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DEADWOOD

A STORY OF MURDER

By R. E. PerryPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 7 min read
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THE BADLANDS

From the diary of Alice Tubbs.

August 2, 1876. Deadwood, Black Hills

Dear Mother,

I'd come in on the stage, less than a week ago, but I was desperate for money. I was now a widow, and there weren’t a lot of employment options available for women in the town of Deadwood—if town wasn’t too fancy a name for the meager sprawl of unpainted false-fronted frame buildings along the single rutted muddy street.

I knew I should have stayed in good old England where I belonged. But Martin, with Irish blarney, had enflamed my senses with lofty visions of a free and wealthy life, beyond caste or gentry, available in the new country.

I still remember him holding up his hands, sliding them along an imaginary rainbow. “Imagine, Alice,” he'd say, "Gold, to be had for the taking—just lying there, ready to be sluiced in Deadwood’s creek.”

I had indeed imagined, and succumbed to his blandishments; but it wasn’t to be. Martin had fallen victim to smallpox on the arduous trail west and died in my arms shortly after we arrived in Deadwood. I’d used up all our savings on the local doctor and his medicines, trying desperately to keep Martin alive, but he died, in spite of me, Sunday evening.

Monday morning, I counted the few coins left in my reticule. Twenty four cents. I could afford one breakfast, if I didn’t eat the rest of the day. Then after that, I would need to contrive some other way of earning an income.

As I left my room, I was accosted in the hallway of the hotel by Al Swearangen. He was the owner of the Gem, which was euphemistically called a ‘theater’ but was actually a notorious Deadwood brothel.

He tipped his hat to me. “Hello there, little lady,” he said. “So sorry to hear about your loss...”

I was tempted to pretend I hadn’t heard him and sweep right by, but common sense told me I couldn’t afford to make any enemies right now. Not even him. Perhaps especially not him; though the thought of seeking employment with a pimp made my blood run cold. I’ll starve, I thought, before I become one of his soiled doves!

I nodded to him, instead.

“I’d like to help you, if I may,” he said, his voice fairly dripping with false sympathy.

“Thank you,” I said. "I'm doing very well.”

“I’m sure you are,” he rejoined. “But if you are ever in need—of anything—I’d take it kindly of you, if you’d come to me, for assistance first.” He handed me his card, heavy white stock with embossed gold lettering spelling out his name and The Gem.

I didn’t trust my voice, so I simply nodded again, then continued down the stairs to the dining room.

I dropped Swearangen’s card into a planter beside the reception desk, as the waiter led me to my solitary table, where I ordered the special; two eggs sunny side up, two strips of bacon and toast for the outrageous price of twenty cents, or a pinch of gold dust. I gave the waiter my last four cents for a tip. “Is there a jeweler in town?” I asked.

“Well,” he said. “Sort of.” He smiled sympathetically at me. “Jeremiah Massey, over at the hardware, sometimes takes pawns.”

Was it that obvious I was destitute? I inquired the way, and was soon picking my way over the muddy boardwalk to the hardware store, which was, in fact, a canvas tent.

“Mr. Massey?” I asked. He looked to be well into his fifties, and was going bald.

“Why, yes.” His eyes brightened as he straightened up, and saw me. He smiled warmly. “How can I help you, Miss?”

That’s right, I thought. Women are somewhat rare in these parts; particularly young, comely, white women. I sighed. I supposed, if I became desperate enough, marriage was an option. “I understand you take items for pawn?”

“Yes,” he said. “What do you have?”

I opened my reticule, and took out the broach. I hated to part with it; it was a fine opal, an heirloom from her grandmother. But Grandmother would not want me to starve, I reminded herself. Or be reduced to selling my body.

He took it from my hand. “It’s lovely,” he said, shaking his head. “But there’s not much call for such things here in Deadwood. I can’t give you even a fraction of what it’s worth.”

“What can you give me?” I asked.

“Two dollars,” he said. “And I’ll buy you supper as well, if you’d allow it.”

I thought for a long moment. Two dollars was not enough; it was barely enough to pay my hotel for the rest of the week. “Make it five dollars, and you have a deal,” I said.

“And I’m getting the best of it, no question,” he said. “Can I take you to some entertainment this evening, after supper?”

“Are there any poker games in town?” I asked.

“Why yes,” he said. “There’s pretty much always a game of five card stud, at Nuttal & Moma’s Saloon in the evening.”

“Could we go there?” I asked. “It’s been awhile since I’ve enjoyed a nice hand of poker.”

“You play poker?” His voice expressed gentlemanly dismay.

“I’m not that good, but I enjoy it,” I said. “If you wouldn’t mind…”

Nuttal and Moma’s Saloon was as rough and primitive as the rest of the town, a single story building pounded together out of rough, barely planed raw wood. I had debated what to wear for the occasion, and decided at last to go with my least provocative evening gown, in black. I covered it with a black shawl, and slipped a little black notebook into my reticule. During the evening, I knew I’d take a moment to retire to the ladies retiring room, and make some notes on the “tells” I’d noticed. I’d lied to nice Mr. Massey. I was, as you know, an experienced and wily poker player. My brothers and sisters and I had spent thousands of rainy days, back in Somerset, playing poker—until my rotten siblings refused to continue playing with me because I almost always won.

If I’d been a man, I might have made a career as a professional gambler, but, of course, such a course was not open to a woman. But no such strictures held me back tonight. I intended to play with all my skill, and win; I needed to transform that five dollars into considerably more, if I were to survive in the New World.

We started the game at about seven o’clock, with four players; Jeremiah Massey, Al Swearangen, James Butler Hickock and myself. I'd heard of “Wild Bill” as Hickock was called; he was a well-known professional gamer, and I knew I would have to be on my mettle to beat him. As the hours passed, my little stake gradually expanded, from five dollars, to twenty-five, to a hundred, to a gold nugget, and then a little bag of gold dust.

By ten thirty, the four of us were surrounded by avid spectators, making side bets. Al Swearangen had folded, and the remaining players were now Massey, Wild Bill, and me. I suspected Bill had a good—perhaps a great—hand. I bore down, keeping my face impassive—restraining myself from chewing on my lip; I had an excellent hand, but was it good enough? I had a Full House; but what if he had a Royal Flush? I looked into his eyes, and saw nothing but lazy determination. This was it—my chance for the big jackpot of the night. But if I guessed wrong, I'd lose everything.

Wild Bill shoved all his winnings into the center of the table. “I see your bid,” he said, “and I call.”

Massey laid down his cards. He had a Flush.

Bill swore. “The old duffer,” he said. “He broke me on that hand!”

BANG!

“Damn you! Take that!” a man yelled.

Bill fell from his chair. His white Stetson fell off; a hole gushing bright blood, pouring from the back of his head. The cards fell out of his hand; he’d had two pairs—two aces and two clubs. My hand had beaten both Bill and Massey.

In the confusion, as the men from the tavern, chased the murderer out of the saloon, I scooped up the cash on the table, and stuffed it into my reticule. When I counted it, that evening, back at the hotel, I had over twenty thousand dollars, the stake I needed to start my new life.

fact or fiction
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About the Creator

R. E. Perry

I'm a lawyer, in my day job, but a passionate writer the rest of the time. I'm currently working on a romantic comedy series: Cozy Home to Sherwood, set in rural Saskatchewan.

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