by David Orange
“All aboard. Leaving for Deadwood in thirty minutes.” The conductor paused long enough from his shouted announcements to punch E.B. Farnum’s ticket. Farnum took measured steps down the aisle, scanning both sides for what he hoped would be a row to himself. He felt a bump from behind as someone attempted to jostle past him.
“Hey, wait your turn, plenty of room for all of us,” said Farnum. He turned and to his surprise saw a woman nearly as tall as himself. A white forelock contrasted with her otherwise long brown hair tied back. The interloper wore a plain green dress with white buttons. Her features suggested that delicate stage of no longer young, but not yet approaching middle age that did nothing to soften a stern glower that brooked no nonsense.
Undeterred, Farnum introduced himself as he reached for the woman’s bulky carpetbag. “E.B. Farnum, at your service, but you can call me Ethan.”
“You, sir, are a bumbling oaf,” said the woman.
“British. Bismarck, North Dakota is a long way from her side of the pond,” Farnum thought to himself.
A porter squeezed past both Farnum and the woman. He turned and addressed the latter. “Ah, Miss Perivale. It’s always a pleasure to have you join us aboard Iron Dragon Railroad.” He offered his white-gloved hand towards the woman’s luggage. This time, the woman accepted the offer of assistance. “Why thank you, Mr. Zheng,” she said. The porter then stowed the carpetbag on the wooden shelf above Miss Perivale’s seat.
Zheng then gave Farnum an obsequious simper as he gestured to a row further down the carriage and diagonally across from where the nonplussed Farnum still stood. “Right over there, my good sir.” But the porter made no other effort to assist Farnum to his seat nor stow the accompanying satchel.
Farnum shrugged as he settled in to endure the long ride ahead. At the appointed time, the Iron Dragon locomotive lurched to life, propelled forward as ghost rock burned and released banshee howls as steam escaped through the smokestack. The train made its way across the glistening steel truss bridge that spanned the Missouri River below, before turning to the southwest for the eight hour journey through the rolling hills and prairie grasslands of the high plains. Farnum looked out the window as a kestrel flew by, before it dove for an unseen rodent. He reclined back against the firm leather seat as he thought back to his meeting with Nehemiah Ordway, Governor of the Dakota Territory.
* * *
The stern man seated at the desk in the foyer scowled over his pince-nez spectacles. “State your name and business,” he said.
Farnum drew himself up to his full, but modest, height. “I am Ethan Bennett Farnum and Governor Ordway is expecting me.”
The secretary’s scowl remained frozen as he peered down at his open record book. A bony finger traced the various appointments before stopping at an entry further down the page. “As it were,” he said. “Please wait while I inform the Governor of your arrival.” The man retreated through the antechamber’s doorway, reappearing after a few minutes. He cocked his head and pointed inwards, indicating that Farnum could now enter the office.
Even with west-facing windows and a few oil lamps, Farnum had to pause and let his eyes adjust to the shadows flickering around the dimly lit room. A pair of marble busts caught his eye. Daniel Webster honored the greatest statesman of the Governor’s home state of New Hampshire. The other commemorated Rutherford B. Hayes, the former United States president who had appointed Ordway to the governorship. Befitting one who started as a merchant and then went into banking and finance, Governor Ordway’s shelves contained orderly rows of books and compilations of official records and transactions.
From the well-tailored suit, to the starched white shirt adorned with a precisely arranged black cravat, Governor Nehemiah G. Ordway’s attire befitted one who had earned his wealth and station in life through discipline and practical decisions. His dark beard displayed flecks of gray, but the thick shock of white hair betrayed the man’s age and hinted at too many years of making difficult choices. Overall, his authoritative posture seemed as much noblesse oblige as a dogged sense of righteous purpose.
Farnum extended his hand, which the governor declined to shake. Undeterred, Farnum greeted the man seated before him. “Thank you, Your Excellency, for taking the time to meet with me and discuss the situation in Deadwood.”
Ordway cocked an eyebrow and gestured for Farnum to have a seat in the waiting chair. “I have reviewed your introductory letter. I agree that Mayor Starr lacks the, shall we say, vision to run Deadwood.” He paused and his eyes appeared to burrow deep into Farnum’s soul. “I believe you and I are aligned with the idea that progress comes from both expanding Deadwood’s borders and supporting the hardworking miners who provide the ghost rock that fuels the Dakota Territory towards its rightful place on this great continent of ours.”
As Farnum listened to the governor, he realized that Ordway’s ambitions began with, but did not end at, statehood and formally joining the United States as an equal partner.
“I am, but a humble businessman,” said Farnum. “I am allied with Frank Bryant of the Deadwood Miner’s Alliance, as well as Al Swearengen, Deadwood’s most prominent citizen who has influence with just about everybody else. But it’s the First Peoples that will prove to be our biggest obstacle.”
Governor Ordway steepled his hands and thought for a moment. “I can provide access to lawyers, guns, and money. Funds will be wired to Stebbins & Post. I can have munitions and explosives sent via secure channels.”
A slight nod acknowledged Ordway’s promised assistance. “The material help is most appreciated, your Excellency,” said Farnum. “That said, there are, um, legal matters that must be attended to.”
“As I said, we share a dream for Deadwood and the Dakotas. I have made Sol Starr’s incompetence and unsuitability for public office well known to the other territorial, and yes, federal officials and leaders. Mr. Sol Starr will be an ex-Mayor soon enough. Any legal matters will find their way to my office, where I am certain they will result in judgments favorable to our mutual interests.”
Once again, Farnum nodded in agreement as Ordway outlined the overall plan of assistance to his endeavors. “Thank you again, Your Excellency. I’ll see to it that my associates make full use of these resources.” With a half bow, Farnum saw himself out of Ordway’s office…
…Farnum awoke with a start as he felt himself pushed back against the train seat. A glimpse out the polished glass window showed the outlines of the Black Hills rising up from the plains. From experience, he knew that the closeness was an illusion of scale and size and that the mountains shielding Deadwood behind them were still a few hours away. After briefly considering the upcoming meeting that he would have to organize, E.B. Farnum nodded back off for the remainder of his journey.
“Deadwood, this is our final stop on this journey. Everybody off. Platform Two for those of you continuing towards Chicago.” The conductor threw open the door and stepped down to the platform to assist others in disembarking from the train. Farnum hoped to catch the Perivale woman. Alas, after Farnum had retrieved his own luggage and exited the passenger car, he realized that the British woman had long since departed. Farnum looked around the platform and snapped his fingers. “Messenger!”
An Asian man in livery stepped up and held out his hand. Farnum ignored him and instead beckoned to a slender red-haired, but otherwise nondescript youth. He then pressed a folded sheet of paper that wrapped a ghost rock coin.
“Please deliver this to Frank Bryant at Nuttal & Mann’s. Mr. Bryant will give you another coin for your trouble.”
The young man headed south towards the infamous saloon, while Farnum himself remained on the platform to assess who else had arrived in Deadwood. He also continued to search in vain for the mysterious, and still very much vanished, Miss Perivale. A boisterous welcome, however, interrupted his search.
“My dear, sweet, precious, precious, darling little boys! As I live and breathe, y’all are a sight for a poor mother’s eyes. Come here the both of you.”
Farnum saw a slight, but wiry older woman in a floral hat and pink gingham dress rushing forward to greet and embrace a pair of lanky cowpokes.
“Fred, give your poor ol’ momma some sugar,” said the woman.
The more dapper and mustachioed of the duo, clearly brothers, leaned in to give his mother a quick peck on the proffered cheek. The woman then turned to her other son, a tall sallow man who walked with a shambling slouch. His mother pulled him down further to her eye level as she tugged on one ear, then the other.
“Silas Aims, You gallivant off to Gomorra, California, the very least you can do is wash behind the ears.” The woman gave a sigh and headed off towards town, her sons following behind her.
* * *
Farnum strode into the Gem Theater, making his way towards the back.
Delores “Dolly” Lassiter, the lead hostess, noticed Farnum’s arrival. “The big guy cleared the place out per your instructions.” She gestured towards the stairs leading to the second floor saloon. “He’s waiting upstairs for you and Mr. Bryant.”
“Thank you Dolly, you’re a peach as always,” Farnum replied. The stairs needed to reach too much height, too soon. Farnum huffed a bit at the steepness of each step, pulling himself forward with stop and go grips along the wooden banister that creaked with each gripped pull. As he reached the landing, he saw Al Swerengen seated at the opposite end of a long table, amusing himself by flicking his dirk into the desk and back again.
“Bryant should be along shortly, I sent someone to roust him from the ol’ one-oh,” said Farnum.
Swearengen grunted acknowledgment, but otherwise remained absorbed in his solitary game of mumblety-peg. Farnum avoided the exposed railing side of the table, instead moving over to the seat twixt the table and the wall nearest Swearengen.
After a few minutes, they heard the heavy clumping of boots taking the stairs two steps at a time, but the lack of creaking indicated that the new arrival did not need to use the banister for support. After a minute, a heavyset man strode across the room to join them.
“Mr. Bryant, good of you to join us,” said Farnum.
Frank Bryant wore his usual bib overalls, cuffs rolled up high-water style, revealing thick lace up leather boots. Burly forearms protruded from a checkered shirt, also with sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Enormous scarred fists looked equally adept at wielding either a pickaxe or cudgels depending whether or not he needed to break rock or skull. He took the other seat next to Swearengen and opposite Farnum. The trio formed an unlikely triangular spear point at the head of the long table.
Despite Swearengen, owner of the Gem, sitting at the head of the table. Farnum stood up and spoke first. “I have just returned from Bismarck, where I had a very productive meeting with Governor Ordway,” he said.
Name dropping the territorial governor caused Swearengen’s gaze to shift from his knife to Farnum. He embedded the dirk into a well worn spot on the desk, cradling the wooden hilt in a pinch grip, while resting his index finger on the smooth metal pommel.
Having gotten his associate’s attention, Farnum cleared his throat and continued. “Cutting to the chase, the Governor agrees that Deadwood’s progress is the key to the Dakota Territory’s future success. In short, Governor Nehemiah Ordway is backing our play. I will be coordinating the resources that the governor has put at our disposal.” Farnum paused again to let the news sink in. “But time waits for nothing or no one.” He looked over to Swearengen. “Start with you, Mr. Swearengen, where are we at with making sure the law remains on our side?”
The Gem Theater’s owner harrumphed, but remained seated as he addressed Farnum, ignoring the miner seated to his other side. “Well, Marshal Bullock is honest to a fault. Emphasis on fault. But one of those darn fool scientists of yours got kidnapped by some crazies who live out in some ‘Worm Canyon’ in the badlands, and Bullock’s sense of duty compelled him to go chasing after them to rescue the fellow. Dingler, I think it was. The good Marshal won’t be mucking up our plans for a good bit.”
“And what of the deputy, Stan Fredricks?” asked Farnum.
Swearengen’s non-knife hand gave his thigh several resounding thumps. “Deputy Fredricks remains firmly in my pocket.” He gave a hearty chuckle before resuming his narrative. “He will, of course, investigate any wrongdoings in Deadwood. But rest assured, the man couldn’t find his heinie if you gave him a map to it.”
Farnum looked across to Bryant and then back to Swearengen. “We’ll get to OUR ghosts in a minute, but have you learned anything more about the rumor that the unsettled remains of Wild Bill Hickok no longer push up daisies, but instead seek vengeance against Jack McCall? And after that who knows who else that ol’ gunslinger has a score to settle with?”
Swearengen leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “I spoke to that Eagle Woman, and she said it’s true, Hickok’s back from the dead somehow and prowling round the hills. But don’t you worry. Big game requires a big hunter. We got nothing but the best to chase down Hickok.”
Farnum gave an exasperated sigh and a steady glance at Swearengen. “And…”
“And that would be none other than US Marshal Bass Reeves. He won’t stop until he puts Hickok back into the grave once and forever all. So that’ll keep Hickok busy and also keep another honest lawman from prying and meddling in our affairs of state.”
“All good, thank you Mr. Swearengen,” said Farnum. He turned to the leader of the Deadwood Miner’s Alliance. “And what have you to report, Mr. Bryant?”
Frank Bryant rose to his considerable full height and struck an orator’s pose at odds with his hardscrabble origins. “I arrived in Deadwood with only a dream and a vision. This place was nothing, more wood than dead, ‘cause there weren’t any folks to even die. But I saw those hills for what they were – blankets covering ghost rock nestled in the veins awaiting extraction. I staked the first claim. I found the first lode. I gave people reason to come here. And I’ll be danged if those natives on the outside or supposed laws on the inside take what I and other claimholders have built with our bare hands and sturdy picks. The Deadwood Miner’s Alliance was founded and exists to protect those rights and claims.” Bryant paused as he came up for air after his run on monologue.
Farnum managed to restrain himself from laughing at the miner’s attempts at fiery polemics. Instead, he maintained his composure and maintained firm eye contact as he addressed Bryant. “Those ghostly disguises and spreading the word of dastardly deeds conducted by vengeful spirits have a real impact. Have the Alliance keep up the spooky stuff, until the governor’s cash and goods find their way to our coffers and warehouses.” Farnum paused and looked over to both of his associates. “I believe that wraps things up, either of you have anything further to add to our discussion?”
Al Swearengen coughed as he spun his dirk on the desk. Farnum noticed the subtle placement of Swearengen’s finger that stopped the knife’s rotations so that the blade pointed at Frank Bryant. Sure enough, the Gem Theater’s proprietor addressed the miner.
“Word on the street is that the shopkeepers and food merchants of Chinatown have recruited their own gang called the 108 Righteous Bandits. They are led by Hao-T’e Zui, the one they call the ‘Mad Monk. He’s a wannabe folk hero’” Swearengen’s eyes held steady with Bryant’s. He enunciated every word and syllable for emphasis. “Do not let the actions of the Deadwood Miner’s Alliance escalate into a street war. We have the law in our pockets, or even better yet, sent away from Deadwood. But we are not prepared or equipped to deal with thugs who oppose us with total disregard to the formalities of the law itself.”