OLD DEADWOOD DAYS (Tales of the Soiled Doves)
Chapter FiveAboard the Natchez Lady, somewhere on the Mississippi River, June 23, 1872Tee 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 Agnes I’d look after 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 great poker player but he was even better at 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. “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 sucker,” 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, 1876The 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 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 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, 1876I 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 Chinatown, 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 pckage 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 … ”
TO BE CONTINUED
