A Deadwood story -- Plain Jane, part 5

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened that time?” asked JJ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~
to be continued...

A Deadwood Story -- Plain Jane, part 4

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh? What happened?”

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

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

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

“What did you do after that?”

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

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

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

~~~
to be continued...

A Deadwood story -- Plain Jane, part 3

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The story made Martha Canary laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dio smiled a slight, sardonic smile, and nodded.

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

~~~

A Deadwood Story -- Plain Jane, part two

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When she spoke her voice was eerily gentle and calm.

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

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

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

She turned to the deputy.

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

Badger looked thoughtful for a moment and then nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally JJ spoke,

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

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

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

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

JJ Drinkwater looked puzzled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~
to be continued...

A Deadwood story -- Plain Jane, part one

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good day to you, madam.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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 -- counting coup, conclusion

~~~

Lieutenant Wilcox desperately wanted this mission over and done with. It was bad enough that the Indian scouts clearly thought of him as little better than an inept child, but the expedition itself had been truly punishing. The trip up to the Black Hills had involved a lot of hard riding, little sleep--and then only with a blanket on hard ground--and living off cold rations. Then when he finally got to go into that Deadwood place and have a seat indoors and some coffee--and was beginning to feel like a civilized human again--Sergeant Bogart's fiance had torn into him like one of the gut-shredding harpies of ancient legend.

He had never before known a woman who could demolish a fellow's self-esteem in such colorful and extended fashion. It was in actuality probably accomplished with only a few sentences, but it felt like an eternity of verbal abuse.

The worst part was, he knew she was right. He had developed great respect for the Indian scouts, and hoped he was learning some things from them...but it had been an egregious lapse in judgement and responsibility to have allowed Corporal Red Knife to look for the woman on his own, and run the risk of being shot as a hostile by one of the townspeople.

Still, it had turned out alright. Once Mrs. Kuhr had finished giving him instruction in the art and craft of applied profanity, she had given both him and Red Knife a darn good feed of coffee, pie and venison stew. She then gave them some useful information in terms of things she had heard about signs suggesting hostiles were in the area, and was able to pinpoint exactly where these reported signs had appeared. Furthermore, she agreed to alert the populace of the town about the need for caution when hunting or working in the hills, and promised to do so in a manner that she hoped would cause the least possible amount of panic and overreaction. Wilcox had in fact improved his standing in the woman's eyes by suggesting that she embellish the truth about the size and nature of the force that the army had sent to pursue the raiding party, in order to give the locals some reassurance that the hostiles would be dealt with swiftly and effectively.

But now he was back in the hills, crouching in some bushes in a thin rain, waiting for the signal from Clouds on Big Mountain to attack the Lakotas' hidden camp. They had already confronted the raiding party once--an encounter in which Clouds on Big Mountain and Young Hawk had tried to convince the Sioux to return peacefully to the Agency. The scouts had no real wish to kill Lakotas unless they had to, not just because that was an aspect of their orders, but also because if they killed these fellows, that might stir up more unrest and new problems among Red Cloud's people.

The hostiles, however, had chosen to resist, and a short, sharp dust-up had erupted. The raiding party managed to break through the encircling scouts and escape, but in doing so at least one of them had been wounded. The one positive note in the course of events was that in the fight, Red Knife had struck one of the Sioux men with a native form of riding crop, thereby "counting coup" and gaining accolades from his colleagues. Young Hawk was quite proud of his nephew, and the other scouts all seemed to take it as a good sign that the raiding party would not slip away next time.

Well, this was that "next time." The Lakota were hiding in a cluster of some rocks and fir trees, while the scouts--and Lt. Wilcox--were arranged in a circle around them, ready for a fresh attempt to make them return to the Agency.

Wilcox peered through the misting rain and branches of the bushes where he was concealed, but he really couldn't see anything. He was frustrated, he was wet and miserable, and he was painfully aware of something having worked its way into his boot where it rubbed uncomfortably against his ankle. But this was, of course, not the time to be pulling off his boots and trying to look after a minor irritant like that.

Oddly enough, what Lieutenant Wilcox was not, was scared. The firefight the other day had been his first occasion of actually being under hostile fire, and he had found it to be an experience that was strangely exhilarating--as well as sobering. He had felt almost disconnected from himself when the shooting started...like an observer, watching a training exercise. If you had pressed him to explain his feelings, he would have found it hard to put it into words. Now, waiting for his second encounter with the enemy to commence, he was aware of his physical discomfort, he longed to get this business concluded, but he also was remarkably calm and in the moment. Many years later, he did make a comment to the effect that on this occasion, he had felt he was where he was supposed to be...

And then a shot rang out from the rocks...then more. They had been detected by the Lakota. Almost immediately, the scouts were returning fire, and the crackle of gunshots was rising to a brief crescendo. Suddenly, Wilcox realized there was a hostile warrior on the move: advancing rapidly, bent over and taking advantage of all cover he could find, and heading directly towards the lieutenant.

Wilcox raised his .45/55 service carbine, drew in a breath and let it out part way, took aim, squeezed the trigger...and missed. The Indian heard the roar of the carbine and saw the flash, and began bearing down on the officer. Rather than trying to reload the carbine, Wilcox tossed it aside. He then stood up, clawed open the flap on his pistol holster, and yanked out the big Schofield revolver as quickly as he could.

Now, you may recall something we mentioned some time ago, while the young gentleman was still in St.Louis at the cavalry depot. At this time, the U.S. Army had a mixture of revolvers in service, including the Colt model 1873 (commonly called the single action army), and the large Smith & Wesson No. 3 revolver (later versions of which were known as the "Schofield"). Mr. Wilcox had elected to keep his Smith & Wesson as his personal sidearm of choice, being as it is a break-action style of weapon, in which the frame is hinged so that you when you undo the catch, the barrel drops down and a mechanism automatically extracts the contents of your cylinder. Consequently, you can remove your spent casings and get reloaded much more quickly than you can with the SAA Colt.

Unfortunately, there is a curious thing that occasionally happens with the Smith &Wesson No. 3. In jamming the pistol into the holster or pulling it back out, it is possible to accidentally disengage the catch on the frame. When that occurs, once the pistol is drawn clear of the holster the heavy barrel will be pulled down by its own weight, opening the action of the weapon, and your firearm can unexpectedly and inconveniently unburden itself of your unfired cartridges.

This is one of the reasons why the Army rather preferred the Colt over the Smith & Wesson (as well as other factors like its use of a relatively anemic round, and that it had more parts that could potentially break). But accidentally unloading itself in the heat of combat was a pretty substantial drawback in and of itself.

Mind you, this sort of accident was not common. There was...oh, let's say maybe something like a one-in-a-hundred chance of this occurring. But it did happen now and then. And of course, that is precisely what happened to Lieutenant Wilcox in this instance. The one-in-a-hundred thing that could go wrong chose to go wrong at the worst possible time (as such things usually do). When the young officer yanked out the massive revolver, the catch was in fact undone, the heavy barrel did, in fact, tip forward, and the extractor mechanism functioned as it was supposed to. The Lieutenant was unpleasantly surprised by the sound of his unfired rounds landing on the soft ground.

Plop. Plopplopplop....Plop.

The Indian who was rushing at Wilxcox was apparently surprised as well. He stopped a short distance from the white man, who was looking at his now empty pistol. Then the white man said something in his own tongue (it was in fact, "Oh, what the hell"). Then the bluecoat--rather than running away or cowering--casually tossed his useless weapon over his shoulder and charged at his opponent, shouting like one who had looked upon the Face of the Great Spirit and gone mad.

To complicate the situation, the Lakota warrior also noticed that several of the "White Men's wolves"--Indians who fought alongside the bluecoats--had burst from the nearby undergrowth and were coming to the aid of this crazy white guy. Under these circumstances, the Lakota man elected to execute a tactical withdrawal, and turned to make a dash back to the cover of the rocks. As he did so, he felt a sharp--but certainly not disabling--blow to the back of his head.

Crazy white guy had smacked him from behind with with the open palm of his hand. The Indian could have turned and killed the man with his knife, but he knew the scouts would be on him almost instantly, so he continued back to the rocks.

Wilcox, meanwhile, having just slapped a Sioux warrior on the back of his head, suddenly was overcome with the realization that he had placed himself in a somewhat untenable situation. He was more or less in the open and unarmed. Red Knife and another of the Arikara men had rushed out from cover to stand with him, but at any moment he expected for them all to be cut down by a renewed hail of bullets from the direction of the rocks.

But that wasn't what happened. Instead, all shooting stopped. Some moments passed, and then a voice called out in Sioux from the cluster of rocks and trees. Clouds on Big Mountain replied in the same language, and before long, there was movement from the Lakota as they left their concealed positions. Red Knife explained to the Lieutenant that the raiding party was surrendering itself to return peacefully to the Agency.

In a way, it wasn't surprising. As the half dozen men came down from their position, Wilcox could see that at least two of them were wounded. They only had a couple horses, and to tell the truth, the Lakota looked about as tired, hungry and miserable as he felt...these men had made their attempt to return to the old ways...and they were now ready to go back.

What did surprise Wilcox however, was that the Crow and Arikara scouts crowded around him patting him on the shoulder and smiling broadly. The lieutenant looked at Red Knife with a puzzled expression.

"What's all this about, Red Knife?"

Red Knife laughed. "You too have counted coup! And how you did so! To empty your gun...and throw it away! Crazy you seemed, but crazy-brave! That is why our enemies decided to quit and go back--being chased by us, and a white man who does not fear to die...who would throw away his gun to count coup...they lost their hunger for this fight."

Second Lieutenant Josephus Wilcox thought about this a minute...he briefly considered trying to explain what had actually happened...then he decided it was was not in his own interest to disabuse anyone present of the notion that he had deliberately unloaded his pistol and tossed it aside in order to count coup in the purest sense of the concept: without any deadly weapon for protection, and expressing utter contempt for his enemies.

He turned to Young Hawk and Clouds on Big Mountain, and with Red Knife's help, told them that he wished to return briefly to Deadwood so he could tell the One Eyed Sergeant's Woman what had happened, and that all was well. He would also get them some supplies for the return trip.

The two elder scouts nodded their assent...though Young Hawk asked if some of the scouts should perhaps go with the Lieutenant. With no hint of irony, he told Wilcox that they would be proud to go with him to the white men's big camp if he wished them to do so.

But Wilcox shook his head.

"No thank you, Young Hawk. I will go alone. I do not wish for you or any of your...of our men to be shot by mistake by some fool."

He then looked at Red Knife and grinned. "It's all right, I will do my best to not get lost."

As the scouts watched Wilcox ride off in the direction of the town, Red Knife told the others what the lieutenant had said. The Crow scouts all smiled slightly at this, but the Arikara men laughed out loud. The universe could indeed be a funny place sometimes.

~~~

A Deadwood story -- counting coup, pt. 3

~~~

Arikara Scout, 1870s (National Archives)

Early one morning, Dio was out in woodyard behind Doc Alcott’s old infirmary, splitting wood with the help of a boy from the orphanage, who went by the name Tim Hax.

Oh, I probably ought to mention that being as Doc Alcott had died during childbirth, the infirmary was now being run by the same Doc Morpork I have mentioned previously. You see, the Doc had elected to retire from the army (or the army had elected to retire him) and he decided to stay on in Deadwood to continue offering his services to folk when he wasn’t too drunk to work. Truth be told, he didn’t get on too well with many folks, but one of the few that he did seem to respect was Dio--mostly because she knew how to cuss properly--so he let her use the woodyard behind his place.

But I’m kinda digressing there, aren’t I?

Anyhow, Dio and Tim Hax were splitting wood and stacking the pieces in a hand cart to drag back to the No. 10, when Tim looked up and pointed to two figures who were approaching.

"Miz Dio...seems like someone’s comin’ lookin for us.”

Dio ceased working with her splittin’ axe and looked up. Sure enough, she could see two people walking up the muddy alley towards the woodyard, one of whom clearly was Geoff Alderson.

You remember little Geoff don’t you? Dio had saved him from an outlaw who was holding him hostage but shot him in the leg whilst doing so. Accompanying the lad was young man--an Indian, in fact, with long black hair under a broad brimmed hat, wearing a blue army sack coat with corporal's stripes, belted at the waist with an old pattern federal-issue pistol belt with the big oval brass “US” buckle. While his upper half looked military, his lower half reflected his native heritage: buckskin trousers, leggings and moccasins.

Geoff looked a little nervous and uncertain.

Uh...M-Miss Dio? This here g-gent, he says he is a-lookin’ for ya. And they’s also a army ossifer too, a-waiting at the Number 10 for ya...”

Dio could tell from the style of the young man’s leggings and moccasins that he was probably Arikara, a people who had in recent years worked with the army in fighting their traditional enemies, the Sioux. The nature and condition of his service blouse and pistol rig indicated they were issue--not cast-offs or stolen. Dio quickly sized him up and concluded he was an Indian scout for the US military.

“Tashgasha.” said the young man as he raised his hand in greeting. “I am Red knife, Corporal of Scouts.”

Yup. Definitely an Arikara, as that is the way a man of that tribe gives greeting. But his command of English seemed to be pretty substantial.

Raising her own hand in greeting to the young man, Dio responded, “Nawah, Corporal Red Knife,”

“Nawah” is the appropriate Arikara greeting given by a woman (you may recall she had Arikara friends from back in her buffalo-hunting days). I expect Red Knife found this to be to his liking, for the Indian scout smiled in reaction to her greeting. Then he inquired, “You are the one called Dio, Sergeant One Eye's Woman?”

“Well, yes, I’m Dio...but ‘Sergeant One Eye’s Woman?’ That’s a new one on me, m’ friend.”

The young scout shrugged and smiled slightly. “Yes...the Crow scouts speak of a Sergeant they call ‘One Eye’ and of ‘Sergeant One Eye's Woman,’ also called Dio...some even speak of you as ‘elder sister’ to them. They say you are a warrior woman who has ridden with One Eye and Clouds on Big Mountain...and you track and kill well, I am told.”

“Ah,” Dio smiled. “You know Clouds on Big Mountain then?”

Red Knife nodded. “He leads the Crow scouts who usually ride with the horse soldiers of 3rd cavalry. But today they ride with us. I scout and fight under my Uncle, Young Hawk, who is our sergeant. We usually ride with Bad Hand.

Geoff had been listening to this whole exchange in a somewhat awed state of open-mouthed silence. It had been impressed upon him by some idiot or other that Indians were universally dangerous savages, hardly better than animals. But here was this well-spoken young man--the first Indian Geoff had ever seen up close, with his dark skin and long, shining black hair--engaged in friendly discussion with Miss Dio. And she was obviously inclined to be quite pleasant and respectful with him. In fact, he noted that her demeanor and manner of speech was different than usual. She seemed somewhat reserved..almost formal...but at the same time she gave no indication of being cautious or on-guard with him. And now this mention of someone called Bad Hand intrigued the boy. Such a name could only be for another warrior, and probably a fierce and dangerous one.

“W-who’s Bad Hand? Is he another injun?” asked Geoff, his curiosity overcoming his uncertainty about the situation.

Dio looked down at Geoff and smiled gently. “No, Hon. That’s what the injun scouts call Colonel MacKenzie, commander o’ 4th Cavalry.”

Tim nodded, adding, “He’s probbly one o’ the best field officers on the Plains.” Tim was too polite to be very forward with the stranger. But he was quite impressed that this young man, not much older than himself, was under the command of the famous Ranald MacKenzie, one of the few army officers who had dealt successfully with the Comanche in Texas.

“OH.” said Geoff, now really curious. “Why they call him Bad Hand?”

“Mackenzie has been wounded many times,” answered Red Knife. “Once in the White mens’ big war, his hand was struck and he lost some fingers. Many scars he has, but that is the one you can see most. So that is why he carries the name Bad Hand.

Geoff brightened up at this. “I got me a scar too! I got it when Miz Dio saved m’ life an shot me all in the same day! You wanna hear the story?”

Dio laughed. “Geoff, hon, I think we got things we have to talk over first. I ‘spect Red Knife is here fer a reason besides just visitin’ to say howdy-do. I am sure that there will be some other time when ye kin tell Red Knife the story o’ yer scar.”

Red Knife grinned a little at the boy. “Yes...some time, our stories, we can share.. Now I must bring Sergeant One Eye’s Woman to see the white officer who comes with us.” He turned back to Dio and his face took on an almost blank expression. “The lieutenant...he is called Wilcox. He is at the place called number ten. He chose to wait there, while the young one here took me to find you. He said he would stay there should you came back while I looked for you other places.” He shrugged again. “I think he wished to sit a while.”

“Th’ Lootinint looked awful tired,” Geoff agreed.

“Well I reckon he can wait a tad longer then, if’n he couldn’t be bothered to come seekin’ fer me with the Corporal here,” said Dio, trying to keep her voice from betraying the irritation she was feeling. Sending the young Indian scout to wander around Deadwood on his own was just asking for him to get shot by some feckless idiot.

She took a step back and put her hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Before we do anything else, I should interduce my friend here. Corporal Red Knife, meet Tim Hax.”

Tim was a tall skinny kid, dressed in jeancloth work duds that had patches upon patches. He was just shy of 14 years of age, but he looked older because of his height, and that sort of gentle wisdom you could see in his eyes. He didn’t always talk much, but he was as earnest and good-natured of a young fellow as you could hope to meet. He stuck out a calloused hand that looked too big for his body, at the end of an gangly arm that was a bit too long for the sleeve of his jacket.

“How do, Corpral?” he said in a manner that was a nice mixture of respect and quiet friendliness.

The Indian scout looked into Tim’s eyes for a moment and then smiled. He reached out and took the boy’s hand in his and grasped it firmly. “I do well, friend.”

Dio looked on with approval, then cleared her throat.

“Red Knife, I 'spose you been sent lookin' fer me for a reason. What can I do for you and your brother scouts?”

Red Knife’s face took on a very serious expression and he straightened slightly, as if giving a report.

“There are young men at the Red Cloud agency--Lakota, they are--with much anger that they cannot hunt and raid as they once did. Some have defied their elders and left the agency. They have come this way. The Major at that camp called Robinson, he and Bad Hand decided to send scouts and a white officer to follow these men who left the agency, to bring them back, or kill them if we must. We have tracked them. They are not far. But the Major told us that his Sergeant One Eye had a friend called Dio who is an elder in the white mens’ big camp called Deadwood. He told us to find you to tell you of these Lakota who have returned to this land they call Paha Sapa”

“Where are the other scouts now, Red Knife?”

“They are in the hills, watching. Clouds on Big Mountain and my Uncle have told me to come to the big camp of the white men with Wilcox to seek you. I speak the language of white men better than most, so they thought I should come.”

“Oh? Why din’t the officer come on his own?”

“Red Knife’s face was impassive. “They did not wish for him to get lost.”

Dio sighed.

“Do not worry Dio,“ said Red Knife in a reassuring tone. “We have good scouts. Men who have killed many enemies...I have killed an enemy myself, though I have not yet counted coup. We will catch the Lokota men.”

“I am sure you will,” replied Dio.

Red Knife continued, “But we were told to seek you, as you are an elder of this big camp...you must warn the other white people of your camp...tell them to not go into the hills alone, to not be fools and to be wary until the Lakota have been caught and made to go back...or are killed.

Dio tried really hard not to sigh again, but a small one escaped nonetheless. “Well Red Knife, tellin’ some o’ these people here to not be fools is like tellin’ the water to not run downhill.”


The young scout shrugged. “To hear such...it is not new to me. The white men...mostly fools they are. But I am told you are not a fool, and you are an elder of this big camp...tell them and they will hear you...I hope.

Dio assumed a very serious expression. “Red Knife, I thank you for your warning. Your Uncle and Clouds on Big Mountain do me honor to trust me to not waste this message you bring. It was a risk you took to come into the town. The elder scouts do you honor as well to trust you with this task...as well as looking after the lieutenant.”

Red Knife grinned slightly. “Maybe. I hope so. Or maybe I am the youngest, and if some white fool shoots me, then I will not be missed so much, like they would if it was one of the older men.”

Dio laughed. She really liked this young man and his quiet sort of humor. But then Arikara folks always seemed to appreciate the fact that the universe was a pretty funny place sometimes.

“Come along then, Red Knife, let’s go back to the No. 10. Will ye take a meal with us? I have stew an’ coffee...and we can collect yer lieutenant and make sure he din’t get lost.”

She turned to Geoff and Tim.”Boys, I would be obliged if ye would toss the last o’ the split wood in the cart an' bring it along. Then wash up an' ye can jine us fer some grub.”

“Yes ma’am,” they both chorused in response, as the woman and the young scout set off back up the alley towards Main street.

~~~

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....”

~~~