The Silver Saddle

Doug Donnan

Executive Editor/OM-GEN+

donnan.doug@yahoo.com

         

                                                                           

"The Silver Saddle"

                                              

('Aces and Eights/A Gift from Wild Bill')

                                                                                                   

by

Doug Donnan

               [ Deadwood Dakota Territory /// Nuttal & Mann's Saloon /// circa 1879 ]

     "I ain't nevuh seen nuthin like this here in all my born days," Barnstak declared as he de-topped his weathered and weary ten gallon Stetson hat. He dragged a scrawny rolled up denim forearm just across his sweating brow. Then, after adjusting his crotch a tad or two, he threw in a rather slapdash, albeit decidedly fortuitous addendum. "The sumbitch that sets up all high n' mighty in that damn saddle must surely ride in and out of all these here lil' piss-ant towns like ol' Wild Bill himself."

"To be sure amigo," Feldtip replied with a studied one-eyed squint all around and about the

glistening dark chocolate saddle with all its shimmering silver inlay and glistening ingot festooned accoutrements. "Bastard that plants his high n' mighty ass on that jist gotta have a set of balls made outa' solid silv-"

"May I be of some service here gentlemen," a soft but decidedly assertive voice interupted.

The tawdry townfolk twosome of Barnstak and Feldtip slipped off a bit from their knee-bent and booted mooring just atop the chewed and time splintered rim of the plank and board horse trough.

"Whazzat mister... I mean mam?" from the now goggle-eyed Barnstak.

Feldtip, right then and there, could only offer up a guttural gulp and gasp at an attempted satisfactory salutation to this prim and proper cowgirl as she stepped between them and her stalwart slurping stallion.

"Is it yer horse n' saddle here then Miss... ?" Barnstak finally gathered up as he all but bowed before the strikingly beautiful, raven haired stranger.

"My name, if that's what you're groppng for sir, is Emerald Hickok," she filled in his awkward

hesitation. "Some folks just take to callin' me Emmie."

The two townies snapped a look at each other as if they had just seen Jesus walk the waters of the Jordan.

"Did you say 'Hickok' missy... mam?" almost in harmony from the bewildered duet.

"I did indeed, but please gentlemen," she softened somewhat as she stroked the magnificent curving neck and flaxen mane of her patient golden palomino, "won't you both just please call me Emmie as well?"

"Uh... sure, sure thing lady...Emmie," from Barnstak with a tentative sun squinting smile.

"Yeh... I mean okay... Emmie... Hickok," from the diminutive and now somewhat apprehensive Feldtip.

"Long as we're on names this 'ere is Leotus Feldtip. I go by 'Ben'... Benjamin Lemuel Barnstak in full given family name matta-fackly," Barnstak offered with a kind of barn rooster-like pride.

 There was only the soft, silent wisp of a pregnant pause right there in the middle of mainstreet and nowhereslane as the new found threesome studied each other from blinding sunlit and sharpened, shadowy rooftop-cast angles. Eventually Emmie broke the peaceful period there between them and asked this:

"Y'all live aroun' here... here in this little one horse town of Deadwood?"

"Been here since we wuz jist whippa' snappaws miss Emmie," Barnstak replied with a touch more bravado in his tone. "We pretty much do know this lil' town inside and out since it was formed and fahioned way back when... right Feldtip?"

"Yep... that's the Gospel truth amigo," Feldtip answered with chin held high as if he were proud and pleased in some rural way.

"Well then maybe you all can help me with something, something personal regarding my layed to rest daddy, James Hickok... known as Wild Bill to many folks."

They whipped another pop-eyed look at each other. Their mouths formed little circles not unlike a pair of knotholes in a backyard yellow pine fence. Somewhere, off in the distance, a banty rooster was cackling and fussing about something or other.

"You jist go ahead and name it miss Emmie," Barnstak announced with a rather bold, streetside aplomb.

"Well, to make a long story short, you both are probably aware that my father was shot in the back and killed right up inside this very saloon while he was playing a game of cards, poker to be exact. Now that assassin bastards name was Jack McCall. He was known to most by his nickname of 'Crooked Nosed Jack'. You gentlemen following me on all this so far?"

"Yes mam we comprende," from the head and hat nodding Feldtip.

"That's the way it went alright... as we was told," Barnstak added concretely.

"Okay then," she continued as she confidently sashayed just over to the bulging leather bag just atop her golden steed . "McCall was, after more than just a few flip-flops by judge and jury alike, hung by the neck until dead. "Convoluted it truly was, but true justice still the same... in the end.

However, whether you know it or not, my dad had a friend, perhaps his only real friend in this

whole damn fool world. His name is or was Charles Utter. 'Colorado Charlie' was his saloon

handle. My daddy used to laugh a'loud when he talked to us younguns about him. Does that

particular cowboy's name ring a bell with either of you?" she finished with fixed and unblinking crystal-blue eyes. She had been, all the while, unstrapping the leather stays of the singular saddlebag secured to her silver saddled stallion.

"Why sure Emmie," Barnstak sighed with a relieved reply. "Everybody in this 'ere town of

Deadwood knows ol' Colorado Charlie. He's the salt of the earth Miss Hickok."

"Yes siree," from the now lighthearted Feldtip. "He's kinda' friend who won't jist point you in the right direction, he'll surely set into walkin' righr along with ya... right by your damn fool side. Shooot,  ol'Charlie's probly's inside this ere' bar right now sweatin' over some poker hand or 'tother."

"Well, alrighty then, here's what I'd like you two fellas' to help me and my dear departed daddy with."

After a tip-toeing, stretching moment or two she carefully extracted a decidedly ornate coiled and oiled dark leather cartridge belt. Sheathed and somewhat sheltered were a pair of midnight-gun-blue Colt cap and ball revolvers. The daunting pistol's alabaster ivory grips protruded (in reverse, butt handle angle) from their proud holsters like threatening canines. After closer scrutiny by the two local  'volunteers' it became readily apparent to them that these pistols were once the property of one... ["J.B. Hickok 1869"].

"I've finally found my way up to and then in to this little town of yours," she declared as she turned-to and presented the serpentine bandoleer of her father Wild Bill Hickok out in front of her broad bosom as if she were Moses himself descending with the tablets.

"Here," she spoke with a steadfast, no room for rebutal command to neither one of them in particular. "Get these to him... to Mr. Utter, to 'Colorado Charlie', dad wanted him to have them... if anything ever happened."

The twosome stared down at the silent twin pistols and black-strap, leather paraphernalia in complete disbelief. To say that they were both dumbfounded and honored at the same time would be a gross understatement. They were both speechless for quite some time.

Then, eventually...

"But, Miss Hickock... Emmie," Barnstack finally tried as he tentatively reached out to accept the legendary icons, "with all due respect to you and your late father 'Sheriff' Hickok, don't you feel it would be best and better if you were to just go on in there and present these to ol' Charlie Utter personal like? I mean, quite honestly mam, you only jist met us n' although it would be more than jist an honor to even 'hold' those in my ol' shakin' hands, I can't understand why you don't jist---"

"Okay, listen carefully Mr. Barnstak because I do not want to repeat this," she rather rudely broke in. "For a variety of reasons I don't care to go into, I can't present this heartfelt gift from my father to Mr. Utter personally. The main one is that I don't particularly care to meet the man because it would drag me right back into the few and far between good memories of my dad that I still carry around with me in my life. The other, more immediate reason, will become quite evident to you both as you look around you," she handed him over the belt and pistols, "your generous mission for me and my fairly estranged father 'Wild' Bill Hickok... okay?"

Barnstak shrugged ever so slightly and then dutifully accepted the pair of iconic firearms. He turned ever so carefully to show them to the inching forward, now owl-eyed Feldtip.

"As I live n' breathe... I'm not worthy," he almost whispered. He reached out and touched the coiled saddle-soaped leather and ivory-silvered assemblage as if he were apprehensively petting a sleeping rattlesnake.

*     *     *

As they stood there ogling and analyzing the 'gift' for Colorado Charlie, Emmie had quietly and covertly hoisted her curvaceous denim self back aboard her now slightly impatient 

silver-trimmed palomino pony.

"Adios mi amigos," said she as she deftly turned-to and allowed the now agreeable horse back out into the crusty, sun washed path of mainstreet.

The totally mesmerized, 'oohing and ahhing' duly appointed gun and gear gift givers snapped to surprised and unexpected attention as they watched Wild Bill (James) Hickok's bold and brazen daughter Emerald, a.k.a. Emmie,  ride off slowly and deliberately. Her singular and solitary mission

now completed.  

"Say there... Emmie!" Barnstak called out in shocked disbelief. "Where ya off to?"

"You leavin' us... jist like that mam?" from the equally perplexed Feldtip.

"Do the right thing amigos," she called over her shoulder and length of swinging, onyx ponytail. "I'm... me an dad are countin' on you. "Vaya con Dios!"

"Okay but... " from Barnstak.

"God Bless you Emmie Hickok!" from a ridiculously waving Feldtip.

They stood there by the trough, holding Wild Bill's guns and strappings for quite some time before they turned-to and climbed up the long sagging clapboard steps that lead up and into Nuttal and Mann's smoky saloon. Just before they swept aside the double swinging wood-slat doors Feldtip pulled up abruptly and grabbed Barnstak by the arm just beneath his bony shoulder bearing the famous pair of silver plated blue-black Colt revolvers that belonged to Wild Bill Hickok, the man... the legendary law and lawless man of days gone by.

"Well would ya' jist lookey there!" he exclaimed in total shock and now understanding surprise. He pointed to a dusty wooden plaque nailed up rather low and inconspicuous just there at the side of the smoke filled saloon's weathered and sad, bent wood doorframe:

             [: POSITIVELY 'NO WOMEN' ALLOWED INSIDE! :]

                                                    ___ The End ___