from an approaching Comanche war party on the horizon, they were more or less married by the same old Captain of Texas Rangers who had helped Marcus teach them about shooting from horseback and how to swear.

Their first years together were very hard, with Jack turning to rustling to feed them (and he may have done some other things that he never got around to telling Dio about). She gave birth to a son at the age of 16, but the baby, "lil' Jack," was sickly and died when only a few months old. They did eventually get a ranch started, hired on some cowboys and vaqueros, and began to make a go of life not far from where Dio had been born. A few years after they had established their ranch, Sepp returned from the east and became a partner with them. They did fairly well, in between the usual frontier disasters and Comanche raids. It was during one of these fights that Dio had the experience of taking a Comanche arrow out of Jack's backside, an event that she never tired of describing, often in rather graphic detail.

stay tuned for part two....

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