Bookshelf Battle

It was a dilapidated shack. Thin, rickety boards slapped together through shoddy workmanship. The torn apart carcass of a raccoon lied prostrate on the front steps, having become a breeding ground for maggots.

Bullock pressed the toe of his boot up against the varmint’s hide and kicked it into the weeds, which were plentiful.

The inside was worse. It contained one single grimy bed. There was barely any room to move or do much of anything.

Martha, holding Maggie by the hand, gasped as she pointed to the wall. It was covered with faded blood stains.

“Disagreement amongst the prior tenants I suppose,” Bullock said.

“Stop making light of everything, Seth,” Martha said. “We’re in hell.”

“We are,” Bullock said as he rested his hands on his belt buckle. “Sol said in his letter that this place is a bit of a fixer upper but he did not elaborate.”

“There’s nothing better?” Martha asked.

Bullock walked outside and took a look around Finnegan’s Row. All of the houses were either in as bad condition or worse.

The tenant of the house directly to the right of the Bullock abode was an old timer with a face full of white whiskers. In a pair of tobacco stained long johns, he stepped out his front door long enough to puke his guts out all over his patch of weeds.

But at least he was polite about it. When he was done, he belched, wiped his chin, then threw out a cordial, “howdy neighbor” at Bullock before he went back inside.

Bullock grimaced but he didn’t want to be rude. “Howdy.”

He rejoined his wife to answer her question. “It would appear not.”

Maggie’s face filled with joy as she pointed and shouted, “Kitty!”

Martha was overcome by nausea when she spotted it – a fat rat scurrying its way around the corner.

Bullock made use of his boot again, prodding the tiny beastie towards the door.

“No Daddy!” Maggie protested. “I want to pet the kitty!”

“No darling,” Bullock said as he booted the obese rodent out the front door. “He’s a bad kitty.”
Martha sat on the edge of the bed and held her head in her hands.

Bullock took a seat next to her. He attempted to put his arm around her, but it was pushed away.

“I swear to you this will all get better,” Bullock said.

“That preacher was right,” Martha said. “This whole town should be burned to the ground.”

Bullock stood up. “Come on. Let’s go see Saul. He’ll show us the store. It will help you keep the faith.”

“I’m not going back out there,” Martha said. “And Maggie’s definitely not setting foot out there ever again.”

Bullock steeped outside again to survey the surroundings once more. While his neighbors were far from high society types, none of them looked conspicuously dangerous. The old man with the rotten gut was likely fast asleep. Across the way, an old gal rocked on her porch and knitted a sweater. A few houses down, a woman was hanging clothes on a line.

“I’ll just head over and see him then,” Bullock said from the front steps.

“You’re just going to leave us here?” Martha asked from inside.

“Martha,” Bullock said. “Will you buck up? We’re in the swankiest part of town!”

Martha expelled an exasperated sigh.

Bullock walked to the wagon, retrieved his shotgun and loaded it up with two shells. He walked back inside and placed it into his wife’s hands.

“Keep it pointed at the door. Shoot anyone that isn’t me or Maggie. Got it?”

Martha breathed deeply then exhaled. “Got it.”

Deadwood, Dakota Territory

August 1, 1876

There was gold in them there hills. The Black Hills, to be exact.

It was land that had been promised to the Lakota, but once an expedition led by General Custer discovered gold, people flocked there from all over the country, and even from different parts of the world, in search of fortune.

The result was Deadwood – a mining camp that kept expanding until it became a makeshift town filled with sinners, drunkards, gamblers, cheats, cutthroats, con men and other assorted degenerates looking to make a quick buck while living outside the laws of the United States.

It made Dodge City look like a picnic and Tombstone bare a striking resemblance to a bridal shower. In short, it was, by far, the most lawless settlement in the West.

And it showed. Oh how it showed, as the Bullocks rode into town on a wagon pulled by Abner. It showed so much that Martha had insisted on keeping her hands over Maggie’s eyes as soon as they reached the town limits.

Saloons with painted whores strutting about like alley cats on the balcony, some of them bare chested, many sans clothes all together.

“Hi there handsome,” one shouted down at Mr. Bullock. His face turned red and he looked away to focus on the reigns.

Yet, he could feel Mrs. Bullock’s disdainful glare cutting through him.

“So it’s a little rambunctious,” Mr. Bullock said.

The glass window of a saloon shattered as a rum soaked bum was thrown into the road, face first.

Seconds later, the large, burly man who did the throwing stepped out to admonish his victim.

“I catch you coming in here again with a fucking ace up your sleeve and I’ll cut you from gills to gizzard, you no good shit stained cocksucker!”

And thus, Mrs. Bullock felt the need to keep one hand over Maggie’s eyes and use her free hand to cover Maggie’s left ear. She snuggled her child up closer to her bosom, hoping that might keep the right ear from hearing anything.

“So, there are some colorful characters,” Mr. Bullock said. His attempts to diffuse the situation only caused Mrs. Bullock to become more resolute in her glaring.

The road was not a good place to be thrown. The bum lifted his face up to reveal that it was covered in shit. So was the road. It was, quite literally, more shit than dirt. Horse shit and well, not that the old West was known for exacting sanitation standards, but there were few people in Deadwood who were even trying.

Mrs. Bullock caught a glimpse of the problem when a middle-aged balding man stepped out of a tavern, dropped his drawers, took a squat, and did his business right on the side of the road.

“OK,” Mr. Bullock said. “That’s a problem.”

“You just had to hang him,” Mrs. Bullock lamented.

“I did,” Mr. Bullock said. “It was my job.”

Off to the right, a man with a bushy beard raised his gun in the air and took three shots. Instinctively, the noise made Mr. Bullock reach for his piece, but he relaxed when he noticed the man was swigging from a bottle of gin and shouting, “Yeehaw!”

“And now this is our life,” Mrs. Bullock said.

As the Bullocks ventured further into town, they eventually came across a Reverend dressed all in black. He was standing in the middle of the road, proselytizing to a populace who had little interest in what he had to say.

Even so, that didn’t faze him in the slightest.

“Repent, sinners!” the Reverend shouted. “Repent! Abandon your wicked ways or be judged unworthy in the eyes of God!”

A few cowpokes sitting around a table outside a saloon heckled the preacher relentlessly.

“Shut the fuck up, Reverend!”

Another one grabbed his crotch. “Judge this ya’ fuckin faggot!”

The Reverend was tall, well over six feet. His hair was dark black. He didn’t have a mustache, just the beard. One might have even considered him to be handsome, had it not been for his eyes.

They were piercing. Vacant. It was as if there was so much on his mind that he was looking past people so that he could pay attention to the voluminous thoughts that swirled about in his brain.

Whatever was going on inside his head, he certainly was passionate about his work. He licked his finger, flipped through the pages of his bible, then flailed his finger about, high in the air, as he read.

“And so Lot went out and spoke to his sons-in-law, who were pledged to marry his daughters and said, ‘Hurry and get out of this place, because the Lord is about to destroy the city!’ But his sons-in law thought he was joking.’”

The Reverend outstretched his arms and twirled around in a circle.

“My friends, do you think I am joking?” the Reverend asked. “This town is truly an abomination in the eyes of the Lord and I urge all of you to beg our Heavenly Father’s forgiveness, to repent and abandon your sinful debauchery, and most importantly, to leave this place before it is purged from the earth in all-consuming hellfire!”

“He’s convinced me,” Mrs. Bullock said. “Let’s go.”

Mr. Bullock snickered only to straighten out his face when he realized his wife wasn’t joking.

“Go ask him where we’re going,” Mrs. Bullock said.

“Who?” Mr. Bullock asked. “That guy?”

“He’s the least harmless person we’ve seen so far.”

“That’s not saying much.”

Mr. Bullock pulled his wagon up next to the Reverend who, completely oblivious, continued to read from his bible.

“By the time Lot reached Zoar, the sun had risen over the land. Then the Lord rained down burning sulfur on Sodom and Gomorrah, from the Lord out of the Heavens. Thus he overthrew those cities and the entire plain, destroying all those living in the cities and also the vegetation in the land. But Lot’s wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt.”

Mr. Bullock waved his hand in an effort to catch the Reverend’s attention. “Reverend.”

It was of no use. The preacher was on a roll.

“Don’t you see, my friends? Don’t you see how this disgraceful place will most certainly suffer the same fate as Sodom and Gomorrah?”

“You’ll suffer my boot up your ass if you don’t shut the fuck up!” one of the cowpokes yelled.

Mr. Bullock tried a little louder. “Hey Reverend!”

As if jostled out of a delirium, the Reverend turned his head, closed his bible, and hurried over to the wagon.

“Oh,” the Reverend said. “Hello friends.”

The Reverend put out his hand and instantly weirded out the Bullocks by looking every which way but at their eyes. “The Reverend Henry Weston Smith. A distinct pleasure to meet you.”

“Howdy,” Mr. Bullock said. “Seth Bullock. My wife, Martha.”

“Hello Ma’am,” the Reverend said. Mrs. Bullock quickly shook the Reverend’s hand then returned it immediately to Maggie’s eyes.

“Our little one,” Mr. Bullock said. “Margaret.”

“Isn’t she darling?” Reverend Smith asked. “Might I be of some service?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Bullock said. “We’re new to town and my wife insists I need directions.”

“Oh it’s very simple,” the Reverend said. “Simply turn around and leave the way you came.”

Mr. Bullock chuckled, then straightened his face up again when he realized the Reverend was serious.

“Right, but…”

“Didn’t you hear my sermon?” the Reverend asked. “This town is slated to be consumed by hellfire and you fine folks certainly don’t want to be around when that happens.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Bullock said. “Good point, Reverend but you see I’ve got some money on the line so I reckon we’ll just have to take our chances.”

“Oh how terrible,” the Reverend said. “My condolences. What are you looking for?”

“Finnegan’s Row,” Mr. Bullock replied.

“Ah,” the Reverend said as he pointed down the road. “You aren’t far. Continue a good half-mile and the road veers off to the left and right. Take the left and you won’t miss it.”

“Left,” Bullock repeated.

“If you pass the stable you’ve gone too far,” the Reverend.

“Much obliged,” Mr. Bullock said.

“Think nothing of it,” the Reverend said. “I am here to help God’s children. It’s what I do.”

“Ok then.” Mr. Bullock snapped the reigns and Abner pulled the family deeper into Deadwood.

The Reverend shouted out, “Oh Mrs. Bullock!”

Startled, Mrs. Bullock craned her neck around to listen to what the Reverend had to say.

“Whatever you do, don’t look back!”

Mrs. Bullock waited to see if the Reverend would smile but he didn’t. Frightened, she whipped her head back and kept her eyes focused on the road ahead.

“He was kidding!” Mr. Bullock assured his wife.

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Bullock asked.

Mr. Bullock looked over to right, where two vagrants were pummeling each other bloody.

“Nope.”