Little Bill and The Dead Man’s Hand

Ryan August waits patiently as the green, blue, and white gases coalesce into the form of a head.

With turquoise skin, arched eyebrows, intense pitch-black eyes, and a pointed black beard, the Great Maker’s presence is both wise and fearsome.

“You summoned me, Great Maker?” Ryan asks humbly.

The Great Maker’s voice is resonant and determined. “Yes. I have a new task for you. Since you performed so well in saving the Earp Brothers from the cowboys in Tombstone, I am sending you to Deadwood, South Dakota, in 1876. Your assignment is to save the life of William Butler Hickok.”

“Wild Bill Hickock?”

“The same.”

“Isn’t he supposed to die in 1876?”

The Great Maker’s eyebrows arch menacingly. “The Historical Reassessment Committee reviewed his life and death. Hickock will father a daughter with Martha Jane Cannary, known as Calamity Jane. Their daughter, Jean Hickok Burkhardt McCormick, will sire a child, Patrick, who will save Franklin Roosevelt from being assassinated.”

“And Wild Bill?””

“Governor of California. California will become the first state to legalize casino gambling, thirty years before Nevada.”

“Is that a good thing?” Ryan asks.

“The Committee viewed it as two steps forward, one step back… You are to pose as a writer. We will place you on the stage from Custer City to Deadwood in an hour… And Ryan, watch out for the ‘Dead Man’s Hand’.”

Exiting the stagecoach Ryan dusts off his clothes and is nearly hit by his own suitcase as the driver tosses it down.

Her arms outstretched, a bulky, short-haired woman wearing grimy buckskins wobbles toward Ryan.

“Bill! Hey, Bill! How’s about some sugar!”

Too shocked to react, Ryan’s nostrils burn when he gets a whiff of the approaching drunk.

She stops short, spitting at his shoes.

“You’re not my Bill! You’re just some shrimpy, wimpy, gussied-up phony! Why I oughta pull the hair outta your mustache hair by hair!”

The woman charges at Ryan. Surprised by her strength, he quickly finds himself on the ground being pummeled by the bullish woman.

“Jane!” a man yells. “Jane! You cut it out, now. That man’s done nothing to you!”

The man pulls Jane off Ryan.

A short, perfectly groomed man helps Ryan to his feet, dusting him off. Ryan has seen some colorful Western outfits during his short journey, but this man belongs in a Western time capsule. He has flowing black hair, a slicked handlebar mustache, and obviously cares for his bright smile. Unlike Jane, his hand-tailored fringed buckskins are clean, and his linen shirt is pressed. His smart look is topped off with beaded moccasins, a polished silver belt buckle, and a pair of handled pistols.

“Name’s Charlie Utter. I run a freight business with Bill Hickock, and occasionally, her,” he says pointing at Jane.

Jane continues to try and get at Ryan, muttering obscenities at him.

“I see you’ve already made quite an impression on Miss Cannary.”

“Calamity Jane?”

“The same,” Charlie replies. “You see Jane, he can’t be all bad. He’s heard of you.”

The seething hulk of a woman begins to calm down. “I don’t care if he’s my long-lost brother. He’s impersonatin’ Bill!”

“You do look an awful lot like him, mister, except Bill’s got you by half a foot or more.”

“My name’s Ryan August,” he says extending his hand to Charlie. “I’m here to write an article about Wild Bill Hickock. I guess I got too caught up in my admiration for him. I grew my hair out and styled my mustache like his.”

“I don’t know if he’ll appreciate that, laugh at it, or drag you to the barber,” Charlie replies.

“I say let’s take him to the Sioux and let them barber him!” Jane says.

Charlie sniffs the air. “Smells like you could use a little maintaining yourself, Jane.”

Charlie reaches into his pocket, handing her two silver dollars. “Why don’t you take this money and get yourself a bath, Jane. You know you can’t let Bill see you or smell you like this.”

Jane eagerly accepts the money.

“And Jane, it’s for grooming and a meal. I don’t want to see you sopping up booze at eleven in the morning.”

Jane drops her head like a child who’s misbehaved, stumbling off.

“That was nice of you,” Ryan says, picking up his suitcase.

“I’ve gotten to know Jane pretty well in the last month. She’s had it rough. She had to support her five brothers and sister growing up. The best way for a woman to do that is to become a man, or at least be the equal of them. Jane can ride, shoot, drink, and cuss like any man. The only way to tell she’s a woman is when she gets in close proximity to Bill.”

“Are they an item?” Ryan asks.

Charlie lets out a side-splitting stream of laughter. “Bill can get any painted cat he wants. He has no use for her. She’s the one that’s smitten with him.”

“Speaking of which, where can I find him?”

“At Tom Nuttal’s saloon. He practically lives there. I can’t get him to do an honest day’s work. I tell you what, you check into the hotel. I’ll stop at Nuttal’s and tell him that Little Bill wants to speak to Big Bill.”

“Little Bill?”

“Like how I came up with that lightning quick?” Charlie asks. “You better get used to it.”

“Can you do me another favor, Charlie? If he’s playing cards with Jack McCall, tell him to quit. I heard McCall is a real sore loser. He might come after Bill if he beats him.”

“Crooked Nose Jack? Nobody’s afraid of McCall. He’s all bluster.”

“Just do it. Please, Charlie.”

“Okay, but I want you to know this upfront. Bill’s got no money. He spends it all gambling, drinking, and donates liberally to the fairer sex. If I see you’re a bunko artist trying to shake him down, you’ll answer to me. Don’t let my genteel appearance fool you. I’ve skinned Buffalo for a living. And if Jane finds out you’re a chiseler, you’ll get much worse.”

“I mean him no harm, Charlie, I swear.”

“All right, Little Bill. Have you got a gun?”

“It’s in my suitcase.”

“Put it on. Crooked Nose Jack isn’t the only big talker in town. But the others are more likely to back it up.” 

The two cowboys standing at the bar turn to look at Ryan as he passes through the door. One passes his beer through his nose, coughing, while the other points at Ryan, laughing wildly.

Tom Nuttal, the owner and bartender for Nuttal & Mann's Saloon No. 10, looks Ryan up and down.

“Criminy! Utter wasn’t pullin’ my leg. You’re a shrunk-up version of Bill.”

The barrel-chested barkeep pours Ryan a shot of whiskey. Ryan downs it like a seasoned rummy, hacking uncontrollably.

“Well, he’s not exactly like me. He can’t handle his spirits,” Wild Bill says. “I think he looks more like George Custer, rest his soul.”

Rubbing his watery eyes, Ryan gives Wild Bill a faint smile, trying not to stare at the legendary figure like a rube.

Hickock is over six feet tall and sinewy, with yellow hair and blue eyes. fine features and a mustache.

“He’s got long hair like you, but his hair’s dark, and yours is fair,” Kenton Carew says. The well-dressed owner of the drugstore adds, “I’ll take two,” discarding his cards.

A jumpy man with a crooked nose and mussed-up dark hair checks his cards. “Sit in, you circus freak, or be quiet. You’re killin’ my luck.”

“What luck, Jack?” Kenton jokes.

Jack McCall stares at Wild Bill, his nostrils flaring as his pulse quickens. “Well, Bill?”

“One card.”

McCall deflates as he looks at his hand. He deals himself two cards. “Carew?”

“I’m out,” Kenton says, “permanently.” Turning over his cards, Kenton retreats to the bar.

“Hickock?”

“I’ll raise you a hundred.”

McCall looks at his cards again. “You’re bluffin’.”

“I don’t bluff, Jack.”

“All right, slick. I’ll see your hundred and raise it another hundred. Can you lend me fifty?”

“You should never bet more than you owe, Jack.”

“Never mind the lecture. Can ya?”

“I’m kinda betting against myself, but all right.”

 “Good. I call you.”

Hickock throws his money in the pot. “You sure you want to do that, Jack?”

McCall lays down his cards. “Sure, I got three Queens.”

He reaches for the pot, freezing when Wild Bill lays down a full house.

“You cheatin’ tin horn,” McCall snaps.

Hickock slowly pulls out a gun, setting it on the table.

“I’m afraid I’m getting a bit deaf in my old age, Jack. Would you repeat what you said?”

McCall jumps out of his chair. “My dander’s up! You and me is destined to fight like Kilkenny cats! I’m gonna best you Hickock, even if I gotta kill ya!”

“Relax, Jack.”

Taking a twenty from the pile, Wild Bill offers it to McCall.

“Get yourself some breakfast. Sober up and go home.”

“Charity? You’re offerin’ me pity, you four-flusher?”

Cursing, he stomps out of the bar.

“I don’t know hows I can thank you for doin’ all of this,” Calamity Jane says, looking at herself in a full-length mirror.

“You helped save me and Little Bill. It’s’ the least we can do,” Charlie says.

“I’ve never had a dress this fancy, and I love this big, feathered hat. I look like a real lady!”

“What’s more important is how it makes you feel,” Charlie replies.

“Like a rooster crowin’ on a fence. Bill’s gonna notice me now.”

The pair walk down the steps into the main room of the Opal Saloon.

The half dozen men drinking at the bar doff their hats at the tall, broad-shouldered woman, then one of them says, “Jehoshaphat! That’s Calamity Jane!”

Jane is about to bash the men with her parasol until Charlie steps between them, hushing their impending guffaws.

“We havin’ a costume party? What in tarnation are you tryin’ to pull, Jane?” one dusty cowboy asks.

“This is for Bill.”

“You makin’ yourself a present to him?”

“The pleasures gonna be mine, Gibby,” Jane replies.

“You might have to wait a spell. Him, Little Bill, Kenton Carew and Shed Lang got themselves a real barnburner goin’,” Gibby says. “They’ve been at it tooth and nail since last night, nearly twelve hours straight. They’re all cross-eyed drunk.”

“Then Bill’s gonna need some restin’ up.”

The cowboys whistle, waving their hats as if Jane was a blazing bonfire.

“Guess I got some catchin’ up to do as far as liquid refreshment is concerned,” Jane says, signaling the bartender.

“Take it easy, Jane,” Charlie warns. “You don’t want to be too drunk to perform.”

“Ain’t a man I can’t handle, even when I’m so drunk you look good, Charlie Utter.”

Bill looks up at the bar, squinting at Jane.

“His eyes have gotten worse,” Charlie observes. “I don’t think he knows who we are.”

“Oh, he’s gonna remember me,” Jane boasts.

Wild Bill sits back in his chair, leaning against the wall. “I’m about tuckered out and cashed out. Little Bill’s been havin’ himself quite a run of luck.”

“I got a feeling his lucks about run out,” Lang says. “Your bet, Wild Bill.”

The men turn to look at Wild Bill, who is face down on the table.

“He wasn’t kiddin’. He’s through. Let’s get him upstairs.”

Looming over the table, Jane shouts, “That’s my job!”

Lifting Wild Bill up, she throws him over her shoulder.

“I’ll see to him,” she says carrying him up the stairs.

“I betcha Bill dreams about gettin’ licked by a buffalo,” Kenton says.

“Well, fellas, I think it’s time for me to call it a night, and a day too,” Ryan says.

Kenton throws his arms around Ryan. “Hold it, big winner. We were thinkin’ of movin’ this to Nuttal’s. There’s usually some fresh meat there by now. Besides, you gotta give me a chance to win my roll back.”

Ryan shrugs his shoulders. “What the hell, why not?”

Passing Charlie, Ryan says, “Keep an eye on him and make sure McCall stays away from him. It’s August second.”

“He’s not going anywhere. Jane’ll see to that. McCall would need a regiment to get past her.”

“Mind if I sit there?” Ryan asks a surly-looking gambler with a cigar wearing a stove pipe hat. “I don’t like having my back to the door.”

The man blows out a noxious cloud of smoke. “I know you’re a newly minted hero and all, Little Bill, but this here’s my lucky seat. So, no.”

“Just figured there was no harm in asking.”

Playing five-card stud, the six players trade pots back and forth for several hours before Ryan wins three in a row.

Loosening his tie, Kenton says, “I never seen a man’s luck hold for so long. What have you got, Little Bill?”

“Two pairs… Black aces and eights.”

Jack McCall enters the bar, eyeing the table. “…Hickock…” he grumbles between grit teeth, causing one old cowboy at the bar to pull away from him.

Pulling his revolver, McCall shouts, “TAKE THAT, HICKCOCK!” firing at the back of Ryan’s head.

The green, blue, and white gases coalesce into the form of a head. The Great Maker’s penetrating stare bores in on Charlie Utter.

“I am sorry for Ryan’s loss, Great Maker. He was a good agent.”

“His sacrifice was necessary to change history.”

"His spirit will live on,” Charlie says. “I put up a gravestone in his honor. It reads: ‘Little Bill killed by the assassin Jack McCall in Deadwood, Black Hills, August 2nd, 1876. Pard, we will meet again in the happy hunting ground to part no more.’”