early february, 1884 // deadwood, dakota territory
He keeps out of trouble easily enough -- stays out of the saloons on the weekends, doesn't give any men a second look when he's walking down the street, pays his tabs and settles his debts promptly -- and for a town like Deadwood, that's saying more than most men can say.
He doesn't take up a mining claim, though he spends countless hours riding through the woods and hills outside of town contemplating just what might be laying beneath the surface of the rocky ground. A fortune or a folly might await him, if he were to try his luck searching for gold here in this part of the country -- but he's always reminded of his father's hands, stained with the grit of the earth's underbelly, coal dust blackening the space beneath his fingernails, and he can't bring himself to put his fingers into the earth.
(It would feel too much like a funeral, too -- letting the dust slip through his fingers and fall away.)
He spends six nights a week sleeping alone in his small, rented room at one of the quieter (for a given value of quiet; in this town it's hard to come by) hotels on the main drag. One night a week is spent at The Gem Theater, with Josephine, and he always pays her enough to make up for keeping her longer than the other men do.
(Everyone has to make a living somehow, and he's not going to keep her from making her fair share.)
It's on one of those nights, at the Gem, that Doc is nearly killed.
"You know, the other girls are starting to ask questions."
"Oh? What sort of questions are they askin'?"
"You know...about you, Sugar."
"What about me?"
"They want to know who this mysterious man is that keeps me to himself all night long..."
"I'm just a man, same as any other."
(She laughs.)
"I know you're from down south...I can hear it when you're talkin' to me so quiet, in your voice."
"Alabama."
"I could've sworn I heard the swamp in your voice...New Orleans, I figured."
"I went to school there."
"Oh?"
"Mmmhmm."
"What'd you go to school for?"
"I wanted to get an education."
(She laughs again.)
"A teacher, really? You don't seem the type, to be quite honest."
"It was a long time ago."
"Must've been a long time ago, for you to get those hands of yours."
"What about them?"
"Those are a workin' man's hands...rough in all the right places...holdin' a rope or a gun, pair of reins..."
"You know I do a lot of ridin', I told you that."
"I know, Sugar...it's just exciting to think about it."
"About ridin'?"
"No, about where a man like you might've been, things you might've seen and done...wild things..."
"I'm no outlaw, if that's what you're sayin'."
"No, not an outlaw...just a wild man..."
He wakes up later as she's shifting on top of him, her body stretched out against his in the darkness. She's running her fingertips down his chest and up over his shoulders, tracing every contour of muscle and bone she can reach without stretching. Through the haze in his vision he can see the grin on her face, and after he clears the fog from his mind, his own mouth opens to form a matching smile.
"I thought for certain you'd be the one havin' trouble waking," he says.
"Mmm, no...not tonight." She draws her leg up against his thigh. "I was hopin' that you might wake up 'fore the sunrise, though..."
"Oh, and why's that?"
His hand falls to her hip as she leans down, her hair falling across his eyes as her lips meet his.
"'Cause I intend to give you just as much pleasure as you insist on payin' me for, Mister Mysterious from Alabama," she whispers, kissing him firmly as he shifts his weight beneath her on the bed and rolls them over, her arms winding falling back to allow her fingers to tighten in the sheets beneath her pillow.
He's half-asleep when dawn comes, and in the sated haze of slumber, he never feels her fingers press against his shoulders until the blade threatens to break the skin that covers his spine.
"Now listen here," she says, and he's wide awake (and furious) in an instant, but he doesn't dare move -- even though draped on top of her as he is, he would have the advantage in any tussle. "I know you've got money, cowboy, and I don't know where you get it front or what you plan on doin' with it, but I think we need to have a little talk 'bout my wages."
"Is that so," he replies, voice flat and devoid of emotion.
(Within his chest, his heart is hammering with enough force to send shockwaves through his tongue; each angry, pulsing beat vibrates in his mouth hard enough to rattle his teeth.)
"Mmmhmm."
He feels the point of the knife dig into his flesh and he knows the sting that follows is a precursor to blood being spilled on the sheets; his eyes move to meet hers and for a moment he forgets who he's looking at.
She smiles, but doesn't laugh.
"I'm thinkin'...double," she says. "For starters."
"And if I refuse?"
"You know all I have to do is scream."
"You get paid to do that anyway," he snaps -- the bite of his tongue motivation enough for her to sink the blade into his skin, his world going blackredblack for an instant until the adrenaline sears up his torso and floods the area with heat.
She's quick, but not quick enough to keep his hand from curling around her throat.
"I know what your game is," she hisses. "You think you can use me to get to him."
"I don't want him," he says.
"Liar."
"And? You're a whore, if we're gonna get into name callin'--"
His words cut off in a shocked gasp as she twists the handle of the knife just enough to lose her grip on the handle -- though in part, the blood coating the antler or bone has gets some credit for that aspect of the situation -- and before she can shout, he's on his knees with the blade in his hand, steel pressed against her throat.
"I don't want to get to your boss," he spits out. "Or you."
(He wants to get to his hotel room where he can take a look at the wound in his back, though he knows it'll be difficult with the numbness creeping into his left arm.)
In that moment, when his steel-grey eyes are glaring straight into the pit of her soul, she realizes she's made a terrible mistake when it comes to choosing her latest mark.
"All right," she says, voice hushed. "I'm sorry."
(He laughs.)
She watches the sunrise though the lace curtains that cover the window, while counting out the fistful of money he left on the side table, her eyes drifting to the dried blood that smears several of the bills.
It's not double the usual -- it's triple.
With his fingertips still tingling (though he'll blame it on the chill of the winter air, what with snow mixing in the muddy streets of Deadwood beneath the hooves of his horse as he heads out) and a new Bowie knife at his hip, he turns Nova to the southeast trail and spurs him -- leaving behind nothing but blood and hoofprints, both of which will fade into the background noise of the bustling mining town.
And, he hopes, so will the memory of the mysterious man from Alabama will fade along with them.
(It does.)
He doesn't take up a mining claim, though he spends countless hours riding through the woods and hills outside of town contemplating just what might be laying beneath the surface of the rocky ground. A fortune or a folly might await him, if he were to try his luck searching for gold here in this part of the country -- but he's always reminded of his father's hands, stained with the grit of the earth's underbelly, coal dust blackening the space beneath his fingernails, and he can't bring himself to put his fingers into the earth.
(It would feel too much like a funeral, too -- letting the dust slip through his fingers and fall away.)
He spends six nights a week sleeping alone in his small, rented room at one of the quieter (for a given value of quiet; in this town it's hard to come by) hotels on the main drag. One night a week is spent at The Gem Theater, with Josephine, and he always pays her enough to make up for keeping her longer than the other men do.
(Everyone has to make a living somehow, and he's not going to keep her from making her fair share.)
It's on one of those nights, at the Gem, that Doc is nearly killed.
"You know, the other girls are starting to ask questions."
"Oh? What sort of questions are they askin'?"
"You know...about you, Sugar."
"What about me?"
"They want to know who this mysterious man is that keeps me to himself all night long..."
"I'm just a man, same as any other."
(She laughs.)
"I know you're from down south...I can hear it when you're talkin' to me so quiet, in your voice."
"Alabama."
"I could've sworn I heard the swamp in your voice...New Orleans, I figured."
"I went to school there."
"Oh?"
"Mmmhmm."
"What'd you go to school for?"
"I wanted to get an education."
(She laughs again.)
"A teacher, really? You don't seem the type, to be quite honest."
"It was a long time ago."
"Must've been a long time ago, for you to get those hands of yours."
"What about them?"
"Those are a workin' man's hands...rough in all the right places...holdin' a rope or a gun, pair of reins..."
"You know I do a lot of ridin', I told you that."
"I know, Sugar...it's just exciting to think about it."
"About ridin'?"
"No, about where a man like you might've been, things you might've seen and done...wild things..."
"I'm no outlaw, if that's what you're sayin'."
"No, not an outlaw...just a wild man..."
He wakes up later as she's shifting on top of him, her body stretched out against his in the darkness. She's running her fingertips down his chest and up over his shoulders, tracing every contour of muscle and bone she can reach without stretching. Through the haze in his vision he can see the grin on her face, and after he clears the fog from his mind, his own mouth opens to form a matching smile.
"I thought for certain you'd be the one havin' trouble waking," he says.
"Mmm, no...not tonight." She draws her leg up against his thigh. "I was hopin' that you might wake up 'fore the sunrise, though..."
"Oh, and why's that?"
His hand falls to her hip as she leans down, her hair falling across his eyes as her lips meet his.
"'Cause I intend to give you just as much pleasure as you insist on payin' me for, Mister Mysterious from Alabama," she whispers, kissing him firmly as he shifts his weight beneath her on the bed and rolls them over, her arms winding falling back to allow her fingers to tighten in the sheets beneath her pillow.
He's half-asleep when dawn comes, and in the sated haze of slumber, he never feels her fingers press against his shoulders until the blade threatens to break the skin that covers his spine.
"Now listen here," she says, and he's wide awake (and furious) in an instant, but he doesn't dare move -- even though draped on top of her as he is, he would have the advantage in any tussle. "I know you've got money, cowboy, and I don't know where you get it front or what you plan on doin' with it, but I think we need to have a little talk 'bout my wages."
"Is that so," he replies, voice flat and devoid of emotion.
(Within his chest, his heart is hammering with enough force to send shockwaves through his tongue; each angry, pulsing beat vibrates in his mouth hard enough to rattle his teeth.)
"Mmmhmm."
He feels the point of the knife dig into his flesh and he knows the sting that follows is a precursor to blood being spilled on the sheets; his eyes move to meet hers and for a moment he forgets who he's looking at.
She smiles, but doesn't laugh.
"I'm thinkin'...double," she says. "For starters."
"And if I refuse?"
"You know all I have to do is scream."
"You get paid to do that anyway," he snaps -- the bite of his tongue motivation enough for her to sink the blade into his skin, his world going blackredblack for an instant until the adrenaline sears up his torso and floods the area with heat.
She's quick, but not quick enough to keep his hand from curling around her throat.
"I know what your game is," she hisses. "You think you can use me to get to him."
"I don't want him," he says.
"Liar."
"And? You're a whore, if we're gonna get into name callin'--"
His words cut off in a shocked gasp as she twists the handle of the knife just enough to lose her grip on the handle -- though in part, the blood coating the antler or bone has gets some credit for that aspect of the situation -- and before she can shout, he's on his knees with the blade in his hand, steel pressed against her throat.
"I don't want to get to your boss," he spits out. "Or you."
(He wants to get to his hotel room where he can take a look at the wound in his back, though he knows it'll be difficult with the numbness creeping into his left arm.)
In that moment, when his steel-grey eyes are glaring straight into the pit of her soul, she realizes she's made a terrible mistake when it comes to choosing her latest mark.
"All right," she says, voice hushed. "I'm sorry."
(He laughs.)
She watches the sunrise though the lace curtains that cover the window, while counting out the fistful of money he left on the side table, her eyes drifting to the dried blood that smears several of the bills.
It's not double the usual -- it's triple.
With his fingertips still tingling (though he'll blame it on the chill of the winter air, what with snow mixing in the muddy streets of Deadwood beneath the hooves of his horse as he heads out) and a new Bowie knife at his hip, he turns Nova to the southeast trail and spurs him -- leaving behind nothing but blood and hoofprints, both of which will fade into the background noise of the bustling mining town.
And, he hopes, so will the memory of the mysterious man from Alabama will fade along with them.
(It does.)