Paradise Sky

Next morning I left my guns there on the porch under my blanket and strolled over to where Judge Isaac Parker held his court. I was early enough and lucky enough to catch him when he wasn’t on the bench or about law work. I was told to take off my hat by the man outside the door, a white fellow who looked more than serviceable if it was necessary to wrestle a grizzly to the floor and later tame it for janitorial work.

I was let into Judge Parker’s office. The great man was at his desk drinking out of a large cup. He was sharply dressed in a black suit and had a long, graying beard that come to a point like a spike. His hair was thick and neatly combed and maybe touched up with shoe polish. He wore eyeglasses. He could have been thirty-five or fifty-five. It’s hard to tell with bearded white people. He set the cup down and laid his other hand on a big black book. He said, “So you come here to tell the truth?”

“About what?”

“About anything.”

“Yes, sir. Reckon so.”

“Reckon? Or you do plan to tell the truth? Got my hand on a Bible here.”

“I plan to tell the truth. But shouldn’t my hand be on the Bible?”

“That’s true. We may come to that. How’s the weather out?”

“Nippy, but the sun is starting to burn off the cold. It’ll be short-sleeve weather by noon, or at least you won’t need a coat.”

“You have on a coat.”

“Yes, I do. But it isn’t yet short-sleeve weather, and it is far from noon.”

“You’re young. Get older, nothing is that far away timewise, including your own demise. In the blink of an eye it’ll be noon. I like noon. It’s di

“Di

“So you aren’t eating good di

“No, sir. Can’t say that I am. I’ve only had one meal since I’ve come to town, but I got it set in my mind that where I am di

“No coffee?”

“No, sir.”

“What are you having?”

I was more than a little confused by his interest in the dealings of my stomach, but as I had come there with the intent of looking for a job, I figured I should go along to get along.

“Cornbread, if you can call it that. Cornbread and milk on the edge of disaster. It’s like eating a brick and washing it down with phlegm.”

The judge let out a laugh.

“What do you want with me, son?”

“A job, sir.”

“Cleaning up the office? Working in the courthouse? What you got in mind?”

“I’m looking to be a deputy marshal.”

“Are you, now?”

“Yes, sir, I am. I figure as a deputy I could at least eat a better di

This made him laugh again.

“What attributes do you have as a marshal?”

“I have been in the army, first off,” I said. “Buffalo soldier with the Ninth. Fought Indians.”

I didn’t mention I had run off from the army.

“What else you got?”

“I have been a bouncer in Deadwood, and last year I won a title there as best shot. They called me Deadwood Dick on account of it.”

“Like the books?”

Three or four books about me was out and about by this time.

“Yes, sir. Them books is based on me. I think you could say it’s a loose sort of thing.”

“Isn’t Deadwood Dick a white fellow?”

“Only in the books. They’re based on me, and the fellow writes them is named Bronco Bob, though that’s not the name he works under. He came in second in the shooting contest.”

“You know what? I have heard of that contest. Story of it has gotten around.”

“It has?”

“Yep. Story that a colored man won and that he outshot everyone there. Here’s another thing. I know Bronco Bob.”

“That’s a surprise.”

“He had a situation once where he appeared before me in court. He was traveling through doing his shooting matches. It had to do with a woman and a fight. He lost the woman, won the fight. The other guy lost the woman, too.”

It was my turn to laugh. “That sounds like him.”

“It not only sounds like him, it was him. I liked him. Very personable. Gave him the letter of the law, though. Time in jail. A sizable fine. It wasn’t his wife he was with, you see, but a whore. Had it been his wife the time would have been cut in half, and so would the fine. I have read a number of the Deadwood Dick books of late, but until this moment had no idea he was the writer or that you were the source.”

“Well, I might be the source, but them books about me is about as close to real life as the moon is to Denver.”

“Fair enough. That is honest. I figured as much. So you can shoot and you can bounce drunks and rowdies, and you got books written about you, and I take it you can ride pretty good.”

“More than pretty good. Like I was the horse itself, and I got my own mount. I wouldn’t be expecting one from the local government.”

“Good. You wouldn’t get one. Speak any Indian dialects?”

“No, sir. I don’t.”

“Well, that can be a holdback, but not altogether. A bump in the road. Can you track?”

“I’m okay at it,” I said. “There are better, but I’m all right.”

“If it’s a big tracking job, we got Choctaw Tom on retainer. He’s as much Negro as he is Choctaw, but the Choctaw name stuck cause he lived with them so long, his mother being Choctaw. He can track anything that walks or rides and maybe anything that flies. So he’s available now and then. Something you can’t handle trackingwise, we could hire him. The Bible. Do you read it?”

Right then I knew I was on loose ground. But seeing as how the judge had his hand on one, I ventured it meant something to him.

“Now and again. I’m not as educated in it as I should be, but then I’m not educated in a lot of things.”

Judge Parker pursed his lips, pondering my comment. “Well, now. I suppose that is reasonable enough. You should know I am a Methodist, and in my court, God is a Methodist, so you might want to read up on the Good Book a little. I’d stay away from the Baptist if you come across them. Heathens. I’m not all that fond of other false versions of Christianity, either. They are all going to hell, the way I see it. Except the Methodist. And some of them are going. Let me tell you a little something. I hire you, I expect you to bring men to justice. Kill if you got to, but not for the convenience of it. I’d rather a man be brought in and punished as the law decides.”

I decided it would be best if he and Luther didn’t meet to discuss theology.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“You would need to study up a bit on what is expected and acquire some idea of the law, though mostly your job would be to go out and catch folks. And, as I said, not shoot them. Unless it was called for, of course, and it often is. There’s men—white, red, and black—that will not want to come back with you for obvious reasons. They may take it in their heads to kill you. That warrants you shooting them, killing them if you have to. They may not shoot at you, but just won’t come. You may have to shoot them and bring in their dead bodies. Best if you got a spare horse to lead for that, cause a dead body sure raises a stink. Summer’s coming soon. Spring blinks, summer waits, and waits and waits, and then winter comes and it won’t go away. Kill a man in winter, the odor problem is lessened. You may also have to shoot them on the run. I suggest from a distance with a long gun. Being the shot you are, I can reasonably assume you have a long gun and a pistol?”

“You can reasonably assume that,” I said.

“Good. Well, I guess we can swear you in right now. Come put your hand on the Bible.”

“Sir, I got one thing I’d insist on.”

“You do, do you?” he said.

“Yes, sir.” I took the poster out of my pocket, unfolded it, and walked over and placed it on his desk. “I want to start with them.”