News:

PRODUCERS & OTHER FORUMS SITES: Please note - you MUST HAVE A RECIPROCAL LINK back to this site is you wish to ADVERTISE your site on this forum. If you do not have a link back to us, we will remove your posts with immiediate effect - 25th April 2010

OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)

  • 264 Replies
  • 54012 Views
*

Offline laurie breeze

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 837
  • I'm in yer face, bein' all bratty 'n whatnot
OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« on: November 30, 2011, 03:02:14 PM »
I’ve always loved history. Especially the history of my home state of South Dakota. A few years ago, HBO did a great series about Deadwood, a city that I live not very far from. A city and an area (the Black Hills) I’ve grown to love since I moved out here from the east side of the state. So I decided I would try to tackle a story about that city, set in the same time frame of the HBO series. But let me say this from the start. This isn’t HBO’s Deadwood. It isn’t even the Deadwood in the history books. This is my Deadwood, seen through the eyes of a group of working women or ‘soiled doves’ that arrived there at the start of the gold rush. You’ll see familiar names, real people in history who I’ll try to portray as truthfully as possible. I’m also including some fictional ‘ancestors’ of FCF regulars. I really hope you all enjoy this little trip back to the Old West!

xoxo

~Laurie~



OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)

Chapter One



The two crib girls stared at each other from either side of the muddy thoroughfare, their hate-filled eyes ignoring the stream of wagons, miners, settlers, horses and cattle moving through the bustling camp town. But not very much was moving right at the moment. Wagons were backed up far as the eye could see, for miles and miles down the canyon road framed by the tall black spectral pines that gave the hills its name. Loud voices filled the air, protesting the delay, using language so ripe and colorful that mothers tried to block out with their hands clamped over the ears of their grinning children. Even the ones who didn’t speak English had to know the meaning of the loud profane oaths. It’s safe to say that, yes, a lot of people were frustrated and angry at the moment. But none more so than the two women about to rip into each other.

On one side was a stocky buxom blonde with the square-faced ruddy features so common to the natives of Northern Europe with a large hooked nose that resembled a parrot’s beak. We found out later she went by the name Freida Pollynose. Facing her was a taller, thin, wiry raven-haired woman with deep sunken haunted eyes, the pale pallor of an opium addict and the unique moniker Molly B’Damn. These two were “crib girls”, low-class prostitutes who plied their trade in small dingy rooms or “cribs” located in one of the many saloons that had popped up in the mining camp in the span of a few months. Both women looked like they just fell out of bed, their hair all wild and tousled, their feet bare, their dresses cheap, faded and worn.

With snarls and cries of fury, they stepped off the boardwalks into the muck, charged at each other in a fury, crashing together in a flailing swirling blur of arms and legs, punching, kicking, scratching, gouging, right in front of our stalled wagons.

“Oh, look,” Jersey Jo giggled. “They’re putting on a show just for us!”

Madame Featherlegs shook her head in disgust. “These low-class whores give us all a bad name.” Her posh Australian-accented voice reeked with contempt for the fighters. “Putting their bloody business out on the street like that!”

The blonde-haired girl from New Jersey took a bite of her apple. “Still,” she said, as she chewed, “it passes the time.”

Featherlegs gave her a look. “How many times have I told you all about talking with your mouth full? First impressions, ladies.” She made sure her voice carried to the rest of us in the other wagons. “We came here to bring class to the peasants living in this God-forsaken place. They have gold to spend, they’ll pay happily for some refined entertainment.“

Tee Poo and “Lady” Gemm looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Tee Poo mouthed the words along with Madame Featherlegs. Clementine lowered her head and buried a discreet smile behind her small fan, like the Southern belle she was. We’d all heard this speech before. A number of times. Even me, and I just joined the group at Cheyenne.

Tee Poo muttered, “I been doing this a while, me, and I never before heard a poke called a ‘refined entertainment’.”

Gemm retorted, “That’s because you wouldn’t know ‘refined’ if it came up and bit your Cajun ass!”

Not to be outdone, Tee Poo shot back, “So says the cheap Welsh tart! If your pere wasn’t so damn busy swilling cheap gin, he’d of put you in a nunnery where you coulda learned something useful, like sayin’ prayers an’ darnin’ socks!”

Madame Featherlegs had had enough. “Nark it! The both of you!”

This put a quick end to the good-natured bickering and we all turned our attention to the short man in buckskins who rode up to our wagons from the head of the line, his chestnut mare deftly sidestepping the two women rolling around in the mud.

“What’s the delay, Mr. Utter?” I called out from the second wagon, where I sat next to the giant Albino, mute as always, clutching the oxen’s reins tightly in his huge veined hands.

‘Colorado’ Charlie Utter took off his hat and mopped his sweaty brow with a dirty bandanna. He shook his head and gave a weary grin. “Damn fool squarehead loaded his wagon too full an’ got his wheels stuck in the mire. Tried to get ‘er goin’ again an’ dug hisself in even worse. From the looks of it, he ain’t movin’ any time soon. Dumb-ass sumbitch. ‘Scuse my French.”

While all this was going on, blonde Freida managed to pull herself free from her wiry foe and struggled to stand up. Her dress, ripped and covered in mud, stuck to her body as she slipped in the muck and almost fell again. But she kept her balance and immediately went on the attack. Screaming in her native tongue, she yanked the taller girl up to her feet by the hair and slammed a hammering fist flush into her nose.

Raven-haired Molly was dazed as the blood started flowing from her nose, mixing with the oozy mud already on her face. Staggering, she almost fell but managed to stay on her feet as Freida smirked with satisfaction, thinking the fight was just about over. Well, that proved to be a big mistake. Molly may have stood about five inches taller but the stocky blonde outweighed her thin foe by at least thirty pounds. The feel of the blood streaming down her face must have lit a fuse deep inside Molly and she flew at Freida, her arms windmilling wildly, her flailing fists and flying feet raining a cascade of punches and kicks into her enemy’s face and body.

The blonde, caught off-guard, reeled from the wild attack, bumping into a scrawny little guy with a drooping left eye and a nose that looked like it had been broken and badly set by a drunk doctor. Or maybe just a drunk. The little guy, who must have been drunk himself, made a grab for Freida’s tit, ripping her dress even more, exposing it, which earned him a hard shove and a trip to the mud.

Some folks standing on the boardwalk found this amusing. One of them cackled, “Why don’t ya go catch yourself a cat, Jack, an’ leave the titty grabbin’ to them who know what they’re doin’?”

Droopy Eye got to his feet, looked around, acknowledged the laughter with a sheepish wave and grin, then fixed his drunken gaze on our wagons. He doffed his muddy cap, revealing a rat’s nest of unkempt chestnut hair that fell over his low forehead. A wide smile broke out on his battered face, showing thick lips and a lot of crooked teeth that were as dirty as the rest of him.

“Looks like we got us some new meat come to town,” he rasped. And then spit into the mud. “How’s about you let Jack McCall break you in proper?”

Madame Featherlegs sized up the boastful little man. She was really good at reading people, could tell in a flash if they were worth their salt or if they were just full of piss and vinegar. In less time than it took to write this, she knew everything about Jack McCall that she needed to know.

She gave him her sweetest smile and asked, “You have anything in your pocket beside dirt and fleas?”

The blustery little fellow swayed and blinked his crossed eyes a few times.

“Not at the present time, no,” he slurred, “but I ‘spect my luck’s about to turn.”

“We’ll be waiting for that to happen, mate,” she purred. “And when it does, you come calling. My girls will show you a side of heaven most can only dream about.”

“Go sit your ass in a bathtub for a few days, why don’t ya?” Jersey Jo chimed in. “You look like a pig in shit.”

Jo flung her half-eaten apple at the drunk. He swatted a hand at it, sending it sailing through the air where it hit the mud with a splat and was happily gobbled up by a nearby tethered horse.

Droopy Eye Jack scowled. “Oh, so I ain’t good enough for you, is that what you’re sayin’? Sittin’ up there in your fancy store-boughts actin’ all high an’ mighty. Shit, you all ain’t nothin’ but a pack of whores!”

Shaking a fist menacingly, he moved closer to the wagons. Charlie Utter’s eyes narrowed and he reined his horse around to confront McCall. But the Albino suddenly rose to his full six foot-seven inch frame and fixed a deadly red-eyed glare at Jack that froze him in his tracks. And if that wasn’t enough to make the drunken vagrant see the error of his ways, the sight of the Dwarf materializing from inside the wagon with a rifle aimed between Jack’s crossed eyes did the trick.

Jack backed up a step, scowled, grimaced, dropped his gaze down and spit again. He gave us all a snarky little grin, with spit dripping from his chin, turned and shuffled down the thoroughfare. As the pathetic little drunk unsteadily staggered away, the two mud-covered whores continued their life and death struggle.

The heavier blonde withstood her enemy’s wild onslaught and, as Molly danced in again, Freida nailed her with a wild sweeping roundhouse left that sent her sprawling. But the combination of hate and opium made Molly scramble back up again like nothing happened. She charged the blonde, claws bared, raking her nails over her exposed breast. Freida screeched in pain and the thin girl pressed her advantage by gouging and slashing her victim’s eyes.

Freida flailed her hands wildly at Molly’s arms, finally knocking them away from her face. Blinking her burning eyes, now full of tears, Freida took a few steps back and lashed her right foot out blindly with a lucky shot, catching her foe flush in her thin belly, knocking her flat on her ass. The blonde slipped in the mud and she also went down. They both lay there wallowing in the muck, gasping for breath, hurling curses at each other between whimpers of pain and fury.

During this lull in the action, I turned to Mr. Utter.

“How’s Mr. Hickok today? In better spirits, I hope?”

“A lot better than last night, Miss Luckett, thank you. I’ll tell him you was askin’ on him. I’d best be gettin’ back.”  Utter tipped his hat. “Ladies,” he muttered formally as he rode back to the front of the line.

“Hell, Little Bit,” Tee Poo laughed, “we ain’t goin’ nowhere any time soon. Why don’t you run on up to Hickok’s wagon and pass the time playing with Wild Billy’s willy?”

“Shut up, Tee Poo,” I snapped, flushing a bit. “It ain’t like that an’ you know it. B’sides, Mr. Hickok is married.”

From the other wagon, Jersey Jo laughed, “Shit, bein’ married never stopped nobody!”

Tee Poo smirked, “Specially if the willy in question is on a celebrity.”

“Jonica speaks from experience. She is the biggest star fucker of us all,” Gemm declared, using Tee Poo’s true name. “She’d fuck Sitting Bull standing up if he had two bits in his pocket.”

Clementine leaned over to me. “I didn’t know Indians had pockets,” she whispered musically in her soft Alabama drawl.

“Only on Sundays,” I answered, earning a rare smile from the Albino.

Madame Featherlegs shook her head. “God’s Teeth, I have children again!”

By this time, the two fighters had pulled themselves back up to their feet. Both were exhausted and showing the effects of their struggle. Blood continued to flow from Molly’s nose, her right eye was puffed and swollen, and her thin arms were full of welts and scratches. Angry crimson furrows covered the tender flesh of Freida’s right breast. There were deep gouges and slash marks on her square face where her enemy’s nails had done damage. They slowly circled each other, like two wounded lionesses in the wild, waiting for the chance to strike.

Molly moved close enough to try to kick the blonde in her knee but the slippery mud caused her to slip and fall. Freida was on her in a flash, straddling her belly, using her weight to pin her down. The pinned girl bucked and twisted her body, squirming wildly to free herself, as the big blonde started hauling off on her, slamming her fists into her face.

Molly used one hand to protect her face and block the brunt of the punches. In desperation, she latched hold of the blonde’s tit with the other, digging her jagged nails in deep as she squeezed. Freida squealed as Molly used her long legs to full advantage by slamming her knee hard into her back. The heavier girl managed to stay on top of her opponent and she grabbed her bony wrist to pull the deadly claws away from her ravaged breast. Freida’s weight pressed hard on the Molly’s thin stomach, making it hard to breathe.

Grasping frantically on the ground with her right hand, Molly scooped up a heaping pile of mud and manure. She hefted it, the muck oozing and dripping down her thin arm. Before Freida could start punching her again, she smashed the muck into the bigger girl’s wide eyes, big nose and open mouth.

Freida gagged and let out a gurgling cry. Blinded and retching up mud and manure, she sprawled backwards off her foe who used her feet to kick the stocky girl even farther away. Molly managed to crawl away and scramble to her feet, doubled over, gasping, trying to catch her breath. Freida staggered blindly to her feet. Losing her balance as she frantically wiped her eyes, she stumbled backwards directly toward the wagon where Madame Featherlegs sat.

“Time to end this nonsense,” Madame Featherlegs announced, as she hiked up her petticoats, swung her legs around and drove her right boot hard into the staggering blonde’s back.

Freida let out a yelp of surprise and lurched back toward Molly who had, by now, straightened up. Seeing her opportunity, she didn’t waste it. Planting her feet in the ooze, she swung a hard straight right fist flush into Freida’s jaw. Poleaxed, her body stiffened as if she was shot. She toppled back slowly, hitting the mud with a sickening loud splat. She jerked and twitched, then lay still, except for the rapid heaving of her belly.

Molly stood watching her fallen enemy, fists clenched, breathing hard. Satisfied that Freida wasn’t getting back up, she stumbled away, back onto the boardwalk, disappearing into one of the buildings. Two miners approached the fallen whore, bent over, each grabbing a limp wrist, and started dragging her away. One of them, an older man with a lined face and gray beard, grinned up at us.

“Welcome to Deadwood,” he cackled.


To Be Continued.....
« Last Edit: December 04, 2011, 10:17:46 PM by Laurie Breeze »
We're on a circuit of an Indian dream
We don't get old, we just get younger
When we're flying down the highway
Riding in our Indian Cars

*

Offline Jonica

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 982
  • Verified Smartass
    • A Dark And Frightening World
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #1 on: November 30, 2011, 04:52:14 PM »
{alt}

My bf collects police patches.  This one is his favorite.  Make sure Gemma draws "aces and eights" somewhere along the line....I'll be happy to be her Jack McCall....

;D

Great start, Laurie!  I can't wait for the next part!

:D

J
xoxo
Bad (Bad) Blood (Blood)
The bitch is in her smile.
The lie is on her lips,
Such an evil child.

*

Offline gene smith

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 955
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #2 on: November 30, 2011, 07:10:26 PM »
very good
I CAN do I
I MUST do it
I WLL do it
Peter Cannon Thunderbolt

*

Offline Jonica

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 982
  • Verified Smartass
    • A Dark And Frightening World
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #3 on: November 30, 2011, 11:03:04 PM »
 the stories section makes it worth while coming here now, everything else here is kinda flushed down
   the toilet

Hmmm...thanks.
Bad (Bad) Blood (Blood)
The bitch is in her smile.
The lie is on her lips,
Such an evil child.

*

Offline howardcosell

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 1794
  • Believe in yourself and give your love to others
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #4 on: November 30, 2011, 11:24:49 PM »
I have all three seasons of Deadwood on DVD... you managed to make Charlie Utter, who I found meaningless on the show, interesting. And this was a great story, Laurie! :) It was your Deadwood, but it had just as much grit and gruff as the tv show. I could see Calamity Jane stumbling around pretending to be tough and watching out for Al to come punk her out again. Great stuff!
"When people walk away from you... let them go. Your destiny is never tied to anyone who leaves you... and it doesn't mean they are bad people. It just means that their part in your story is over."

*

Offline laurie breeze

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 837
  • I'm in yer face, bein' all bratty 'n whatnot
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #5 on: December 01, 2011, 08:27:58 AM »
Thank you all so much! I'm glad you're enjoying it so far. The next part is coming really soon, hopefully before the weekend.

huggggzzz 'n xoxoxo

~L~
We're on a circuit of an Indian dream
We don't get old, we just get younger
When we're flying down the highway
Riding in our Indian Cars

*

Offline wrstx2

  • Senior Member
  • ****
  • 81
  • Love women over 50 who fight
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #6 on: December 01, 2011, 07:19:16 PM »
very very nice. Love cat fights set in the old west - Reminded me of JT Edson.
Love mature women (50+) in intense action, even matched, grudge between them. My pics tend to show what I like. No extreme violence, death or humiliation - that's just not me.

*

Offline A_J 2012

  • Junior Member
  • **
  • 23
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #7 on: December 02, 2011, 05:31:25 PM »
Everyone here said it best so far Laurie, and i agree..excellent job so far, you are very talented and gifted so don't keep us waiting too long,lol
I'm known as the " One hit wonder", mainly because after i hit you,and you wake up, you'll be wondering what happened to you..

*

Offline ~Rox Erotique~

  • Approved Producers
  • God Member
  • *****
  • 690
  • Looking for love in all the fight places
    • Rox Erotique - Fem Fight art from a slutty angry tart :)
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #8 on: December 02, 2011, 06:45:08 PM »
you crafted that world finer than a TV series ever could! not a single line went unimagined in my head your descriptions are so good! what's even better is the pace and tone is balenced just right! it's enthraling and entertaining without being too hasty. sterling work sugar!

It sickens me that this is only your second story here :D MORE!!!!!

x G x

PS. Tee Poo needs a slap and why does everyone keep thinking I'm Welsh? :D Much love!
I'm paranoid and needy. So I think people are talking about me, but not as much as I'd like.

*

Offline laurie breeze

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 837
  • I'm in yer face, bein' all bratty 'n whatnot
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #9 on: December 04, 2011, 02:34:16 AM »
It's coming soon, I promise!!! I was hoping I'd get it done last night but ran into some problems at home. Things are better now 'n I'm making progress so the 2nd chapter should be up soon.

Thanks for being so patient! If ya camp out, bundle up. I'll buy the hot dogs 'n marshmallows!   :) ;) ;D

xoxo

~L~
We're on a circuit of an Indian dream
We don't get old, we just get younger
When we're flying down the highway
Riding in our Indian Cars

*

Offline Jonica

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 982
  • Verified Smartass
    • A Dark And Frightening World
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #10 on: December 04, 2011, 04:03:57 AM »
PS. Tee Poo needs a slap and why does everyone keep thinking I'm Welsh? :D Much love!

Tee Poo doesn't think you're Welsh.  But she does think you're a bitch.

;D

TP
xoxo
Bad (Bad) Blood (Blood)
The bitch is in her smile.
The lie is on her lips,
Such an evil child.

*

Offline laurie breeze

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 837
  • I'm in yer face, bein' all bratty 'n whatnot
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #11 on: December 05, 2011, 03:18:36 AM »
OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)

Chapter Two

“This here strike is gonna be a lallapaloozer!”

It all started the day Charlie Utter said these words to his brother Steve after he heard about the gold that was discovered in the Black Hills. They wasted no time organizing a wagon train to Deadwood in the Dakota Territory, guaranteeing a safe passage to anyone who signed up. Their wagon train left the mining town of Georgetown, Colorado, early in the spring of the year of our Lord 1876, and headed north to Cheyenne in the Wyoming Territory, where Charlie’s best friend and pardner James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickok joined them, along with Martha Jane Cannary, who would eventually become known as Calamity Jane.

See, Charlie knew that Wild Bill’s reputation as one of the fastest and deadliest guns in the West would convince folks that the Utter train was probably the safest way to pass through Sioux country. And he was right too. One thing about old Charlie Utter, he had a head for this kind of thing. By the time they left Cheyenne, more than 100 people in 30 wagons had thrown in with the Utter brothers. These wagons held miners, settlers, merchants, gamblers, musicians, and a number of prostitutes (or “soiled doves” as they were called in genteel society), all looking to make their fortune one way or another in the camp in the gold fields.

Five of the soiled doves had made their way from the Comstock Lode in Virginia City, Nevada. They were led by Madame J.P. Fourcade, commonly called “Madame Featherlegs” on account of a remark made by a drunken miner about the ruffled lace pantalettes she always wore. “Them ruffled drawers make the old girl look like a feather-legged chicken in a high wind.”

J.P. Fourcade had been a darn good pickpocket in her native Australia until she got caught dipping into the deep pocket of a local magistrate who naturally raised hell and had her arrested. As a teenager in 1856, she was exiled from her homeland along with a bunch of other prisoners of the British penal colonies and found herself on a ship headed for San Francisco’s Sydney-Town. In those boom days of the gold rush, she graduated from picking pockets to prostitution, making a damn good living at it.

Featherlegs had a good nose not only for gold but also for anything else that she could profit from after it was dug out of the ground. So, when silver was discovered in Nevada of the Utah Territory, she high-tailed it out of the Barbary Coast to Virginia City where she opened her own bordello, The Lucky Strike, which became a popular pleasure palace on the Comstock Lode. She ran a good clean house, no flim-flamming, no funny business. No trick would ever be robbed of his goods while his trousers were draped across a chair, or find himself bopped on the noggin and shanghaied off to hell and back. Not on her watch.

And nobody ever put a beating on any of her girls either. The Albino saw to that. The Albino, all six-foot seven-inches of him (the Lincolnesque stovepipe hat he always wore made him over seven feet tall), was a sight to behold and put the fear of God into even the bravest of souls. With his snow white hair and handlebar moustache, reddish-purple eyes, ghostly pale complexion, long muscular arms and a face that rarely smiled, all he had to do was walk into a room and even the rowdiest hell-raiser would turn into a meek quiet schoolboy in a flash. But every so often some dumb son of a bitch would need convincing. He’d find himself waking up in the mud sometime later with a busted head wondering what locomotive just ran him down.

No one knows for sure where Featherlegs and the Albino met. He can’t speak and she isn’t telling. Folks say there was never a time when you didn’t see one without the other. I personally think they must have met on that ship from Australia and he’s tagged along with her ever since. But that’s just me thinking. Maybe someday we’ll find out. But I’m not holding my breath.

Featherlegs first heard about the gold in the Black Hills from a rich occasional client she always referred to as just plain “H”. She was debating whether to make the move or not when a miner with a bad toothache made the decision for her. This damn fool drank almost a full bottle of cheap whiskey for the pain, got really drunk and stumbled into the small stove in his ramshackle cabin in the red-light district. The stove tipped over, setting the cabin on fire. Turned out it was a pretty windy night and before they could put it out, the cabin was burned to the ground, along with seven other buildings, one of which was the Lucky Strike.

So Featherlegs packed the four girls willing to make the trip (not to mention the Albino and the Dwarf, who tended bar and was pretty handy picking a lock and even better with a knife) into a chartered stagecoach for the twelve-day trip and headed north to Cheyenne. Joining her were Joanna “Jersey Jo” Nawls who had survived life in the slums of the Five Points section of New York City; Jonica “Tee Poo” Dupuis, the Cajun who had left Louisiana for a life with a dashing gambler on the riverboats; Gemma “Lady Gemm” Grey, falsely accused of murder in England, who fled to America stowing away on a cargo ship; and Meg “Darlin’ Clementine” Hawkes, the Alabama girl whose family lost everything during the Civil War.

As luck would have it, they happened to be having supper in “Bull Run” Shaughnessy’s hotel in Cheyenne when Bill Hickok joined the Utter party and Charlie let it be known that others were welcome to come along. I know all this because I was there too.

My given name is Laurel after the mountain flower, but I don’t go by that. I’m Little Bit Luckett. Folks have been calling me Little Bit as long as I can remember. I don’t know how it started and that’s really not important right now. I don’t mind being called Little Bit. I’ve been called worse, the nicest being “Squaw Girl”. See, I’m one-quarter Lakota Sioux. My grandfather was a French Canadian trapper who won my Sioux grandmother on a bet with her brother to see who could spit into a knothole on a tree from fifteen paces. They did stuff like that back then. Still do.

No one around here knows I’m part Indian. I’m trying like hell to hide it. Right about now, the way things are going, it’s healthier to keep that a secret. Lucky I have my dad’s blue eyes and light skin, the first and only thing he gave me before he lit out for parts unknown. My mother died of the influenza when I eight and I grew up in Mrs. Booker’s orphanage in Yankton in eastern Dakota Territory. Growing up there was hell, specially since the other girls knew I was a “breed”. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have any cuts or bruises from a fight. So I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there, working my way west till I get to California. I always dreamed about seeing that Pacific Ocean. Which is why I’m here at Shaughnessy’s.

I stood in the shadows by the open doorway watching the hotel guests eating. Well, all right, just one guest. From the minute he walked in, I just couldn’t take my eyes off Wild Bill Hickok. I’d heard all about him, of course, knew how famous he was. But that was only part of it. He was probably the handsomest man I ever laid eyes on. Tall, broad-shouldered, carried himself well. His long light brown hair that fell carelessly in ringlets over his strong shoulders framed a handsome face with high cheekbones, straight nose and full mouth. He was soft-spoken, courteous in manner, every inch a gentleman. But there was something about his eyes, it’s hard to put into words. I know he’s a ruthless killer when he has to be, if all the stories are to be believed. How those blue-grey eyes of his turned ice cold right before he sent a man to meet his Maker. But, to me, they were the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.

(Like he feels no joy in killing, only regret and melancholy. God, how I would love to meet him, just to sit with him, talk to him, get lost in those blue eyes … )

A loud voice and a hard smack to the back of my head jolted me out of my reverie.

“Damn it, Little Bit, I ain’t payin’ you to gawk at my guests! Them piss pots ain’t gonna empty themselves!”

“Sorry, Mr. Shaughnessy, I’m getting’ at it now.” I wilted under the glare of the sweating fat man in the soiled dingy apron and scurried away up the stairs before he could clout me again.

He hollered up after me, “I’ll be checkin’ to make sure they’re clean, too! An’ God help you if they ain’t!”

I busied myself emptying the chamber pots into a bucket and then scrubbing them clean. As I left one room to move to the next, I stopped short. Wild Bill Hickok was walking toward me. I flushed, realizing I was holding a bucket full of piss. He smiled, winked and tipped his hat ever so slightly as he passed by. I watched him open the door of the room I just left and step inside.

(Oh my god, I was just in Wild Bill Hickok’s room! I cleaned his chamber pot!)

Grinning, I continued down the hall. I noticed a door was slightly open. The room of one of the Virginia City ladies. I was positive I shut that door when I left. I walked over and looked inside the room. Rummaging through a carpetbag on the dresser with her back to me was Shaughnessy’s fat daughter, Bridget, who had been a royal pain in my ass since the day I started there. I watched as she pulled out a big expensive-looking gold brooch and stuck it in her pocket.

I moved into the doorway. “You better put that back before you get in trouble.”

She gasped and turned around, her face ghost white at being caught. Then she saw who it was and an angry scowl covered her already unattractive face. Her piggy eyes narrowed and her lip curled in disdain.

“You mind yer own business, drudge girl. Get back to your piss pots an’ leave me be.”

“Not till you put back what you took. You think your pa is gonna like you stealin’ from his guests?”

She put her hands on her hips in a superior attitude. “Who’s gonna tell on me? You? Like anyone would believe a sorry ass piece of trash like you,” she retorted smugly.

“Put it back, Bridget. I mean it.”

She snorted a laugh at that. “Look at you givin’ orders like the lady of the manor, with a piss bucket in your hand. Go on an’ tell on me, drudge girl. I’ll just say it was you what stole it an’ I took it away from you. Who d’you think my Da’ will believe?”

I put the bucket down and stood my ground. I knew she was at least 50 pounds heavier than me. But she was soft and I had more than my share of fights with bigger girls in the orphanage.  I also knew she’d make good on her threat and I’d probably catch the blame for stealing the brooch. But I couldn’t let her get away with it. Besides, I was fed up with her crap and really wanted to punch her fat face in.

“Last chance,” I hissed in a low voice. “Put it back. Now.”

She tossed her head back and raised her fists. “Make me.”

With a snarl, she lunged at me and threw a wild punch. But she was slow and I easily dodged it, moving quickly to my left, then turning to give her a kick in her ample ass as she rushed past.

“Gotta be quicker than that, bitch,” I smirked. Her face beet red, she charged me again, grabbing my hair before I could move. I started throwing punches at her as she pulled me close. Grunting, she brought her knee up, catching me hard in the belly. I let out a gasp, my legs buckled and I dropped to my knees. Still holding my hair, she slapped me in the face with all her might, rattling my teeth from the force. Tears filled my eyes and my cheek stung and burned. She started to laugh as she pulled me by my hair toward the piss bucket.

“Can’t think of a better way for a drudge girl to wash her filthy face than a bucket full of piss!”

One of the few good things about growing up in an orphanage is, you learn how to fight dirty. You have to. I learned. And I got good at it. As Bridget pulled me, I threw a hard punch directly into her crotch. She let out a strangled squeal and let go of my hair, doubling over as she staggered away. I scrambled to my feet and charged at her before she could straighten up. A hard punch to her face sent her stumbling into the dresser, knocking over the carpetbag, a hand mirror that shattered on the wooden floor, and a gold-handled brush.

As I moved in for the kill, Bridget surprised me with a hard kick to the belly. I flew backwards, landing hard on my ass. Bridget dived on top of me, knocking me flat, using her bigger fatter body to pin me under her. She grabbed my hair again and started slamming my head down into the wooden floor. Each time my skull connected with the unyielding hardwood felt like a cannon going off in my brain. My head was throbbing and my vision started getting blurry. I sensed I was on the verge of blacking out.

In desperation I blindly raised my hands and raked my nails across Bridget’s face. She cried out, let go of my hair and jerked up enough for me to push her off me. I scooted backwards toward the door as she rose to her knees. My head was still pounding but my vision started to clear a bit. I saw Bridget scowling at me, angry red furrows on her fleshy cheeks from my nails. The look in her eyes told me I was in for a terrible beating if she got her hands on me again. I wasn’t about to let that happen.

As she made her move, I grabbed the bucket and hurled the contents in her face. She gagged and fell back, her hands frantically rubbing her eyes as she retched and gurgled up the foul liquid. I crawled over to her quickly and pulled the brooch from her pocket. Then strong fingers clamped onto my right ear and I was yanked away from Bridget. Shaughnessy, having heard the racket from downstairs, had thundered up the stairs and rushed into the room. He stood there, tightly squeezing my ear.

“Jesus H. Christ! What the hell is all this palaver about in here?” he bellowed as he gaped at the mess in the room. Broken mirror, overturned carpetbag, dripping bucket. Not to mention the puddle of piss.

“Oh, Da’,” Bridget whimpered in a pitiful voice, “I walked in an’ caught Little Bit stealin’ that brooch she’s holdin’. I tried to make her put it back an’ look what she done.”

“That’s a lie!” I hissed.

“You shut your cakehole, you!” Shaughnessy hollered, yanking my ear even harder, making me cry out. “I knew you was trouble the minute I laid eyes on ya. Bridget, go tell Seamus to fetch the sheriff so he can throw her worthless thievin’ ass in jail where she b’longs!”
 
A quiet voice from out in the hall cut in. “I don’t think so.”

Shaughnessy whirled around, still holding my ear tightly. Hickok stood in the doorway with the Utter brothers and some of the fancy Virginia City ladies. The landlord tried to assume a professional air, puffing out his big belly.

“Everything is under control, people. No need to concern yourselves. My daughter caught this little guttersnipe stealing. We’re sendin’ for the sheriff so you can all go back to what you’re doin’. Sorry for the bother.”

Hickok interrupted him, “That ain’t the way I saw it.” He pointed an accusing finger at Bridget, who was now sitting up in the corner, drenched and gasping. “I passed the little one in the hall and saw your daughter here in the room alone. Looks to me like she was the one doin' the stealin'. An' I’d say she got what was comin’ to her. So if you still want to call the sheriff, I’ll be more than happy to tell him what I saw.”

The room was dead quiet, except for the sound of Bridget wheezing. Hickok fixed those blue-grey eyes on the landlord.

“What’s it gonna be, mister?”

Shaughnessy’s mouth was working but no sound came out of it. Finally he stammered, “Well … I … uh … “

Bridget blurted out, “Da’!”

Shaughnessy snapped at her. “Shut up!” Then he turned to face Hickok again, a fake smile on his oily face. “Well, Mr. Hickok, sir, seein’ as how a respected lawman like yourself was witness to the … uh … misunderstanding, I don’t see the need to bother the sheriff. I say we let the matter drop, if that’s agreeable to you, sir.”

“It is,” Hickok replied, “just as soon as you let your hand drop from the young lady’s ear.”

Shaughnessy jerked his fingers away from me like they were burned.

“Of course,” he said as he gave me a smile. The kind of smile that stops at the mouth. His eyes told a different story. Then he turned to the ladies in the hall.

“Whose room is this?”

“It’s mine,” one of them answered. An older lady. Very classy. Wearing ruffled pantalettes.

“Ah, Miss Fourcade. Again, my apologies, ma’am. We’ll have it cleaned and straightened out as quick as possible.” He looked down at me. “Little Bit, go get a clean bucket of soap and water. And a broom. Get the room right for the lady.”

“No,” Hickok said. “Your daughter caused this mess. She cleans it up.”

Shaughnessy slumped. He knew when he was licked. “Very good, sir.”

I got to my feet and looked up at Shaughnessy. “Damn right she cleans it up. I quit.”

I caught the bright twinkle in Wild Bill’s eye at my sass. The red-faced landlord looked like he wanted to put me through the wall but, after a quick glance at Wild Bill, he thought better of it. Defeated, he turned to his daughter. “Bridget, get yourself washed up, girl, then come back here an’ clean up your mess.”

The fat girl slowly stood up, urine dripping from her hair, face and dress.

“Da’ … “ she blubbered.

“Go on with you now.” After the disgraced girl stumbled out of the room, Shaughnessy turned to the others. “I trust we can all keep this to ourselves. Would be a shame to let one little indiscretion give my place a bad name now.”

“Of course we can, Mr. Shaughnessy,” Miss Fourcade smiled.

(She sure has a funny way of talking!)

“You best keep a close eye on your daughter,” Charlie Utter muttered. “Or you’re likely to have a hell of a lot more indiscretions.”

Shaughnessy got even redder but he clamped his mouth shut and left the room. Hickok gave me a wink, then followed with the Utter brothers. I walked up to the fancy lady and handed her the brooch.

“This is yours, ma’am.”

“Why, thank you, young lady. What’s your name?”

“They call me Little Bit.”

“Well, Little Bit, I’m glad you were here. I would hate to have lost that brooch. It’s very special to me.”

“Was it your mama’s?”

She laughed. “Heavens, no. My mama could barely afford a loaf of bread, let alone something like this. No, it was a gift from an old friend. A very dear old friend.”

She got a kind of faraway look in her eyes. I was curious but I didn’t want to intrude. Besides I figured I’d better leave the hotel before Shaughnessy decided to come after me.

“Well, um, I think I’d best be movin’ on. G’bye, ma’am.”

I started to leave but she took my arm.

“Where are you off to, Little Bit?”

“That’s a good question, ma’am. Anyplace I can find work. I’m headin’ out to California.”

She smiled. “Really? What are you going to do when you get there?”

“I want to see me that Pacific Ocean.”

“I’ve seen it,” she laughed. “What’s more, I sailed across it.”

My mouth fell open. “No shit? Is it as pretty as they say?”

“The bluest blue water you’ll ever see … “ She stepped back, looked me over. I felt a little uncomfortable, needing a good washing like I did, having this classy lady look at me like that.

It was like she read my mind when she said, “You’re a pretty little thing. All you need is cleaning up and some nice clothes. Tell me, how’d you like to put aside the idea of seeing the Pacific for a while. Come with us instead.”

“That depends. Where you goin’?”

“A place called Deadwood. In the Dakota Territory.”

I shook my head. “I just left the Dakota Territory. I grew up there. I ain’t never goin’ back.”

Her voice was insistent, encouraging. “You come with us, I can promise you’ll never have to scrub another chamber pot. You’ll wear clean clothes, take baths regular, and have your own bed and board. You’ll be taken care of.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know that. Just think about it. It isn’t like you have any other plans.”

She had a point. “That’s true enough.”

“Just don’t take too long about it. Our wagon train leaves day after tomorrow. We’re riding with Mr. Utter.” She started to leave, then stopped and turned back to me with a grin. “And Mr. Hickok.”

My eyes grew wide. “Mr. Hickok?” She nodded. “Well, I guess the Pacific Ocean can wait a while. Looks like I’m goin’ to Deadwood.”


TO BE CONTINUED …

« Last Edit: December 05, 2011, 11:09:48 PM by Laurie Breeze »
We're on a circuit of an Indian dream
We don't get old, we just get younger
When we're flying down the highway
Riding in our Indian Cars

*

Offline Jonica

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 982
  • Verified Smartass
    • A Dark And Frightening World
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #12 on: December 05, 2011, 06:41:36 AM »
Laurie, this is a shame and a travesty!  I can't believe it!  It's a shame and a travesty because it took you so long to start writing!  You are sensational!  It's amazing how you are weaving an increasingly interesting tale with historical facts.  You are so talented it's scary!  Please hurry up and post more!

:-*

J
xoxo
Bad (Bad) Blood (Blood)
The bitch is in her smile.
The lie is on her lips,
Such an evil child.

*

Offline lexibabe

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 3587
  • the one who outshines all of you skanks
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #13 on: December 05, 2011, 05:53:34 PM »
terriffic story laurie, huggs
the prez tramp

*

Offline RedEnforcer

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 1915
  • New Profile pic by RoxErotique *link below*
Re: OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
« Reply #14 on: December 06, 2011, 04:27:14 PM »
How did I miss this the first time. Excellent work!  ANd I do so love the old daguerrotypes. ;)
"We are all freaks here..stop backbiting each other :)" --nutmeg78

"Red's hair is as breathtaking as a flock of wild cardinals taking flight from a noble hillock." -- sadie