Bookshelf Battle

Bullock had found himself in the unenviable predicament of being swarmed by Deadwood’s most revered dignitaries.

First came a man in top hat and tails, though the lime green stripes didn’t say much about his sense of fashion. (Much of anything positive, anyway.)

Nervously, he read some prepared notes from a piece of paper in his trembling hand.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bullock. Mayor E.B. Farnum…”

The mayor looked up from his paper and stretched out his hand. “That’s me.”

Bullock shook his hand. “Hello.”

“…at your service and…”

The mayor squinted at the paper. “…if there is anything I can do to make your stay in our humble town more pleasant, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“Thank you,” Bullock said.

The mayor scratched a rash on his neck, then folded up the paper and returned it to his pocket. “Honestly, I’ll level with you and tell you that was just some standard bullshit I say to all new people.”

“I figured,” Bullock said.

“At least new people who are worth a shit or two,” the Mayor said. “And further, I suppose if you think of something I could do to make your time here more pleasant, you’re welcome to tell me, though in truth, there won’t be much I will be able to do about it, so tell me or keep it to yourself. Your call.”

“OK then,” Bullock said.

“Achoo!” The Mayor sneezed then wiped his snotty nose across the sleeve of his spiffy outfit. “Pardon me. Allergies.”

Next up was a bespectacled man wearing a green eye shade. “A.W. Merrick, Mr. Bullock. Publisher, Editor, and Lead Journalist of the Deadwood Dispatch.”

“Mr. Merrick,” Bullock said.

Merrick held up a copy of his paper. It featured a photo Bullock had taken of himself long ago when he ran for Sheriff in Helena. Next to it was the headline, “Hero Sheriff Holds Back Angry Mob, Finishes Hanging.”
The newsman shook Bullock’s hand. “Mr. Bullock, you have no idea how pleased I am to meet you in person. When I heard the details of your heroics, I was so intrigued that I paid the Helena Clarion a pretty penny for the rights to reprint their story.”

“Just doing my job,” Bullock said.

“Oh no sir,” Merrick said. “Do not sell yourself short! There isn’t another lawman I can think of so dedicated to his duty that he would carry out justice at great risk to his personal safety. Sir, let me tell you, that’s just the kind of commitment to decency and moral fortitude that we need around here!”

Farnum threw up his hand in a “stop” motion. “OK, don’t hog the man all day, Merrick. Mr. Bullock, the Reverend tells us you two have already met.”

“We have,” the Reverend said. He walked up to Bullock, wrapped him up in an embrace, and ran his hand up and down Bullock’s back.

“Oh shit,” Bullock said. “He’s a hugger.”

“I am,” the Reverend replied as he pulled away. “It’s good to see you again, friend. I didn’t know of your excellent moral character until Mr. Merrick filled in all the details for me. I am so humbled to be in the presence of one of God’s finest Christian soldiers.”

The last man in the group had remained quiet the entire time. He was tall, but had a slight frame. His hairline was receding.

As for his facial hair, it was a remarkable work of art that he must have spent at least an hour a day working on. His mustache was long and protruded outward to form points at both ends. The beard itself extended all the way down past his collarbone and it too came to a point.

He wore a plain black suit and a bow tie.

“Mr. Bullock,” the Mayor said. “Allow me to present renowned combat surgeon, Doctor Valentine McGillicuddy.”

“Quite a moniker,” Bullock said as he put out his hand.

The doctor stared it for a moment and then begrudgingly shook it. “Yes.”

“Combat surgeon?” Bullock asked.

“Indeed,” Doctor McGillicuddy replied.

“Probably got a lot of stories,” Bullock said.

“Several, yes,” the doctor said.

“He’s a man of few words,” the mayor said. “Anyway, welcome to town, try not to get yourself killed and check your whores for rashes.”

The mayor scratched the red spots on his neck again. “I’ve heard it’s a good idea. I wouldn’t know. I don’t patronize houses of ill-repute, being the mayor and all.”

“I should hope not,” Bullock said.

The mayor opened the door. “See you around, Bullock.”

Merrick shut the door. “Not so fast.”

“Oh horse shit, Merrick,” the Mayor said. “Don’t even…”

Before the illustrious mayor could finish his words, Merrick had his arm around Bullock’s shoulder. “Mr. Bullock, are you aware that our dear town sheriff, Mr. Angus McKenna, passed away recently of natural causes?”

“I hadn’t heard,” Bullock replied.

“Stop wasting the man’s time,” the Mayor barked.

Merrick ignored him. “Mr. Bullock, I’ll have you know that the Reverend, the good doctor and I form the town council and we’ve been mulling over what a blessed twist of fate it is that a remarkable law man with such grit and courage as yourself happens to have made his way to us at the precise time we are in desperate need of law and order.”

“You’re the only one who has been mulling that over, Merrick,” the doctor said.

“The man just got into town,” the Mayor said. “He’s tired. Come on, let’s get out of his hair.”

“Gentlemen,” Merrick said. “Let’s put it to a vote.”

“That’s out of order,” the Mayor said as he scratched his neck. “You can only call something to a vote when there’s an official town council meeting in session.”

“The bylaws state that a town council meeting can be called to order whenever there’s a sufficient quorum present and I see all three members in the room.”

“I’m leaving,” Doctor McGillicuddy said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Merrick replied. “Two out of three and I now make a motion to call this meeting of the Deadwood town council to order. Can I get a second?”

“Damn it,” the doctor said.

Merrick nudged the Reverend. “Ahem. Reverend.”

“Hmm?” the Reverend replied.

“Do you second my motion to call this meeting to order?” Merrick asked.

“Oh yes,” the Reverend said. “This is all very exciting, isn’t it friends? Seconded.”

“Merrick,” the Mayor said. “Mr. Starr and Mr. Bullock are reputable businessmen. You can’t just fuck around…excuse me…mess around in their place of business all day long. Let’s go.”

Sol sat back and observed the entire show as if it were a twisted play unfolding before his very eyes. Bullock wasn’t sure what to make of the spectacle himself.

“Honorable members of the Deadwood town council,” Merrick said. “I move that we offer the position of town sheriff to our new resident, Mr. Seth Bullock. Do I have a second?”

Silence.

“You’re embarrassing yourself, newsman,” the Mayor said.

Merrick tapped the Reverend on the shoulder. “Seconded!” the Reverend said.

Doctor McGillicuddy slapped his forehead.

“And now for the official vote,” Merrick said. “All those in favor?”

Merrick shouted “aye,” then nudged the Reverend until he shouted “aye.”

“Dr. McGilliguddy,” Merrick said. “What say you?”

The doctor gave Bullock the stink eye and looked him over until he found a tiny bit of lint on Bullock’s shoulder and pulled it off.

“Nay,” the doctor said as he held up the lint. “This man clearly does take pride in his appearance, as evidenced by this abnormality, and if his attention to personal details is anything like his dedication to the law, then I should say we will all be doomed under his watch.”

Merrick was displeased. “Come now, Doctor…”

“Nay, I say!” the doctor said.

Doctor McGillicuddy distinctly winked his right eye at Bullock, then said. “And this man will not accept the position…if he knows what’s good for him.”

“Two out of three,” Merrick said. “The motion carries. Mr. Bullock, on behalf of the town council, I hereby offer you an appointment to the position of town sheriff. Specifically, if you accept, you will finish out the last remaining year of Sheriff McKenna’s term for a wage of fifty dollars a month.”

That statement was the first thing that piqued Bullock’s interest in the entire conversation.

“Fifty bucks?”

“A month,” Merrick repeated. “And of course, if you wish to continue after the year ends, you will have to run for a four year term and curry a majority of town wide votes.”

Bullock wasn’t expecting any of this. “Can I think on it?”

“Of course, Mr. Bullock,” Merrick said. “Think away. I realize this is a big undertaking but we would be so lucky to have you.”

“That’s just great,” the mayor said as he marched out of the store and slammed the door behind him.

Merrick left his parting words. “I hope you’ll take it.”

As for the Reverend, “May God rain his blessings upon you, friend.”

Doctor McGillicuddy said nothing. He joined his fellow dignitaries outside.

Once they were alone, Bullock consulted his friend.

“What in the hell was that collection of assholes?” Bullock asked.

“Those men, I’m sorry to say, are our benevolent town fathers,” Sol explained.

“Holy shit,” Bullock said.

“A fair assessment,” Sol said.

“Should I take the job?” Bullock asked.

“Oh no,” Sol said as he threw his hands up in the air.

“What?” Bullock asked.

“I’m not saying anything,” Sol said. “Seth, I’ve known you long enough to know that the quickest way to get you to do something is to tell you not to do it.”

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.”

Helena, Montana

May 5, 1876

Approximately Four Years Before the West Was Zombed.

“It’s not too late, law man. Just let me go and you won’t have to die.”

Seth Bullock, the young handsome sheriff of Lewis and Clark County, had been trying to get some shut-eye all night, but the prisoner in the cage in the back corner of his office wouldn’t allow it.

“You hear me, tin horn?” the prisoner asked. “My boys are coming for you.”

Bullock leaned back in his chair, threw his feet up on his desk, and tipped his hat over his eyes.

“You know Bullock when I shot at you, it wasn’t personal.”

“Whatever you say, Clell.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Nope,” Bullock said from underneath his hat. “You just decided it was more important to you that I die than you give up that horse you were rustling.”

“Just business,” Clell said. “Your shoulder still hurt?”

“Only when I do anything,” Bullock replied.

“Shit,” Clell said. “I’m sorry. But you think your shoulder is worth my life?”

Bullock took his feet off the desk and let his chair plop down. He brushed his hand through his brown hair then put his hat on.

The Sheriff looked over at his prisoner. Clell Watson’s eyes were bloodshot. His face was haggard as he hadn’t slept for days. Even criminals have worries.

“Verdict’s been rendered,” Bullock said. “Nothing personal.”

“God damn, Seth Bullock,” Clell said. “You got some big brass clackers I’ll give you that.”

The voices of angry men traveled from the street, through the air, and into Bullock’s ears. The Sheriff stood up, pulled his suspenders over his shoulders then stepped out onto the front porch of his office.

A dozen men were marching Bullock’s way, lighting up the night sky with blazing torches. Leading up the mob was Floyd Larson, the leader of a gang of rustlers who’d been pinching horses and cattle all over the Northwest.

“Sheriff!” Floyd shouted as he and his flunkies reached the office. “I’m calling you out!”

Bullock scoffed. If Floyd’s bellowing was supposed to scare him, it clearly wasn’t. “Go home Floyd.”

“Send out Clell and I will,” Floyd said.

“Can’t,” Bullock said. “He’s got a date with the hangman at dawn. The judge has spoken.”

Floyd’s face was grizzled. Leathery from too much time in the sun. And he had the kind of miserable voice that could cut through a man’s soul if he had to listen to it for too long.

“Thirteen versus one, Bullock,” Floyd said. “The odds aren’t in your favor. Let him go and we’ll let you live. Fuck around for much longer and we’ll skin you alive and take him anyway.”

“Aw son of a bitch,” Bullock said. “Well, when you put it that way.”

Bullock started for the door then stopped to look back at Floyd. “You promise if I bring him out, you won’t hurt me?”

“You’ve got my word,” Floyd said.

“God damn it. Hold on.”

Bullock retreated back into his office. Floyd and his boys chuckled and traded jokes about the sheriff’s manliness, implying that he was a pussy, a pansy, a wimp and so on.

A few minutes later, Bullock emerged from his office, but Clell wasn’t free. Rather, he had a gag in his mouth, a noose around his neck, and Bullock’s left hand on his shoulder, pushing him down the porch steps.

In Bullock’s right hand? One big ass double-barreled shotgun.

“What are you doing, Bullock?!” Floyd shouted.

“Get back!” Bullock flailed the shotgun around, making sure everyone of Floyd’s lackies got a good look at it. “First one to try anything loses his head.”

“We had a deal!” Floyd shouted.

“Fuck you and your deal,” Bullock replied. “All you did was move this shit heel’s hanging up six hours.”

Bullock moved the shotgun to his left hand, then took the noose off of Clell. Hanging from the side of the building was a metal pole that held a sign that read, “Seth Bullock: County Sherif.”

Said sheriff twirled the noose around in the air over his head three times then let it fly over the sign and watched it fall back down to the ground.

Floyd and his boys were restless. They kept looking for their opportunity. Bullock knew the second he let that shotgun drop an inch, they’d rush him. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

With the shotgun still pointed at the mob, Bullock put the noose back around Clell’s neck.

“Clell Watson,” Bullock said. “For the crimes of horse theft and shooting an officer of the law, you have been sentenced to death by hanging. Do you have any last words?”

Bullock removed Clell’s gag.

“Fuck your mother.”

“That was lovely,” Bullock said.

“Come on you fucking women!” Clell shouted. “Jump him! He can’t shoot all of you!”

Floyd was vexed. “Yeah but…he’ll shoot someone.”

Bullock grabbed the other end of the rope and pulled until Clell’s feet were dangling in the air. The prisoner’s eyes bugged out of his head as his face turned purple.

“Fuck…gack…fuck you, Floyd! So fucking…stupid!”

“Jesus Christ, Bullock,” Floyd said. “You could have just shot him and run out the back door.”

“Yeah,” Bullock said. “But what point would that have proved?”

Bullock whistled to signal Abner, his well-trained, intensely loyal horse. It took less than a minute for his loyal steed to gallop up to his owner from around back.

“You’re a dead man, Bullock,” Floyd warned. “A dead man!”

Bullock kept a tight grip on that rope, and an even tighter grip on that shotgun until Clell gasped his last breathe. Ever the professional, Bullock opted not to allow Clell to drop to the ground with a thud but rather, lowered the horse thief slowly until his body was on the ground.

The sheriff pointed his shotgun at the mob and mounted his horse.

“You just signed your own death warrant,” Floyd said. “I hope it was worth it.”

Bullock kept his shotgun pointed at the rabble. He kicked his spurs against Abner’s sides and his steed began to trot down the road.

“You know what?” Bullock asked. “It was.”