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  Harry Young, the young man Hickok had befriended and helped in Abilene several years earlier, was now a bartender at Nuttall and Mann’s No. 10 saloon. He noted in his memoir, “A more picturesque sight than Hickok on horseback could not be imagined.” Hickok rode up to the saloon, and the owner “greeted him with much enthusiasm and asked him to make the saloon his headquarters. This meant money for Mann, as Hickok was a great drawing card.”

  One of those in the ad hoc parade was Richard Seymour, who had been with the expedition from the beginning. Bloody Dick, as he was called, was believed to be—probably because he claimed it—the son of an aristocratic English family, who had come to America seeking adventure. He appeared on the frontier in 1874, serving as a packer for the U.S. Army, and he made the acquaintance of Buffalo Bill Cody. Both were on the Big Horn expedition and the Powder River campaign, and while he was stationed at Fort Robinson, Seymour’s employment was listed as “assistant in charge of public train.” Somewhere along the way, he and Colorado Charley had become friends, and Seymour was on the Deadwood expedition because he would partner with Utter and John James Ingalls3 to create the express mail service between Deadwood and Custer City and beyond to Fort Laramie. Ingalls, a Massachusetts native, was a former Kansas newspaper editor now representing the state in the U.S. Senate.

  The new arrivals set up camp on Whitewood Creek … all except Calamity Jane. Swearengen’s dance hall was down to only two singers and dancers, which didn’t make the mass of men who crowded in every night very happy. Calamity Jane was immediately hired. However, she could not be kicking up her heels in a buckskin outfit that still had trail dust wafting off it. Hickok and the other men passed the hat and gave Calamity Jane twenty dollars. Hickok’s contribution was accompanied by a request that she wash behind her ears. Accordingly, she jumped in the creek to take a bath, then dressed again and went off to town.

  After a few days, the lenders wondered if she had simply drunk up the loan, but then Calamity Jane returned, “all togged out in a good outfit of female clothes,” Anderson recalled, and took care of the debt from a roll of bills she pulled out of her stocking.

  Everyone but Hickok was repaid. He refused the return of the twenty dollars, saying, “At least she looks like a woman now.”

  Well, she was a woman, but she sure did not act like a proper lady of the time when her dander was up. Another female member of the Hickok party was a slight redhead everyone called Tit Bit. (Other colorfully named female companions of Calamity Jane’s on the trip were known as Big Dollie, Smooth Bore, and Sizzling Kate.) Calamity Jane took her under her wing to show her how she could survive and even make a living in Deadwood. These activities included teasing men for drinks and meals, and sometimes providing favors. The relatively inexperienced Tit Bit was not discriminating enough to avoid taking on a man known as Laughing Sam as a client. He was a gambler with a shaky reputation, and he added to it by paying Tit Bit with a small pouch that he said contained gold dust but was instead a mixture of metal filings and sand.

  Tit Bit, when the ruse was discovered, was not about to take on Laughing Sam … but she had a friend who, like Wild Bill, feared no one. Borrowing two pistols from Colorado Charley, Calamity Jane went back into Deadwood, found the saloon Laughing Sam was in, and entered to confront him. There was a hush as onlookers took in the scene of the well-known and usually fun-loving Calamity Jane training the two pistols on the seated gambler, whose reaction was far from laughter.

  She filled the silence by declaring she would fill Laughing Sam with lead, but first she had to reveal to all what he had done. She did, using particularly pungent language. When Sam saw she was ready to squeeze the triggers, he reached not for his own gun but for two twenty-dollar gold coins, which he begged be given to Tit Bit. Calamity Jane left with them, and no one tried to cheat Tit Bit again.

  It was the kind of action Wild Bill Hickok would have taken on behalf of a swindled friend. But he may not have had it in him anymore. Colorado Charley and others noted that Hickok seemed moody and often melancholy. One time when Utter pressed him a bit, Hickok responded with what was like one of the soliloquys he’d had to recite while onstage with Buffalo Bill, Texas Jack, and the rest of the cast. This time, though, what he was saying seemed heartfelt.

  “I feel that my days are numbered,” Hickok told his friend. “My sun is sinking fast. I know I shall be killed here, something tells me I shall never leave these hills alive, somebody is going to kill me. But I don’t know who he is or why he is going to do it. I have killed many men in my day, but I never killed any man yet but what it was kill or get killed.”

  Utter figured Hickok was just tired from the journey. But it spooked him nonetheless.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE PREMONITION

  Having heard about the event from Buffalo Bill Cody, Wild Bill Hickok and the advance guard of his caravan that set up camp just outside Deadwood were able to confirm the persistent rumors of a great loss at the hands of Indian warriors. Indeed, George Armstrong Custer was dead.

  On the morning of June 25, Lieutenant Colonel Custer, accompanied by his brothers Tom and Boston and a nephew and brother-in-law, had led units of the Seventh Cavalry in an attack on an Indian village near the Little Bighorn River in Montana. Custer was unaware that the Lakota Sioux medicine man Sitting Bull had gathered 2,500 Sioux, Arapaho, and Northern Cheyenne warriors. Led by the war chiefs Crazy Horse and Gall, the mass of Indians surrounded and killed Custer and 261 of his men.

  While this was a stunning victory for the Lakota Sioux and their allies, offering them stronger hope that the white invaders would melt away like spring snow, the actual result was an intensification of the military pressure on Indians throughout the Plains. What would be called the Great Sioux War of 1876 became an effort to force onto reservations the remaining native peoples who wanted to live independently, and while the army was at it, avenge the Little Bighorn massacre.

  In a gruesome way, it was Buffalo Bill who was first to enact some revenge. About a week after having met Hickok and the caravan, Cody and the Fifth Cavalry were on patrol when they intercepted a band of Cheyenne warriors. A running battle began. The warrior Cody went after was named Yellow Hair—ironically, one of the nicknames Indians had for Custer. After shooting the warrior off his horse, Cody jumped off his own horse and scalped the dead Yellow Hair. Raising his fist, Cody cried out, “First scalp for Custer!” For years, in his stage productions, Cody would reenact this scene, to the delight of eastern audiences and the consternation of the Indian members of the cast.1

  Reports of the Little Bighorn battle and skirmishes with Indian bands made people aware of the increased risk of travel across the frontier, especially the Plains. If Wild Bill Hickok had second thoughts about a new career as a gold prospector or just wanted to return to his bride, this was not the best time to take to the road. Or maybe it didn’t matter, because the lanky gunfighter was in something of a limbo state.

  When Hickok finally ambled into Deadwood to explore the infamous town and, presumably, how to go about forming an expedition into the Black Hills, he saw that there were indeed men who had found gold and perhaps were in the process of becoming rich … if they didn’t toss it all away on the whiskey and women the Deadwood saloons offered. At a creaky thirty-nine, though, with failing eyesight,2 Hickok was more convinced than ever before that he was not about to be kneeling by the side of a creek sifting through dirt and sand all day.

  He may have tried, however. In a letter to his wife dated July 17, Hickok wrote, “I have but a few moments left before this letter starts. I never was as well in my life; but you would laugh to see me now—just got in from prospecting. Will go away again tomorrow. Will write again in the morning, but God knows when the letter will start. My friend will take this to Cheyenne, if he lives.”

  If it was true that he had made an attempt at prospecting, more likely the exercise further persuaded Hickok that any riches he might glean would come at the gaming tables. T
he rest of the letter, signed J. B. Hickok, sounds completely sincere: “I don’t expect to hear from you, but it is all the same. I know my Agnes and only live to love her. Never mind, Pet, we will have a home yet, then we will be so happy. I am almost sure I will do well here. The man is hurrying me. Good-bye, dear wife. Love to Emma.”

  When he was not in Deadwood, he relaxed at the Whitewood Springs camp and practiced drawing and shooting, just in case. In Deadwood, as the historian James D. McLaird put it, “Hickok spent only a few weeks in the Black Hills … and he wasted most of his time in Deadwood drinking, gambling, and shooting at targets.”

  No doubt, his prospecting ambitions, such as they were, were hampered by his having agreed to Carl Mann’s proposition. Saloon No. 10 became his home in Deadwood, and he was given a generous bar tab, with drinks often served by Harry Young. The bartender was one of many who could not get enough of Hickok’s stories. By then, the famed gunfighter was forgetful or jaded enough that it did not matter which stories were true.

  In his memoir Hard Knocks, Young would recall that since he had last seen Hickok, the frontiersman had “changed greatly and tried very hard to avoid notoriety, but unfortunately his past reputation was still a matter of public comment. Bill had attained much the same reputation as a prizefighter who has successfully sent all of his opponents down to defeat and become the acknowledged champion.”

  Hickok developed a set routine to get each day going: “The first thing Wild Bill would do in the morning was empty his pistols in target practice at an old cottonwood tree that grew on the bank of the creek,” White Eye Anderson remembered. “Then he would take a stiff drink of whiskey and he would be ready for breakfast.”

  A cheerful event was the arrival in Deadwood of his old friend California Joe, who “had hardly changed since Wild Bill saw him last,” writes Joseph Rosa. “His hair and beard were still matted, and he still had his great sense of humor.” It was not uncommon for passersby in town to see Wild Bill, Colorado Charley, and California Joe heading for the No. 10 saloon, where they would swap tales of life on the prairie.

  That month, with the summer broiling the dust-covered streets of Deadwood, Hickok’s camp was visited by a reporter from The Springfield Republican, a newspaper in Massachusetts. Leander Richardson had been dispatched to inform readers back home about the Black Hills gold rush.

  He met Colorado Charley first, who in turn suggested that Richardson meet his friend Wild Bill. In the “middle of a bright sunny afternoon” the two men found Hickok sitting on a board lying on the ground in front of a saloon. “His knees were drawn up in front of him as high as his chin, and he was whittling at a piece of wood with a large pocketknife.”

  Richardson wrote that after Utter asked Hickok to stand up for an introduction, “Wild Bill slowly arose. He came up like an elevator, and he came up so high that I thought he was never going to stop. He was unusually tall, and quite spare as to flesh, but very brawny and muscular.”

  The reporter became enamored right away with the legendary gunfighter, even more so when Hickok, much the veteran performer, tossed a tomato can in the air and shot it twice before it landed on the ground. And Richardson was mightily impressed one afternoon when they strolled through Deadwood and a gun battle broke out between two men on the main drag. As citizens sought cover, Hickok paused to observe the shoot-out and offered the trembling reporter sarcastic comments about their poor marksmanship.

  Another time, there was an altercation in a bar, and when the proprietor produced a shotgun, the patrons hurried for the exit. But Hickok stopped Richardson, saying, “Young man, never run away from a gun. Bullets can travel faster than you can. Besides, if you’re going to be hit, you had better get it in the front than in the back. It looks better.”

  Richardson marveled at his cool and asked Hickok how he could control his nerves during an armed confrontation. The gunfighter replied, “When a man believes the bullet isn’t moulded that is going to kill him, what in hell has he got to be afraid of?”

  Richardson was surprised by the desire for order and cleanliness in the midst of chaotic living for most residents. However, in this case, it was Colorado Charley representing that even more so than Wild Bill. Both men still bathed every day, either in the creek or in a Deadwood bathhouse, but Utter’s fastidiousness went well beyond that of his friend. Richardson reported that one night Hickok returned drunk to the camp, and seeing Utter’s tent empty, and the rather expensive blankets in it proving too tempting, he ignored Utter’s “do not enter” prohibition and fell asleep within.

  When Utter came back from town and saw Hickok sprawled across his blankets, he dragged him out by his feet. Muttering oaths, Utter took the blankets, shook them out thoroughly, and hung them on tree branches for a good airing. A bemused Hickok gazed at his friend’s activities for a few minutes, then “with a parting grunt, climbed into his wagon and went peacefully to sleep again.”

  Colorado Charley may also have had a bone to pick with Hickok over gambling. It and his daily quota of liquor went hand in hand. The problem was, Hickok was losing at poker more than he was winning, and when funds were low, Utter, who had done very well in real estate and other ventures back home, provided Hickok with more money. Deadwood had become a mecca for professional cardsharps, and they were simply better players than the shootist. It was also possible that Hickok was being cheated regularly and his eyes could not discern the tricks.

  A rumor began to spread that put Hickok’s life in danger, the kind of danger he had faced in Hays City and Abilene when he was younger and had clear eyesight. A story circulated that the legendary gunfighter had been recruited to come to Deadwood. “He had never been north of Cheyenne before this, although many in Deadwood knew him, some only by reputation,” commented Harry Young. “A good many gunmen of note were in town and his arrival caused quite a commotion.”

  The rumor claimed that an attempt to impose law and order in Deadwood was about to get under way, and the one who would do the imposing was Wild Bill Hickok. The new marshal would bring to the Sodom and Gomorrah of the Dakotas the same kind of six-shooter discipline he had brought to Abilene. Hickok knew nothing about such an effort, but hearing about it, he immediately understood that gunmen and even businessmen like Swearengen who felt threatened might arrange for his death even before he could contemplate pinning on a badge.

  There were actual feelers put out for men who would do the hit, by Tim Brady and Johnny Varnes (and probably Swearengen), who controlled some of the gambling operations in town. One of the fellows in Deadwood with an unsavory reputation was the gunman Jim Levy, who turned the job down, intimidated by Hickok’s reputation. Another man-killer who was approached was Charlie Storms.

  Storms was just the kind of gunman Hickok had to be wary of—envious of the reputations a few other men had earned, and waiting for an opportunity to do something about it. In 1876, Storms was a gray-whiskered fifty-three with a long résumé, not much of it good. He hailed from upstate New York, lived for a time in Mexico—possibly as a mercenary in the routine uprisings and suppressions there—then went cross-country in 1849 to seek his fortune (unsuccessfully) in the California gold rush. It is not known what he did during the Civil War years, but afterward, he roamed the frontier as a hired gun and a gambler. Storms’s travels took him to Virginia City, Leadville, Dodge City, and Deadwood, where he had survived several gunfights.

  However, he refused to take a shot at Wild Bill that summer of ’76. Storms moved on, revisiting old haunts that would still have him, and in 1881, he was in Tombstone, Arizona. There, on February 25, he had the misfortune of encountering men he could not intimidate and, worse, outdraw. Storms was drinking a lot of whiskey in the Oriental Saloon. This new watering hole was co-owned by Wyatt Earp, and helping to manage it and provide security was Bat Masterson. The two best friends had reunited a few years after being lawmen together in Dodge City. Masterson certainly knew Storms, even considered him somewhat of a friend, yet the large consumption of
whiskey and the man’s penchant for gunplay had the saloon’s manager on alert.

  Another misfortune for Storms was he was losing at faro, the most popular card game at the time on the frontier, and the dealer was Luke Short. The diminutive dealer was a good friend to both Bat and Wyatt, and his temper sometimes caused him some trouble. On this particular whiskey-soaked evening, Storms criticized the quality of the dealing and connected it to his ongoing streak of bad luck. When Short was considerably less than sympathetic, Storms slapped him.

  Short went for his gun, but an instant later, “I jumped between them and grabbed Storms, at the same time requesting Luke not to shoot,” Bat wrote about the incident.

  The former sheriff of Ford County, Kansas, took Storms outside and told him to go to his hotel room and get some sleep. It appeared that Storms complied. Luke Short then stepped outside the saloon, and as Bat was explaining what had transpired, Storms reappeared “without saying a word, at the same time pulling his pistol.” Short pulled his faster and Storms “was dead when he hit the ground.” Short turned to Bat and said, “You sure pick some of the damnedest friends, Bat.”3

  Colorado Charley heard the rumor about Wild Bill becoming the Deadwood marshal, and he feared that his friend would not survive a confrontation with a determined assassin, or especially several of them. One evening during supper at their campfire, Utter suggested that the camp be moved. When Hickok asked where, Utter replied, “It might be a good scheme to organize a little party and go over to Standing Rock and cut out some ponies.”