Prim Presents -- cool stuff I got after my Second Life Wedding

~~~

A romantic moment, enjoying our wedding gifts.

I intended to do this for a while but got distracted by some other things. (Yeah, I know it sucks how often my posts start out with some statement like that. Deal. I do.) I want to thank a couple friends who gave me and Sepp some wedding presents back when we jumped the broom in January.

First of all, Ernst Osterham gave us our very own fish-can target set to plink at.

The fish can target set consists of three cans that rez on a railing (included with the set). You shoot them and they fly off. After a short pause (plenty of time to take out all three cans on the rail) replacements automatically rez on the rail for the next round.

I've written about these before. They look great (note the awesome vintage label on the can) and they do cool things as you shoot them, making a plink or clank noise and flying into the air when struck properly. They then lay around on the ground for a little while until they self-delete. By the way, Ernst now has these can targets available for sale at his Albion Importers shops (New Babbage, Deadwood, among other locations, I think). When he first introduced them, they were not up for sale at first. But now they are. Go get some. They're hours of fun. And I really got to hand it to Ernst--he knew that Sepp and I would find this an incredibly romantic gift. The family that plinks together, thinks together....or something like that.

Oh, and speaking of the social aspects of firearms in a conjugal context, the other wedding present we got was a pair of Remington-Rider "rolling block" rifles made by our friend Jasper Kiergarten. Sepp hadn't been around much since the wedding, but last night we managed to get together and go running around in the hills above Deadwood trying these out.


So we spent some time shooting the paper targets up by the old miners' cabin, and did a bit of hunting and chasing around after critters.


The guns themselves are of course the kind of work you expect from Jasper: museum quality 3-D modeling, with proper proportions and carefully sculpted pieces that are shaped to look like what they are supposed to look like. This weapon--which is offered for sale at a very reasonable price in the Kiergarten Amoury shop in New Babbage--features a vernier tang sight (as used at Creedmore and other target ranges), a "slung over the shoulder" pose for carrying, and a receiver that is textured to look like it is case hardened steel.


Another thing I really like: there is a version of the gun available in which the firing pose is adjusted for smaller female avies like mine, so you don't look like a bug-eatin' fool with the butt stock of your weapon sticking out the back of your shoulder blades.

Historically, the Remington-Rider "rolling block" rifle was second only to the Sharps in popularity among professional buffalo hunters. First introduced in 1866, this family of firearms featured an extremely strong action that eventually was able to make the transition from black powder to smokeless cartridges. Ultimately, the rolling block would be produced in a wide variety of calibers, including .50-70, .45-70, 7mm Mauser, .43 Spanish, .43 Egyptian, .43 Turkish, .303 British, .30-40 Krag, 7.62 Russian, 8x56R Danish, and even .22 rimfire, among others. As you might guess from that list of different rounds, it was made in a range of variants for military as well as civilian use, and target rifles built on rolling block actions frequently showed up in competitive shooting.

To load a Remington rolling block irl, you cock the hammer, then pull back on a small lever that protrudes on the right side of the block. This unlocks the block and allows it to "roll" back, permitting you to slide a round into the chamber. After you have placed the cartridge in the chamber, you push the protruding lever on the block forward, which closes the action, leaving the hammer cocked. When you pull the trigger and the hammer falls on the block, it not only drives the firing pin into the round, it also ensures that the action is very tightly closed, preventing any escape of gas. When you open the block again, the fired casing is extracted.

Naturally it takes much longer to explain this process than it doses to actually carry it out in real life. Nonetheless, it is a single-shot weapon that is manually operated, and therefore a tad on the slow side. Once again, it is greatly to Jasper's credit that--as he did with his Sharps--he gave this this weapon a reloading time, animations and sound effects that seek to realistically represent operation of a single-shot weapon. If you are one of those spit-dribbling, dry-humping morons who wants a fantasy gun for shoot-outs that operates in an unrealistic fashion (cranking out too many rounds too rapidly, without requiring reloading), then fuck you. This isn't the gun for you.

But it's just the kind of gun that Sepp and I love for hunting and target shooting. Oh, and bless his heart, Jasper even "engraved" our names on our respective weapons. Ain't that sweet?

~~~

A Deadwood story -- counting coup, part 2

~~~

Traveling First Class, army style.

Lieutenant Wilcox knew that the Army could be frugal, but he didn’t realize how utterly, drop-dead tightfisted it could be, until he discovered that he and his detachment of new recruits would be traveling most of the way to their first duty post in a Union Pacific boxcar. Sergeant Bogart, however, gave no evidence of being surprised at this, and the men just seemed pleased that they would be making a large part of the trip by rail, instead of having to ride their horses the entire way. A good many of them, after all, were somewhat new to the art of horsemanship, and they were probably more comfortable gaining experience on horseback in smaller doses.

The same train included a number of additional freight carriages that were identical to the one that was occupied by the men, but these were laden with supplies and provisions destined for Fort Sidney and Camp Robinson, as well as the Red Cloud Agency. There were also a number of stockcars loaded with horses--a number of re-mounts as well as the animals assigned to the recruit detachment. The Army, in its infinite practicality--and a desire to make sure that the new troops would not have too much time on their hands while en-route--had detailed the recruits to water and feed the horses during the journey. The men were also to have the pleasure of mucking out the cars at rest stops.

Although it was not specifically among the tasks that had been assigned to them, the Sergeant had respectfully suggested that the Lieutenant detail some of the men to stand guard around the train when it made stops, in order to prevent any larcenous-minded miscreants from breaking into the boxcars and making off with government property.

Wilcox took the suggestion. He appreciated that the Sergeant had brought the idea to his attention, as he quickly realized that even though he hadn’t been instructed to post guards, if something did turn up missing, he would very likely be held responsible for not taking any proactive steps to prevent such an occurrence. As a new officer, he also appreciated the way that Bogart had approached the issue. He had quietly brought the matter up with the lieutenant outside earshot of the men, so the impression was that Wilcox had initiated this course of action.

The Lieutenant soon realized that the Sergeant was working in a variety of small and subtle ways to build up and strengthen the new officer’s standing with the men. Suggestions often came in the form of questions:

“Beg pardon, Lieutenant, shall I take a detail and get some fresh straw for the men to bed down on?”

“Lieutenant, shall I have the men air the blankets now and sweep out the car?”

“Excuse me Lieutenant, I believe we will be here at this stop for a while, may I have the men make some fires and cook up some bacon and boil coffee while we have the chance? Oh and sir, the water cask is getting low...request permission to detail Willich and Ericson to get it refilled.”

To his credit, Wilcox immediately knew that the only possible answer to all these questions was “Yes, Sergeant, carry on, please,” expressed with a nonchalant air that implied that he had, in fact, been intending to issue precisely those orders.

Now, considering that--as you will recall--2nd Lieutenant Wilcox had expected army life and his role as an officer to be somewhat more formal and “regulation” when he had first arrived at the Cavalry Depot in St. Louis, you may be feeling a certain degree of astonishment (if not incredulity) that he was so readily adapting to the reality of how things worked in frontier units.

Well, first off, let me explain that, yes, Mr. Wilcox may have been young and enthusiastic, and he may have left West Point with his head full of all kinds of pretensions and grand notions...but he was not a goddam idiot. The time he had spent at the Cavalry Depot waiting for the recruits to be released into his care had been quite a lesson. He had witnessed first-hand what the Sergeant and other non-coms at the depot were accomplishing in training the new men. Furthermore, Wilcox had been given a good "talking to" not just by the commandant, but also a number of other experienced officers as well. Some of these individuals had been rather forceful in making their points: their stories about what had happened to officers who fell prey to their own ignorance and arrogance had been stomach-churningly graphic. Several of these men had been present at the aftermath of the Custer fight, and described in detail the horrible process of trying to find and identify the bodies of their friends.

As I said, the young man was not a fool, and quickly saw the desirability of not ending up as a naked, mutilated corpse rotting on the plains.

Furthermore, Wilcox simply was fascinated by the trade of soldiering, and he genuinely enjoyed learning about it. He was very glad to have the chance to receive more instruction in how it was actually done. In fact, he desperately wanted to ask Bogart about his fighting Comanches before the war and leading a company of Confederate cavalry. He was also intrigued to find out that one of the recruits, Private Willich, had been a Prussian lancer and had fought at Sedan in 1870. Wilcox ached to hear that man’s story as well. But even in the more relaxed atmosphere of the frontier, it just would not have been appropriate for him to have requested that these men share their personal experiences with him.

Still, when all was said and done, by the time the train finally arrived at Sidney, Nebraska under a gray and sodden sky, 2nd Lieutenant Josephus Wilcox was feeling slightly more confident about how he would acquit himself in this strange and dangerous environment.

At the station yard in Sidney, Wilcox was watching the men as they got their gear out of the boxcar and unloaded their horses when he heard the sound of horsemen cantering up behind him. The Lieutenant turned to see some cavalrymen splattering through the mud towards him, dressed in largely shapeless slouch hats and a mishmash of outerwear that included caped overcoats and canvas jackets among other things. The horseman in the lead, whose hat bore brass crossed sabers and the number “3,” was evidently in charge--the fact of which was confirmed to Wilcox when the man got close enough that captain’s shoulder straps were visible on his stained leather hunting coat.

“Lieutenant Wilcox, I presume?” the captain enquired.

Wilcox, saluted. “Yes sir.”

The man’s weather-worn features broke into a craggy smile and he returned the salute in a manner that was so crisp it seemed curiously incongruent with his rough and ready attire. “Glad to have you here...I’m Captain Welles. We’ll be setting off back for Camp Robinson as soon as we’ve sorted out which of the remounts and supplies are for us, and which will stay here at Fort Sidney....I understand First Sergeant Bogart was to come with you?”

“Yessir, he was,..um..is” replied the young officer. Wilcox turned to call for Bogart to report to him, but was startled to find the man already standing right behind him.

The one-eyed veteran snapped a salute at the captain that was so sharp and strictly regulation it could have struck sparks from steel. The mud bespeckled captain’s response was equally fit for a parade ground...but the grin on his face was the kind of thing reserved for old friends and comrades.

“Hello, Sergeant!” said Welles, his eyes with a bit of a sparkle in them. “Good to see you again.”

The old sergeant smiled too. “Thank you sir. Tis good to see you and the boys as well.” He nodded at the mounted men behind the captain, all of whom were smiling back...a few of them nodded in response and several touched their hat brims in greeting.

The captain turned. “Corporal Brill! Bring up the wagons and have the new men commence loading ‘em up. Mr. Pickens, take your detail and see to the remounts...have them ready to move out as soon as possible.” He turned back to Sergeant Bogart. “How are you finding St. Louis?”

Sepp smiled again. "Well, Captain, it’s a good bit o’ hard work and more than the usual ration of minor frustrations, but I find it tolerable enough. How are things at Robinson, sir? How’s the Major?”

The captain frowned slightly. “Oh, the Major’s fine. I shall give him your regards. But the situation could be better...we’ve just had a small group of Red Cloud’s young men decide they’ve had enough of agency life and they’ve bolted..probably gone to go do some raiding up in the Black Hills.”

Sepp looked thoughtful. “Have you anyone to send after them?”

Captain Welles coughed. “No, not really...not from the Third, anyway. Part of the command is down with fever, part is on a long patrol into Wyoming, and the Major wants the rest to stay at Robinson in case things get dicey on the Agency. He wants us around to keep any more of the young warriors from getting ideas in their heads. But Clouds on Big Mountain and some of his Crow scouts are on their way to the Camp even as we speak, and I have a few Arikara scouts who are available to go with them. Just wish I had a senior non-com or an officer to go with them...could help with the diplomatic side of things...I hate to send Indian scouts into the area of the gold fields on their own--those damned argonauts haven’t the vaguest clue regarding the natives...idiots will probably try to shoot our scouts on sight.”

At this point, the lieutenant found the courage to speak. “Sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Wilcox?”

I ..um..that is..I would like to volunteer to go with the Indian scouts...if I may...unless of course, you were thinking of sending Sergeant Bogart...”

Welles looked at the young officer appraisingly. He then turned to Sepp and slightly arched an eyebrow. Almost imperceptibly, the old sergeant nodded. The captain looked back at Wilcox and folded his arms on his chest.

“Very well, I believe that would be acceptable. In fact, First Sergeant Bogart is not an option for us...his orders are to return to the Cavalry Depot with the next train heading east. And well...to be honest, Lieutenant, being as we are somewhat shy of enlisted men...even with the new lot you’ve done such a good job of shepherding here...we don’t really have a place for you quite as of yet. You are somewhat...ah...extraneous for now.”

Even with being labeled “extraneous,” Wilcox was feeling quite pleased with how this was developing. The fact that Sergeant Bogart had given him the nod...a stamp of approval that he wouldn’t just be a burden to the Indian scouts--and that the Captain had said he had done well with his assignment of delivering the recruits--all in all, he was feeling downright good about himself at the moment.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”

Captain Welles chuckled. “You’re rather excited about the prospect of this aren’t you, Lieutenant? Splendid. Matter of fact, several of the Arikara men are equally enthused about the task. They are rather young themselves...they have yet to count coup and are eager for the chance.”

Wilcox had been following all the conversation to this point but now he looked a tad puzzled. “Count coup, sir? As in killing an enemy?”

“The Captain waved his gauntleted hand dismissively. “Oh no, it's not about killing...they look on it as anyone can kill an enemy--it’s about getting very close and striking your enemy in a contemptuous sort of way, preferably with your hand or something harmless...like a riding crop...very important tradition for these people.”

“Ah...I see,” said Lieutenant Wilcox, even though he didn’t, really.

The Captain was already thinking about other things. “You know, it would probably be helpful if we could have you get in contact with someone up there..perhaps in Deadwood City or Lead..a community leader or responsible individual who isn’t a complete addlepated lackwit. Let them know what is going on, without causing some kind of panic...gather information on what is going on in the vicinity.”

“Yessir, that might be helpful," agreed the Lieutenant.

Welles turned to Sepp again. “Sergeant Bogart, you spent a goodly bit of time up in that neck of the woods...do you know of anyone who isn’t a feckless idiot that you could suggest as a contact person for the Lieutenant and the scouts to meet with?”

Sepp grinned. “Yes, Captain, I believe I do....”

~~~

A Deadwood Story - counting coup, part one

~~~

Second Lieutenant Jospehus Wilcox was about as unhappy as a newly minted officer in the United States Army could be. Freshly graduated from West Point, he had made the long trip by railroad and steamboat to the cavalry depot at St. Louis, expecting to be able to immediately begin carrying out his first assignment: to lead several sections of new men from the depot out to Camp Robinson in Nebraska. There, he and those fresh recruits would be become part of the 3rd U.S.Cavalry Regiment, helping watch over the 13,000 or so Lakota and Cheyenne who resided at the nearby Red Cloud agency.

But instead of being able to set out immediately, he had been informed that the depot commandant was not quite ready to release the men into his custody. This seemed to contradict his orders, as well as what he had been told to expect. Highly respected officers back at the Military Academy had assured him that the new recruits would simply be held at the depot until he arrived--that almost all training would take “on the job” out at the post, so the men could be molded into the kind of soldiers that officers like Second Lieutenant Wilcox wanted them to be. Instead...it turned out that the depot was experimenting with providing the “fresh meat” with some serious training under the direction of officers and non-coms who had only recently been on active service in the field against the hostiles. Evidently, there was actually a plan afoot to move the depot to St. Louis’ Jefferson barracks soon, and at that time the commandant expected the policy of training new recruits to become official and standardized...and apparently this plan had the backing of Army administrators.

Nonetheless, Wilcox had protested quite vehemently that he had been instructed to proceed immediately to Camp Robinson with these men. He was then told--in no uncertain terms--that unless he wished to have his posting to 3rd Cav abruptly changed, he had best learn to accept things and just shut the hell up and make good use of the extra time.

Upon reflection, he decided he had no issue with that...if the commandant was not going to let him proceed with his assignment, Wilcox concluded it would be a good opportunity to start seeing what the new troopers were like, and to begin establishing his authority over them. The men however, proved to be yet another disappointment to him.

They were a mixed and unremarkable bag. Half of the sixteen men (four sections of four each) were dutchmen or swedes who could barely speak any english. A few of the others were Irishmen, who looked suspiciously like potential troublemakers. The remainder seemed to be big city slum dwellers (and some, possibly fugitives from the law)...they were a rough lot, mostly scrawny, unimpressive physical specimens.

The group was under the direction and instruction of a First Sergeant who was attached to the cavalry depot...and to Wilcox’s surprise, in the short amount of time he had this scruffy crew under his tutelage, the sergeant had made some real progress. He had got the men accustomed to the basics of horsemanship (many of them had never been on horses before arriving at the depot), and handling their gear and weapons. They knew how the accouterments were supposed to be worn, they had the rudimentary basics of military courtesy, and they had tentatively dipped their collective toes into the arcane waters of dismounted drill. The sergeant had even begun giving them a modest introduction to convoluted ballet on horseback that was mounted drill.

But this sergeant...oh my...he really did not inspire confidence in young Wilcox’s mind. He looked to be nearly 50, his gear and uniform was a mix of old and new bits and pieces...he was a dutchman himself, explaining things in his his native tongue to the immigrant recruits instead of forcing them to speak only english...and he wore an eyepatch!

Finally, Wilcox could stand it no longer. He requested a meeting with the commandant to express his concerns. And the commandant, having had a good morning and feeling well rested and satisfied with the returns recorded by his quartermaster sergeant, was in a sufficiently generous mood as to be willing to address the issues that the Lieutenant had on his mind.

When the Lieutenant reported to the commandant's office at the appointed time, the senior officer bade the young man take a seat in his office and actually smiled slightly.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Sir I...must confess I am confused. Since I have arrived here..a number of things have puzzled me...though, I...I think I now understand the desirability of giving the men some preparation before sending them to posts deep in the interior...but..."

The Commandant chuckled a little bit. “It’s a different army out here isn’t it? Once you cross that big muddy river, it’s a whole different way of doing things from what you were taught..and what you saw at posts back east. Let me tell you this, Lieutenant, it’s just going to get more and more different, the further into the wilds that you get.”

Wilcox frowned. “But sir...I think I can..sort of understand that..but so many rules and regulations, and...orders...they seem to be largely circumvented or put aside... “

It was the Commandant’s turn to frown. “Oh? Such as?”

“Well,” the lieutenant continued, “Take First Sergeant Bogart for example...does he own the regulation uniform? On training details I’ve observed, he wears the old pattern short cavalry jacket, and the old forage cap...old style leathers and belt buckle..his pistol is an obsolete pattern...doesn't he own one of the new pattern blouses and the current set of accouterments?”

The commandant shrugged. “I am confident he does...you don’t suppose that he wants to get them worn and filthy, do you? I imagine he’s saving them for parade purposes. And as for his old kit and firearms...habit probably. This is First Sergeant Bogart’s final year of his enlistment..and he has been at this a while, let me tell you. He was...well, he was leading men in combat against the natives probably before you were born...”

"But sir..he wears an eye patch...he seems to be missing an eye, that is absolutely against reg...”

“Yes, Yes of course," the commandant interrupted. “Bogart lost that eye in the War. I am told he does own an artificial glass one for special occasions...and I assume when he signed up for service in the army some 11 years ago, he popped it in for the exam and the doctor didn’t notice...was probably either drunk or didn’t care. And even when officers at subsequent duty posts found out the truth, he was such an exemplary and experienced horse soldier it simply became customary to overlook it. I believe, however, that if he was ever on parade or under inspection conducted by an officer who might have protested, he simply put in his glass eyeball and avoided close eye contact.”

“Um...sir?”

“Yes?”

“You said he’s in the last year of his enlistment...but enlistments are for five years..and you said he is in his eleventh year?”

“Ah yes..you see Wilcox, he has in fact gone through two full enlistments since the War...but we wanted him for another year to work here with training recruits at the depot, so we made an arrangement with him....”

“Sir? How did...um...officially?”

The Commandant waved his hand dismissively. “No of course not officially. We just altered his records, giving him an enlistment date for a year after he first actually entered the US cavalry...it’s all taken care of.” The commandant smiled and folded his arms on his chest as if he thought this was all an eminently reasonable and appropriate solution.

But Wilcox was not quite done yet. “Sir? The Sergeant allows the men to do fatigue... and sometimes even drill...in their shirtsleeves. And he made the men turn in their Smith & Wesson revolvers and draw Colts. Furthermore, he's teaching them techniques with their weapons that I am sure aren’t in any manuals...”

The commandant looked at the junior officer as if he was just a tad feeble-minded.

“Good,” he said simply.

“Sir?”

“You’ll see when the men are actually in the territories on work details and on campaign and patrolling...they are going to look more like border ruffians than picture book soldiers. They will fight in their shirtsleeves and some of them will die in their shirtsleeves. Get used to it. As for the guns...we checked, and the companies of 3rd Cavalry at Camp Robinson carry the new model of Colt’s revolver...and perhaps you were not aware that the round that is used with the Colt is very different from the ammunition for the Smith & Wesson models. It will simplify the supply situation at the post.”

Lieutenant Wilcox sighed. He rather liked the Smith & Wesson No. 3 pistol, as it automatically ejected the empty casings when you opened it to reload...but he could see the sense of making sure that the enlisted men had the same weapons as the other fellows in their companies.

The commandant apparently could read his mind. “It’s quite all right Lieutenant...if you prefer the Smith & Wesson for you own sidearm, please feel free to continue usage of it...you have to purchase your own ammunition anyway. Simply be sure you are taking a goodly supply with you.”

“Yessir. I will be sure to do so.”

“Oh and as far as what else First Sergeant Bogart is teaching them...the things that aren’t in manuals...be very glad that he is covering that ground with the men. There are a great many things that books do not tell you. Nor do things always work the way the manuals say they should. You would do well to avail yourself of some of Sergeant Bogart’s wisdom yourself before reporting at Camp Robinson. Fortunately, you will have some extended opportunity to do so....”

“Sir?” The Lieutenant looked confused once more.

“Ah well, I have decided to have the Sergeant accompany you and the new men to your posting, just so....”

“So that he could help me to understand some things?”

The Commandant nodded. “Precisely Mr. Wilcox.”

The Young man looked thoughtful. “You say that First Sergeant Bogart was wounded in the war...may I ask if you know which battle that happened at?”

“Ah, I believe it was near Vicksburg in ’63. As I understand the story, his company was preparing to move out and one of our shells exploded among them, killing some of his companions and wounding him.”

“Umm...sir? One of...our shells, you say? Do I take you to mean that...”

“Oh yes...of course, Mr. Bogart was a Captain commanding a company of Confederate cavalry...one of the Texas regiments, I believe...in Ross’s brigade, most likely. And before the war he spent a good number of years as an officer of Texas rangers fighting the Comanche.”

The commandant paused and fixed the young man with an unwavering gaze, looking him straight in the eye. “Do you have any problem with that, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir!” came the crisp reply. “I shall look forward to...conversing with First Sergeant Bogart.”

The commandant was starting to feel a little bit better about this shavetail. He might turn out to be fine, after all.

“Lieutenant, it is nearly time for Noon mess...you will be so kind as to accompany me.”

“Yes, SIR. Thank you, sir.”

~~~

A Deadwood story -- consequences, part 3

~~~

First Sergeant Sepp Bogart, reassigned from 3rd US Cavalry, to the cavalry depot at St. Louis, has been a part of a new experiment to provide recruits with some inititial training of a very basic nature before they are sent to their units. On a regualr basis he receives long letters from his lady in the Dakota Territory. He eagerly awaits each new report, which he finds vastly more entertaining than any work of fiction or fantasy.

Since becoming reacquainted with Dio, he has become used to the variety of news she shares with him, much of which would astonish or concern a man who was less comfortable with the philosophical notion that the universe simply makes no sense and is utterly lacking for any form of a practical plan. The following letter, however, stood head and shoulders above the rest in terms of the sheer number and mind-slapping quality of the surprises it contained.

My Dearest Sepp,

First off, allow me to give you my assurances that I am well. But Goddam, Hon, it were a close-run thing this time, as I was in the compny of some one who had made mor than the usual number of enemies & his predeliction to do so cuaght up with him as we were eating breakfast at the Californa.

I know you were ner given the chance to meet Mister Al Husar in person, but I had told you of the man. I did not care grately for him, either for his manner nor his chosen path, as an agent of large business interests of the sort that leeve the littel man in the dust of its progress. But his presens had grown to be mor acceptable to me for his oposition to other interests of a mor ominous nature, and I did eventually find him to be of decent heart as he provided asistance to Miss Adiniah's good works in looking after the town's orphaned & abandonned children.

He is now, however passed on to what I hope to be a Better Place, as a fello did approach us and shoot Mr Husar in the head, leeving him dead almost of an instant. The fello did also tke a shot at me, but missed by small measure, leeving me with but a graze that young Deacon did asist me in looking after.

As shortly before this, Mr. Husar did apprise me of a surprising piece of intelligence, that he was in fact a half nephew of old John Husar, and being thus made awar that he was kin to people for whom I cared, I felt a sense of Blood debt which must be repayd. I established which direction the shooter took, and then prepared to set off after him. The new Mayor, Mr. Silverspar did try to dissuade me from this cours, claiming that other more important matters had to be attended to, I fear I was somewhat rude in my reply to HisHonor & will need to extend to him an apology on my return.

Twas much more of a comfort to go see Ron, who has taken up helping Miss Mahaila in the set up and runing of her Grocry, and when I did request of him rations for the trip to pursue the Killer, he did comply without comment other than quiet encouragment. He gave to me Rounds for the Carbine & jerkd venison & hard biskit for the trail. Ron understands what it means to have a Blood Debt that must be rapayd, and for that I have great appreciation.

So I am making progress in this endevour and trust you will not trubble yorself grately as to consern for my well-being. When I have repayd this debt, I will keep you all apprised of my success, as I have no expectation of any other outcome. At present I am in the visinity of Ft. Pierre, but do not know how long I will be here.

Oh and by the way, you may find amusing to kno that I am at least for now a speciul fedral dep'ty Marshall, having encounterd The Distirict Fedral Dep'ty Marshall Sand Rau in the course of seeking information regarding the Killer of Mr. Husar. Sand says to me that he culd not allow me to be taking the Law into my Own Hands, so I replyed to him, Fine, give me one of yor godammed Tin Stars which you hand out when need be. Says Sand, Oh, but you are a dam woman, cannot give you no goddammed Tin Star, and says I, show me wherein tis written that yor goddammed Tin Stars can only be pinned up on a chest with no bumps. He did think up on this a moment, then sayd he would sign me into the goddammed Book as D.A. Kuhr and be done with it. Sand, God bless him , he tosst to me a tin star and says Do not kill this fello un-less you must and then says to me, I need now to Swear you in. Says I, Hells Briches Sand, I swear at you all most evry goddamm time I see you. and then rode off.

Tho at the time, I laffed about this encounter, up on reflexion I suspect that perhap this Tin Star may pruve of use.

I miss you terrible as always and think of you most waking moments. I send to you all my love an respect & look foreward to next when I will be in yor arms.

OH and Another By The Way--yor intended now seems to be a woman of some means, Mr. Husar having left me his worldly goods in his will, I suppose in considration of the service we did to his kin befor the war. He seemed to think he had no close relations, but I think Old John's Grandson would qualify as such--will you do me the kindness of inquiring if he is still live? Last we had heerd he was in 10th Cav was He not? I would very much like to know, so that we may share with him a fair portion of this favor by his kinsman.

I remain yors forever in faithful love,
Dio

~~~

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 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...

~~~