Deadwood Bound
First Six Chapters
For Journey Teller
Chapter One
I didn't realize South Dakota was so humid. Or maybe it's not. Maybe this California boy can't stand any muggy weather, let alone the dry heat of his home state.
Upon touching down iinSsiouxFfallsI rented a car and took the one hour drive out to Mitchell, A/C on high while the prairie landscape gave me thoughts of an old TV show I used to watch.
I was on somewhat of a mini vacation. Between cases as a P.I. working out of Los Angeles, my niece, Jamie, liking to joke it stood for Psycho Investigator. A joke laced with truth, as most of my cases do involve taking down serial killers.
But yeah, this trip was supposed to take me in the opposite direction. Away from the world of methodical mad men and a glimpse into my family tree.
What kind of tree?I was not yet sure, for my mother and her sister Mary were the only relatives I had ever known.
The two moved out to California a few years before I was born, my single mother occasionally telling stories of her South Dakota past.
A strict upbringing and a lack of opportunity drove the two sisters west, neither keeping contact with family back home as moving meant disownment.
I lost my mom to a sociopathic killer back in 2016 when he had rooted himself into my life before I had a chance to take him down.
Aunt Mary reached out to their parents after the murder, but was ignored, making that family tree I sometimes wondered about seeming like a weeping willow.
Were they really so cold hearted? An answer to a question I hadn’t found out until recently.
Turns out my grandparents had been killed in a car accident two years prior to my mother's death. News my Aunt Mary and I had just been informed of a few days ago when a distant cousin found us via ancestry.com.
My aunt being in no condition to travel, I accepted the invitation to visit the Great Plains and search my grandparents cellar of boxes so as to get a sense of our family's past.
Turning on to Mitchell's main street, my eyes found a grand palace, much of its majestic exterior walls adorned with corn.
Billing itself as the world's only corn palace, I couldn't help but smile while imagining Jamie.
“If that place caught fire, you think it would be the world's biggest pile of popcorn?”
A few blocks later and I was pulling up to the two story house my mother had grown up in. Right away, it was pleasing to the eye.
Two huge fir trees, one on either side. A quaint porch with two large pillars standing guard for a handcarved front door, the columns also in support of a wide terrace, which looked as though it were a launching pad to the cupola topping the house.
Cousin E.B. greeted me at the door before inviting me in for cornbread and iced tea sweetened with honey, the latter of which he said he learned to make decades ago while passing through the small town of Destiny, Georgia.
E B.was quite the character. Eager to please, fast to joke, and sincere in hospitality.
After about an hour of getting to know each other, he said it was time for his nap, insisting the house and everything in it was as much mine as it was his, and apologizing for not having the strength to accompany me down to the cellar.
Boxes, crates, dressers as old as the old wild west, I was as curious as an archaeologist and excited to learn of my family's past. I was also hopeful, for I’ve always wondered if any of my ancestors were like me.
Did any of them look like me? Have the same likes or dislikes as me? Drawn to the same type of profession?
I began to explore.
Two thirds of the way through by day two I hit the jackpot. An elaborately designed photo album, made to endure the test of time. Previous to this I had come across items going back every decade of the past century and a half. Everything from kitchenware to clothes. Books to newspapers. But nothing really telling me who my ancestors were.
With a gentle hand I began taking in the old black and white photos of those who had come before me on my mother's side. Men, women, and children whose blood now ran through my veins.
Most were pictured in the victorian inspired garb of the day, a few of the still images capturing the forever stillness of corpses.
Careful so as not to damage these priceless relics, I removed then placed back one picture at a time, looking on the backs to see if there might be more clues as to who these forbearers of mine where.
Most were blank, but some did have inscriptions, including one of a family of four that momentarily froze me.
A young husband and his wife with their two children.
I was frozen in time, standing in front of a two horse covered wagon.
I flipped the back of the photo over.
The Derard Family.
No other breadcrumbs as to who this splitting image of me was.
I stood up and walked over to an oval mirror attached to an antique dresser and looked back and forth from my reflection to the man in the photograph.
We could have been twins.
With a hurried hand I went through the rest of the album, but he was nowhere else to be found, so I quickly scurried through the remaining third of the items in the cellar.
Nothing.
Frustrated, my eyes fell over the small space as I contemplated.
Just as I moved for the stairs to go up and ask E.B. if he knew who my doppelganger was, I noticed the paneling on the back of the oval mirror. Its center had a discoloration, as if that section had been replaced rather than time worn.
I ran my fingers over the surface. It was smooth, sanded down as evenly as the rest of it.
When my fingertips found the edge of the panel I inspected further. Could I remove it without damaging this antique? Maybe with the right tool.
Unclipping my Spyderco from my pants pocket I flipped its blade out and slid its tip in between the panel and mirror, and with a little pressure slowly lifted.
It began to separate.
Holding the back with one hand and softly prying with the other. I slowly made my way down the large oval.
As I began to work the other side of it while heading back up something fell out from inside and landed on my shoe.
It was a relatively thin, soft leatherbound book.
My heart began to pound against my chest.
Opening the manuscript to the first page I read the title, which was written in pen, along with the writer's name.
Deadwood Bound
Dirk Derard
I lightly began to flip through it. It seemed to be a diary of sorts.
About three quarters in, there was a sealed envelope.
I took the book on up to E.B.
“Well, I'll be damned,” was the sentence E.B. kept repeating when I showed him the diary and told him where I had found it, saying rhe words more to himself than to me.
My cousin agreed I should take the memoir and go on up to Deadwood to read it, following in the footsteps of our long ago relative in the pursuit to find out more about him.
And so I made a few phone calls to extend my trip and was back on the road for another four and a half hours.
Chapter Two
November 12, 1899
The chill in the air was telling me it was time to head back home to De Smet. I had been on the road for nineteen days with Trixie and Joanni, my two faithful horse companions, as we pulled along our ol’ wagon of books.
Heading out on October 25th, we had only been with family a couple weeks due to the last quarter of the year being our busy season.
Folks like buying books come fall, storing them away with essentials to serve as helping past the winter as well as for making a good gift come christmas time.
It starts every May, the three of us setting out for the three and a half month trip from South Dakota to New York's Book Row, where we fill the wagon with the latest before getting back on the trails for another several weeks.
By the time we roll back on in to d De Smet we have about a third of our inventory sold, spending a week or so with the wife and kids before hitting all the populated areas of surrounding states and all in between.
This, of course, always depends on weather, with Mother Nature sometimes deciding to slow our roll and therefore our yearly schedule.
But today. Today is the day that changed everything.
It had been a good run, me and the two girls selling over fifty percent of what we had started off with, returning home with some gifts that were sure to put some smiles on some faces.
Trixie and Joani always knew when we were approaching our humble abode, peps in their steps a mile out signaling the years end to another long journey.
But this time it wasn't Hester and the two children who came out to greet us. It was my dear friend, Charles, who lived in town with his wife.
The Ingalls were good souls, and I always made it a point to save a few books for them with every haul.
But right away I knew this wasn't a visit of good tidings, the sorrow across charles's face immediately striking me with concern.
“Charles, what is it? Is everything alright with you and Caroline?”
A tear I had just began to notice dropped down from his left eye.
“It's Hester, Dirk. She's gone.”
“What? Where? Where are the kids? ”
“Maddie and Henry are safe. They're back at my place. It's Hester, Dirk. She's been taken.”
“Taken? Where? By who?”
“Not sure. Some are saying road agents. They hit the general store first. Took what they wanted at gunpoint.
“A few of the townfolk overheard one talking about Deadwood, and the name, Al.”
With neither of us wanting to say, we knew what this probably meant, as females taken on up to Deadwood usually means one thing and one thing only.
I immediately started to turn around the horses.
“Now hang on,” Charles said. “I'm coming with.”
“No, Charles. I need you to stay here and look after the kids. Tell ‘em ma and pa will be back soon.”
“Here, take this.”
He handed me out his shotgun.
“You're probably gonna need something more than Billy to get you through this.”
Billy was my father's bayonet from his days in the war, wrapped and tucked away under my seat just in case I needed to defend myself while on the road.
While In my possession, Billy had yet to see the light of day.
I placed Charles' shotgun beneath me, next to the lethal blade.
My old friend and I looked at each other, sharing a moment of understanding between two dear friends.
I then set off to retrieve my wife.
Chapter Three
Before leaving Mitchell, cousin E.B. and I had figured out Dirk had been our great, great, great grandfather. I could only imagine the turmoil he was going through while bound for Deadwood as I sat in the air conditioned restaurant of the hotel I was staying at.
I had driven up here in comfort with about three hundred horsepower, compared to his two horsepowered wooden wagon waddling its way through rough trails day in and day out with thoughts tormenting him as to what condition he would find his wife in.
My stomach was in knots with what little I had read so far, unable to finish my dinner as a result. Yet I just had to take in another entry before going back to my room.
Chapter Four
November 23, 1899
Today my family and I were supposed to be sitting around the table with the Ingalls, giving thanks before enjoying our biggest meal of the year. But instead, I find myself eleven days out of De Smet, not wanting to push Trixie and Joani too hard, but at the same time wanting to shave off at least half a week from what would normally take three.
I personally have never been to Deadwood, the lawless reputation it holds being of no interest to me and my books.
I don't have that much funds, so I hope to find at least a few souls there in town who will find some value in the written word while I figure out my plan of action. For I don't know how long it will take to find Hester, and what kind of resistance I'll face once I do.
I can sleep with the books, I always do, but food is a necessity which can't be ignored.
Skies are becoming more frequently gray, and I can only pray the snow holds off until I reach the capital of sin.
Chapter Five
Under different circumstances I'd be enjoying myself, the saloons, horses and carriages, etc. Making me feel as though I stepped back in time But instead I find myself overcome with anxiety as I walk the historical streets of Deadwood.
Am I walking alongside the long ago footfalls of my great great great grandfather as he took in this town?
Being a simple bookseller, who so far hasn'tshown any signs of violent tendencies, does he really have a chance against brutal men who respect nothing, fear nothing, and are so quick to take a life?
It sounds ridiculous given the fact it's been well over a century, but I still feel myself attempting to send out positive energy to accompany his journey forward.
Chapter Six
December 9, 1899
It began snowing yesterday, and if the cold cutting its way to my bones is any indication, we're fixing to get hit by a storm before the day retires.
The good news is, we’re about a day out from Deadwood, the two girls having held up nicely thus far, as if they know their full charge ahead is indeed to get mama back.
Snowflakes whirl about, angels at play, as my mind drifts to a more innocent time.
It was De Smet's annual Christmas party, the community coming together to decorate the town square’s space while enjoying an evening of caroling.
My favorite part of this event has always been decorating the large tree, which serves as the town's centerpiece. And my favorite adornment has always been the shiny shredded silver. The tinsel, like icicles dipped in the starry night sky.
But this particular year, my eyes were far more mesmerized by the beauty of Hester. At fifteen years old, she was two years younger than me, her and her family having moved to town a few months prior to this magnificent night.
The butterflies in my stomach were whirling just as much as the surrounding snowflakes, for this night had been destined following the months mentioned serving as a courtship of sorts.
On the first day of the new school year, when Hester walked into our schoolhouse for the first time, I fell, and fell hard.
In love, that is. Having to fight myself so as not to gawk. Not to reach out my hand to her. Not to ask her for her hand in marriage.
For trepidation was the next emotion which struck me. Fear that another fella would get to her heart before me.
And so I set out to earn Hester’s affection, balancing on the razor's edge of showing her my own but not overdoing it.
She seemed to like the fact that I had a keen interest in books. The story kind. So that ended up being the common ground we built our foundation on.
It was a rather slow process though, neither of us having the courage to act on the excitement we felt when our hands would brush up against one another's on account of me offering to carry her school books.
This is until a week before the Christmas party, Hester giving me the shock of my young life when she slid her hand into mine instead of those books.
And again, her guts proving more solid than mine a couple days later, pecking me on the cheek with those angel soft lips of hers before turning and running on up to her front porch.
And so I was bound and determined I'd be the one to take things to the next level on this festive night.
Offering my hand I had asked her to dance, and halfway through Silent Night, as snowflakes whirled around the most beautiful girl I've ever known, as candle flames danced in her stunning eyes, I leaned in to those angel soft lips and kissed them.
Beyond the snowflakes two dark images brought me out of my reverie, one on either side of the trail ahead.
Getting closer, I realized they were men on horseback, and by the time I was about ten yards from them they steered their mounts to block the trail.
‘You lost, boy?” the taller and scrawnier of the two asked.
'“Don’t believe so,” I replied.
His companion was the next to speak up.
“Well, if this snow gets any worse, you bound to be, with it covering up the trail and all.”
“I have a pretty good sense of direction, hitting the trails year round and all.”
“Also be quite dangerous though. Indians ‘round here still havin’ a sore spot for losin’ these hills.
“But you in luck, mister. My friend here, they call him Pistol Pete. Ain't never seen anyone quicker on the draw.”
The man I now knew to be Pistol Pete opened his coat enough to reveal a nickel-plated six shooter.
“And who might you be?” I asked of his partner.
“Just plain Ned” he answered. “but I know these parts like the back of my hand.”
“We can get you where you goin’, for a price.”
“Appreciate it fellas, but like I said, I have a pretty keen sense of direction.
“And this.”
I reached down under my seat and withdrew Charles's shotgun, placing it across my lap.
In a blink of an eye Pete had his pistol out of its holster and pointed towards me.
“Toss the gun down,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I didn't mean anything by it. I was just-”
“Not gonna ask again, mister. Throw it down to the snow.”
Following his order, I then placed by palms out to him.
Ned asked, “what you haulin’ back there in the wagon?”
“Books.”
He looked to Pete, disappointed.
“Go on and check,” Pete instructed his co-conspirator.
He kept the gun on me as Ned rummaged around the back before returning.
“He's tellin’ the truth. Ain't nothin’ but a bunch of lousy books.”
“Get on down here, boy,” was the next order to come out of Pete.
“How much money you got on you?”
“Ten dollars.”
“ Hand it over.”
I reached into my back pocket and did as told.
“Hardly worth stoppin’ him, Pete. But I reckon it'll be enough to wet our whistles and have ourselves a couple soiled doves.”
“We gonna get a lil’ more than that, Ned. Unhitch those horses.”
“Now wait a minute,” I said while involuntarily stepping forward. “These two horses are all I have. They're my livelihood. Please don't-”
As quick as his draw, Pete shot out the butt of his gun and pistol-whipped the side of my head, the immediate tear of my flesh resulting in blood cascading down the side of my face.
He followed it up with a gut punch, which sent me down to my hands and knees, before splitting open my cheek with a kick from his boot.
Trixie and Joani fought Ned a bit as they were led away, Pete ripping my sheep-skin coat off me and trying it on for size.
He then walked around to the back of my wagon, retrieved a book, and returned to my side.
Squatting down to make sure I saw what he intended to do, Pete struck a match on the leatherbound cover, fanned the book out, and began to burn its pages.
Tilting his face to the side, he lit a cigarette, then took the large flame over to my wagon’s canvas, setting it ablaze.
Without thinking, I shot up to my feet, grabbed a small blanket I kept up front, and began to swat at the flames. This seemed to only aggravate the fire, so I turned to the patches of snow at my feet and started to douse it that way.
All while the two road agents rode off laughing with Charles’ shotgun and my last ten dollars, Trixie and Joani at their sides.
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