Deadwood Dan
When Buford Chesney boarded the westbound train for Tucson, Arizona, he noticed the man seated alone in the passenger car. From the smartness of his clothes, it was clear he was a city slicker. Curious as to what such a citified greenhorn was doing in Texas, Buford took the seat opposite him and struck up a conversation.
"Where ya headin' to, pardner?" he asked in his thick drawl.
"Santa Fe, New Mexico," the man replied in a voice that marked him as a Yankee.
"Ya thinkin' of becomin' a cowboy?"
The New Yorker laughed at the ludicrous suggestion.
"No," he replied. "My doctor suggested a warmer, dryer climate would help cure my lung ailment."
"What do ya do, if ya don't mind me askin'?"
"I was a reporter for The World."
"I ain't never met a reporter before," the Texan said, shaking the man's hand. "The name's Buford Chesney."
"Glad to meet you. I'm Harrison Van Cortland."
"Ya plannin' on lookin' for work with another newspaper? 'Cause if'n ya are, ya might find it damn near impossible. Most people in these parts cain't read."
"I plan on doing a lot of freelance writing. I'll sell most of my work to papers back in New York."
"Why would New Yorkers want to read about the goin's on in this neck of the woods?"
"There are a lot of colorful characters out here in the West," Harrison replied. "We have no gunslingers like Wild Bill Hickok or Wyatt Earp in the East."
Buford, who had dreaded the prospect of a long, boring train ride to Tucson, saw the opportunity of making the journey more interesting and, at the same time, having some fun at the Yankee's expense.
"Wyatt Earp?" he laughed with derision. "Is that a city slicker's idea of a gunslinger?"
"Of course. He and his two brothers and Doc Holliday were involved in the shootout at the OK Corral."
"That weren't no gunfight! It was nothin' but a turkey shoot. And as for Doc Holliday—hell!—he weren't nothin' but a dentist sufferin' from consumption."
"That's not what we heard in New York," Harrison said defensively.
"If'n ya wanna write about a real gunslinger, your man is Deadwood Dan."
"I've never heard of him."
"I ain't surprised. He's a lawman, ya see. It's always the outlaws that get their names in the papers."
"I suppose that's true," the reporter agreed. "After all, Jesse and Frank James, the Youngers and Billy the Kid were all on the wrong side of the law."
"Seems to me city folk might want to read about an honest man for once."
"It would be a refreshing change, especially in New York where we have no shortage of dishonest men ourselves."
There was a lull in the conversation during which the two men listened to the rhythmic sound of the train's wheels humming on the tracks. Buford lowered his Stetson hat over his forehead and closed his eyes. As his companion dozed off, Harrison replayed their conversation in his mind.
Deadwood Dan, he thought. The name has a ring to it.
An image of the name printed on the cover of a book flashed through the reporter's mind. Although he had never given serious consideration to writing anything other than newspaper articles, the thought of penning a novel suddenly appealed to him. It would no doubt take time to complete a book and have it published, but he was not in any immediate need of cash. He had been well paid by The World, and the cost of living was much less in the West than it was in New York.
As the train continued its journey, excitement for a new career grew. He strummed his fingers nervously on the seat's armrest as he waited for Buford Chesney to wake up so that he could question him further about Deadwood Dan. More than an hour later the sleeping man opened his eyes.
"Have a nice nap?" the reporter asked.
"It weren't long enough."
"How would you like to go to the dining car and get something to eat?"
"That I would," Buford replied, sensing he might be able to con the greenhorn out of a free meal. "Too bad I spent the last of my money on a train ticket."
"No problem. The meal will be on me."
"I'm mighty obliged."
"There is one small condition," Harrison said. "I want you to tell me how I can find Deadwood Dan."
The Texan chuckled mischievously and answered, "Deadwood Dan, huh? Well, pardner, you're lookin' at him."
* * *
Rather than get off the train in Santa Fe, Harrison Van Cortland paid the additional fare to continue on to Tucson. As the two men made their way to Arizona, the reporter took copious notes during his conversations with Deadwood Dan. Buford, who always enjoyed telling a good yarn, readily obliged his companion's curiosity.
"So, you rode along with the Pinkertons when they were tracking the James-Younger gang?" the writer asked.
"Yup. I was with them the day they shot John Younger. I was also with them when they were hunting the Reno brothers."
As Harrison furiously scribbled details in his unique form of shorthand, Buford described how three of the gang had been lynched by vigilantes on their way to prison. For the price of three meals a day and a lot of whiskey, the New Yorker was given enough material to write a dozen novels.
In an era before "fake news" became the cry of politicians and pundits, The World reporter did not bother to fact-check the Texan's claims. Instead, he took the tall tales of law and order in Dodge City, Tombstone, Durango, Amarillo and Virginia City at face value. He did not question that Deadwood Dan had encountered the who's who of the Wild West: Jesse and Frank James, Billy the Kid, John Wesley Hardin, Wild Bill Hickok, Belle Starr, Pat Garrett, Johnny Ringo, the Earp brothers, the Clantons and Doc Holliday. Even had he known that Deadwood Dan was no more than a figment of Chesney's imagination, it would not have mattered to Harrison since his novels would be published as fictional works.
The first book released in what was to become a popular series was Desperado. Published in New York, it soon became a bestseller. Bookstores up and down the East Coast sold out their copies within days of receiving them. With the success of the first novel, the public clamored for more. Van Cortland followed up his debut Desperado with The Posse. It, too, sold well as did the writer's subsequent offerings: The Gunslinger, Boot Hill, The Silver Saloon Shootout and Long Night on the Trail.
Although "Deadwood Dan" had become a household name east of the Mississippi, Buford Chesney did not benefit from his popularity.
It doesn't seem fair, the Texan thought bitterly. Them was all my ideas in those books. Yet I'm livin' hand to mouth while that city slicker's ridin' high on the hog!
Hoping to rectify the situation, he paid a visit to the writer, who lived in the largest, most elegant house in San Antonio, Texas. The former reporter, who had just returned from a trip to Europe with his young wife, was surprised to see him.
"What are you doing here?" Harrison asked.
"I figured ya might be needin' some more stories to put in your books."
"I still have material for another four novels, and after that I have a few ideas of my own."
"Seems to me ya made quite a bit of money off my memories."
Harrison eyed his guest with suspicion.
"Why did you really come here, Chesney?"
"Deadwood Dan did right by ya. Don't ya think it's time to do right by him?"
The author suspected that if he gave Buford money, he would spend it all on whiskey and would no doubt come back for more. Legally, he did not owe him anything. Morally—well, hadn't he paid for all his food and drink on the train to Tucson?
Hoping to rid himself of the Texan before he became too much of a nuisance, Harrison hit upon a clever idea that would benefit both men.
"If it's money you want, I know a way you can make a lot of it."
"How's that?"
"The people back east are crazy about Deadwood Dan. Why, I've heard even the president reads about your exploits in the White House."
"But I don't get a red cent from those books ya wrote."
"That's the way the publishing world works. If I was to write a biography about Bat Masterson, I wouldn't be expected to give him any of my royalties."
"It don't seem fair to me!"
"Maybe it's not, but there is a way you can capitalize on the books' success."
"Oh? How?" Buford asked, immediately interested.
"Public appearance tours. People would no doubt be willing to spend a lot of money for the opportunity to see Deadwood Dan in person."
"You think I was born yesterday!" the Texan shouted angrily. "Ain't no person in their right mind would pay money just to look at me. And if there was, I ain't willin' to put myself on display like an animal in a zoo or a freak in a circus. I may be broke, but I got my pride."
"It wouldn't be like that at all. You would appear on stage and tell people the same sort of stories you told me on the train to Tucson."
"And they'd pay money to hear them?"
"Of course. They pay money to read about you, don't they?"
The Texan looked at the expensive furnishings and artwork in the writer's parlor and knew the answer to his question.
* * *
Since Buford Chesney knew nothing about self-promotion and public appearance tours, Harrison found him a manager to handle bookings, negotiate contracts, make travel arrangements and oversee his finances. Ossie Snelling agreed to take on these responsibilities for twenty percent of Deadwood Dan's earnings.
The first stop on the gunslinger's tour was Pittsburgh. Buford appeared in the newly constructed Gayety Theater in a sold-out performance that attracted not only coal miners and steelworkers but also the city's elite. After arriving in Pennsylvania, the Texan wanted to go shopping for "fancy duds" to wear on stage.
"You can't go out in front of your fans wearing a tuxedo!" Ossie exclaimed.
"Why in tarnation not? People are payin' good money to see me. I cain't go out lookin' like I just rode in on a horse."
"That's exactly what your fans are expecting. They want to see Deadwood Dan, famed Texas lawman, not Buford Chesney. That means a cowboy hat, boots with spurs and a holster complete with six-shooter. For everyone's safety, however, I suggest your gun not be loaded."
"My gun? Aw, hell! I didn't know I was supposed to bring it."
In truth, the man who inspired the East Coast's most popular Wild West icon never wore a gun; and despite his boastful claims, he had never fired one either.
"No problem. I'm sure we can find a Colt revolver somewhere."
That evening when he walked out onto the Gayety's stage, Buford experienced a moment of stage fright. Assuming Harrison Van Cortland's books appealed mainly to men and boys, he had not expected to see so many women in the audience.
"Why, with all the purty gals out there," he managed to say, his face red with embarrassment, "I guess I'll have to watch my language."
The deafening applause encouraged Buford to relax. For close to two hours, he regaled his fans with tall tales about people and places both real and fictional. At the conclusion of his presentation, he received a standing ovation.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" his manager asked when the Texan entered the dressing room.
"It was the easiest buck I ever made!"
Moments later many of the wealthy patrons, who had been sitting in the front seats, made their way backstage, with the portly mayor and his wife leading the way.
"You were absolutely wonderful!" the first lady of Pittsburgh exclaimed. "Mr. uh—may I call you Dan?"
"Certainly, ma'am," Buford answered.
"Would you do us the honor of coming to our house for dinner tomorrow night ... Dan?"
"I'd love to."
For the remainder of his stay in Pittsburgh, Deadwood Dan was invited to the grandest homes in the city where he was treated to the most delectable foods and rarest wines and danced with the wealthiest women and prettiest girls. All too soon, however, Buford had to board a train for Philadelphia.
"I'm sure gonna miss Pittsburgh," he told Ossie as they pulled out of the station.
"I would imagine you'll get the same reception in Philly, and then Baltimore, Washington, New York and Boston."
Snelling's prediction proved to be true. Deadwood Dan's reception in Philadelphia was every bit as warm and welcoming if not more so than it had been in Pittsburgh. Likewise, the people of Baltimore and Washington welcomed their hero with open arms and treated him like visiting royalty. In addition to affluent, respectable matrons and their debutante daughters, there were many women of a lower social class who were willing—eager, in fact—to spend time with an honest-to-goodness cowboy. These trysts often led to more intimate relationships.
"Ya know, Ossie, I used to envy Van Cortland gettin' all that money for writin' books about the stories I told him," Buford confided as he and his manager ate dinner in one of the capital's best restaurants. "But now I don't 'cause I made out better than him in the long run."
After appearances in New York and Boston, Buford's first personal appearance tour came to an end. He returned to Texas a much richer man than when he had left. During his travels east, he also acquired a taste for fine food and drink, imported cigars, loose women and the creature comforts only the wealthy could afford including silk sheets, plush furniture and tailored suits.
When the cowboy stopped in San Antonio to visit Harrison Van Cortland, the writer was amazed by the transformation.
"Why, I hardly recognize you!" the author exclaimed. "You've put on a few pounds since we last met."
"It's all that fancy French food Easterners eat," the Texan insisted. "And the wine."
"Better than the rotgut whiskey they serve in the saloons around here, huh?"
"Ain't that the truth!"
In the decade that followed, eight more Deadwood Dan books were released and became overnight bestsellers. During that period Buford Chesney spent most of his time touring the Eastern Seaboard, growing richer and fatter with each successive tour.
Then in 1903 Pennsylvania-born film pioneer Edwin S. Porter made a twelve-minute, silent film entitled The Great Train Robbery. Although shot in New Jersey, it ushered in the genre of Westerns. Soon movie companies, which had relocated to Hollywood to escape Edison's monopoly on the motion picture industry, were turning out dozens of one-reelers set in the Old West. It was not surprising then that Sidney Goulding, a young, enterprising producer, wanted to bring Harrison Van Cortland's popular novels to the screen.
Ossie Snelling feared the movies would mean an end to Buford Chesney's career.
"Why should I worry that someone's gonna make a movin' picture of my stories?" the Texan asked. "Seems to me Deadwood Dan would only become more popular if'n they do."
"And you'd be right. The only problem is whatever actor is cast in the lead role will become the new face of Deadwood Dan."
"What do ya mean? I'm Deadwood Dan!"
"No offense, Buford, but you no longer look like a gunfighter. You've gotten older. I'm sorry, but once Hollywood gets its hands on Deadwood Dan, your personal appearance career will be over. But, hell, we've had a good run, you and I. One last tour and we can retire."
Only Buford was not ready to retire. He enjoyed being in the public eye far too much to give it up.
* * *
Sidney Goulding, the son of a Chicago meat-packing tycoon, grew up reading Harrison Van Cortland's novels and wanted his serialized films to be true to the author's vision. Thus, he invited the writer to Hollywood to act as a consultant. To his disappointment, the former reporter was not well enough to make the journey from San Antonio. Since the author was unavailable, the producer extended the invitation to the man who had inspired the novels: Buford Chesney.
"They want me to go to Hollywood?" the Texan asked excitedly.
"Sidney Goulding needs a consultant that knows Deadwood Dan's adventures inside and out," Ossie explained.
"That'd be me! I don't imagine actin' in front of a camera is much different than appearin' live on stage."
"You're not going to appear in the film. You're just going to be on set to make sure the movie stays true to the books."
"You expect me to help this Sidney Goulding feller make a movin' picture that will put me outta work? I ain't gonna do it."
"He's willing to pay you quite a handsome sum for your assistance."
"Well, I suppose since he's gonna make the picture with or without me, I might as well make a little money on it."
Expecting Hollywood to be more like the metropolitan areas of New England and the mid-Atlantic states, Buford was disappointed to see that it was more reminiscent of his home state of Texas.
"It ain't nothin' but a desert beside an ocean," he complained.
"What did you expect it to be like, Manhattan?" Ossie laughed.
When he was taken to the studio where the movie was being filmed, Buford was amazed by all the activity. There were at least a dozen movies being shot, all with different backdrops, props and costumes. In the era of silent films, no sound stages were needed, so several sets could be crammed into a small area. A biblical epic, a Civil War drama, a biography of Henry VIII, a modern comedy and a Victorian romance were all being enacted at the same time.
It was easy to spot the set where Sidney Goulding was working since it was the only Western being shot at the time.
"You must be Buford Chesney," the producer said, seeing the aging Texan in the cowboy hat. "Glad to meet you. Let me introduce you to the cast and crew."
Amidst the names and faces he would never remember was one Buford would not likely forget.
"This is Bucky Fossett," the producer announced, "the star of the film."
"Howdy, pardner," the Brooklyn-born actor said in an exaggerated drawl. "The name's Deadwood Dan."
Buford was mortified by the man chosen to play the lead role.
He ain't nothin' at all like me! he thought. Deadwood Dan is a hard-livin' gunslinger. This guy looks more like a student from one of them fancy colleges in Boston, like he never did an honest day's work in his life. Hell, I bet he doesn't even have calluses on his hands.
Not only did the actor have decidedly boyish features, he was also wearing heavy theatrical makeup that made him look effeminate. Even Bucky's acting skills were a disappointment. Like many silent film stars, his actions and emotions were exaggerated.
Old and fat as I am, I'd make a more believable Deadwood Dan than this sissified dandy does!
Throughout the day, Buford voiced his opinion on everything from the set decorations and the costumes right down to the minor details such as the way Deadwood Dan held his gun and tied his bandana around his neck. Despite his being paid for such input, neither the producer nor the director took his criticism into account.
By early evening, work on all the films stopped. Rather than go back to the hotel with Ossie, Buford chose to see what nightlife Hollywood had to offer.
"I need a drink," he said.
"Don't stay out too late," his manager advised. "You have to be back on the set tomorrow morning at five."
"I don't know why. Those fools don't listen to a damned thing I say."
After walking along dusty streets for more than an hour, Buford spotted what he believed was another film set. Only this one was a much more accurate portrayal of a western saloon. It was as though it had been uprooted in Dodge City and dumped in Los Angeles. The Texan had expected the building to be a mere façade like many of the movie sets in Hollywood were; but when he pushed open the batwing doors, he saw a long bar and several tables inside. There were bottles of alcohol on the shelves behind the bar and there were dirty glasses on several of the tables. Two people were also inside: a thin, tired-looking bartender and a man in a cowboy hat, sitting alone at a table in the corner of the room.
Well, I'll be damned! This is an honest-to-God saloon.
"What'll you have?" the bartender called wearily as Buford took a seat.
"Whiskey. Just bring me the bottle and a clean glass."
The Texan took his wallet out of his pocket and waved a few bills in the air to let the bartender know he was good for the tab.
"Wanna join me?" the cowboy offered when the bottle was placed in front of him.
"I wouldn't mind a drink," the bartender replied; then he got a second glass and sat down in the chair opposite the customer.
"I could use the company," Bufford declared.
"Oh?"
"Yup. I wasted an entire day on some movie set while the director and producer ruined my life. You should see the pretty boy they picked to play me in the film. It's an insult, I tell you."
Buford drained his glass, picked up the bottle and refilled it.
"To the Old West," he said, raising his drink in a toast.
The arm that carried the glass to his lips suddenly stopped in midair. The bartender began to fade away and then vanished before his eyes. Buford was so stupefied by the disappearance that he could not even utter a curse. Then the stranger at the corner table spoke.
"I know what you mean," he said.
The Texan turned around and saw the man sitting in the shadows. The brim of his cowboy hat was pulled low over his eyes and effectively hid his face. But there was something about the voice that sounded familiar.
"Do I know you?" Buford asked.
The man pushed his hat back, revealing his features. His face was strong and handsome, looking as though it had been carved from granite. The steely blue eyes were intimidating and no doubt made many a man cringe with fear.
"You might say that. I'm Deadwood Dan."
"No. That's me."
"You?" the stranger laughed, a decidedly unpleasant sound that made Buford's blood run cold. "You're no more a Texas lawman than that actor is. Just look at yourself. You're old and fat. And, worse, you've gone soft. What gunslinger sleeps on satin sheets and wears silk pajamas to bed? All the bullshit you've been spewing these past years! You never shot a man. Hell, you've never even fired a gun."
"But I ... I'm the one who dreamed up Deadwood Dan."
"And I'm the one who made him a literary icon."
Squinting his eyes, Buford looked closer at the stranger.
"There's somethin' familiar about you, but I cain't place it."
"We met many years ago on a train to Tucson," the stranger said.
"Harrison Van Cortland!"
The reporter was younger, taller and more muscular than Buford remembered him. He looked more like a caricature of the New Yorker, one in which the masculine features were exaggerated.
"That man doesn't exist anymore," the writer said. "The lung ailment that was slowly killing him all these years finally finished him off. I'm Deadwood Dan now—or I will be once you're out of the way."
The late reporter reached into his holster, took out a Colt revolver and, before Buford Chesney could dive beneath the table for cover, put a bullet in the Texan's heart.
"You're right about one thing," he said, stepping over the body. "It's an insult to have such a pathetic loser pretending to be Deadwood Dan."
The ghost of Harrison Van Cortland then pushed open the saloon's batwing doors and exited not onto a Los Angeles street, but back into the Old West where he continues to live as a legend and American hero.
Well, if it ain't the Sundance Cat, the fastest eater this side of the Mississippi.
