A Deadwood story -- Plain Jane, part 5

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened that time?” asked JJ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~
to be continued...

A Deadwood conversation -- breaking bottles

~~~
Going hunting in the hills.

Once Lieutenant Wilcox came into town with the welcome news that the Lakota raiding party had been talked into going back to Agency, Dio was looking forward to finding time for huntin' up in the hills. Missed it somethin' terrible she did. So, first chance he had, she put on her buckskins and was about to go out with her Spencer, when she ran into Jasper, the new gunsmith in the gulch. Seeing her goin' huntin' with a short barreled carbine with only fair to middlin' range, he offered to loan her a nice Remington breech-loader he'd been working on. Dio readily agreed and followed him back to his workshop, and wound up leaving the Spencer for him to clean up and check over, taking a fine .50-70 rolling block in its stead as a loaner.

It had a fancy peep sight mounted on the wrist of the stock, which was decorated with checkering...and the receiver was case-hardened steel, the colors o' which seemed to ripple in the sunlight.

Just the kind of shiny piece o' hardware that would make any gal feel right purty and all equipped like a fine lady.

Anyhow, as she worked her way up the hillside behind Main Street, she noted her friend JF Kanto seated upon a stump gazin' off across the gulch into the distance...but not really looking at nothin'... if ya know what I mean. JF had just recently stepped down from his duties as a lawman...of his own volition, it seemed. But nonetheless, as she got closer, Dio caught the glint of a bottle--an empty bottle--in the weeds behind the stump.

She called out in a manner so as to not startle him, and waved. JF stood and smiled at her an' walked over to exchange greetings in a most cordial manner.

JF an' Dio always liked each other. Not in that way o' course. JF was a bit younger than Dio, and he was hitched to Lola, a gal who had been workin' at the Bella when they first met. And Dio was committed in her feelin's for Sepp. No, it was more that they had both grown up in Texas...been through some rough times that were similar....it was kinda like they could speak a similar language, that they understood one another in the way that only comes from walking a mile in your neighbor's boots, as they say.

In private conversation, there wasn't much they couldn't say to one another. Though I will admit that there were things in JF's past that Dio was vaguely aware of, but she had too much respect for the man an' his privacy to enquire about. Some things you just don't talk about unless the other feller brings it up.

Anyhow, they got to talking, and being as JF seemed inclined to have some company, Dio said what was on her mind.

"So JF...now that yer off from bein' law..."

"Yes?" JF looked at her with an expression that suggested he knew what she a was going to ask.

"What you doin' with yer time?"

The recently retired lawman looked down at his boot toes. "Dio...I been..."

JF sighed and pushed his hat on to the back of his head and then fixed his gaze on his friend.

"Goddamit. I been drinkin' again...a bit," he answered, shaking his head.

"A bit?" asked Dio. "Or more'n a bit?"

JF Kanto smiled slightly. "I...well, shit....yeah, a lot." Then he sighed heavily and frowned. "Lola has had to help me home more'n once."

Dio kicked at a rock on the ground at her feet and then looked up at JF. She commented soflty, "Well, pard...ye know that is a journey I took m'self for a good many years."

"Damn it all, Dio, I know...and it's a journey I took once before too," he replied.

Dio nodded and continued, "One thing I can tell ye, is if'n ye make it to the end o' the journey an' come out t'other side, back onto another path...yer gonna be stronger fer it. I know it don't make sense in a lotta ways, but I look on it as bein' part o' the fire that tempers yer steel."

The man looked deeply into his friends eyes, his face largely impassive, but there was something about the look in his own eyes that led Dio to ask a more personal question than she would have under normal circumstances with JF.

"Things allright twixt you an' Lola? I ain't seen her about fer quite some time."

JF grimaced a bit. "Would be better if I stopped the drinkin', I reckon. I 'spose it reminds her too much of what she used to have to put up with....at the Bella."

There was a pause while Dio sighed a bit and looked out across the gulch for a moment. Then she turned back to her friend and asked, "Do ye want to stop the drinkin?"

JF nodded. "Yeah, I do."

"Well, one way o' doin so," replied Dio, "is just get away from it an take to hard work. Even before I stopped complete, I managed to dry out quite a bit....by goin' onto the grasslands an' makin m' livin as a bufflo runner fer two years. Hell, I couldn't get drunk cuz they was no likker at hand...just hard work."

"Yeah, that would be one way," said JF lookin' thoughtful.

"But," Dio went on, "the real thing is ye gotta figger out why yer drinkin'....an' goddam well go do somethin' about that root cause. With me it was m' grief bein' outta hand. T'wasn't the drinkin' what had me in its power...it was my grief that had control...an' m' disappointment...in m'self. An' hellfire, I was also angry at Jack fer goin off like that an' gettin kilt, truth be told. He din't have to go....but...well...now...I got a different perspective on all that now. An' gainin' that perspective was the only way to climb outta the bottle fer good."

The former lawman nodded in understanding.

They stood in companionable silence for another moment, looking off over the town. Then Dio asked another question.

"You angry, JF?"

JF Kanto briefly pondered that and answered, "No, not like before...when I was drinkin' heavy the first time it was 'cause of havin' lost someone...Nancy...but now...I just feel lost..."

Dio considered this statement, trying to understand. "So...before, when ye was dealin' with yer hurt by means o' drinkin', twas because ye lost yer Nancy...now...yer feelin' a empty space inside again...but because ye have lost yerself?"

JF gave a small sardonic laugh. "Dio, I only ever been good at one thing. I was doin' it before I got here, and then was doin' it here in Deadwood...and now I've gone and resigned from it...."

Suddenly, JF whipped around, his Colt leaping from holster to hand as if by magic, and he snapped off a round that shattered the empty bottle behind the stump. Dio noted that he returned the pistol to its holster without bothering to eject the empty casing and reload. That really struck Dio. It wasn't like the JF Kanto she knew.

JF seemed to be considering his words carefully. Finally, he spoke .

"Dio, do you know what I was before I came to Deadwood?"

Dio's face was fairly impassive--but not unsympathetic--as she answered, "Not fer sure...but I reckon most likely ye made yer livin' with yer irons..." She paused for a moment before adding, "one way or t'other."

JF's face had turned hard, and he nodded. "Yeah, my guns were for hire to the highest bidder...I killed for pay...and sometimes, just out of pure cussedness. An' bein' drunk most of the time, to boot."

Finally, Dio asked the question that you only asked a real friend. "How many men have ye kilt, JF?"

JF answered softly, "Not counting the war.....17 men...also not counting women and children."

Dio's faced betrayed no trace of either condemnation or approbation regarding her friend's reply. She just nodded. It simply was what it was, and she was not about to say anything judgmental. Her reply was phrased as nothing more than plain acknowledgment of the reality of both their histories:

"Yes, pard, that's more'n enough. I only have kilt 11 by my reckonin'...not countin' Comanches, bein' as the rascals always took their dead an' wounded with 'em, so's I cain't really say as to that number. But yes....you an' me we have both done our share."

She realized that JF was looking at her with widened eyes.

"Goddamn Dio," he muttered. "I knew you were handy with the irons, but...."

Dio shrugged. "Look, JF...I jus' hope to Providence I ain't never gotta kill another man so long as I live...mebbe yer at that particular fork in the road yerself."

"Maybe, " JF replied pensively. "I dont...I can't be what I was before...but what to do?"

"No...ye cain't go back." Dio agreed. "An' not jus cuz yer still wishin' to save yer soul an' make it to the happy huntin' groun'...but also cuz...well, JF, the West is changin'...us old coots what grew up on the hard edge o' the frontier...they ain't gonna be no place at'all fer us soon if'n we don't change with the times."

JF looked at Dio. He knew she was right about how things were different from even just a few years before.

"Yes." he said dryly. "It is a world that keeps changing....I just ain't sure what's next though."

Dio's eyes sparkled and a faint smile crossed her lips. "You 'n Lola got some land outside town don't ye?"

"Yeah....got a little place in the hills," JF replied.

"You done much with it yet?"

"No, been too much in town."

"Well, ye got some time on yer hands now, don't ye?" said Dio.

JF Kanto chuckled a bit, "Yeah, too much."

Dio nodded. "Well sir, let me make ye a proposal here, what ye might ponder as a possibility. Let's consider what else yer good at--besides work with a gun....I know that yer a helluva horseman....ye spent some time nursemaidin' cows er hosses?"

The ex-lawman laughed. "Yeah...but damn, I always hated farm work. You know...I got some book learnin'....I've read most of the classics...my mother insisted I learn to read and write...I don't like to let on, as some gets put off by it"

Dio arched an eyebrow at this information. "Well, pard, I'm seein a side to ye which ye have hidden well...but here's what I am gonna suggest...at the end o' the year, Sepp is gonna be comin' back...his hitch...his last one..is just about up. I'm gonna sell all my shares in Hearst's company what Al left me, an' take that cash, an' we's gonna buy some land not too far from here. Sepp 'n me was thinkin' upon raisin draft hosses...."

"You could make a tidy profit off'n the sale of them critters," observed JF.

"True enough," replied Dio. "But they's more to it than that...we was also considerin' makin' it a ranch where folks from the east could come an' pay fer us to take 'em ridin' an huntin'...hell's britches, raisin' heavy hosses don't take all that much time...ain't like with cattle." Dio spat and grumbled, "Stupid goddam animals."

JF laughed. "Ain't gonna disagree with ya on that point. But how does this have anything to do with me?""

Dio grinned. "What I was thinkin' was mebbe if'n we could find land next to yer'n...or...hell, if we kin find some place big enough, you could sell yer tract an' come in on the deal with us. Together we could buy a much bigger place together than the twain of us kin separately. An' we would make it a workin concern with belgians 'n percherons to sell...and maybe a few head o' goddam cows...but we also bring folks out, show 'em a workin' ranch, and mebbe you 'n Sepp, mebbe even some o' our friends from amongst the army injun scouts, could take the gents on long hunts 'n rides..."

JF was obviously giving the concept serious consideration. "Well...hmm I suppose it would be a way for me to keep too busy for the whisky. Would need to discuss it with Lola, but I reckon she would like the idea."

Dio looked pleased. "I'm guessin' you an Sepp would get on well...ye know he's well-read hisself...he studied medicine, an' read all them classics as well, before he give it up an' came back to Texas...an' wound up a captain o' rangers." Dio laughed a bit to herself. "Ye know, he used to read Shakespeare to the Tonkawa 'n Lipan Apaches in his company...they quite liked the stories what was about revenge 'n death, 'n honor..."

JF grinned. "Yep, I reckon they woulda...he sounds like a fine fellow. And the idea...I think it has merit..."

Dio returned the grin. "Well, ponder on it, m' friend."

"I will," answered JF. Then his face darkened slightly. "Dio, can I ask ya a question?"

"Sure ye kin, pard. Ask away."

"Did Lola ask ya to talk to me...or have I been acting the fool big enough for all to see?"

Dio shook her head. "No, pard...no, she has not. An' I cain't say as ye been actin' a turrible fool so as to stand out from a crowd o' fellers who truly fit the description. No...I could tell ye mebbe been strugglin' a bit, but then 'tis only as I have walked that path myself."

JF Kanto sighed. "It pains me o' think o' what I been putting Lola through of late. I would not have blamed her if she had said somethin' to ya."

Dio gave a reassuring smile. "No, pard, she has not said any words to me regardin' yer state o' mind, nor anythin' else...when I have seen her it's been nothin' but howdeedo's an' a smile. She ain't the sort to display her concerns like a circus parade fer all to marvel at..."

"No, she ain't," agreed JF.

Dio coughed. "Not like some folk hereabouts," she muttered.

JF laughed and then looked very serious again. "Yeah, I have been a fool..."

Dio shook her head. "No sir, not a fool. Jus' strugglin' a bit. An' with folks like us...we keep our own counsel an' try to fix things on our own. Mind ye, I ain't sayin ye NEED any hep with addressin' yer troubles...but sometimes it's just a bit easier if a couple o' fren's is workin' on their lives side by side...kinda like mules in a team..."

"Yeah...good comparison...I am a bit mule-headed," JF chuckled.

"JF, I will be deeply gratified if ye will consider this plan I have proposed. I mean lordy, think about it...they's all these books 'n articles about the Black Hills fer folks back east to read...Neil is always goin' on about what people think about it...like it's this land o' magic an' myth...we already see folks drawn to it..not by gold...but just wantin' to live a part of it fer a spell...to see it, taste it, 'fore it's gone...an' I expect that's gonna happen more 'n more..."

"Yeah. Makes sense," commented JF

"Well, pard," Dio contined, "We could kinda hep some o' them folks...fer a reasonable price o' course. Look, how much o' what we done fer the last year was straightening out some feckless greenhorns an' steerin' 'em aroun' the pits an beartraps?"

"Quite a bit, I reckon,"

Dio looked quite pleased with herself and her reasoning. "Well, there ye go! There's somethin' yer good at...somethin' besides usin' yer irons. Yer good at helpin' folks an' showin' 'em what's what. Ye could do that, an get compensated fer it for a change."

The discussion seemed to be having some effect. JF Kanto looked like a new man. Dio could see the wheels turning in his head.

"Stand back a tad," he said softly.

Dio did so, and after she had moved back a few steps, JF drew his pistol once again with his right hand, and cocked the weapon. With his left hand, he pulled a small, flat bottle filled with an amber liquid from his jacket pocket. He tossed it a good distance in the air and fired, breaking the bottle as it descended. He opened the loading gate on his Colt, and after punching out the two empty casings from the cylinder, he took two fresh cartridges from the loops on his belt and carefully replaced the rounds that had been fired. Then he turned to Dio and smiled.

"I gotta go find Lola and talk to her. Thank ya Dio. Oh..and by the way...right fine looking rifle ya got there. Looks like it would be a dandy for doin' some huntin' with."

~~~

A Deadwood story -- consequences, part 4

~~~
Zedekiah Quinnell

Zedekiah Quinnell was breathing much easier now that he was into Minnesota. Right after he had shot Al Husar and that woman, he had felt mighty confident about having got away with it. But since he had crossed the big river at Ft. Pierre, he had had started getting nervous. Mostly it was just a quirky, odd feeling--that someone was following him, that he was not alone on this trek. But when he had stayed camped for a couple of days near that trading post, and the store man had told him a woman had been asking questions about him... that was when the level of his anxiety had substantially increased.

Once he was out of the Dakota territory, however, he started feeling better again. He was in some little piss-ant place called Orton or Ortonville--something like that--and had decided to treat himself to a night in a proper bed at a drover’s hotel. The next day, he got up somewhat late-ish, had a decent breakfast of some ham and boiled potatoes from the hotel kitchen, and then strolled over to the combined general goods store and post office at the crossroads. Zed noted that not surprisingly, the store was run by a man named Orton, who was also the postmaster.

The man didn’t seem terribly friendly. Zed bought fixings to roll some smokes, and just for fun, a little bag of hard mint-flavored candies, but the store man hardly said two words to him the whole time. The only other person in the store was an old stooped-over countrywoman in a shawl and rough homespun dress and apron, wearing one of those big old-style slat sunbonnets. Zed sighed, glancing at the venerable lady who was peering intently into a case of sewing notions. It made him think of his grandma back in Indiana--her spine and shoulders permanently bent from all those years of hard-scrabble farm work and child-raising.

The young man paid for his fixin’s and the candies, and set off to collect his horse and gear so he could hit the road once again.

“Damnation,” he thought. “I sure will be glad when things have settled down and I can get back to the Black Hills and be with Mary.”

He stopped to roll himself a cigarette: might as well get the day off to a proper start. As he was doing so, the old woman came out of the store and shuffled along the road towards him, a basket on her arm. A few yards from where he stood, she stopped, and he heard a small voice from inside the huge old-fashioned bonnet.

“Good day to ye, young man.”

*Good day to ya, Ma’am.” he replied. “Pleasant mornin’ ain’t it?”

“Tis that. Young man, might I ask somethin’ of ye?”

A flicker of concern passed over Zed’s face, and then he smiled. “O’ course, Ma’am. What's on your mind?”

“Well, two things, I was wonderin’ actually,” said the small voice in the bonnet. “First off, is that yor hoss in that field o’er yonder, back behind ye?”

Zedekiah Quinnell turned and looked into the field where the old woman was pointing. There was indeed, a rather nice horse grazing in the field, but it was not his, of course,

“No ma’am.” he answered. “That’s a fine lookin animal, but....”

As he turned back to face her, he found the woman’s back had straightened up and an extremely large, older pattern Colt’s revolver was pointed at him. With the woman now standing up straight, he could see her face under the bonnet.

To his credit, Zed didn’t do what you’d expect. He didn’t suddenly shout something silly like, “You! Why aren’t you dead!” Nor did he cuss, or try to run, or feebly put up his hands and piss himself.

He elected to face things like a man, which--from a certain point of view--is about all you can do when the light at the end of the tunnel proves to be an oncoming locomotive. Although it is pretty much a lost cause to try to draw on someone who already has pulled and pointed iron at you, you can always hope that they will be excited and their aim will be off, or perhaps--if Providence is really smiling on you--they might even have a misfire. So he did the one thing he thought he could do under the circumstances, which was to drop his half-rolled cigarette and tobacco and try to draw his Navy.

It worked out about as well as one would expect it to.

The slug from the woman’s Walker hit him in the thigh before his pistol had cleared leather. At that range, taking a .44 soft lead ball that is being pushed along by 60 grains of powder is a lot like being hit with a sledge hammer. Zed was down, in excruciating pain, and clutching at his shattered leg.

His gun was nearby on the ground, but the woman kicked it away so that it was completely out of his reach even if he had been feeling frisky enough to try for it again. Yep. Zedekiah Quinnell knew he was pretty much shit outta luck as he heard the resonant "click" sound of the pistol being cocked again.

~~~

A Deadwood Story -- consequences, part 1

~~~

There's one rule that pretty much always holds true for boomtowns: things are always changing, including the factors that caused the boom in the first place. That was certainly true with Deadwood. In the early days of the town, every small operator had a chance at hitting it big. At first there was plenty of surface gold, wealth that could be found in gravel banks or those natural traps you find in a creek or stream--the places where the water slows, and heavier material--such as flakes and small nuggets of gold--will settle into a crack or under a big rock.

The first stage of a gold rush: placer mining by the "little guys."

This was what drew so many argonauts in the initial months of the Black Hills Gold Rush: the possibility that a man on his own, or with just a couple of his pards, could stake a claim and work it with pick and shovel and pan, or maybe build a little sluice with riffles to catch the gold. These simple tools, a little bit of good fortune, and a lot of backbreaking work could make a down-on-his-luck mechanic or laborer into a big-spending dandy. But of course, that didn’t last long. Those placer deposits dried up pretty fast. There still was a prodigious amount of the yellow metal to be extracted, but more and more it couldn’t be done by a few men using their picks and pans. It took bigger operators, running underground mines with steam engines driving the machinery, a big investment in equipment and workers, and dynamite (known as Giant powder) and timbers for shoring up the tunnels.

Yes, the gold rush continued, and many of the small time boys grimly held on to their claims trying to make it worth the work...but the real winners now were the big boys--large companies, like the fellows who ran the Father DeSmet mine, or George Hearst and his cronies with the Homestake. Middling sized operators tried to break into the action as well...one company that struggled to do so was Gold Star Mining Company, a firm whose Black Hills operations were overseen by a large bearded man, a mining engineer named Al Husar. Dio didn’t care for any of these big operators. She was mostly indifferent to the gents at the Father de Smet, but she sincerely disliked Al Husar...and she downright loathed George Hearst and his various “lapdogs” as she called them. The idea that the small-time argonauts were being squeezed out, that they were losing their dreams...well, it just sorta pissed her off.

She also didn't like the fact that the competition between these bigger operators was turning into a full-blown conflict. And she wasn’t the only one who felt this way: many of the townspeople were beginning to fear the possibility of a war between some of the firms. Hearst and Gold Star seemed to be particularly close to the precipice. They appeared to be very close to falling into a violent confrontation and most Deadwood folks, Dio included, figured that would be “right bad fer bizness.” When things seemed to be coming to the boiling point, Mayor Silverspar (yes, the same gent who had been shot in the leg by Hawk while working as a bartender at the Bella) had tried to head things off by issuing a decree that none of the mine company security men from either side were allowed within the town limits. This decision put Gold Star at a distinct disadvantage, and in fact, there proved to be severe consequences... as Dio was to find out one chilly fall morning at the California restaurant.

It was early--just past sunrise--but Dio was up, of course. She was already having her breakfast at the California. Estwee, the proprietor of the restaurant--widely regarded by old hands as the best place to eat in town for the money--was having one of her shy days. Estwee had gotten worse about it lately. Sometimes she would just stay in her kitchen, only bringing out big plates of food now and then for her customers to serve themselves from. The regulars always just tossed the coins for payment into a large coffee tin behind the counter, and if any greenhorn tried to get away with not paying or putting his hand in the till, the regulars would take care of him or her in some artistically violent fashion. The boys all loved Miz Estwee and weren’t about to let any worthless drifter or bowlegged chippie skip out on a meal at the California without paying.

Anyhow, this was one of those mornings. Dio had helped herself to a pile of flapjacks and had shouted a “How do, Estwee” back into the kitchen without expecting or receiving any reply.

As she ate, Al Husar ambled in. Dio looked up from her breakfast, scowled slightly, but still nodded and mumbled “good day to you, sir” through her face-full of flapjacks.

Al pulled up a stool right next to Dio, even though the place was deserted except for her, and he could have sat wherever he liked.

“Good morning, Mrs. Kuhr,” he smiled as he seated himself, tipping his bowler hat.

Dio’s scowl got a little more severe, but after a pause she spoke. “I hear tell that you have closed yer office in town..might I ask what's going on?

Al reached over and pulled a biscuit from the basket on the counter. He stared at it thoughtfully as he replied, “Well Ma’am, the new mayor gave me an ultimatum...he wants me to be ending this conflict with Hearst.”

Dio arched an eyebrow. There recently had been an open letter in the paper from Al addressed to Hearst, calling on him to meet with the Gold Star representative and hash things out in a peaceful way.

Finally she commented drily, “Well sir, judging by that letter o’ your’n in the paper, you was already trying to do that...”

Al Husar sighed. “Yes...and not very successfully. Hearst hasn't responded at all...not even a go-fuck-yourself.”

“So I reckon we're gonna have a mine war then?” asked Dio.

“Well Ma’am,” Al shrugged, “I believe the mayor’s intention was to avoid that very situation. He thought he could force us to sit down...work things out. But he told me I wouldn't be able to bring security guards into town until we did so.”

It suddenly dawned on Dio that the security man who usually accompanied Al everywhere he went was not to be seen. She was pretty sure that this was not a good thing.

Al Husar continued, “I can’t get by without that security. You know we just bought the Grubstake mine: I need to protect that, but it’s entrance is in the town limits. Plus we had the office here in town, and the people who work for me...if I am not allowed to protect them, I can't do business here....not with a bastard like Hearst in the mix.”

Dio took a sip of coffee. “I was starting to think you might actually care about this goddam town, Al. Not long ago you had tol’ me you was tryin to fend Hearst off and keep the mine war from happnin’ ‘cuz ye had the interests o’ the town at heart..”

“I do,” answered Al. “This town is my home now....but these people have elected a megalomaniacal fool for a mayor...”

“A what?”

Al smiled. “A feckless turd,” he explained.

“Oh.”

Al went on, “I have to protect my people and the company's interests. The mayor gave me no choice. I have to give my people a fighting chance, so I had to pull them out of town...”

Dio blinked. “So you in town without no security right now?”

“Yes”

Dio was increasingly having a feeling that this was not a good thing.

“I had to come in and finish up some business,” said Al. “But shortly, I'll be out at our mines in the countryside...out in the hills. Those are a going concern and I gotta look after ‘em. So I won’t be too far away...if you need me.”

Dio looked offended. “Why in the name o’ Beelzebub's bunghole would I... or we need you?

Al Husar laughed. “You still don't like me, do you Mrs. Kuhr?”

“Well,” Dio answered, “the fact that you was opposing Hearst made me reconsider a spell, but no, with this latest development, I reckon yer jus like every other goddam selfish big bug from some large company who's gonna drive out the small operators sooner or later... and I still don't think yer very goddam smart comin’ to town without yer security shadow...”

Al Husar smiled and shrugged. “Well, Mrs. Kuhr, as my half-uncle used to say, life is dangerous."

Dio suddenly looked at the man with a expression of surprise. That particular phrase had rung a bell deep within her memory.

“Yer half-uncle?” she asked.

Al grinned. “Yes Ma’am. My half-uncle indeed. John Husar.”

“I am suddenly thinkin’ we are speakin’ o’ the same gent...the man what m’ fool of a husband accidentally won in a poker game an’ wound up manumittin’....John...I recollect him saying that purty regular, about life is dangerous...an smilin’ as he said it."

Al nodded. “Yes my father's half-brother was quite the philosopher.”

“Yer pa was ol’ John's half-brother?”

“Yes..funny world isn't it?”

Dio thought that was the understatement of the year.

“You see,” said Al, “on our side of the family...well, my father was the offspring of a union between my grandmother and the master.”

Dio suddenly felt the warm light of comprehension flooding the still sleepy recesses of her brain. “So most of y'all further down the line could pass for white...or creole anyway?”

Al nodded with with an ironic little smile.

“Well, I'll be dammed,” said Dio.

“I doubt it,” answered Al.

Any evidence of dislike had faded from her expression. Dio now had a look of genuine concern. “Dammit I shoulda figgered somethin’ was up here...tain’t a common name at all, Husar. So what ye gonna do now, Al? Just gonna hunker down up in the hills and wait them rascals out?”

Al shook his head. “No, I will keep trying to get a hold of George...I keep sending him messages by different means...different mutual acquaintances.”

As Al Husar made this statement, a young man with long sideburns and wearing an old army sack coat walked into the restaurant.

Both Dio and Al looked up at him. Al nodded to the young man, “Mornin’, sir.”

Dio likewise greeted him, “How do, pard.” She had seen this young man, a former soldier, around town before, though she had not spoken to him much.

The young man touched his hat brim in reply to their greeting and walked up to Al. “Excuse me sir, by any chance are you Mr. Al Husar?” he asked.

Al looked him over a moment and then replied, “Yes...yes I am... what can I do for you?”

The young man looked very serious and announced gravely, “I have an answer to your message....”

“Oh?” replied Al. And as he said this, he turned to take another biscuit from the basket.

While he did so, the young man pulled a Colt Navy from under his sack coat and fired, just inches from the back of Al’s head. As Al slumped forward onto Estwee’s counter, Dio--who had been sitting on the far side of Al from the shooter--was already rolling off her stool and clawing out the big Walker Colt from its holster. The young man re-cocked the Navy and fired a round at the woman in buckskins.

In a flash, he turned and was out the door. He had been told to get in, kill Husar quickly--preferably with one shot at close range--then take care of any witnesses and get the hell out of there as rapidly as was possible.

As he untied his horse from the railing of Miz Estwee’s porch and climbed on to gallop up Main Street, he was thinking he had done a pretty good job of following his employer’s instructions.

to be continued...

~~~

A Deadwood Scene -- Dio has a dream

~~~

It had been one helluva rough week. Dio was plain wrung out, feeling like she'd been rode hard and put up wet. Sometimes when she was that tired, the dreams weren't so good: lately they were usually of that man--number six--with his trousers half to his knees, bleeding what seemed like a river from his neck, his eyes full of surprise, and fear....

but last night...last night was different...



"Howdy there Diogenes..."

"Papaw?"

"Yep. It's goddam good to see ye, Hon."

"Papaw...aw hell..."

"C'mon Hon, don't cry. Ain't you glad to see me?"

"O' course I am Papaw...I mean...hellfire an' brimstone, you ol'...I mean...oh, fer christ's....goddammit Papaw, I miss you somethin' turrible."

"I miss you too, Hon. I thought I heard you playin' m' ol fiddle, and I figgered twas time t' check up on ye."

"Yes I was Papaw, they was supposed to be a dance tonite, but it din't happen, so I got some friends to come down to m' saloon, an I played yer fiddle for 'em, an folks danced an' had a good time, an' they was laughing, an talkin', an I give 'em all lager beer on the house..."

"Did they take a shine to yer playin'?"

"I reckon so Papaw, they seemed to...an' they ain't the sort to make no pretense o' enjoyin' somethin' if they ain't...you shoulda' seen 'em, even the Judge he was doin' a jig fer a spell, and Miz Sal--she's the proprietor o' this really nice cat house here in town----lordy, she was dancin' like she warn't a gonna stop. Ye know, I...I was a-thinkin' at the time you woulda liked Sal..."

"Well you had a knack--makes me happy t' know you still got the fool thang an' get it out to play now an' agin. An' I'm mighty glad ye got some good friends there, Diogenes...you got some good enemies too?"

"Satan's huge red testicles, Papaw! I got me a few--includin' the most powerful goddam rascal in town, an' his various lapdogs, and a few others have come an' gone...like one feller what I shot when he took this lil' orphan chile hostage..."

"Orphan eh? Heehee, oh Lord, Hon, you always was one fer takin' in strays."

"Well, actually they gots a fer real orphanage here in town...real nice colored gal name o' Adiniah runs it. Damn she's got more grit than a company o' rangers, an spits fire when need be..I think you'd ha' liked her as well."

"Well mebbe I kin meet her someday when the time comes..."

"Papaw....speaking o' that...what's it like? Are you doin' all right? Are you...are you happy?"

"Oh Hell yes, Hon! Couldn't be happier. I can't thank you enough fer hepin' me die proper. I ain't sayin' a man cain't get here dyin' in his bed, but it sure meant a lot to me that you helped me git m' carcass outta that bed, an' to git m' britches an boots on, and faced me north...."

"So ye could stand with yer face to yer enemies, north to the Comancheria, and sing yer death song, an' shout yer insults at 'em..."

"Yep. I swore I could even see Many Horses in them clouds, shoutin' back at me an wavin' his cou' stick an just makin' a turrible damn fool of hisself like he always did..."

"Heehee, yep, I recollect that...you tol' me ye could see Many Horses up there, an he was challengin' ye t' come an' face him..."

"Say chile, you know what?"

"What, Papaw?"

"He was callin' out to me...an' he is here...an ye know what else?'

"No, what else?"

"He ain't such a bad ol' sonofabitch fer a Comanche. Hell, when I got here we fought somethin' turrible, like a couple o' wild-eyed loonatiks...but after a spell we got tired o' that, so we decided to do a bit o' huntin' together...they got buff'lo here, kin ye imagine that? ...so now we meet up purty reg'lar, an' we still fight some, an sometimes it's serious, an sometimes we jus' kinda wrassle an' laugh alot...but other times we hunt buff'lo together...an' sometimes we sit an' jus' smoke our pipes, an' talk about our kids an gran'kids and sometimes we jus set an' ponder an' don' say nothin' at all."

"Papaw, I'm wonderin'...well, are folks who get there, they all cut up or shot up like when they die?"

"Hmm, well I kin figger I know why yer askin'...no, Hon the Injuns is wrong....don't matter what shape yer in when ye pass: don't matter if they's big ol holes in yer hide, or if'n they took off yer hair or a laig or somethin'...long as you lived well, an' ye die well, with yer face to yer enemies, that's what matters. Tho' let me clarify that--it's about havin' faced up t' yer enemies one way or t'other...you ain't really got to lit'rally be facin' 'em...but Hell, I din't know that, otherwise, I wouldna' trubbled ye to get m' sorry ass outta that bed...

"Oh Papaw, you know I was as happy as I could be to do that...lifted m' heart that you asked me to hep ye then, at yer last, especially after all you done fer me...an I was never so proud as t' be yer granddaughter, with you all shot up from that last Comanche raid, an hurtin' like Hell on Christmas, but you was gonna go like a man with yer boots on..."

"Aw shit, Hon, at that point, I wasn't hurtin' no more. But anyhow, yes, when you get here, if you lived well an' you die well, then ye show up here all of a piece, an' yer young an strong agin, and..."

"Papaw?"

"Yes, Hon?"

"Is Jack there?"

"Of course he is, Hon. An' yes, he looks fine. Ye married well, Diogenes. I had kinda hoped you was gonna get hitched to Jack or Sepp. The three o' y'all was like pease in a pod. Goddam! what a terror y'all were to yer elders the three o' ye. I see him now n' agin, an' we enjoy a visitin'...he's been over with me to Many Horses' lodge an' we done shared a smoke or two...but mostly he seems to enjoy the company o' other hoss sojers....they's a reg'lar bunch o' them he's become fast pards with...some o' them Mongol fellers, an' some Roosian cossacks...oh, an' these frenchies what rode fer Bonaparte...they all camp together, an' go fer headlong rides across the rollin' hills, an set about their campfars at night, singin' an' tellin' stories...an' Jack, God bless'im, damn if he ain't got all them fellers right fond o' his cowboy coffee..."

"Heehee, yep, Jack always did make a fine pot o' sludge, even under the worst o' circumstances...Papaw, when y'all see Jack, tell him...tell him I still miss 'im, an'...well..."

"That you love 'im still? Aw hell, Hon, o' course I'll tell 'im. But he knows. An he's waitin' fer you 'n Sepp. He's got Sepp's ol' hoss Ceasar with him, an' he's lookin' after him until Sepp gets here."

"Papaw? Pa ain't there...is he?"

"ah...well..no, he ain't. Some folks, I reckon it's best to go on to nothin'ness, instead o' keepin' on with the pain."

"What about Harry, is he there Papaw?"

"No chile, matter o' fact, he ain't."

"Oh...then...I reckon..he din't die well, then, did he?"

"An' just what in the name o' Beelzebub's bunghole makes you think Heraclitus Kuhr is dead?"

"But...but..he got took by Comanches, Papaw...we figgered... well, we jus' figgered he was a goner..."

"Hon, Harry was just a sprout, an actually passed fer younger'n he was anyhow..."

"You always did say mebbe some squaw took a shine to 'im an mebbe wanted to do one o' them things where they want to adopt a pris'ner chile an' replace a chile they done lost...but I kinda figgered ye was jus' tryin' to make me feel better 'bout what took place. You sayin' he really did get adopted by some injun folks?"

"I ain't sayin nothin' more... I ain't even 'sposed t' be talkin' t' ye right now. I jus' couldn't hep m' self when I thought I heard you scrapin' at m' ol fiddle."

"You never was very good at followin' rules, was ye, Papaw?"

"Goddammit t' hell an' back, Diogenes, I'm 'bout as good at it as you are."

"Marcus Aurelius Kuhr, goddammit, yer turrible....an I love ye."

"Diogenes Aurelia Kuhr, you ain't no goddam better. An' I love you too, hon."


The rest of night passed dreamlessly.

~~~

A Deadwood story -- burials

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

"Say Miz Dio?"

"Yes, Eugene?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well done, Señora."

Dio stood and smiled slightly at Miguel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She abruptly broke off when she looked at him.

Damn, he did look a lot worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Hon?"

"Should not perhaps we bury Señor Roberto?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

A Deadwood scene -- Geoff and Roku, and the crik

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

A Deadwood story -- post partum

~~~

This short story -- originally posted on the Road to Deadwood forum -- was based on a conversation that happened after Dio helped deliver a baby (remember, Dio has had experience with various medical situations). The child was born to Pel Silverspar and his wife Kate. They happened to be near the Bella when labor started in earnest, so Katie was brought inside what was at that time a fancy cathouse to have her baby.

The fun part of this rp was that she was one of those mothers-in-labor who decides that it is all the husband's fault that she has to go through this crap. She heaped verbal abuse on poor Pel, and at one point announced that she was done and was just going to leave and forget about the whole thing, thank you very much. Meanwhile we also had a Greek chorus made up of the drunken idiots downstairs, chatting about things like what the baby should be named and commiserating with Taj (one of the Bella girls) that her bed had been chosen as the one to have the mess made in it.

In the discussion afterwards, Dio is talking with her friend Roku, an interesting character who divided her time between working sometimes as an upstairs girl and sometimes as a lady gunslinger. Roku had been hired by Dio for security at the No. 10.


Dio slouched in the big comfy chair downstairs at the Bella. She was dog-tired, and that fact really kind of puzzled her--after all Katie was the one who had done all the real work. But Dio was happy nonetheless, having helped bring a healthy little boy into this wretched vale of tears. She sighed as her eyelids drooped.

"Sure hope Katie didn't realize it's been a while since I helped with birthin a chile," she thought, as she drifted off, oblivious to the noise of revelry and celebration. Damn, you would think these feckless rascals had shit the watermellon themselves, the way they were carrying on. But it had all been that girl upstairs, now resting and drinking Dio's god-awful willow bark tea, who had been the herioine in this story. In many years of looking after people, this had certainly been one of the easiest, quickest deliveries Dio could remember. That gal Katie was just one of the fortunate ones, somehow designed by Providence to pop one on out with remarkably little trouble and drama.

The exhausted widow had dozed off for some time in the huge, smelly, overstuffed chair, when she felt something brush her arm, gently, tentatively, and she was startled awake. It was Katie, standing somewhat wobbily, smiling and glowing, and saying something that didn't quite register, but from the look on her beaming face, Dio guessed it was something happy and positive and she responded with a tired smile and nodded as she said what was hopefully an appropriate positive response. As she became more aware of what was goin on around her, Roku's tall form came into focus, leaning back against a post, ever watchful, seemingly unaffected and unconnected to all the celebratory hoo-hah that was swirling around the tacky splendor of the Bella's main bar-room. Dio could see Roku's gaze fix on her, their eyes met, and Dio could see what was running through her protective shadow's mind.

"Roku, shall we pull up stakes and head back to the 10?"

The tall figure nodded and followed as Dio creakily rose from the big chair, and saying her collective goodnights, pushed out through the big polished doors into the night. Dio strode silently down the street and wordlessly, instinctively stopped outside the No. 10's door. In concordance with their now well-established patterns of life, Roku slid past her without pausing, and went into the semi-dark saloon to check the corners, behind the bar and in the back room.

When Roku looked at Dio and nodded, the No.10's tired owner entered her establishment, lit another oil lamp, and sat at the lone card table.

Dio briefly pondered on how it really was a pathetic little shithole of a saloon. The proprietor of such a penny-ante, piss-ant little tin-plated operation shouldn't need to have "protection." It just seemed kind of silly and out of proportion to the relative importance of the place or it's owner.

Oh well, welcome to goddamm Deadwood.

Roku seemed quieter than usual. Finally, she dryly commented, "Kate was lucky you were around. Where the hell are all the goddammed doctors when you need them?"

"Hell if I know," the older woman replied. "We got more of 'em around here than ticks on a short legged hound in tall grass. You would think folks could find one when the need arose."

Roku snorted derisively. ""Specially at night. None of 'em around at night. And that's when folks get hurt most."

Dio smiled slightly. "Well to tell the truth I kinda think that some folks hereabouts don't really trust the bastards all that much. Seems like a fair number of em would rather have me lookin after 'em than trust one o' the fancy-ass book-reading docs. Hell, mostly they seem to be good fer nothin' but bleedin', purgin' and pushin' pills o' dubious quality. Or pumpin' folks full o' laudanum."

Roku looked directly into Dio's eyes, her poker-faced expression unchanging.

"Don't flatter yourself. They only come to you because they don't have anyone else to turn to. You ever really been trained in medicine? No, they all just come to you because there is no other goddammed choice."

From anyone else, Dio would have taken this as an insult. Some people she might even have called out on such a comment. But coming from Roku, it was a gift, the gift of hard-headed realism. Roku, as far as Dio could tell, didn't have a romantic bone left in her body. Every ounce of pretense, every atom of bullshit had been scoured and burned away from this woman's heart and soul.

Dio nodded and smiled.

"Yep, yer probbly right Hon. Well, hopefully someday they'll have some better choices."

She yawned and stared out towards the street. "Roku, I'm beat. I need to get some rest...I'm gonna hit the hay."

Roku nodded. "yep. It's gettin mighty late for ye. Good night Dio."

"Good night, Roku. Be careful out there."

~~~

Good stuff -- Kiergarten Armoury model 1874 Sharps rifle

~~~

I love getting a new toy, especially when it turns out that the item is as decidedly nice as this one. So many things in SL prove to be a real disappointment. To be honest, a lot of what is made in-world outright sucks. It's fun to get to review something like this that most definitely Does Not Suck.

It's my latest acquisition -- a model 1874 Sharps rifle, in caliber .50-90 (the "Big 50" favored by buffalo hunters), made by Kiergarten Armoury in New Babbage.

Kiergarten Armoury products are the work of Mr. Jasper Kiergarten. The vendor identifies this particular item as the "1874 Sharps Creedmore Rifle."

The use of the term "Creedmore" refers to the style of vernier tang sight that this weapon has mounted on the wrist of the stock, as well as being a reference to the fact that historically, the model 74 Sharps was used both as a hunting weapon and as a target competition piece at places such as the famous Creedmore range on Long Island.

Anyhow, back to the review: I gotta tell ya, this example of Mr. Kiergarten's work goes way beyond the "Does Not Suck" category, and is well into the realm of what is generally known as:

"ohmyfuckingawdthatistoosweetforwords."

You know, most attempts at recreated historic firearms in SL range from fucking dreadful mutant travesties, to the occasional act of brilliance. There are not too many of the brilliant gun makers who really care about authenticity and detail, though Lock Mortlock and Caed Aldwych leap to mind. Well kids, I now have another gunmaker to look up to with starry-eyed admiration: Jasper Kiergarten.

Even the better gunmakers have things they struggle with. The shapes of pistol grips and rifle butt-stocks seem to frustrate many: they may get close but they are not quite on the money. Others struggle with shaping hammers and lock plates correctly. Well, holy shit on whole wheat toast, I want you to look closely at the action on this Sharps that Mr. Kiergarten has made. This is in the realm of museum quality 3-D modeling.



The shapes are correct. The proportions are correct. It's a fucking work of art.

And it shoots well. Nice flat trajectory--the sumbitch hits what you point it at, and does so over decent distances. I was shooting deer targets in the hills above Deadwood and was taking them down at 70 meters, which ain't bad for SL shooting. But the real joy of this piece is the look of it. The detail is super: octagonal barrel, tang rear sight, and double set triggers. At the same time, I will confess there are a few details I wish were different. One is that the trigger guard/loading lever on this version is brass, and I'm just not sure about that -- it seems most of the rl Sharps rifles I have seen have a steel lever. Also the color of the metal parts is a dull grey...I would kind of like it if they were blued (or on some parts, colored to represent case hardening) like the originals. But then I also realize that doing so would probably hide some of the detail and outlines of component parts.

The poses and anims with the piece are basic, but appropriate. Like many SL firearms, this weapon comes with two guns in the set: the one you attach to your hand and which is used in holding/firing mode; and a "slung" version. Something that I really like about the Kiergarten Sharps is that the latter version of the piece is attached so that it looks like it is actually slung over your shoulder -- not stuck in one of these goofy-ass-looking back scabbards that so many SL gun makers give you with their rifles.

For a woman sharpshooter, some serious adjusting is necessary to get it to look as right as possible when you are holding it and firing the piece. But Mr. Kiergarten states in his vendor information that he is well aware that there is an issue there, and that he is considering a version adjusted for female avies. So updates may be expected, and in fact, the rifle comes with an updater gizmo that will enable the buyer to get improvments as they are introduced, or fixes for when LL does another goddam dumbass update to the software that will inevitably break things like gun scripts.

There is one other thing about the weapon that I hope Mr. Kiergarten will change at some point: it would be nice if he were to offer a version with the Deadwood combat bullet in it. The version sold now has a bullet that works fine for target shooting (which is all I am likely to use it for) but will not interact with the Deadwood combat system. Mind you, I'm happy as a pig in poop with the gun the way it is, but I know there are people out there who would like to have a good-looking firearm like this that is set up for their particular rp community's mutual killing fun.

Jasper also makes two models of Martini-Henrys and a whole slew of revolvers. I gather he is also in the business of making artillery and other implements of extreme diplomacy, which I shall have to check out.

~~~

A Deadwood story -- the dangers of cards

~~~

This is a new story, that hopefully will serve as an instructive lesson on why playing cards will lead you astray and get you into situations you didn't expect...

So ye say yer wonderin’ about how I became the proprietor o’ the famous Saloon Number 10 in Deadwood City, the place made notorious by the cowardly assassination of Mr. Hickok.

Well it was like this...

I was doin’ all right with the laundry. Actually more than allright. There are those who say that in a mining boom, the majority of the gold is found “from the grass roots up.” It ain’t far from the truth: actually diggin’ the yellow metal is hard, unpleasant and uncertain work. But providin' services 'n food, an' entertainment to them who are doin the diggin’ is a pretty sure bet. Yeah, it’s still had work, but ye stand a better chance o’ findin’ yer fortune.

So with what was comin’ in, I’d paid m’ debts an had enough resources to take on a couple helpers, a Celestial and a Irish gal, and then together we could do even more baskets o' soiled shirts an' whorehouse linens in the course of a day, an' that made us even more money.

So I had me a little bit extra to spend on a luxury or two. I got a wash stand fer m’ lil’ room in the back o’ the laundry: a real nice cabinet o’ light-colored wood, with a bar on which to hang my towel an’ face cloth, an’ a basin ‘n pitcher fer t’ carry out m’ mornin’ ablutions. Well sir, even after that, I still had some extra coin burnin’ a hole in m’ pocket, so I went to see m’ pard, Ron the gunsmith.

I mean, hell’s britches, a gal needs to spend a little bit on herself now an agin, right?

Git herself somethin’ pretty?

You bet.

Well, Ron had in his display case this damn fine lookin’ Griswold--a rebel-made copy of a Colt Navy. This one not only had the brass frame, which Ron had polished up real nice, it had bone grips, an' there was this fancy silver-washed engravin’ o’ lil’ flourishes 'n curly-cues on the metal. Twas obvious this had been an officer’s side-arm and somethin’ that had been greatly treasured by someone.

I jus’ HAD to have the piece.

Almost directly after I had made the deal and was standin’ there admiring that iron with Ron, along comes Carl, the remainin’ owner o the Saloon Number 10. I say “remainin” as his other partner had done took off an’ left him with the saloon, which was not doin’ well in the months after Mr. Hickok’s killin’. Folks would come in to look at the table where Bill was slain, but they warn’t inclined to pass an idle hour in the place. Bad feelin’s I reckon.

Anyhow, Carl from the 10 sees me cuddlin’ the Griswold, an he starts waxin’ elequent on what a fine piece it is, an’ inquires if he might buy it. Ron o’ course says no sir, it’s already been sold to this here lady, an’ Carl gets adamant with me that I should sell it to him. I get equally adamant that I shall not part with it fer any price, and one thing leads to another an’ Carl--who may have already been test samplin’ his wares that mornin’--says he would like t’ challenge me at cards fer the pistol. An’ I ask what will he put up against the firearm fer me to take should I win, an’ he thinks a moment...an' he up an decalres he will put his saloon up against it.

I look at Ron an' Ron looks at me. An’ I nods an’ says ok. Carl then says, allright missy, be at my saloon in half an hour, an’ then we shake hands an' he stumbles out.

So I turn to Ron an’ say, “Pard, would ye mind accompanyin’ me on this? I got a feelin’ this could turn out more ugly than I care to deal with on m’ own. An' Ron replies, “I would be glad to, Miz Dio, bein as ol’ Carl there, he is known to be an occasional cheat at cards...I was figgerin' I should observe 'n make sure he plays honest.”

At the appointed time we head on down to the Number 10, an' I tell ye what, the place was even more of a shithole than I had recalled. Dirty, grim, an’ cheerless. Carl had boarded up the back door that the assassin had used to sneak up on Wild Bill, an it was quite dark inside. The bar had no rail, the glasses 'n mugs was chipped an’ fly-specked, an’ the whole place smelt o’ blood, piss, puke, an’ stale tobacca smoke.

Carl, he steps up an' greets us most cordial-like, smiling at me though a set o’ irregular brown teeth. I return his salutation an’ I says, “what’s the game?” He says, “what do ye wish?” An’ I replies, "oh hell, Carl, I got things to do, let’s just cut fer it."

He shrugs an' says ok, an' then he hands the deck to Ron to shuffle it. Ron shuffles an’ slaps it on the center o’ the very table where Bill Hickok's brains 'n blood darkened the wood. Then Ron steps back to a advantageous position where he can observe the process, casual-like, but with good effect.

Carl nods an’ says, “After you Ma’am.” So I pull off a part o' the stack and show the bottom one, which proves to be a Jack o’ Hearts. Carl nods and pulls his part o’ the stack...

...an’ he shows a deuce o’ clubs.

He looks at me an says, “Oh well, I woulda liked to own that iron. Tis’ a truly nice piece.” He tosses me the key to the front door an’ grins a bit. “The landlord likes the rent by the first o’ the month. He ain’t azactly overflowin’ with the milk o' Christian generosity, so if’n yer a gonna be late with it, I suggest ya hide well, an’ then claim later on ya was kidnapped or carried off by injuns or somethin.”

An’ he walks out the door, justa-whistlin’ like a man who ain't got a single goddam care in the world.

So I’m lookin around at this depressin’ lil’ shithole of a booze parlor, startin’ already to be thinkin’ on how I kin clean it up an’ make it look nicer with some more coal oil lamps an' some chromolithographs on the walls, an a decent foot-rail...an’ I was already formulatin’ a plan to make it jus’ a lager beer saloon like I seen in Cincinnati in the German district, so respectable wimmen 'n young’uns could come in t' enjoy the place without fear o’ bein’ given offense by some whisky-soaked drunken idjit...

An’ I turn to Ron an’ say, “Pard, I am greatly obligated to ye fer bein’ here to ensure that he din’t cheat with the cards there...

Ron smiles a funny lil’ smile, looks around that wretched rat hole of a saloon, an' says to me, “Well Miz Dio, fact is, he did cheat...I saw him plain as day: he had that deuce ready in his palm an’ slipped it on the bottom of his stack when he cut.

I laughed, “You mean that wily ol’ cockchafer done cheated me into takin’ this piss-pot waterin’ hole off’n his hands?”

Ron jus’ grins an' says, “I shall ask Mr. Bu to send o’er some o’ his ‘nephews’ with buckets an’ scrub brushes, and I’ll fetch m’ carpentry tools. We may as well git started. Ya need to be bringin’ in some money right quick, if yer gonna be ready to pay that rent on the first o’ the month.”
~~~