[howardcosell]

Keep up the great work, Laurie. Continue to grow your universe and tell outstanding stories. You really have helped me a lot by doing this one, because Deadwood was one of my favorite tv shows and I felt it ended way too soon.

[Marie B.]

Marie
I see that even ratehr small people can have very big egos

Come on, Jenn. You know I'm the toughest, tallest and most talented.

Look at all the times I've beaten you!



Marie

[cager]

Laurie,Thanks for Another Superb Chapter! With the Way you Weave a Superb Story, i Hope You Keep doing Such Epic & Superb Tales Dan

[Jonica]

Marie

I've quoted the only things you said that make sense!



J
xoxo

[laurie breeze]

Laurie,Thanks for Another Superb Chapter! With the Way you Weave a Superb Story, i Hope You Keep doing Such Epic & Superb Tales Dan

Thank you Dan! I have more Deadwood Days stories in my head. But I'm also working on a new Old West story too, one that doesn't happen in Deadwood.    

Keep up the great work, Laurie. Continue to grow your universe and tell outstanding stories. You really have helped me a lot by doing this one, because Deadwood was one of my favorite tv shows and I felt it ended way too soon.

Thank you, Howard! So glad you like the series! I agree with you. Deadwood did end too soon. I dunno why HBO canceled it, there were so many more stories to tell. I'm gonna go back to Deadwood again, there are more ideas I have. But now I'm working on a new Old West story that could develop into a series. We'll see how it goes.  

its a great chapter in a great story. so many good parts its hard to praise anything in particular, keep writing please

Thank you, Ms Jenn! The Deadwood Miss Jenn 'n the other doves will be back soon! That's a promise!  

Just wanted to say that this was really really good. I loved ya whole series and like every story I've read of yours is just like totally amazing. YOu are such a seriously gifted writer Laurie and I just wanted to say thanks for sharing that with us. Sad to see the Old Deadwood Days come to an end but ya did it soooo well. Loves you Laurie. Thank ya again for writing such amazing stories and sharing them with us!!! Loves ya Lakota sis!!!!!

Thank you, Houjin Sis!    I already knew how much you like the Tagger story (gee, I wonder why? grrrrrr   )! It always makes it more fun 'n so much more special for me to put my bestest friends 'n 'enemies' into my stories. They come alive for me 'n I hope also for everyone who reads them!  Love ya Houjin sis!  

Laurie, this is awesome!  I am glad you finally got around to posting it.  I am moving from the edge of my seat now.  I am sitting back with a satisfied sigh.  Your writing ability always makes me do that.  I love your ability to create an ambiance that puts us in the time frame of your writing.  You and Gemma are two of the best at doing that.  You can weave an action packed tale as well as Marie B., and your attention to detail rivals Kayla's.  You are a real superstar here, and I hope this storyline continues sometime in the future....maybe with Tee Pee clawing her way back into things....



J
xoxo

Thank you Joni!!    Everything you say about my stories is the exact same thing I always say about yers! When you posted new stories again, it totally made my day! Instead of re-reading yer old classics (which isn't a bad thing at all) now we have new Joni stories to love too. You talk about 'superstar', look in the mirror! You know the Deadwood storyline will continue 'n we both know we'll probly be seeing a lot more of Tee POO (Tee PEE? Seriously? Seriously?? Little Bit is the only Native in the story, unless there are some secrets from the Cajun swamps you didn't tell me!   )  

No one writes a story like you, Laurie. I'm proud and honored to be in this one. Oh, by the way.......

Being the best female fighter in the world is a heavy burden.....but one that I'm proud to bear.




Marie

Thank you, Marie!  

Oh, by the way.....One more thing.....Shut up, Marie!    

(Love the illustration you made....sorta. You WOULD have to pick that one moment of the fight to illustrate!)


hugggzzzz 'n xoxo to everyone!

~Laurie~

[laurie breeze]

OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)

Chapter Eight


Prologue

As I started to bend down to pull one last weed from Bill Hickok’s grave, I suddenly became aware that I was being watched. I coulda sworn I was all alone at Mt. Moriah Cemetery. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was up here with me. Then I heard the horse snort.

I looked up. About fifty yards from me was a brown Appaloosa horse with snowflake spots. Sitting on it bareback was a blonde in an Indian buckskin vest and fringed skirt. Even sitting on the tall horse I could tell right away that she was a small blonde. Smaller even than me. A real half-pint. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at me. Then she brought her right hand up and, with her eyes never leaving mine, slowly slid her thumb across her neck.

A cold shiver ran through me. I had no idea who this tiny blonde was, had never seen her before. Before I could speak, the sun, which had been hidden behind a cloud, suddenly burst through, blinding me. I blinked and raised my hand to shade my eyes from the glare. When I could finally see again, the blonde on the horse had vanished.

That was the first time I saw her. In the town of Deadwood, in the Dakota Territory, late in the fall of 1876. I had no idea who she was. But something told me I’d probably be seeing her again. And, as fall turned to winter and winter into spring, I guess I forgot about her.


What Happened Since The Last Chapter

After Miss Jenn beat down Lurlene Johnson and sent the “Queen of the Blondes” packing, and her girls took care of Lurlene’s other blondes, things kind of settled down. As much as things can settle down in a wild place like Deadwood.

A whole lot has changed since that day. Well, some things stayed the same too but that’s how it always is. Miss Jenn took the stage to Virginia City in the Nevada Territory to discuss business with the friend she called “H”. Seems “H” is some real rich guy by the name of Hearst. There’s rich and there’s rich and then there’s Hearst rich, if you get the picture.

So, the business Miss Jenn went to see him about was why this Mr. Hearst would want to bankroll Lurlene Johnson’s whorehouse in Deadwood when he was already the benefactor of Miss Jenn’s Academy for Young Ladies. But she made the trip for nothing. Turns out a couple of lucky bastards found gold and struck it rich over in Lead. I mean, they hit the damn mother lode. Well, Hearst got wind of it, swooped in and bought the bastards out. He set up his operation, the Homestake Mine, less than five miles from Deadwood. So Miss Jenn turned right around and headed back.

While she was gone, she put Miss Sara Atherton, formerly of the Langrishe Theater Company, in charge. She ran things real good too. Had a great head for the business, Miss Sara did. She took to it like a baby takes to its mama’s tit.

Jersey Jo managed to escape from the Pettis gang without any help from the outside. Not surprising, those boys never was very bright. She didn’t come back to Deadwood. She made her way from Spearfish back out to Fort Laramie instead and opened her own house there. I heard tell she’s making a go of it too. That’s the word I got from a couple of miners who paid a visit to her place before they came here.

Clemmy Hawkes just up and left one night. Without a word to anybody, not even a goodbye. Just packed her grip and skedaddled to God knows where. I miss her. I sure hope I see her again sometime.

Gemma is Gemma. She won’t never change. When she’s not trying to convince the world how tough she is by kicking annoying drunks in the balls, she’s giving Tee Poo the business about some such or another.

And Tee Poo spent the winter shacked up in a cabin with a pair of brothers from Kansas who showed up in town to do some logging. Their name was Earp and Tee Poo got herself all crazy excited, saying that the older brother, a quiet fellow named Wyatt, with a real handsome moustache, was a famous lawman from Wichita, a town she lived in that I never heard of.

Of course, Gemma had to call Tee Poo a star fucker on account of that. But that sure didn’t stop her from letting Wyatt’s frisky kid brother Morgan give her a poke or two. In the spring, the Earp boys decided they wasn’t cut out for logging and lit out, back to Kansas. Wyatt said he got a job offer to be the laws in a place called Dodge City. So they left and Tee Poo was sad. And Gemma started calling her a star fucker all over again.

Me, I kept my mouth shut. With the way I was mooning over Bill Hickok, I was almost as bad a star fucker as Tee Poo. Almost. Only difference was, me and Bill never fucked. Not that I didn’t want to. No, sir. I surely did. it just never came to be.


They Call Me Little Bit

I guess I should introduce myself proper for anyone who hasn’t been following our story. My name is Laurel Luckett but everybody calls me “Little Bit”. And I’m one of Miss Jenn Fourcade’s “Soiled Doves”. Now that’s a fancy way of saying that I’m a whore. I am. But I’m not a very good one. I haven’t been at it very long. And I’m a sawed-off half-pint half-breed to boot. Some of the guys who come to the Academy looking for a poke treat me like their kid sister. They give me hugs and smack me in the ass, all playful like. But they never take me upstairs. Others say they don’t want nothing to do with no Injun. Them guys, I don’t mind that they don’t take me upstairs. Then there’s Sethro, a goofy boy right off the farm. I thought he was kind of sweet on me, but all he wanted to do was bite my titties.

Miss Jenn and Miss Sara both have been real tolerant and obliging to me, even though I’ll probably never make a decent whore. They let me be the hostess and act all flirty and friendly to the fellows cooling their peckers in the parlor, waiting for the other girls. It’s fun, the fellows don’t seem to mind, they love the company and I’m keeping them from getting antsy and busting up the furniture. Miss Jenn says that alone is worth my board.


The Tiny Blonde

Like I said, I first saw that tiny blonde in the cemetery last fall. I thought I saw her again one afternoon in late February. It happened so fast, maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. But the more I think on it, the more I’m sure it was really her. Specially after what happened later. But I’m jumping ahead. I’ll get to what happened later later. That day in February, I was leaving Star and Bullock Hardware with a new chamber pot. I had just hit the boardwalk on Main Street when I heard the low long low “screech” of a barn owl. But there wasn’t an owl in sight. Or a barn. Even so, it made me look in the direction where the sound came from. And I saw the figure of a short blonde girl in a buckskin vest and fringed skirt disappearing down China Alley. By the time I got there she was gone. Lke she was swallowed up. Or made to vanish by a conjuring trick from a traveling magic man.

It had to be a trick of the light. Or something. So I put it out of my mind.

Until this afternoon.


About Kidnappings and Frying Onions

I was in the Black Hills Telegraph Office sending a telegram for Miss Jenn. I happened to look up and there she was. In the window. Staring at me with those icy cold blue eyes. This time it wasn’t my imagination. It was really her. She made that same throat cutting gesture like she did up in the cemetery. Then she was gone. Well, I rushed right out after her, completely forgetting about the telegram I was supposed to send. I saw her hurrying down towards Whitewood Creek. I followed her. I wanted to find out who the hell she was and why she kept making like she wanted to cut my throat. I was just passing Doc Babcock’s place when somebody came around the building quick as a flash and grabbed me. Before I could holler for help, a dirty snot rag was shoved in my mouth and a burlap bag was pulled over my head. I kept on putting up a struggle, I’m little but I’m feisty. I heard a man grunting and cussing, and somebody else grabbed my legs.

Then a voice said, “We gotta move fast. Knock her out.”

The last thing I remembered was a God awful pain on the side of my head where the bastard bashed me. And everything went black.

I don’t know how long I was out. I had a dream about frying onions. It was so real I could smell them. When I woke up, my head was ringing something fierce. It still hurt but not that bad now, more like a dull throbbing. The disgusting snot rag was still crammed in my mouth. My hands were tied in front of me. Not very tight, just enough to keep me from hitting or scratching one of the bastards. I couldn’t see anything but I still could smell those damn onions. Then I figured it out. The burlap sack over my head. It must have been full of onions at one time.

I could hear voices somewhere close. I couldn’t make out the words but it sure sounded like there were a whole bunch of people in the area. There were also loud crackling and popping sounds like dry wood burning in a big fire.

Where am I? What the fuck is going on?


Let There Be Light

All of a sudden, the bag was pulled off my head. I blinked my eyes, trying to focus as they adjusted to the change from total darkness to dusk lit up by the reddish orange of the roaring campfire. I could make out figures in the shadows, hunkered down in a circle. All men. Not grubbers, miners or cowboys either. No, they were all slickers, dressed real fancy, in suits with vests and shiny boots. A few derbies, a stovepipe hat or two. Smoking cigars, sipping from shiny silver flasks. Why the hell are all these dudes sitting out in the middle of nowheres? The talking stopped. I realized they were all staring at me. Then I looked down and I understood why. My legs were showing. While I was knocked out, somebody cut off most of my skirt up to my thighs. And my peasant blouse was hiked up and tied tight under my breasts, exposing my belly. My moccasins were gone too, my feet were bare.

One of the fancy dudes, a heavy-set man with slicked-back white hair and a trimmed white beard, got up and casually strolled over to me. He pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket and twirled it between his fingers.

“Relax, my dear. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He spoke with a slow sweet syrupy Southern drawl and he had the kind of smile that looks friendly at first but then you notice that it doesn’t hide the dark cruel flashing eyes under his bushy white brows. Right away my hackles went up and I knew I couldn’t trust him.

I think he sensed that so he turned his head and barked out an order to someone I couldn’t see. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, untie the poor girl. And take that revolting rag out of her mouth.”

“Okay.”

I know that voice. And that stink of licorice. Linda Littletrees, the fat Crow squaw who hands out towels at the Deadwood bath house. Linda waddled close to me and pulled an evil looking Bowie knife from under her skirt.

“Sit still. No move, no get cut. Okay?”

I nodded. The blade flashed in the firelight as it swooped down between my outstretched arms and severed the ropes binding them. The knife disappeared back from where it came. The Crow woman pointed a licorice-stained finger at my mouth and mumbled, “Open.”

I opened my mouth and she pulled the snot rag out. I coughed a couple times and hawked a spit wad into the dirt. The man smiled again and said, “There, isn’t that better?”


A Sporting Event For Gentlemen

I rubbed my wrists and looked around at all the men sitting there. “What are you gonna do to me?”

Something about what I said must have struck him funny because he let loose with a rumbling belly laugh. “Absolutely nothing, little girl. You have my word as a Southern gentleman that not a one of us will lay a finger on you or hurt you in any way.”

Totally confused, I blurted out, “Well, why did you bring me here?”

“I’ll be happy to explain. But first, let me ask you. How are you feeling? I hope you weren’t hurt too badly when you were brought here. Would you like some water to drink?”

“When I was kidnapped, you mean. I’ve took worse, I’ll live. And, yeah, I could drink.”

He laughed again. Boy, this Fancy Pants was one for the works. Every damn thing I said was hysterical funny to him!

After sending Littletrees off to fetch me water, he looked me over. His humorless smile got even bigger. “You’re a sassy spunky little filly, aren’t you? You have spirit. I like that. I knew you’d be a good selection.”

Even though I knew I was probably in some deep shit, all of his palavering was making me mad. And I told him so. “Look, mister. Why don’t you quit talking in by god riddles and tell me flat out what I’m doing here? A good selection for what?”

“Why, for our entertainment pleasure, of course.”

Littletrees shuffled back with a tin cup full of cold water. I started to gulp it down. Littletrees waggled her stained finger again. “Little drink, okay? No too much, too fast. No good.”

As I drank, slowly, the man put his thumbs in his vest pockets and said, “Seated by that fire are some of the most prominent sporting gentlemen in the territories. We travel from place to place, seeking sport to wager on. You follow?”

I tried to cipher this out. “You mean like card games? Poker?”

“No. Nothing as ordinary as that. Any stumble bum with a few coins in his pocket can partake in a game of Poker. We seek out something a bit more unique.”

“You lost me, mister.”

“Goodnight. Claiborne Goodnight at your service.” He actually bowed a bit. I would have busted out laughing if I wasn’t so pissed and confused. “Something a bit more unique. And exciting,” he continued. “A real test of skill to a decisive finish between two warriors to be wagered on only by our group of sportsmen. Public fights bring out the rabble of society. None of us would be caught dead at one of those. No. We prefer a private setting, without the loud drunken riff raff present to cheapen the event. With a special type of fighter. And that, my dear girl, is where you come in.”

“You want me to find you some fighters? From the guys who come to Miss Fourcade’s?”

One of the other men called out impatiently, “Oh, for shit sake, Claibe! Get to the point and tell her!”

Ignoring him, Goodnight looked me dead in the eye, shook his head and said, ”No. We don’t want you to find fighters. We want you to fight.”

This time I did bust out laughing. “You got the wrong girl, Mr. Goodnight. I ain’t fighting for you or anybody.” I started to get to my feet but Linda Littletrees, who had sneaked up behind me, put her hand on my shoulder and kept me sitting.

“You stay. You listen. Okay?”


Sioux vs Crow

“We’ll make it worth your while, of course,” Goodnight said. “You can use the money. We know all about you. You’re a whore. Not a very good one. And you’re a breed. Sioux, yes?”

Despite myself, I nodded. “Lakota.”

“Injuns are the ‘special type of fighter’ I was talking about. We had some success convincing young braves to battle it out for our enjoyment and gambling pleasure. But the recent unpleasantness between the Injuns and that damn Yankee fool Custer made it hard for us to find fighting men. Our friend Littletrees here has been a big help finding us squaws and breed girls to take their place.”

Littletrees squeezed my shoulder. “I watch you long time. You Sioux. I find good fight for you. Crow girl.”

Goodnight chuckled. “And not just any ordinary Crow girl. As a matter of fact, you have more Injun blood than she does. She was born white. Her Christian name was Marie Blessing but she goes by Morningstar Clearwater now. When she was three, her family was killed by the Sioux. She was taken by the Crow and raised as one of their own.”

Littletrees patted my shoulder. “She hate Sioux.”

“It’s a perfect match,” Goodnight continued. “The Sioux and Crow are enemies. It will make for an exciting and entertaining fight.” He gave the Crow squaw a short nod. “Bring her out.”

“Okay.”


Here She Is Again

Littletrees called out something in her native tongue. I saw some movement as a figure emerged from the shadows. You can probably already figure out who it was without me telling you. But I’ll tell you anyway.

She was short. Shorter even than me. A real half-pint. Weighing less than a hundred pounds. Long blonde hair. Icy blue eyes that burned cold hate at me. Tight, taut, trim, tanned, tiny body in a brown elk skin top tied off under her breasts, just like mine was. Matching short elk skin skirt. Bare feet.

Marie Blessing. Morningstar Clearwater.

The blonde (I’ll call her Marie here, even though that part of her life was long gone and forgotten) walked real slow over to the circle of watching men. She turned to face me and, without saying a word, beckoned me with her finger. Then she stepped into the circle.

Goodnight returned to the circle and sat down heavily. “Alright, gentlemen. Time to place your wagers.”

Littletrees pulled me up to my feet and gave me a light shove toward the circle.

“You. Go. Fight now.”


A Fight To The Finish

I stepped into the circle. Marie was waiting for me, breathing hard, her tiny fists clenched tight. Linda Littletrees waddled over and hunkered down with the rest of the watchers. Claibe Goodnight was talking again (Lord, that is one long-winded man!), explaining the particulars of the fight. I was only half-listening to his palaver. It wasn’t that it didn’t interest me, I WAS one of the fighters, after all. Truth be told, there was a buzzing in my head from the blood rush, thanks to the excitement and nervous fear of what was about to happen. Between that and the wild pounding of my heart, I couldn’t hear the man even if I wanted to. And I wanted to. A few words crept through but only four of them really mattered. “Fight to the finish”. That could mean a bunch of things. None of them good for the loser. I had to make sure that wasn’t me.

Littletrees was talking quietly in her native lingo. Probably interpreting Goodnight’s palaver for my Crow opponent. The tiny blonde was near her, her head down, nodding every now and then, pawing at the dirt impatiently with her big toe. Goodnight finally stopped talking. He gave another little bow and sat down on his blanket. When he was good and settled, he opened his mouth to give the signal. But he was interrupted by a loud drunken voice hollering from the opposite side of the circle.

“And may the best Injun win!”

This got a big laugh from all the dudes and dandys in the circle. One of them, a red-faced guy with a black pointy beard, all decked out in a silver vest, black top hat, fancy black riding boots that came up almost to his knees, and the puffiest britches I ever laid my eyes on, actually fell backwards on his blanket and kicked his legs in the air. He started guffawing so loud and so long that his neighbor had to smack him in the gut to get him to stop.

Goodnight frowned and waited for the foolishness to die down. He looked around the circle, like he was daring anyone to open his mouth again. Nobody did. He nodded, raised his right hand in the air, brought it down again fast and said, “Fight!”

Littletrees muttered one short word in Crow. Then it got deathly quiet. But not for very long. Letting out a low growl that grew into a loud snarl, Marie charged at me. Her short legs pumped and her tiny feet thumped the dirt as she bore down on me at a full gallop, eyes wide in insane anger. Her arms were up and her fingers outstretched, wildly clawing the air as they got close to my eyes.

If I had any doubt that I was in a fight for my life, that doubt flew out of my head as the tiny blonde rushed me. I forced myself to hold my ground until she was practically on top of me. I won’t lie, it sure wasn’t easy. My brain was hollering at me to move, to get the hell out of there and it took everything I had to stay right where I was. At the last split second I ducked and scooted to my right out of harm’s way and Marie hurtled past me.

She skidded to a stop, spun around and charged me again. I tensed up, ready to do my little side-step one more time. But Marie wasn’t falling for it. Not this time. Instead she mirrored me. When I scooted to my right, she scooted to her left, keeping herself in front of me. Then we locked up in a snarling, squealing, screeching tangle of fury. Both of us pulling hair, scratching faces in a vicious stumbling dance around the circle.

The watching dandys grunted their approval of the show and more wagers were called out. I could hear a few of them betting for me to win and that made me feel really good. Call me crazy, I didn’t ask to be here but I still wanted to beat this nasty little blonde bitch and beat her bad. So, yeah, hearing those mucky mucks in their fancy duds betting on me put a smile on my face. I don’t know if Marie still understands English after living with the Crow all this time but, if she did, it sure didn’t put a smile on hers.

But what happened next did. While I was busy keeping her sharp nails from scratching my eyes out, she slipped her left foot behind my right ankle and tripped me easier than flushing out a bobwhite quail with a pack of bird dogs. I fell flat on my back and Marie, an evil look on her face, leaped in the air to pounce on top of me. But I rolled out of the way and the blonde landed facedown in the dirt and grass. Wasting no time, I scrambled up to my knees and dove onto her back, trying to pin her down beneath me. Easier said than done. Marie did not appreciate me being on her back and she let me and everyone else there know that by twisting her tiny body from side to side, using her hands planted on the ground to push herself up like a bucking wild colt.

I buried my fingers in her blonde hair, raised her head up and then slammed her forehead hard into the ground. My plan was to dizzy her enough to weaken her, to get her to stop struggling. It was a good plan. Too bad it didn’t work. Instead it pissed her off even more. Her struggles got wilder and more frenzied. She was panting, snarling and muttering angry foreign words under her breath. I don’t speak Crow. But I had a pretty good idea the words coming from her mouth weren’t very nice.

As hard as I tried, I couldn’t stay on top of Marie. A wild lurch pitched me forward just enough for her to slither out from behind and get to her feet. On my knees, I spun around in time for her bare right foot to catch me just above my eye. The force of the quick kick dazed me and I found myself on my back again. The second my back hit the dirt, Marie dropped down on top of me, sitting heavily on my belly. Okay, maybe “heavily” isn’t the right word. Specially since we’re talking about a sawed-off half-pint who weighs less than a hundred pounds. But she was heavy enough to get me winded and make me gasp out when her butt landed on my belly.

The mucky mucks weren’t calling out my name or cheering for me now. It was Marie’s turn. Her supporters were cheering her on. The little blonde bitch was on top and she was planning to stay there. Her fingers tightened around my neck and she squeezed. I kicked my legs and tried to twist my body, just like she did when I was on top of her. But she had her thighs pressed tight against me and I was getting nowhere fast. I tugged at her wrist to loosen her grip on my throat and sent wild punches up at her face and head.

Marie was so charged up with hate that she just brushed off my punches like they were nothing more than pesty little gnats buzzing by her face. I couldn’t pull her hands from my neck. My vision was starting to blur but I still could see the insane look of fury on the tiny blonde’s beautiful face. SHE WANTS TO FUCKEN KILL ME!!! My arm dropped to the ground. My clawing fingers scooped up a handful of dirt. I did the only thing I could. I flung the dirt up into Marie’s face. She cried out, let go of my neck and reared back on her haunches, opening a space between her body and mine. Her hands flew to her face as she tried to wipe the grit from her eyes. I wormed my legs through the space between our bodies, pulled them up to my chest (sometimes it pays to be short), rested my feet against the blonde’s shoulders and pushed as hard as I could.

Marie flew backwards and kicked up a cloud of dirt when she hit the ground. There were a couple of mumbled complaints from her supporters in the crowd. Some damn fool was actually bitching that me chucking the dirt at Marie was breaking the rules. This caused Pointy Beard with the puffy pants to holler, “Rules? There are no rules! Not in a squaw fight!”

I got to my feet, rubbing my sore neck. Marie was already standing again. But her eyes were closed, she was rubbing them hard with her knuckles and her face was streaked with dirt. She was blinded. This was my chance. I couldn’t pass it up. I started toward her, trying to figure out the best way to attack. Hit her fast when she isn’t ready, my head told me. But Marie still had her wits about her. She couldn’t see but she kept me at bay by constantly turning and swinging her arm out in front of her every time she heard a noise. All the while, she was blinking her eyes, letting her tears try to wash the dirt out.

I tried to be as quiet as I could. I barely breathed. My bare feet slid soundlessly on the dirt ground. I knew I was running out of time. The grit in the blonde’s eyes wasn’t gonna stay there forever. She was still swinging her arm wildly, her tiny clenched fist whistling through the air. Every time she did it, she let out a frustrated grunt. I used her grunts to maneuver my way silently behind her back.

This is it. Now or never. I crouched, lowered my shoulder, ready to pounce. Then, just as I was making my move, that fat bitch Littletrees yelled out something in Crow. Marie whirled around, leading with her swinging arm. Her fist hit my cheek with a glancing blow, slowing me down and forcing me to stumble into her.

“Littletrees, you shit!” I grunted as Marie and I clutched each other, falling to the ground in a twisted tangled ball of flailing arms and legs. We started rolling around in the dirt. Our snarls, curses, yelps, moans and gasps drowned out the crackles and pops of the fire. We rolled right up to the watching men. I mean, we almost bowled a couple of them over.

One of the watchers went as far as to push us away with his boot. As we continued to roll around in the dirt, I had a death grip on Marie’s hair and she had her hand clamped tight on my face, squeezing with her fingers and digging her nails into my cheeks. I was trying my hardest to get the top position and put as much hurt on my enemy as I could. Only problem was, the blonde wildcat I was fighting had the same damn idea.

And it didn’t take long for me to realize she was tougher than me. A lot tougher. Yeah, I grew up in an orphanage and my life hasn’t been what you’d call an easy one. Far from it. But I did have a roof over my head. A bed to sleep in. Three meals a day. I worked like a dog most of my life but that’s nothing compared to Marie. She was born white but growing up Crow made her hard. Made her tough. Every day was a battle to survive.

Now I can’t be sure but I kind of think that all of our rolling around wasn’t providing enough action to suit some of the dandys. One of them actually got up and walked right past Marie and me, and made his way over to the trees. He was walking funny too, all stiff-legged like. At the time, I figured he had to take a leak real bad and was trying to hold it in. But the more I think on it, what with the noises he was making behind that tree, moaning and lowing like a cow waiting to get milked, the more it seems like he was maybe enjoying the show after all. I can’t say the same for some of his friends. There were a few boos and catcalls. A rock was chucked at us. It hit Marie square in the back. She let go of me and I used the opportunity to push her off with my fists and feet.

We both pulled up to our knees, facing each other, about six feet apart. Trying to catch our breath before we got to our feet again. Glaring into each other’s eyes. I knew I was a mess. Exhausted. Scratched and bruised, bleeding from a few cuts and scrapes. Sore as all hell. My matted hair stuck to my face, my body covered in sweat, my soaked blouse and skirt plastered to my skin, bits of grass and grit all over my arms and legs. Marie wasn’t much better. We both showed the effects of this hard fight and we both also knew it was far from done. It would only be over when one of us was laying in the dirt.

Our moaning pain-filled gasps as we sucked in air were the only sounds in the circle. There was no more wagering, cheering or catcalling. Marie and I slowly stood up on tired shaky legs. We circled each other, hands up, claws bared, looking for an opening. The blonde had earned my respect and I like to think that I had earned hers too.  We were both being careful, not doing anything stupid, not taking any chances. We knew that any mistake made at this point of the fight could be a fatal one.

I made a slashing swipe at the blonde’s face. She leaned back and all I slashed was the air. She sent a quick kick out at my leg. I moved out of the way. We traded hard face slaps, then backed up again. Rumblings started to come from the dandys. Littletrees yelled out something in Crow. Marie flinched, her eyes never leaving mine. Littletrees hollered again, even more demanding this time. The blonde’s eyes flashed in anger and she turned away from me to yell something back to the fat squaw. With her being distracted, I threw caution to the wind and charged at her with a blood-curdling scream.

Maybe the scream was a mistake. I take that back. No “maybe” about it, it was a mistake. A bad one. Marie turned her head, saw me coming, and kicked me hard in the belly. I doubled over, gasping, and stumbled back a couple steps. My feet tangled up and I fell on my butt, clutching my belly, badly winded. The blonde moved in for the kill but I managed to sweep my right foot out, hooking her left ankle, sending her sprawling down too. I scrambled up into a crouch, took a deep breath, and launched myself at her. But Marie brought up both of her legs and I landed on her sharp bony knees.

I let out a long moan and rolled off her onto my side. The blonde turned onto her side too, snaking her right arm under my neck and pressing it tight against it. Then she rolled onto her back, pulling me on top of her. I squirmed and struggled to get free but Marie wrapped her strong short legs around my body and locked her ankles, squeezing with all the strength she had left.

My moan turned into a loud rasping scream and I thrashed even harder as the blonde crushed the air from my hurting exhausted body. I tugged at her arm and her thighs desperately, punching and scratching but she held on tight. Marie’s head was right next to mine. Her mouth was so close to my ear that her labored breathing sounded like a windstorm. Her mouth was too close to my ear. The bitchy little blonde decided I wasn’t suffering enough, so she chomped her teeth down on my earlobe. I let out a shriek and really started struggling furiously. Marie was snarling with my earlobe clamped in her teeth and shaking her head like a bobcat ripping at a chunk of meat. I reached my hand up to her head, dug my nails into her face by her eye and scratched down hard. Now it was Marie’s turn to shriek. Her mouth popped open. So did her legs. I grabbed her arm and pulled it away from my neck as I rolled away.

I didn’t roll far enough. Marie leaped on top of me, getting me on my back as she straddled my belly. She dug her thighs in tight to my body like she did before. When she was secure on top of me, she started smacking and backhanding me in the face. Over and over. The sound of each slap echoed in the quiet night. My head was rocked from side to side from the brutally hard slaps. The assault was so quick, so furious and so relentless that it took me a few seconds to try to defend myself. I reached a hand up and started clawing at the blonde’s face again. There were already red nasty looking furrows from my nails running down her left cheek. Marie responded by forcing both of her thumbs into each side of my mouth and pulling it as wide as it could go. I gurgled out a cry as my mouth was stretched and her thumbnails dug into the tender flesh of the inside of my mouth.

I grabbed Marie’s wrists and brought my knee up into her back at the same time. I know that it hurt her. I saw the look on her face. But it didn’t get her off me. She stayed put. And continued to pull at my mouth with her thumbs. She even went one better than that. She used her other fingers to lift my head off the ground and start slamming it back down again. The back of my head crashed into the hard dirt. Once. Twice. Three times. My gurgled moans turned to whimpers. My arms slid down and landed limp on the ground. My eyes got all glassy. I was done. It was over.

Not quite. I was done. Marie wasn’t. She pulled her thumbs from my mouth and slapped my face again. Then added one more backhand for good measure. She scrambled up to her feet, breathing hard, fists clenched, staring down at me as I lay there, barely moving. She leaped in the air and stomped down hard on my belly with both feet. I gagged. I thought I was gonna puke. My body jerked and then twitched a couple times. I stopped moving after that. I couldn’t even lift up my hand if I wanted to. I didn’t want to.

Marie walked slowly around my body, watching me, waiting for me to move. Daring me to move. When she was satisfied that I wasn’t going to, she spat into the dirt by my head and grinded the sole of her foot into it. Then she stepped on my face, rubbed the dirt and spit all over me, raised her fist in the air and let out a wild screeching Crow war cry.

The blonde’s supporters started clapping and demanding payment. The ones who bet on me kept their mouths shut and handed over the cash. Littletrees got up and waddled over to Marie who was still standing over me with her foot on my face. The fat squaw pulled a lethal Bowie knife out from somewhere under her shapeless dress and flung it down into the ground near the blonde. Marie took her foot off my face and watched the knife wobble in the dirt. Littletrees pointed at me, pointed at the knife and barked out an order in Crow. The blonde shook her head and started walking away. The squaw grabbed her arm, pointed at the knife again, and repeated the command. Marie pulled free, said something in Crow and shoved the squaw aside as she tried to leave the circle. The fat bitch suddenly punched the tiny blonde in the back of her head and Marie pitched forward onto her hands and knees.


Enemies No More

Littletrees grabbed the leather strap that was hanging from her belt and used it like a whip, beating the blonde across her back and sides and even her head. Marie curled into a ball and tried to cover up as the squaw continued to whip her. None of the dandys did a damn thing to stop the whipping. They just watched, like it was part of the show. I’m surprised nobody laid down a bet.

By this time, I had pretty much gotten my senses back and started to sit up. I also figured out what the Bowie knife was for. A “fight to the finish”, Claibe Goodnight had said. Only the finish he meant was a permanent one. Littletrees wanted Marie to use the knife on me, to finish me off. Marie refused. The girl who had wanted to kill me so bad had just saved my life.

Now it was my chance to return the favor. I was still woozy and sore from the fight but I grabbed the rock that was chucked at us when we were rolling around and I staggered up to my feet. Littletrees had her back to me and never saw me coming. She never saw my hand holding the rock as it whooshed through the air at her head. She sure felt it though.

The fat squaw fell on top of Marie who squirmed her way out from under her. Then the tiny blonde and I took turns stomping on Littletrees just for the hell of it.

The dandys barely noticed. They were busy folding their blankets and counting their money. I limped over to the closest tree and collapsed by it. I leaned against it, stretched out my legs and wiped my filthy face with the back of my hand. Goodnight saw me and walked over. He offered me his handkerchief. I took it and used it to clean the blood, sweat, dirt and Marie’s spit from my face. I held out the now soiled handkerchief to return it to him.

“Keep it.”

“Thanks.” I looked over at Linda Littletrees who was just now getting up to her feet again. Well, not quite. She got almost all the way up, then swayed like a drunk on the ice, waving her arms in the air, before she toppled over onto her big fat ass. I looked up at Goodnight again.

“Sorry we spoiled your ‘fight to the finish’ ending.”

The man smiled. “Don’t be. It’s even better this way. We got to watch a great fight, I made a nice profit, and Littletrees got what was coming to her. Sorry you won’t be getting any money but you didn’t win. That’s how it goes.”

Then he told me the way back to Deadwood and apologized that he couldn’t leave me a horse. He gave me another one of his silly little bows and left.

I looked up. Morningstar Clearwater, who was once Marie Blessing in another lifetime, was standing near the now-dying fire. Our eyes met. I nodded. She nodded back. She raised her fist up to her chest and tapped it twice. I did the same. Then the tiny blonde slipped away into the shadows.

As I slowly made my painful way back to Deadwood, I wondered if I’d ever see her again. Something tells me that I probably will.

You never can tell.

Can you?

[Marie B.]

I blinked my eyes, trying to focus as they adjusted to the change from total darkness to dusk lit up by the reddish orange of the roaring campfire.....Then I looked down and I understood why. My legs were showing. While I was knocked out, somebody cut off most of my skirt up to my thighs. And my peasant blouse was hiked up and tied tight under my breasts, exposing my belly. My moccasins were gone too, my feet were bare.

[laurie breeze]

I blinked my eyes, trying to focus as they adjusted to the change from total darkness to dusk lit up by the reddish orange of the roaring campfire.....Then I looked down and I understood why. My legs were showing. While I was knocked out, somebody cut off most of my skirt up to my thighs. And my peasant blouse was hiked up and tied tight under my breasts, exposing my belly. My moccasins were gone too, my feet were bare.

Love the new pic, Marie! It's a little more flattering than the last one of me!   

Thanks for adding some visual spice to the story!

xoxo

~Laurie~

[laurie breeze]

I've been asked to repost the entire story from start to finish uninterrupted by comments to keep it flowing 'n make it easier to read without having to constantly scroll to get to the next chapter. The story ran for 8 chapters 'n 165 pages on Microsoft Word.

Thank you very much to everyone who participated in Old Deadwood Days: all my friends who agreed to be in it, everyone who read it 'n everyone who left a comment.

I think the tale is done.....but you never know.

Enjoy!

hugggzzz 'n xoxo

~Laurie~

[laurie breeze]

OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves): THE COMPLETE STORY


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~


DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE SOILED DOVES:
 
J.P. "MADAME FEATHERLEGS" FOURCADE, the Australian madame who brought her girls to Deadwood from the Comstock Lode, played by Ms. Jenn Peccavi

JOANNA "JERSEY JO" NAWLS, the blonde who survived the mean streets of Hell's Kitchen, New York City, played by Grlwrestler Joanne

JONICA "TEE POO" DUPUIS, the Cajun who escaped the horrors of Civil War Louisiana and was forced to leave her beloved Bayou Teche, played by Jonica

MEG “DARLIN CLEMENTINE” HAWKES, the proper refined young Alabama belle whose antebellum way of life was destroyed by the Civil War, played by Megan_23

GEMMA "LADY GEMM" GREY, the Brit who fled from Wales accused of a murder she didn't commit, played by Gemma Rox
 
LAUREL "LITTLE BIT" LUCKETT, the orphan with Lakota Sioux blood from the Dakota Territory, played by yours truly

MISS SARA ATHERTON, a traveling actress with the Langrishe Theater Company, played by Lil_Sara

SILKY HEIDI, one of Lurlene "Queen of the Blondes" Johnson's soiled doves, played by Preppy_Girl_Fighter

KASSI DELIGHT, one of Lurlene "Queen of the Blondes" Johnson's soiled doves, played by Kasia69

“HALF-PINT” MARIE BLESSING, also known as Morningstar Clearwater, a mysterious young woman who was kidnapped and raised by the Crow, the mortal enemies of the Sioux, played by Marie B

HISTORICAL CHARACTERS:

"COLORADO" CHARLIE UTTER, longtime friend and "pard" of Wild Bill Hickok
THE COWARD JACK McCALL, cowardly drunken killer of Wild Bill Hickok
STEVE UTTER, Charlie's brother and business partner
JAMES BUTLER "WILD BILL" HICKOK, legendary gunslinger and lawman
JACK "WHITE EYE" ANDERSON, another longtime friend of Hickok's
MARTHA JANE CANNARY, released from a Fort Laramie jail to the care of Steve Utter, later became famous as "Calamity Jane"
CALIFORNIA JOE MILNER, grizzled old scout and another Hickok "pard"
AL SWEARENGEN, villainous owner of the Gem Theater and Cricket Saloon
DOC BABCOCK, Deadwood's doctor
BILLY NUTTALL, the co-owner of the No. 10 Saloon
WILLIAM MASSIE, famous riverboat captain, played poker with Hickok at the No. 10 (true) ... also the captain of the fictional riverboat Natchez Lady in the story
CARL MANN, co-owner of the No. 10 Saloon, in the poker game with Hickok
CHARLIE RICH, young gambler, in the poker game with Hickok, refused to switch seats with him
SAM HARRY YOUNG, bartender at the No. 10 Saloon
SAMUEL CLEMENS, better known as MARK TWAIN, encounters Tee Poo on board the Natchez Lady
FEE LEE WONG, one of Deadwood's leading Celestials
A.W. MERRICK, the publisher of the Black Hills Pioneer
GEORGE WAGNER, owner of the Grand Central Hotel
REVEREND H.W. SMITH of Deadwood
JACK LANGRISHE, the owner/proprietor of the Langrishe Theater and head of the Langrishe Traveling Company
JEANNETTE LANGRISHE, his wife
WYATT EARP, the legendary lawman, makes a cameo appearance
GEORGE HEARST, millionaire mining tycoon/businessman, the mysterious ‘H’, mentioned but never seen

FICTIONAL CHARACTERS:
 
FREIDA POLLYNOSE, a crib girl fighting in the muddy Deadwood thoroughfare
MOLLY B'DAMN, a crib girl fighting in the muddy Deadwood thoroughfare
THE ALBINO, mute giant longtime associate of Madame Featherlegs
THE DWARF, another business associate of Madame Featherlegs
"BULL RUN" SHAUGHNESSY, a nasty hotel proprietor in Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory
BRIDGET SHAUGHNESSY, his fat equally nasty daughter
MISS PETTIJOHN, a 'respectable' lady on the Utter wagon train to Deadwood
CAPTAIN PORTERHOUSE, brutish underling of Madame Featherlegs' mysterious wealthy benefactor known only as "H"
HYWEL, the 19 year-old son of the Viscount of Venneford in Wales, one time lover of Gemma Grey
BRONWYN TREWENT, Hywel's jealous fiancee, accidentally murders him. Her intended target was Gemma.
EBBERLY PACKIS, fat gambler on the Natchez Lady riverboat, is shot and killed
MRS. MINERVA PACKIS, his vulture-like wife, tries to kill Tee Poo after her husband is shot
JEFFERSON BOURDILLION CORD, Tee Poo's handsome gambler, a suspected cardsharp and cheat
TRICKSIE LYNN, one of Al Swearengen's girls, lived in the orphanage with her hated rival Little Bit
C.C. CLEEVER, an associate of the mysterious 'H'
SETHRO, a horny obnoxious young miner
GUNILLA, another one of Lurlene "Queen of the Blondes" Johnson's soiled doves
CRUTCH, a simple old man, in charge of the bath house
LINDA LITTLETREES, a Crow squaw woman, brings fresh water and towels to the bath house
THE PETTIS GANG: O.W. PETTIS, JELSICK PETTIS, MOZE, RINGO, outlaw band, accomplices of the mysterious ‘H’
RYAN TYREE, a handsome young drifter/gunfighter
CLAIBORNE GOODNIGHT, a sporting man


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 those 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 and 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.

[laurie breeze]

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.”

[laurie breeze]

Chapter Three

“Were you really on the stage, Mr. Hickok?”

“Dammit, Little Bit! How many times do I have to tell ya? Call me Bill. Every time you say ‘Mr. Hickok’ I keep expectin’ to see my Pa. An’ I couldn’t stand the son of a bitch!”

“Sorry, Bill.”

We were at Fort Laramie in the Wyoming Territory, about a two-week ride from Deadwood, stocking up on supplies and resting the animals for the last stretch of the trip. A bunch of us.....Bill, Charlie Utter, some of us girls, Hickok’s pal “White Eye” Anderson and his brother Charley, a few fellas from the other wagons.....were enjoying a nice picnic lunch out in the grass. Steve Utter was tending to business while Miss Fourcade, Clementine and the Albino were at the trading post. The Dwarf was God knows where.

“Yeah, that damn fool Bill Cody talked me into goin’ on the stage with him in New York City,” Hickok continued. “Hated every damn minute of it.”

“The lipstick you wore was pretty, Bill,” Charlie Utter drawled, earning a laugh from everyone, including Hickok.

“Shut yer mouth, Charlie.”  He poured another drink, drank it down. “I definitely was not cut out for the acting business.”

“Even so,” I smiled. “Sure wish I coulda seen it.”

Tee Poo nudged Jersey Jo and whispered, “Shit, she’s really got it bad, her, huh?”

Jo jerked her head toward the Cajun girl, startled out of her thoughts.

“Huh? What?”

“Little Bit. For Hickok.”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess.”

Tee Poo gave Jo an ‘Excuse me for bothering you’ look, rolled her eyes, got up and headed back to the wagon. Jo hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation, not since Hickok mentioned ‘New York City’. That brought back a flood of memories, memories she had tried so hard to forget and put away for good.....

****************

Jo grew up in the slums of the Five Points neighborhood in lower Manhattan with her German immigrant parents. Even though it was one of the most dangerous areas in the city, Jo lived a pretty sheltered life under her father’s watchful eye. Until the day in March 1863 when her father was drafted to serve in the Union Army. When he left he told Jo it was her duty to look out for her sickly mother until he came back. That day never happened. A Rebel sharpshooter at the Devil’s Den in Gettysburg killed him.

At 14 years old, Jo had to fend for herself and her mom who rarely left her bed. She became a Hot Corn Girl, selling roasted ears of golden corn on the street from a basket she carried. Jo soon became aware that the prettiest girls sold the most corn and brought home the most pennies so she always scrubbed herself and her calico dress and shawl. Pretty soon her pretty face, long blonde hair, and thin graceful body made her one of the most popular corn sellers around. This led to jealousy and scraps between the girls. Just like me in the orphanage, Jo had to learn how to fight to survive. She got pretty good at it. Despite her frail appearance, she usually managed to beat the other Hot Corn Girls and save her pennies. It wasn’t only skill. She also had a ‘secret weapon’.....

****************

“I don’t understand why the ‘Sye-ox’ don’t just sell the damn Black Hills back to us an’ be done with it!” White Eye Anderson said.

“They are ‘Soo’, dumb ass,” Charlie Utter shook his head. “Not ‘Sye-ox’. But I gotta admit you’re right. It don’t make no sense.”

“Hell, when did anything a dirt worshipper does make sense?”

We were by the wagons now, loading up, getting ready to leave the fort. I happened to be passing by and heard the talking.

“They won’t sell because the Pahá Sápa is sacred land to them,” I blurted out without thinking.

White Eye looked at me. “Pahá Sápa? What the hell does that mean?”

I flushed, aware that all eyes were on me and maybe I said too much. One of the ‘respectable’ ladies, Miss Pettijohn, who was planning on starting a school in Deadwood, gave me a disapproving fish-eye stare.

“It’s Sioux talk,” I stammered. “Means Black Hills.”

“Funny how someone like you would know ‘Sioux talk’,” Miss Pettijohn commented.

“I grew up in the territory. You hear things.”

She wouldn’t let it go. “Even so.”

Hickok came to my rescue. Again.

“Let’s get goin’ if we’re goin’!” he commanded, ending the discussion. Miss Pettijohn gave me one last condescending look, then moved on to her wagon. I started to do the same when Bill caught my arm.

“Best be careful whose ears are around before you say anything, missy,” he quietly said, with a wink.

I smiled, “Yes, Mr. Hi … I mean, Bill.”

“TAKE YER GRUBBY PAWS OFFA ME, YOU DIRTY ROTTEN FUCKIN’ WORTHLESS MIS’ERBLE BLUECOAT PIECE OF SHIT COCKSUCKER!!!”

We all turned to witness a flustered soldier pulling a staggering dirty unkempt woman towards our wagon. She was either still drunk or really badly hung over, the way she almost kept falling. But she never once stopped her cussing out the bluecoat, except when she paused for a breath.

(Good thing that uppity Miss Pettijohn isn’t around now. She’d probably piss down her petticoats if she heard all that good country cussing.)
 
When they got to the wagon, the soldier, a military policeman, went directly to Hickok and the Utters with the woman still in his grip. I hung back by the wagon to listen.

“Sorry to bother you folks. I was told that you know this woman.”

“We do.” Hickok’s reply was quiet but a little disapproving. “Hello, Jane.”

The woman blinked her red eyes and squinted. Her homely dirt-covered face broke into a big crooked grin.

“Howdy, Bill.”

“Tied one on again, huh?”

“Yeah…you could say that. But, hell, that don’t give them damn bluecoats the right to throw me in jail!”

The soldier interrupted, “My commanding officer sent me to ask if you would be willing to take Miss Cannary along with you. He’d be willing to release her into your custody as long as she leaves the fort and his jurisdiction.”

Jane mumbled, “Like I’d wanna stay around his mis’erble hide any longer than I have to.”

“Jane!”

This time there was no mistaking the disgust in Hickok’s voice. Or the look he gave her. She seemed to wilt a little.

“Sorry, Bill. You know how I am when I get to drinkin’.”

“Yeah. I know.” Hickok turned to the soldier. “She can come with us. But I don’t want nothin’ to do with her.”

“Me neither,” Charlie Utter agreed. “Steve’ll look after her. He’s always been sweet on Jane, Lord knows why.”

“Shut up, Charlie,” a red-faced Steve Utter called down from the wagon.  The soldier helped Steve haul Jane up into the back of the wagon where she curled up on a sack of grain and fell asleep almost instantly.

“She’ll prob’ly sleep most of the way to Deadwood,” Charlie muttered after the soldier headed back to the barracks.

“If we’re lucky,” Bill replied.

And that’s how “Calamity” Jane joined the party. I made my way to our wagon, stopping short when Miss Pettijohn blocked my path.

“Just what we need,” she hissed. “Another lowlife undesirable female. A common drunk to go long with a pack of whores. It’s an embarrassment to decent respectable folk to be seen with the likes of you.”

I was wrong. She had seen and heard Jane’s performance at the wagon. I tried to move around her but she stepped in front of me again.

“Oh, and don’t go thinking you fooled me before. For an illiterate little tramp, you certainly know a lot about the dirt worshipping heathens. It wouldn’t surprise me if you were part Injun yourself.”

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” I brushed past her but she grabbed me and pulled me back to her. For a proper lady, Miss Pettijohn was surprisingly strong. Probably from whipping so many brats’ backsides with a switch.

“Let go of me!”

She leaned down close to me, her face inches from mine. “You don’t know who you’re messing with, tramp. I’ve got my eye on you!”

“And I’ve got my eye on you!”

Miss Pettijohn whirled around to face Jersey Jo who had come up behind her. So did I. And I can tell you right now that I have never ever seen anything more scary than the look on the pretty blonde’s face. Her normally warm laughing eyes were bugged out and shining, her face was a deep red, her mouth was curled in an almost inhuman snarl, like a rabid she-wolf. Her body was shaking uncontrollably, her fists tightly clenched.

The blonde stared at the schoolmarm and, in a voice cold as ice with a bit of a tremor, she hissed, “You got two seconds to get your hands off her an’ haul your ass back to your wagon.”

Miss Pettijohn froze and stared at Jo, kind of like a field mouse does at a snake. But she still held fast to my arm.

“I SAID MOVE!!!”

It’s lucky we had oxen pulling the wagons instead of horses. Jo’s insane yell would have probably spooked the horses so bad they’d be halfway to Deadwood by now. The oxen just turned their heads, regarded us with a bored look, then went back to grazing.

But it sure spooked me. And Miss Pettijohn even more. She released me, lurched backwards slamming into the side of a wagon, then hiked up her skirts and bustled off at a full gallop. I stared at the blonde in shock and fright. Then suddenly, instantly, the raving frothing crazy woman transformed back to the laughing pretty blonde I knew. She grinned at me and winked.

“Works every time,” she giggled as she turned and headed back to our wagon.

I hurried along to catch up with her. “What the hell?! That was an act?”

“Not bad, huh?”

“Sure fooled me. Where did you learn to do that?”

The smile left her face. “Back home in Five Points. A long time ago.”

A long time ago. A whole other life.....

****************

“Ya don’t b’long here, ya trollop! This’s the Sixth Ward, blondie. Go peddle yer ass somewheres else now!”

It was a typical happening in Five Points. One working girl accidentally crosses the invisible border into enemy territory and an angry mob appears like magic from the shadows to confront her. The blonde sized up the seven laughing bawdy bitches facing her and came to the only decision she could. She turned around and scurried away as the taunts and catcalls followed her.

But I’ll never forget those faces, she thought to herself. And someday --

After she outgrew her Hot Corn Girl job and before she became Jersey Jo, Joanna Nawls (she changed her surname the day of her first arrest to not shame her ailing mother) realized that men would be happy to pay her for something more than corn on the cob. So she started working the streets, her blonde good looks soon made her a favorite of all looking for a good time. Her mother never asked where the money was coming from and nothing was ever said but Joanna suspected she knew.

“I don’t regret what I done,” Jo told me later. “Not a bit. It was what I had to do, to keep my Ma outta the poorhouse.”

After serving a fifteen-day sentence for her third arrest, Joanna came home to find that her mother had died and her body buried in Potter’s Field. She packed a carpetbag and left the only home she knew, never looking back. Wandering the streets, not sure what to do next, she once again found herself in the Sixth Ward without realizing it. This time only two prostitutes confronted her. As luck would have it, Joanna recognized them both from before. And this time she didn’t run away.

The way it was told at her sanity hearing was, Joanna attacked the two like a madwoman, screaming at the top of her lungs, raising all kinds of hell, scratching, kicking, punching. One of her bleeding victims was able to get away but the other wasn’t so lucky. When the cops hit the scene, the raging blonde was dragging her half-naked screaming struggling victim around the cobblestone street by her hair. As soon as she saw the cops, she released the sobbing girl and just stood there, not moving, answering all their questions in a calm voice. But, unfortunately for Jo, she couldn’t convince them that she was only defending herself and that her crazy act was just that, an act. Even worse for her, the girls she attacked were favorites of “Boss” McGloin, leading politician from the Sixth Ward, and the cops who busted her were also on his payroll. To make a long story short, Joanna Nawls was found to be criminally insane and sent to the Blackwell’s Island Lunatic Asylum.

Jo bided her time in the Retreat, the women’s ward, living on a diet of molasses and mush the five weeks she was there. She acted all meek and mild, the model prisoner, to make her keepers drop their guard and relax, while all the time watching and waiting for her chance to get out of there. One night, a careless nurse left her door open and Jo sneaked out of the three-story building, hid herself onboard a ferry and made good her escape. She left Manhattan for good, heading south to New Jersey and a new life.....

****************

“Riders comin’ hard on us, Charlie,” Steve Utter drawled to his brother from the lead wagon. “Better get your rifle ready.”

Charlie pulled out his rifle and galloped up to the wagon. Squinting his eyes, he could make out two riders kicking up dust headed for the train from Deadwood Gulch.  Without taking his eyes off them, he called out, “Bill?”

“I heard, Charlie,” Hickok emerged from inside the wagon, rifle at the ready, his twin six guns on his belt. He clambered up beside Steve, the rifle resting in his lap.

“WHOA, BILL! HICKOK! YOU IN THERE?”

Hickok suddenly grinned. “Is that who I think it is, Charlie?”

Charlie relaxed. He recognized the voice too. “Damned if it ain’t. California Joe Milner.”

As the riders drew nearer, Hickok called out, “Dammit, Joe, you woke me from my nap! What’s all the fuss about?”

California Joe, a grizzled old scout and old friend of Wild Bill’s, reined in his panting horse.

“Folks told me you was aboard this here train. Did ya hear the news about Custer?”

“What news is that? We ain’t heard a thing since we left Fort Laramie almost two weeks ago. What’s ol’ George gone an’ done now?”

“He got hisself kilt by the Sioux up near the Little Big Horn. An’ most of his men massacred.”

Hickok shook his head. “Well, I’ll be go to shit.”

California Joe wiped the dust from his face. “Whole damn country out here’s in an uproar! Half the folks think the Sioux are gonna burn us all out an’ the other half wanna go to war again’ ‘em!”

“Good thing we’re close to Deadwood,” Steve muttered. “Gonna be hell out on the trail now.”

The news spread from wagon to wagon like a brush fire.

Custer dead. The Seventh Cavalry massacred. The Sioux done it. Damn dirt worshippers. Murderers. All of them.

I kept to myself, stayed near the wagon the rest of the day. I didn’t know what Miss Pettijohn told the others about me, if anything. And I didn’t want to find out. The way folks were riled up about Custer, anything could happen.

We made camp for the night at Whitewood Creek, our last night before we hit Deadwood. I took supper in the wagon, a little broth, said I was feeling poorly. But later that night, when all was quiet, nature called. I quietly climbed down from the wagon and walked a few paces into the tall grass, keeping the wagons in my line of sight. After I finished my business I started back when I was attacked from behind, clouted in the head, and sent sprawling before I could utter a cry. I looked up to see a scowling Miss Pettijohn standing over me, still fully clothed. There was a look of hate on the respectable lady’s face as she hissed, “This is for what your heathen friends did to that great man!” and she gave me a savage kick in the ribs with her boot.

I cried out and curled into a ball but she didn’t continue her attack. A white blur rushed past me and tackled the schoolmarm, sending her crashing to the dirt. It was Jo in her fancy Paris white silk nightgown. She was straddling Miss Pettijohn, sitting on the struggling woman’s belly, raining punch after punch down into her face. Miss Pettijohn bucked up, but the blonde was firmly on top of her and not going anywhere. The schoolmarm slapped at Jo, trying to block the punches, and cried out for help. Jo clamped her hand over Miss Pettijohn’s  mouth and grabbed her hair with the other, lifting her head up and then slamming it back into the ground. Finally, the whimpering schoolmarm, realizing she was beat, stopped struggling and just laid there, not moving, as others began to arrive on the scene.

Jo quietly hissed at the sobbing beaten woman, in a voice loud enough for only the three of us to hear, “Not one word. You say anything to anyone about Little Bit an’ I’ll finish what I started. Understand?”

Tears streaming down her face, Miss Pettijohn nodded.

I crawled over, still holding my ribs. “Jo, you didn’t have to … “

The blonde looked up, grinned and gave a quick wink. “It’s okay, Little Bit. It’s over.” She looked at the red-faced woman under her. “Right?”

Miss Pettijohn blinked up at her. Then she nodded. “Right,” she whispered. “It’s -- over.”

Jo patted Miss Pettijohn’s hair and grinned again. “Good girl,” she said as she got up off her. Trying to hide a smile, Charlie Utter sauntered up and called out, “Okay, folks, show’s over. Nothin’ left to be seen here. Go on back to your wagons.”

I caught a glimpse of Miss Fourcade. She was looking at Jo, nodding her head slightly with a small smile on her face, like she was glad Jo had stuck up for me. Then Miss Fourcade and the Albino disappeared into the shadows of the wagons.

I also noticed that not a single soul came over to help Miss Pettijohn up. Humiliated, the crying schoolmarm heaved herself to her feet and stumbled away. Charlie Utter watched her go.

“There won’t be no trouble for what happened,” he assured us. “That one’s been a pain in the ass since we left Cheyenne. None of us can stand her an’ her high-falutin’ ways. Shit, why do y’think nobody pulled ya offa her?” He tipped his hat. “G’night, ladies.”

I gave Jo a hug and we walked back to our wagon. Just as I was climbing in, I heard a drunken voice bellow, “What’d I miss, Charlie?”

“Shut up, Jane.”

[Jonica]

[laurie breeze]

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 parlour room pianoforte 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 Star & Bullock’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 Bill showed him up, humiliating him in front of the others. He swore to himself that he’d get his revenge and 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 right 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 Star & Bullock’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 over 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 Clemmy 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! Wanna take a peek at the new pianoforte just came?”

“Hey there, Little Bit. Maybe some other time. 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. “Jennifer Peccavi. Return address San Francisco.”

“Peccavi? Miss Fourcade goes by J.P. I know her first name is Jennifer. Think maybe the ‘P’ stands for Peccavi?”

“That’s the thought I had.”

“I’ll give it to her, Charlie. Thanks.”

“Glad to help.” He started to leave. “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. Was a trick rider, and walked across the tightrope. 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?”

“Naw, 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.”

[laurie breeze]

Chapter Five

Aboard the Natchez Lady, somewhere on the Mississippi River, June 23, 1872

Tee Poo could hear the water loudly churning from the paddlewheel as she desperately struggled to keep from being pushed over the railing of the riverboat. The crazed older woman’s hands were wrapped around Tee Poo’s neck and she was squeezing with all her might as she bent the thrashing girl’s back over the rail. Tee Poo’s mouth popped open, she gasped for air and clung to the railing tightly with one hand while punching and slashing at her foe’s face with the other.

The rushing pounding of the water below her grew deafening, drowning out her raspy gasps and the snarling curses of the vulture-like bitch. As Tee Poo fought for her life, only one thought kept running through her brain: “Damn you, Cord!”

****************

Deadwood, August 2, 1876

“Little Bit, could you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Bill.”

We were in Charlie Utter’s tent in Tent City. Bill was just finishing a shave after his nap. I had come back for the tray I had brought over from Aunt Lou’s kitchen at the Grand Central. The food was still there, untouched, but the whiskey bottle was empty. Charlie sat on the cot, a disapproving look on his face. Bill dug into his pocket, pulled out a coin and flipped it to me.

“I have a … package … waiting for me at Quong Lee’s. He don’t speak much English but just say ‘Hickok’. He’ll know.”

“Is it safe for her, Bill? I can go … “

“No, Charlie. She’ll be alright.”

“Sure I will,” I said. “I’ve been out to the Celestials before. I ain’t scared.”

(Maybe I’ll even catch a look at that mysterious China Doll I heard folks talking about.)

His sad eyes shined. “That’s my girl. I knowed I could count on you. Bring it to me over at the No. 10.”

“Okay, Bill. I’ll leave that food tray here for now. Aunt Lou is gonna be sore at ya if ya don’t eat her cooking. Try an’ eat somethin’, Bill. It’s real good.”

He nodded and winked at me. As I left the tent, I heard Charlie mutter, “Back on the pipe again, Bill?”

“It helps me dream, Charlie. I’m tired but I can’t sleep. An’ when I do, I can’t dream.”

“Hell, Bill, dreams ain’t what they’re cracked up to be.”

“I s’pose.” He wiped his face with a towel and gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror.

“Drink like a fish. Won’t eat nothin’. Hittin’ the pipe. Poker all day an’ night. If ya don’t give a damn about yourself, Bill, think of me. I promised your Agnes I’d look out for ya.”

“An’ you’re doin’ a great job, Charlie. You’re keepin’ that damn Jane the hell away from me.”

“That’s easy enough. Just gotta keep her drunk.”

Bill smoothed out his hair, put his hat on. “Anyways, Charlie, this is gonna be our last camp. Let’s have some fun.”

He left the tent, headed to the No. 10.

****************

Aboard the Natchez Lady, June 23, 1872 (earlier that night)

“I been waiting all night for your luck to break, boy. This time I gotcha. Three queens. Try and beat that.”

The fat gambler grinned as he spread his hand down on the table. He greedily reached out for the pile of bills as his lady friend laughed and gave him a quick kiss on his sweaty cheek. The handsome fellow sitting opposite leaned back in his chair and looked right into the fat man’s eyes. The beautiful girl next to him held her breath, trying to read his expression. She looked at all the money in the pot, at the fat gambler, at the vulture-like bitch hanging all over the fat gambler (the same vulture-like bitch who had been giving her dirty looks all night), then back at Cord. Tee Poo waited. Finally Cord spoke, in his soft smooth slow drawl.

“That’s a good hand, Packis. A very good hand. Just not good enough this time.”

Cord casually lay down his cards one at a time. Eight of spades. Seven of spades. Six of hearts. Five of hearts. He paused, gave Tee Poo a grin as he dropped the fifth card right on top of the money. Four of spades. A straight.

Tee Poo exhaled. Ebberly Packis looked like he was about to start bawling. He lurched to his feet so fast that the chair toppled over with a crash. Then, as Cord picked up the money on the table, he turned and stormed out, followed by his vulture-faced companion, who paused long enough to give Tee Poo one final hateful glare.

Tee Poo leaned close to the handsome gambler who was counting his newly acquired bills and whispered, “Damn it, Cord, what kind of game you playin’?”

“Have a little faith, Sassafras. There ain’t a gambler on the Mississippi better than Jefferson Bourdillion Cord when I’m on my game.  I had that fat pigeon right where I wanted him, cher. He was hooked. And when the time was right, I reeled him in.”

Tee Poo shook her head and, despite herself, she had to laugh. Cord was a damn fine poker player. But there was something he was even better at. And that was bragging about himself.

****************

Deadwood, August 2, 1876 (earlier that day)

Folks couldn’t help but gawk at the drunk miner as he stumbled along the boardwalk. Not that the sight of a drunk in Deadwood was so unusual. No, it was the grotesque severed Sioux Indian head he was swinging by its long black hair that made people stop and stare.

“I thought I’d seen it all in my life but that takes the bloody cake,” Madame Featherlegs said as she watched the spectacle with Doc Babcock in front of the boardinghouse.

“God’s teeth, not another one!” Doc Babcock muttered.

“Another one? Drunks carrying Indian heads is an everyday happening?”

Doc laughed. “Pretty much. See, folks round here went all squirrelly after the Custer thing. Some dumb ass got the fool idea to offer fifty bucks reward for an Indian head. So before you knew it, guys were dropping their pickaxes and going Injun hunting.”

The drunk tripped and almost fell, the severed head dropped from his hand, bounced once on the boardwalk, then rolled into the mud. The drunk knelt down, pulled the head out of the muck and gently tried to clean the gruesome face off with his dirty sleeve.

“That’s probably the sixth or seventh time that same damn head has been sold to some dumb son of a bitch,” Doc laughed again. “He’ll find out the reward was just for the first head brought in, try to get his gold back, get his ass kicked instead, then the head will get tucked away till the next pigeon comes along.”

****************

Hard times. Jonica Dupuis could barely remember when times weren’t hard. The war fucked up life in a big way. Too many of the boys who left the Teche to kick damn Yankee ass never came back. Most didn’t have a clue what they were fighting for. Too poor to own land or property. Hell, those boys never once seen a slave in their lives. But they were proud. They fought for their state. And they fought to the very end. There was no quit in a Louisiana boy. No surrender. They fought to the last man. And they got a reputation for being the fiercest damn fighters in the Confederate Army. A reputation earned in blood.

Bayou Teche blood. The blood of her three brothers. The blood of the 17 year-old boy who took a lock of 13 year-old Jonica’s hair with him as a memento; the lock of hair now buried with him in an unmarked grave at Sharpsburg.

Jonica watched in helpless fury as the Union gunboats patrolled the Teche, the damn Yankees looting and burning everything of worth. She stood by her beloved papere as the boats and barge the Dupuis family used for trading were sunk by the gunboats. Her papere, who always was so full of life and laughter and song, who called his granddaughter “Tee Poo” or “my little sweetheart”, pretty much died that day. He just gave up, stopped living, but his body didn’t realize it for another year. The family buried the old man at the exact same time a fucking Union gunboat happened to be sailing by. Jonica’s father, already grieving over the loss of his sons, snapped. Screaming curses at the top of his lungs, he rushed toward the water with his old flintlock musket, aimed at the boat and pulled the trigger. Jonica screamed as the bastards on the boat returned fire, killing her father instantly.

And even that wasn’t the end of it. Later that night after everyone was asleep, a drunk Union soldier burst into the small room where she was being held, clamped a sweaty hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming and started tearing off her nightdress. Jonica struggled fiercely and dug her sharp little nails into his eyes, slashing wildly. The man fell off the bed, bellowing, clutching his bloody eyes. Jonica climbed out the window and disappeared into the night. She fled deep into the bayou and hid out in a cave she used to play in as a girl, living on wild game she killed, berries and creek water for a few weeks. Then she carefully made her way out to Atchafalaya Bay where she hid out with relatives before being smuggled out of the area in one of the few cargo boats the Union didn’t sink.

In the span of less than three years, Jonica’s life had been turned upside down. Everyone and everything she cherished was taken away from her. Forced to leave the land she loved, wondering if she would ever see it again. Even after the war finally ended and she hooked up with Cord, traveling up and down the Mississippi, she was still afraid to return to the Teche, afraid of what would be waiting for her there.

Some day, she promised herself, some day I will go home again.

****************

Deadwood, The No. 10 Saloon, August 2, 1876

The men at the table looked up as Hickok entered the saloon. Billy Nuttall, the co-owner, waved a greeting from behind the bar. The bartender, Harry “Sam” Young, immediately poured a drink. Hickok nodded, took the glass, and moved to the table where co-owner Carl Mann, riverboat captain William Massie, and 20 year-old Ohio gambler Charlie Rich had resumed their game of Five Card Stud. There was an empty stool but this one had its back to the door. Rich was sitting in Hickok’s preferred seat against the wall facing the door.

“Be a sport, Charlie, and switch places with me,” Hickok said.

The young gambler grinned. “Hell, Bill, I’m winning big today. This spot is lucky. You can’t ask a man to give up his lucky seat.”

“Relax, Bill,” Mann laughed. “Only a jackass would be dumb enough to start something with you.”

Hickok thought it over, then sat down on the empty stool, his back to the door.

“Deal me in.”

****************

Aboard the Natchez Lady, June 23, 1872

"Va te faire foutre, trouduc!" Tee Poo snarled hoarsely as her razor-like claws gouged into her tormentor’s cheeks and eyelids. The woman reared back like a spooked palomino, letting go of Tee Poo’s throat, allowing the gasping Cajun girl to pull back off the railing and slide down to her knees on the wooden deck floor. She took a couple of long wheezing breaths, grabbed the rail with her hand and managed to get back to her feet.

Tee Poo wasted no time. Seeing the older woman had both hands covering her now bloody face, she charged at her, slamming her shoulder hard into her breasts sending them both crashing to the hard deck. Tee Poo scrambled on top of her and straddled the struggling woman, who bucked furiously, throwing wild punches at the Cajun sitting firmly on her belly. She tried to ram her knee into Tee Poo’s back but the younger girl scooted forward, grabbed her enemy’s wrists and pinned her arms under her knees.

“You tried to fucking kill me, putain!” Tee Poo rained hard punches down at the angry red bloody face of the thrashing squirming woman under her. Suddenly strong hands seized her arms and Tee Poo was roughly pulled off her victim. Two big sailors held her tight as William Massie, the captain of the Natchez Lady, moved between the two women. The gasping older woman savagely wiped the blood from her face and staggered to her feet, intent on attacking Tee Poo who strained in the grasp of the sailors. But Captain Massie was quicker. He stepped in front of the frothing snarling woman, blocking her path. He seized her by her shoulders and shook her.

“That’s enough from you! It’s over!” His booming authoritative voice and firm grip were enough to make her stop struggling. She surprisingly went limp and started to sob uncontrollably. Captain Massie turned to two other sailors who had hurried over and instructed them in a quieter calmer voice. “Take her up to the pilot house. I’ll be there directly.”

After the sailors took the hysterical woman away, the captain turned to Tee Poo. “Where’s your partner?” he asked sternly.

Tee Poo realized something bad must have happened. She raised her head, looked right in the captain’s eyes and said defiantly, “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Don’t lie to me, young lady. You’re in deep shit up to your pretty neck and the only way you might save it is to tell me the truth. We know you’re with Jefferson Cord. And we also know he cheats at cards.”

“That’s a lie! He doesn’t have to cheat! He’s a great poker player!”

From behind her, a voice said, “He’s a great poker player because he cheats.”

Tee Poo turned and saw a tall thin man with dark curly hair, a bushy moustache and deep penetrating eyes.

“Who the hell are you? And what do you know about it?”

The thin man gave a small bow. “My name is Samuel Clemens. But folks know me better by my pen name. Mark Twain.”

“I don’t know you by either name, mister. And where do you get off callin’ Cord a cheat?”

“I was watching him tonight. He’s good. Very good. I’d say that maybe nine out of ten folks wouldn’t be able to spot him. But I did. I’m good that way.”

Captain Massie said, “Mr. Twain is a personal friend of mine from way back when he was a riverboat pilot. He’s seen his share of carp sharps and cheats. He spotted Cord tonight when he was fleecing that fat fella.”

“Okay, so the fool is maybe out some money. It happens. I’m sorry but I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.”

“It’s more serious than that, I’m afraid. Why do you think his lady friend attacked you?”

“Because she’s a bitch? How the hell should I know? I didn’t stop to ask questions. I was too busy trying to keep her from pitching me into the river.”

“I’ll tell you why. Ebberly Packis is dead. He was shot in your friend Cord’s cabin and there’s a Derringer next to the body.”

Tee Poo’s face went white as Twain said, “A Derringer with an ivory grip with the initials ‘JBC’ engraved on it.”

“I’m not the law, missy,” Massie continued. “But on my boat I’m the closest thing to it. I have a murdered man in Cord’s cabin. Cord’s pistol is next to the body. But Cord himself seems to have vanished.”

Twain said quietly, “You’d be doing yourself a favor, miss, if you tell us where he is.”

“I don’t know where he is, I swear to God!” Tee Poo cried out. “Last I saw him he was still at the table when I left. And I had nothin’ to do with the killing. You gotta believe me!”

“I believe you,” Massie said. “You were too damn busy fighting off Mrs. Packis up here. I can’t hold you for something you didn’t do. Whether you knew Cord was cheatin’ or not is something I can’t prove either. But I can see to it that you are banned from ever settin’ foot on any riverboat on the Mississipp’ or Missouri.”

“I reckon you’d better stay on dry land from now on,” Twain drawled.

****************

Deadwood, August 2, 1876

I had seen the black-haired bitch before, I can’t remember where, but I’m pretty sure we knew each other before Deadwood. Then when we kept bumping into each other on the thoroughfare, I was positive that we had. And when I say we ‘bumped into each other’, I mean that literally. It was like she’d go out of her way to slam into me when we passed, even if there wasn’t anyone else within spitting distance of us. It always ended with some long dirty looks, a couple of curses, but that was all. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted nothing more than to rip into that bitch, but Madame Featherlegs warned us not to start any stupid shit so I let it go. But when she followed me down that alley in the Chinese quarter, I knew the time to ‘let it go’ was gone.

I watched as her eyes dropped down from me to the mud by the side of one of the shacks and she started to laugh.

“Relative of yours?”

I followed her gaze and gave a quick little gasp at what I saw. There, leaning against the wall, was the bloated severed head of a Sioux. One eye was closed, the other half-open, the eyeball was a filmy gray.

“Recognize him, breed? Maybe a cousin or uncle?”

That voice. That one word. Breed. That’s all it took to make me remember who she was. I heard she goes by Tricksie now but I knew her as Lynn at Mrs. Booker’s orphanage. Last time we were together in the same room, it took Mrs. Booker, the cook, the janitor and three other girls to pull us apart. She saw the look in my eyes and knew that I knew.

“Remember me now, don’t ya?”

“Oh yeah. I fuckin’ remember you. You thought you were so much better than the rest of us, Lynn. Look at you now. You’re just a whore, same as me.”

She scowled. “Puttin’ fancy clothes on a dirty breed don’t hide the fact that she’s still a dirty breed and that’s all she’ll ever be. Does that fine lady you work for know one of her girls has dirt worshipper blood?”

“Fuck you, Lynn. Stay outta my business!”

“Lynn is long gone, bitch. My name is Tricksie now an’ I like it just fine. You showin’ your ugly breed face here in Deadwood IS my business an’ I don’t give a damn what kind of truce Al Swearengen an’ your boss got goin’ on. We got a score to settle, you an’ me, an’ this here is a fine place to do it.”

I balled my fists and hissed, “Well, quit your palaverin’ an’ let’s get to it. I got things to do.”

We circled each other, fists up, as the few Celestials in the area scurried away, disappearing into shacks and tents, leaving just us in the alley. Tricksie suddenly made a grab for my wrist but I pulled it away just in time and threw a wild punch at her sneering face. She jerked her head back and my fist just brushed against her cheek. She charged forward, yanked at my top, sending the buttons flying as she pulled me toward her and threw a punch at my ribs. I brought my knee up hard into her belly as the punch connected. We both gasped at the same time and fell in a heap in the mud.

Tricksie grabbed my hair with one hand as she scrambled on top of me. I furiously started bucking up hard as her knees pressed tight to my sides. Snarling in anger, I flailed my fists up at her, punching her breasts as she yanked my head up and then slammed it back down hard into the gloop.

“Not so tough now, are ya, breed?” Tricksie panted as she backhanded me hard across the face. I cried out as I felt blood start to trickle down my chin from a cut lip. I countered by digging my nails into her cheeks as I squeezed her face, drawing some blood of my own. Tricksie screamed and punched me in the eye. I refused to release my grip, gouging her cheeks even deeper until she had no choice but to punch me again in the same eye, even harder and with more desperation this time. I finally had to let go of her face as my brain filled with a searing pain like hundreds of needles stabbing over and over and bright multi-colored lights flashed in my quickly swelling eye. Tricksie rolled off me and quickly scrambled up to her feet. Red rivers of blood streamed down her angry face as she stalked me, kicked me hard in the belly.

I gasped and retched a bit, curling up on my side, tucking my knees up. She stood over me, glaring down, breathing hard. She gave me another savage kick as she hissed, “You got off lucky last time, bitch! No one’s here to pull me off you now!”

****************

Nobody looked up as Jack McCall shuffled into the No. 10, his droopy eye fixed on Wild Bill Hickok’s back. Captain Massie, Rich and Mann were studying their cards. Nuttall and bartender Young were deep in conversation at the bar. Hickok didn’t move, didn’t turn around. McCall quickly walked the few steps to Hickok’s stool and aimed his .45 at the back of his head.

He snarled, “Damn you, take that!” and pulled the trigger.

****************

Like a huntress stalking her wounded prey, Tricksie walked around me as I lay curled up in the mud, giving me a hard kick every few steps. I cried out in agony as I felt a vicious sharp pain in my side and realized she must have cracked a rib. She reached down, grabbed my hair, yanked me up to my feet and flung me at the nearby shack. I crashed into the wall and slid down to the muddy ground. My hand hit something laying next to me, something both hard and soft and covered with hair. I looked down into the filmy gray-white eye of the dead Indian.

Tricksie laughed as my body flopped in the mud and moved over to finish me off. My fingers clutched the Indian’s long black hair tightly. As Tricksie leaned over me to pull me back up, I swung the head up at her as hard as I could manage. It flew in an arc, my fingers snarled in its hair, and the head met her forehead with a loud sickening THUD. She stumbled back a step and fell on her ass, a dumb stunned look on her face. Gasping, I painfully pulled myself up to my knees and swung the head at her again. This time the THUD was even louder (kinda like a melon being smashed with a sledgehammer), her eyes rolled up, and she flopped backwards into the muck, arms and legs all splayed out.

I fell forward, wheezing, crying, moaning. My head was swimming, I could barely see, but I knew I had to get the hell out of that alleyway. I somehow managed to make it to my feet, still clutching the severed head by the hair. My top hanging in tatters, I was barely aware that my mud-streaked breasts were exposed as I staggered out of the alley and stumbled along the thoroughfare, finally collapsing into the strong arms of the Albino as he rushed over with a very concerned Madame Featherlegs.

****************

“She’ll live.”

I opened my eyes, or at least the one eye that could open. I was lying on my bed, Doc Babcock was leaning over me, Madame Featherlegs and the other girls all hovering nearby.

“You got yourself banged up pretty good, missy,” Doc muttered with a slight smile. “Dancin’ and, uh, other things are out of the question till those ribs heal.”

“Who the fuck did this to you?” Gemma snarled.

My voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. “An old … friend.”

“You point the trollop out to me. She needs to get her bloody arse handed to her.”

“No,” Madame Featherlegs said sharply. “It’s over and done with. I don’t want this escalating into a bloody war.”

Doc Babcock laughed. “Besides, I think Little Bit took care of things right good on her own. I hear one of Al Swearengen’s girls went skull to skull with that damn Indian’s head.”

All eyes turned to me. I tried to grin but it hurt too damn much.

“Well, it was just layin’ there.”
 
“What were you doin’ by yourself over in Chinatown?” Jo wanted to know.

I gasped, remembering Bill’s errand and tried to sit up quickly, wincing as the pain ripped through my aching body. I fought the pain and started to get up off the bed.

Doc Babcock put his hand on my shoulder to keep me down. “And where the hell do you think you’re going, missy?”

“I gotta take care of something for Bill! He asked me to bring him back a package from the Celestial’s. He’s depending on me!”

There was silence in the room. Everyone was looking at each other, then down at the floor, avoiding my gaze.

“What? What’s goin’ on?” I asked.

Doc tried to ease me back down again. “Get back in that bed, missy. You aren’t up to moving around just yet.”

“Doc, just as soon as I do what I gotta do for Bill, I will. I promise.”

“Somebody needs to tell her,” Jo said quietly.

“Tell me what?”

“I’ll do it,” Tee Poo said. “You all leave us be.”

I blinked my good eye at her. I had never seen her usually smiling pretty face look so serious before. Her laughing eyes were sad.

“Tee Poo? What’s wrong?”

The Cajun girl sat down on the bed next to me and waited till everyone filed out of the room. She put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to her gently.

Then she told me.

My entire body started to shudder and I let out a low long moan. The tears flowed down my bruised face, stinging my swollen black eye. Tee Poo held me tight, starting to rock slowly. I just couldn’t stop crying. She whispered, “I know, Little Bit. I know … Shhhhh, fais do-do, cher. Go to sleep.”

And then she started to sing. A lullaby her mamere sang to her in another life on the Bayou Teche. Before the war. Before the Yankees came. Before the sadness.

“La petite poule grise
Quallait pondre dans l'église
Pondait un petite coco
Que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud

Létait une petite poul noir
Quallait pondre dans l'armoire
Pondait un petite coco
Que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud … ”

The others stood quiet in the doorway watching as the Cajun girl sang. I slowly stopped crying, letting the sound of her voice wash over me like an embrace from a mother I barely remembered. Tee Poo’s eyes were closed, she didn’t notice Madame Featherlegs usher Doc and the other girls out and softly shut the door.

“Létait une petite poul blanche
Quallait pondre dans la grange
Pondait un petite coco
Que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud

Létait une petite poul rousse
Quallait pondre dans la mousse
Pondait un petite coco
Que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud

Létait une petite poule brune
Quallait pondre sur la lune
Pondait un petite coco
Que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud … ”