Bookshelf Battle

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.”

“I can’t,” Slade said. “I’m sorry. I made a promise to someone important to me that I’d try to die with my boots on.”

Earp smirked. “Noble thought. Easier said than done. Who’d you promise that to?”

“My Deputy.”

“Gunther Beauregard?”

“You know him?” Slade asked.

“Our paths crossed a few times,” Earp said. “Good man. I was sorry to hear he died. Forty years as a U.S. Marshal and he never once demanded credit, hogged the attention or even sought a promotion. Never bothered a man unless he bothered him first. If there were more Gunther Beauregards in the world, my job would become unnecessary and you wouldn’t hear a complaint from me.”

Earp stood up. Everyone else followed.

“I’m sorry,” Slade said. “You came all this way for nothing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Earp said as he picked up the star.

Earp tipped his hat at Miss Bonnie. “Ma’am.”

“Marshal,” she replied.

Earp slapped Tobias on the shoulder. “It’s that hat or pussy, son. Make a choice because you’ll never have both.”

Slade picked up the deck of cards then walked Earp outside, where the greatest lawman in the West’s horse was tied to a post.

“Funny thing you said about pussy,” Slade said. “You must think I’m one.”

“Oh hell no, Slade,” Earp said. “I don’t think anyone can call the man who stopped the United States from being overthrown by a damn vampire and his army of zombies a pussy. Practical is more like it and now that I know you spent some time with Gunther it makes sense.”

“I just don’t want to disappoint you,” Slade said. “The last ten years since I became a Marshal, all I’ve ever done is try to be like you.”

Earp scoffed. “Shit. Don’t be like me. Even I don’t want to be like me.”

Slade looked Earp in the eye. “You ever feel like, when you do this job, that you’re at war with who you are on the inside and who you need to be on the outside in order to win?”

“Nope,” Earp replied. “If a man deserves it, I’ll shoot him dead then fall asleep before my head hits the pillow.”

“I try to pretend I’m like that,” Slade said. “But every man I’ve ever shot deserved it and they all haunt me. I used to walk around pretending like they don’t. Sometimes I feel like I still need to.”

Earp put his hand out. Slade shook it.

“Good,” Earp said. “Then there’s hope for you yet.”

Hope. That was a big word for Slade. He was once convinced he was out of it, but now he was feeling like he had it more and more every day. Even a man he admired saw it in him.

Earp continued. “Sure, when we all start out in the Marshal’s service, a lot of men have to pretend like they breathe fire and shit daggers but once they earn their reputation as a good law man, they can act however they want. You foiled a Legion plot that was years in the making, Slade. You’ve earned the right to just be yourself.”

Slade let out a sigh of relief as though Earp’s words brought him great comfort. “Do you really shit daggers?”

“Sure do,” Earp replied. “Makes a mess out of the outhouse.”

Earp took the star in his hand and pinned it to Slade’s shirt.

“But I…”

“While you’re talking about yourself,” Earp said. “Let me tell you about a side of yourself you haven’t met yet. See, my brothers and I all agreed that once we retired from the law and left Dodge City, we were never going to pick up a star ever again. We were going to become businessmen in Tombstone and live the good life. We did our part. We earned some happiness. But sure enough, just when you think you’ve left all the assholes behind you, new ones arise, dirtier and smellier than ever. And try as you might to say that you don’t give a shit, that it’s not your problem, you know deep down inside that you care and sooner or later, you’ll pick up that star and fight those assholes again because if you don’t, no one else will.”

Slade looked at the star, then back to Earp.

“Do what you please with it, Slade,” Earp said. “Wear it on your shirt proudly. Take it off, throw it in a drawer and never look at it again. Live your life. Love your woman. Love your young’un. But on top of the vampires, zombies and werewolves, there are still plenty of human shit heels who will be happy to attack this nice town you’ve got here and when that day comes, you’ll need to do what you need to do. That star will make it nice and legal, whatever that means these days.”

Earp untied his horse then climbed up into the saddle. Slade shuffled through the deck and held up the Chairman’s card.

“Marshal Earp,” Slade said.

Earp corrected him. “Wyatt.”

“Wyatt,” Slade said. “Get the rest of them and I’ll ride with you against him.”

Earp tipped his hat at Slade. “I’ll hold you to that.”