Hornswogglers, Fourflushers & Snake-Oil Salesmen (24 page)

The commanding officer, Colonel Forsyth, was initially denounced and relieved of his command, though later an Army Court of Inquiry exonerated him. Eventually he was promoted to the rank of major general. Twenty of his soldiers were awarded the Medal of Honor for their participation in the Wounded Knee Massacre, regarded as the last major conflict of the Indian Wars.

Instances such as the above merely scratch the surface of a long and unfortunate history of mistreatment by a powerful force of a smaller and weaker force, a group that deserved far more compassion than it received. As Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote of Native Americans years before he penned his famous epic poem
The Song of Hiawatha
, “It appears . . . that they are a race possessing magnanimity, generosity, benevolence, and pure religion without hypocrisy. They have been most barbarously treated by the whites both in word and deed.”

Once a renowned Indian fighter, William “Buffalo Bill” Cody over time developed a deep, thoughtful understanding of the Native American plight. He was friend and employer of many Indians and spoke eloquently on behalf of Native American issues, once famously saying, “Every Indian outbreak that I have ever known has resulted from broken promises and broken treaties by the government.”

Oglala Lakota Chief Mahpina Luta, more commonly known as Chief Red Cloud, similarly said, “They made us many promises, more than I can remember. But they kept but one; they promised to take our land, and they took it.”

He also said, “Look at me: I am poor and naked, but I am the chief of the nation. We do not want riches, but we want to train our children right. Riches will do us no good. We could not take them with us to the other world. We do not want riches. We want peace and love.”

T
he swarthy-featured man curled a thick finger around his cigar and drew on it deeply, then breathed out. Blue smoke coiled upward like a hypnotized serpent, and a low purr rumbled in his throat as he read the letter.

Dear Mr. Swearengen: I am writing to thank you. Your letter of March the first was most promising and I am in receipt of the one-way ticket you sent post-haste to me in response to my inquiry. As you say, the fact that I was able to send a daguerreotype portrait of myself helped you to make up your mind without having to wait to see me on your next business trip back East. I am indebted to you and thankful for your faith in me, with so little to go on.

As I mentioned in my previous letter, I am a singer and actress by design and study, and an assistant seamstress by occupation at present. Your faith in me has made all the difference and I am confident that you will not be disappointed in my abilities when we finally meet. I expect to board the Westbound train, then, per your instructions make my way to Deadwood by stage. Not having traveled such distances in the past, I can only hazard a guess as to the length of time it should take me to arrive in Deadwood, but you can rest assured I will do everything in my power to ensure I arrive in as quick a fashion as I am able. In the meantime, I am nearly through with wrapping up my affairs here in Boston. I have quit my job (gladly!) as assistant to the seamstress I mentioned, and I have redoubled my practices involving the vocal arts.

I am confident that you will find your time, money, and efforts have not been wasted on me, Mr. Swearengen. I remain faithfully yours. We shall meet soon (not soon enough for this budding young star of the stage!)

Kind Regards,

Miss Tessa Smithroy

Boston, Massachusetts

Al Swearengen, owner of the Gem Variety Theater in Deadwood, South Dakota, set down the letter on his cluttered desk and snorted back a laugh as he prodded the papers on his desktop. After a few moments he found what he was looking for and held up the daguerreotype. His eyebrows rose at the letter, its tone, its hopefulness. Would they never learn? He laughed again and stared at the girl. He remembered her now, the wide mouth, the high forehead, full cheeks. Baby fat, some of the men liked that, but working here would toughen her up, lean her down. Give her that driven edge he preferred, that hungry look that told him and them that he was the boss and that they never would be.

“Can't be too soon,” he said, tossing the image on his desk, leaning back in his chair, puffing on his cigar. He mused on the fact that he lost another girl the day before. Like this one, she'd been a plump young thing when she arrived two years earlier. Or was it three? Hardly mattered. She was dead, couldn't handle her liquor, her laudanum. Tried to make off with that big, dim-witted Swede whose claim would never pay off because Al sold him the worthless gravel cutbank himself.

Not for the last time that day, Al Swearengen closed his eyes and sighed. Owning the Gem was a bittersweet deal, to be sure. But with a moneymaking place like this, he had little to complain about.

“Who's that?” Swearengen nodded toward the front of the bar, by the front door.

His barkeep looked up briefly. “Said she was hired by you, come all the way out from the East. Said you would know her, said you sent for her.”

“She said all that, did she?”

Bartender shrugged. “She's a chatty thing. Like all the rest of 'em, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. I know.”

He approached her and pasted on his widest smile.

She still stood by the door, clutching a small handbag to her belly as if it were a baby. Beside her feet sat a heavy-looking carpetbag.

As he drew closer he inspected her face. She must be the one who'd sent the photograph. Not bad, not bad. Aside from the fact that she looked about ready to cry. She was a bit wide in the hips, though some of that had to be that god-awful coat she wore. “Swearengen's the name. And you are?”

Relief crept onto her features. “You're Mr. Swearengen?”

“Yes,” he said, still smiling. “You look disappointed.”

“Oh, no, no,” she said, shaking his proffered hand. “Only I was, or rather I am just a little taken aback. . . .”

“Oh? By what?” still smiling.

“Well, I hate to be rude,” she said.

“But . . . ?” still smiling, though barely now.

“I had expected the Gem Variety Theater, that is to say, it somehow seemed different, perhaps.”

“Oh, don't let the looks of it fool you. This place is the fanciest in the region. Why, we're practically the only place worth visiting anywhere in these parts.”

“But the entertainment . . .”

“Ah yes, you're a singer, correct?”

“Yes, I sing and act. And I have been working hard to learn the rudiments of dancing.”

“Now that very fact right there, little lady, does my heart good to hear. You see, as it happens, I have need of a dancer at present. That will no doubt lead to other opportunities for you. But to begin with, I think I'll have Missy here show you around,” he nodded to a haggard-looking woman who had just entered carrying a galvanized bucket with wet rags draped along the edge.

“Missy, come over here.”

The woman did as she was bade. As she came closer, the new girl's eyes widened and she drew in a sharp breath, realized how rude she'd been, and apologized.

“No need to,” he said. “Missy here's a clumsy thing, always walking into posts, doors, falling down and hurting herself. She wasn't much to look at to begin with, and I'm afraid now that's she's taken to the sauce, she's a harder-looking thing than ever. I'm not sure what we'll do with her.” He turned to the new girl. “She started out as a singer, too. Ended up a dancer, though. Seems like all the girls do, eventually. Right now though, what I really need is someone to help Missy deal with the rooms, keep up with the dirty glassware and cutlery, the crockery and so forth. And help cook for the rest of the sows.”

There was a long pause, during which Swearengen let his gaze rest on the girl's face, daring her to utter protest. He knew she would. And she did.

“But Mr. Swearengen. I was hired as an entertainer. You promised in your letter that I would be a performer.”

“Yes,” he said, slowly nodding in agreement. “And a performer you shall be. That's the word for it, all right. And I do have need of someone who can dance, yes. But around here we all pitch in, do what needs to be done. Isn't that right, Missy?”

Not much to his surprise, the new girl stared at him, then thrust out her bottom jaw. “Mr. Swearengen, I very much regret to inform you that I feel your end of this bargain between us was not as I had been led to believe.”

“Oh?” he said, looking at the girl, then at Missy, who continued looking down at the floor, the half-filled bucket of brown water and rags swinging pendulously from her bony arm.

“Well, I am distressed, naturally, to hear you say that, girly. But then of course as it was a legitimate business deal, I will have to insist on full compensation for my expenses laid out on your behalf.” He leaned forward and said, “In full.”

And as he expected, the girl's bold chin wavered, a slight tremble set in, and he knew he had her.

“Mr. Swearengen,” she said in a slightly quieter voice. Her eyes looked down briefly, then met his again. “I don't have the funds at present to repay the cost of your ticket.”

“Plus my time, effort, the housing, the room we have made in our schedule. . . . Oh, the expenses,” he said, raising his hands and letting them drop as if in frustration, shaking his head to add to the effect and to hide his smirk. God, but this was fun.

“Mr. Swearengen. I am a capable seamstress. I can find employment here in Deadwood and repay you with all haste.”

He shook his head. “The deal, girly, was for you to work for the Gem Variety Theater, providing entertainment and other duties as required. I assume you recall that from our correspondence?”

She slowly shook her head, made as if to speak, but he stepped in and grabbed her stiff arm, drew her to him, close and tight. She smelled good, like lavender, he thought. “If you do not do as I say, I will have you arrested and thrown in jail. For as long as I like, is that understood little girl? You may then do all the singing you like from your cell. And we all know that caged birds sing a sad, sad song, now don't they?” His voice was like a long, low purr. He knew it and he worked it straight into her ear.