Deadwood: A Tale of Bunk in the Black Hills

August 2, 1876, four o'clock in the afternoon, No. 10 Saloon, Deadwood Gulch, Dakota Territory.

James Butler Hickok's face was a death mask. There was no movement, no motion, as his unblinking eyes stared at the five cards gripped tightly in his hands. He was as still and stiff as death. Until...

'I'm a patient man, myself, Bill, but for mercy sake, make weigh or drop anchor,' said Captain Massey, a former Missouri River boat pilot and present card crony of the man known far and wide as Wild Bill Hickok, Prince of Pistoleers.

Captain Massey's comment on the painfully deliberative card-playing strategy of Mister Hickok brought chuckles from the two other men at the table; Carl Mann, partner in the No. 10, and Charlie Rich, a pain-in-the-ass on a good day but today a hemorrhoid on a mastodon. Charlie Rich was sitting in Mister Hickok's seat, the one against the wall, which provided him with a panoramic view of the saloon and its occupants, a valuable nugget of knowledge for a man who lived by the gun but was not particularly enthralled in dying by it.

Mister Hickok glanced over his shoulder and gave a cool look towards the disreputable-looking character that suddenly appeared in the doorway. When he turned his attention back to the card table, the character took a quick step inside. Once again Mister Hickok asked the grinning Charlie Rich for his regular seat. Once again Charlie Rich grinned.

'Damn't, Charlie, give Bill his stool or I'll come over and lay this along side your bony head,' declared bartender Harry Young, as he waved a large bung mallet. He turned and winked at me as I let down my mug of beer and once again began writing in my tablet. Although personally knowing Mister Hickok for six weeks, I was still awed by his presence. He was my hero. I first read about him in the dime and half-dime novels as a boy in Wilkes-Barre and continued reading about him between mining and engineering studies at the small rural college back East where I graduated in June. Even though I had long since learned that the stories in the novels, as well as in newspapers, were mostly bunk, Mister Hickok exceeded his reputation. Looking at him now, I thought of the article written by Henry Morton Stanley in the New York Herald a year ago:

'He is thirty-eight years old and is as handsome a specimen of a man as could be found. He held himself straight, and had broad, compact shoulders, was large chested, with small waist and well-formed muscular limbs. A fine handsome face, free from blemish, a light moustache, a thin pointed nose, bluish-gray eyes, with a calm look, magnificent forehead, hair parted from the center of the forehead and hanging down behind the ears in wavy, silken curls, made up the most picturesque figure.'

Mister Stanley had a penchant for the purple but this time his description of Mister Hickok's physical appearance was correct. But it was doubtful he could describe the man inside. Even I, who practically walked in his footsteps, had difficulty accepting the contrasts. At all times he was polite and accommodating with all he encountered. But, then, with his reputation, he could afford to be. I still find it hard to believe Mister Hickok had killed thirty-seven. That was more or less the official count and did not include Indians or Confederate soldiers.

I also found it hard to believe that Mister Hickok was allowing Charlie Rich to plague him. No one would dare to do this in the past. If the likes of a Charlie Rich took his chair, or anything else for that matter, he would have departed either head first or feet first. Mister Hickok's partner, Colorado Charlie Utter, had told me Mister Hickok at thirty-nine years of age was at peace with the world. He had mellowed.

'Charlie, damn't, give Bill his stool or I'll...'

'That's all right, Harry, Charlie was just about to trade chairs. Isn't that right, Charlie?' 'Sure, Bill, of course. Certainly,' Charlie Rich said as he jumped up. Even a dullard like him could not mistake the tone in Mister Hickok's voice.

'Sit down. We'll finish the hand first,' Mister Hickok said and again stared unblinkingly at his cards.

The disreputable-looking character-even a standout in his cornucopia of disreputable-looking characters-left the doorway and walked carelessly, perhaps too carelessly, to the bar. He stood next to me. I moved. Not far or fast enough. The smell caught up.

'Put some money on the bar, Jack McCall, or leave,' said Harry Young. 'This is a public house, not a pest house.'

'You'll see my money when I'm good and ready,' McCall said and sauntered over to the card table. He stopped at a point a few yards from Mister Hickok. He swiftly drew an old revolver from his waistband and aimed it at the back of Mister Hickok's head.

'Take that, damn you,' he shouted.

Before anyone could give a warning, a shot rang out.

McCall was thrust forward. He landed in the middle of the table, his face in the poker pot. Blood pumped from a hole in the back of his head.

Outlined in the doorway by the afternoon sun stood General George Armstrong Custer, a smoking gun in his hand.

'By God, men, it is the coward of the Little Big Horn,' declares Carl Mann. General Custer's eyes narrow. In one smooth motion he cocks the hammer on the large revolver and brings it to bear on Mann.

'That's what they say, those smart-alecky newspapers. They call you that. I always knew you had good reason to leave your command before the Indians attacked. Reno and Benteen are the real cowards, not you.' Perspiration flowed like a spring thaw over Mann's now white face. 'Please don't shoot me, General. I never said you were a yellow-bellied deserter; a rat jumping ship; a disgrace to your...'