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 …