OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
Chapter Four
The staggering dirty drunk with the greasy unkempt hair and crossed eyes lurched over to “Lady” Gemm Grey as she casually walked down the boardwalk from the boardinghouse to her destination, the tent that housed Star & Bullock’s Hardwares, on an errand from Madame Featherlegs. The Albino would have normally been the one to go but he was busy hauling the fancy parlor room piano that just came special from Virginia City, one of the two house-warming presents from the Madame’s special friend ‘H’. The other present came in the form of Captain Porterhouse, a no-nonsense brute with a large round head, a face that looked like a clenched fist, no neck to speak of, and a thick barrel-shaped body that made the ill-fitting store-bought suit he wore look like it would probably split at the seams if he did so much as burp or, heaven forbid, break wind.
Captain Porterhouse was the reason why Featherlegs felt it was safe for Gemm (and all of us) to walk unescorted down the street in Deadwood during the day. Well, to be honest, Gemm could handle herself quite well, thank you, when it came to dealing with common ordinary drunks and letches, as the unsuspecting cross-eyed fool was about to discover. Despite her posh accent and upper-class Cheltenham upbringing, the petite beautiful Brit was full of fire and brimstone, had been in more than her share of brawls, and was blessed with a vocabulary that would impress the skuzziest most foul-mouthed swab who ever set sail on the open sea.
But drunks and letches weren’t the only worry. That’s why Captain Porterhouse, acting as personal courier for the mysterious H, paid a midnight visit to the Cricket Saloon the night he arrived, where he had a few words with one Al Swearengen, the owner. Swearengen, who also ran the brand-new Gem Theater, wasn’t very happy when he watched us ride down the main street the day we arrived in Deadwood. Being a true businessman, he recognized competition when he saw it.
But Madame Featherlegs, pardon the French, had a pair of ‘brass balls’ under those ruffled pantalettes of hers. She wasn’t about to let anybody stand in her way, even an anybody as dangerous as Mr. Al Swearengen.
“I did not survive Adelaide Gaol, travel halfway across the bloody world, work my way up from nothing, build one of the best damn fuck houses in the Nevadas, and move my girls here to get railroaded by a piss-ant no-account cocksucker the likes of him!”
Swearengen saw she couldn’t be bullied and, once his lackeys got a good look at the Albino, any idea of persuasive violence was put out of mind. And, after the talk with Captain Porterhouse, Al realized there was room for more than one house of pleasure in Deadwood.
“Shit,” he told his boys the next day, “in this game of peeders and pussies, it’s all about the turn-around. For all their fancy manners and hoity toity ways, we’ll make up in volume and triple what them high-class whores make in a night.”
So Gemm headed to Bullock & Star’s by herself. She didn’t mind going alone. She was used to it. She’d been alone so long it was like second nature. And she wasn’t worried. She felt safe but still kept a watchful eye open for trouble just in case. So, when the cross-eyed little drunk blocked her path on the boardwalk with open arms and a crooked grin, she was ready.
Jack McCall was in a pissy mood. He had spent the better part of the night and morning over at Nuttal & Mann’s No. 10 Saloon, playing poker with the saloon’s co-owner Carl Mann, riverboat captain William Massie, Charlie Rich and Wild Bill Hickok. Jack, who was drinking pretty heavily, ended up losing all his money to the notorious gunslinger. As McCall got up to leave, Wild Bill picked up a silver dollar from his winnings and flipped it to him.
“Here ya go, Jack. Get yourself somethin’ to eat.”
McCall’s homely face turned red and he walked out of the saloon without a word. Instead of taking Hickok’s offer of the coin as a gesture of kindness, he felt that Bill humiliated him in front of the others and swore to himself that he’d get his revenge. He was plotting all sorts of evil things in his whiskey-muddled brain when he caught sight of the beautiful English girl heading his way.
Well, hell, he thought to himself, that son-of-a-bitch Wild Bill can wait till after I get me a nice poke!
Gemm had other ideas. She also knew the best way to handle a drunken stumble-bum. She smiled, arched her back, giving Jack a good long look of her ample breasts straining to escape from under her tight black-braided bodice. Jack licked his crusty lips, leered and moved toward her, dirty hands groping for the prize. That’s when, without word or warning, Gemm kicked him squarely and viciously in the balls. Jack’s mouth flew open in an almost perfect “O”, a strangled gurgling sound escaping from it along with spit, tobacco juice, and bits of the hard-boiled egg he had gobbled down at the bar that morning.
He stumbled off the boardwalk, both hands clutching his swelling balls, and sunk to his knees in the mud, eyes tightly shut, desperately trying not to cry. Or puke.
Gemm faced him from the boardwalk, her dark eyes flashing, her small fists clenched tightly.
“Next time you try to get handsy with me, I’ll cut your little todger off and shove it down your throat, you grotty little wanker!”
Spitting foam like a rabid mongrel, the drunk rasped, “I didn’t mean no harm! An’ what the fuck kinda palaver is that? You talk funny, you know that?”
A helpful bystander chimed in, “Shut the fuck up, Jack. You want her to kick ya again?”
But Gemm had already turned and moved on toward Bullock & Star’s. And, as she walked, she couldn’t help thinking back to a darker time in her life, where she was once again a stranger in a strange land.....
In her wildest dreams growing up in Cheltenham, in the southwest region of England, Gemma never thought she would someday end up in America, especially on a muddy thoroughfare in the rough town of Deadwood in the Dakota Black Hills.
In a social structure where class meant everything, Gemma’s family situation was probably just a small step below the titled peerage class. They were part of the gentry or ‘landed aristocracy’, which is the way she described it to me one night during a snowstorm when we were all bored and feeling nostalgic and probably had just a little too much to drink.
“My family owned property, lots of it, near the Cotswolds,” she said softly, a sad faraway look on her face as she gazed out the window at the falling snow, “Many was the day my older sisters and I would ride up Cleeve Hill and look out at our land while we had a picnic dinner. It was a fine fucking life we led, not in want for a damn thing. My dad saw to that. Bloody beautiful gowns, a new one for every occasion. Splendid parties and fancy affairs. The fucking best of everything. I attended the finest all-girl’s school in the region.”
“Hard to picture a petite putain like you in a school with no boys,” Tee Poo teased, trying to get a rise out of the British girl, who continued to look out the window, maybe seeing in her mind not the heavy snow covering the harsh black hills here but another prettier set of hills from another time.
“I was even set to marry the son of a noble. Yeah. That’s a bloody fucking laugh, right? It was all arranged back when we were small, for when we came of age. Funny, try as I might, I can’t recall his face ... ”
The Brit girl lapsed into silence, the only sound was the wind-driven heavy snow hitting the window where she sat. It was Clementine who asked the question we all wanted to.
“What happened, Gemm? Why didn’t the marriage go as planned?”
Gemma’s expression changed to a mix of sorrow and anger.
“One day,” she began in a voice so soft we all had to lean forward to hear, “My dad came across a manky tosser flaying his horse bloody in the common for no reason other than his own meanness. Dad tried to stop him, even though he was a fucking nob and above us in station. He grabbed for the crop and, in the struggle, knocked the bastard to the ground. Well, the nob starts yelling how dad humiliated his sorry ass in public and he wanted satisfaction. He challenged dad to a duel right there on the common. My father was no fighter but he was a man of honor. He accepted the challenge and a few minutes later he was dead, shot in the heart. And that’s when my whole life changed. My father was gone. Our status was gone. Everything was gone.”
Gemma closed her eyes, remembering..Hearing the news. Her mother’s agonizing wail of grief. The sight of her dad’s lifeless body in the coffin. Dressed in his finest. A man of honor. Fighting for what he believed in.
“Yeah, he was a man of honor. But what the fuck good is honor and fighting for your principles when all it fucking gets you is an eternity in a box under six feet of sod?”
I tried to make sense of it. “But -- you still had your house, all your property, right?”
She looked at me, that same sad half-smile on her face and continued, in a lifeless voice, “That’s not how it works there, Little Bit. When a man dies, all his property goes to the next surviving male in the bloodline. In this case, my uncle. Mum, my sisters and I were left with nothing. We had to fend for ourselves. My sisters managed to get themselves married fast, so they were looked after, as well as Mum. But I wasn’t old enough yet. And even then I knew that married life wasn’t what I wanted.”
“What about the noble’s son? The one you were supposed to -- ?”
“Oh, wake up, Little Bit!” Tee Poo groaned in exasperation. “A girl with nothing marrying a noble? This ain’t no fairy tale!”
“Hey, I’m sorry! I don’t know these things!”
“Yeah, you’re just a dumb little couillon, you!”
My temper flared. “I don’t know what that means but it don’t sound very nice. Take it back!”
The Cajun girl grinned invitingly. “Make me.”
I obliged. In a second, we were rolling around on the floor in our white nightdresses in a playful half-serious giggling squealing battle, trading light faceslaps and hairpulls. Jo and Clementine joined in, laughing, and it became a four-way rumble complete with tickling, pinching, spanking and a lot of close contact.
Gemma remained seated by the window, paying little attention to the ‘war’ going on at her feet. She was grateful that Tee Poo changed the subject by baiting me into the playfight, realizing she had said too much already, had opened herself up for the first time in a long while.
When a flying pillow thrown by Jo hit her lightly in the chest, Gemma became aware of the wild activity in the room. And remembered other fights in her past, fights that were a lot more vicious and brutal than this one.
Left on her own, Gemma fled Cheltenham and made her way to Wales. As a child hearing stories, Wales seemed like a magical place, a kingdom where dreams came true. The lovely poems and sonnets she read in school told of lush green hills, bright blue skies, a world of love, romance and adventure. It didn’t take very long for her to discover the harsh cruel reality of her new home. She found out, for one thing, that the Welsh have an intense dislike, bordering on hate, for the English. Many were the times when Gemma would find herself on the streets fighting for her life. She soon discovered a few things about herself: that she was damn good at kicking the shit out of obnoxious Welsh bitches and that she loved every fucking second of it.
It was like a locked door deep inside her soul suddenly flew open and all the primal feelings held prisoner there by her genteel upbringing escaped. Every time she pounded a hated foe into the ground with her small fists, she embraced her dark side even more. It was a common sight in the mean streets of Cardiff to see the small dark British girl standing over the beaten body of her victim, both hands outstretched clutching clumps of her hair, laughing evilly and usually sending the crying loser crawling away with a final kick in the ass.
And the sex after a hard rough fight was fucking brilliant!
That’s the secret to surviving, Gemma realized. The hell with tomorrow, it might never come. Live for today.....
Charlie Utter came calling to the boardinghouse with a letter in his hand. As always, it was good to see him. I really like Charlie. I spotted him through the window and rushed outside to catch him before he knocked on the door. I wanted some time alone with him, there were a few things I was dying to ask him about Bill, things I’d never dream of asking Bill himself.
“Hey, Charlie! What brings you over here? Wanna take a peek at the new piano just came?”
“Hey there, Little Bit. There was a letter come on the mail coach for this address an’ the fella at the station asked if I’d be kind enough to deliver it on account of he don’t want his missus catchin’ him in a place like this.”
“Who’s it for?”
He looked at the envelope. “A Jennifer Peccavi. Return address San Francisco.”
“Jennifer Peccavi? No one here by that name, I don’t think.”
“Yeah, the name didn’t mean nothin’ to me neither. Then I got to speculating. Don’t Miss Fourcade go by the initials J.P.?”
“Uh huh. But she never told me what they stand for.”
“Could stand for Jennifer Peccavi, I reckon.”
“Yeah, they could at that. I’ll give it to her, Charlie. Thanks.”
“Glad to help.” He started to leave. “If it ain’t her, run it back to me. I best head over to see what Bill’s got himself up to.”
“Is he -- in trouble?”
“Just his grubstake. I left him at the No. 10 playin’ poker. Damn shame ol’ Bill don’t play cards good as he shoots.”
(He’s going. Ask him! Ask him!)
“Charlie? What’s she like? Bill’s wife?”
That stopped him. “Agnes? Normally I ain’t one to tell tales, Little Bit, but since Bill seems to like ya well enough, I don’t see the harm in it this one time. Ran a circus, she did. Walked across the tightrope, tamed lions. Bet ya didn’t know that.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about her, Bill don’t say very much.”
“That’s just his way. But don’t go thinkin’ that he don’t love her. He does. Why, he even give the wrong age on the marriage license because he loves her.”
“Huh? I don’t follow.”
“Bill is 39. Agnes is 47. Bill lied and said he was older than he really is because he didn’t want to embarrass the lady.”
“Oh.”
“Why do you wanna know about her?”
“No reason. Just curious, is all.”
He grinned. “I think you’re sweet on ol’ Bill.”
“What? No! It -- It’s not like that!”
“Jane’s got it bad for him too. But he won’t never give her the time of day.”
“Yeah, well, seein’ how she’s stumblin’ drunk most of the time, I don’t hardly blame him.”
“Bill’s just got that way about him. Always did. Kinda wish I knew his damn secret.”
Gemma had a way about her too. She became a slave to her womanly desires and lust. Man or woman, didn’t make no nevermind to her. There were times when, after getting a tearful submission from a beaten enemy, she would then take her back to her little room for some private fun. She also discovered happily that she could earn her keep with her lithe beautiful sexy body and what she learned to do with it. In the violent throes of primal passion, she couldn’t help but laugh at how the same men who looked down their nose at her in disdain were now her puppets of love.
Ironically, one of these men was Hywel, the 19 year-old son of the Viscount of Venneford, who fell for Gemma in a big way. Funny how life has a way of coming full circle, she pondered as the young nob lay sleeping next to her. Her sad little giggle woke him up. He instantly reached over and pulled her on top of him. Neither was aware of the shadowy figure slowly creeping into the dark room. Neither saw the wild look of fury in the ice-blue eyes or the shiny cold steel of the knife in the flickering candlelight. As the figure moved closer, Hywel playfully bit Gemma’s ear and she pulled away, rolling off his sweaty body. The upraised hand of the intruder came down with a savage arc, the knife intended for Gemma’s back wound up plunged to the hilt into the hairless chest of the young man.
Gemma gasped in shock and horror as she fell off the cot and stared at the dying man gurgling his last breath. Then she looked up at his killer and her eyes widened in recognition. Bronwyn Trewent, Hywel’s future bride, stared back at her. The blind jealous rage that had consumed her disappeared as it dawned on her what she’d just done. Bronwyn forced herself to look into Hywel’s lifeless eyes, then she lifted her head again and her gaze fixed on Gemma, who huddled unmoving and terrified in the corner. Bonwyn’s mouth started working feverishly, silently, until finally one horrible word escaped it, first in a whisper, then repeated louder and louder until it became an endless scream that echoed into the dusk as she rushed from the room.
“Murder murder murder MURDER MURDER MURDER MURDER MURDER MURDER!!!”
Gemma finally willed herself back to her feet, her mind a blur. She saw Hywel dead on the cot. The knife in his chest. Heard Bronwyn’s screams fading into the distance. And she knew. She knew she was fucked. That she would be blamed. She was the outsider, a Cheltenham whore. No one would believe her word over Bronwyn’s. Gemma quickly gathered up her meager possessions and fled to the Cardiff docks, where she hid in the shadows until the dead of night and managed to sneak aboard a cargo ship headed for Boston and a new life for her.....
I saw Bill leave the No. 10 and followed him out to Tent City where most of the miners lived, keeping my distance, making sure he didn’t spot me. I watched as he entered Charlie’s tent, wondering why he wasn’t staying at the Grand Central Hotel. I tiptoed closer to the tent, holding my breath when I heard Bill call out from inside.
“Hey, Little Bit, you got a minute?”
My mouth fell open. I sheepishly poked my head in the tent flap. Bill was sitting on a cot, holding some pieces of paper.
“Hi, Bill. How’d you know I was out here?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I been too long out on the plains not to know when someone is creepin’ up on me. Come on in an’ sit down. I got a favor to ask.”
I sat down quickly on the edge of an old trunk. “Anything, Bill. Ask away.”
“I’m writin’ a letter to my wife and there’s this one part I ain’t sure about. I need a woman’s opinion so if you’d be obliged, I’d like you to read it an’ tell me what you think.”
He handed me the letter, I took a long look at it but Bill realized right away I didn’t have a clue what the writing said. I guess the fact that I was holding it upside down was a dead giveaway. He quickly snatched the piece of paper out of my hand.
“What was I thinking? My eyes are so bad it made my writing go all to hell and back. I can’t expect you to be able to read it. Looks like it was wrote by foot instead of by hand.”
We both grinned at that, my grin was wider because I knew he knew I couldn’t read but tried to save me the shame of admitting it.
“I’ll read it to you, if that’s okay. Now, a lot of it is about the camp, the claims Charlie an’ me are gonna work, plans an’ such. This here is the part I mean, right at the finish ... Agnes Darling, if such should be we never meet again, while firing my last shot, I will gently breathe the name of my wife -- Agnes -- and with wishes even for my enemies I will make the plunge and try to swim to the other shore."
He looked up from the paper.
“Too flowery?”
“No, Bill.” It was hard to find my voice. It came out all hushed, a little choked up, barely a whisper. I tried again, this time loud enough to be heard. “It -- It’s perfect. Don’t change a word.”
TO BE CONTINUED
(Special thanks to the awesome Gemma Rox for the English history lesson and for providing background information about Cheltenham and Wales. Oh, also for the 'colorful' British expressions!
A Note About The Photos: Some of the photos are of the actual historical people who make appearances in the story. The ones of our ‘ancestors’ were found in an online period costume catalog. With the help of Picnik, I added text and a ‘sepia effect’ to make them look like they came from that era.)
