Dragons Teeth Crichton 2017 (WWT)

“How can that be?” Perkins said, and accompanied him upstairs. Perkins viewed the room with
equanimity. “Just one of the boys, burdened with curiosity, checking out your story. They didn’t take
anything, did they?”
“Yes, they took my wallet.”
“How can that be?” Perkins said.
“It was here, in my room.”
“You left your wallet in your room?”
“I was only going downstairs to dinner.”
“Mr. Johnson,” Perkins said gravely, “you’re in Deadwood. You can’t leave your money
unattended for a breath.”
“Well, I did.”
“That is a problem,” Perkins said.
“You better call the town marshal and report the robbery.”
“Mr. Johnson, there’s no marshal in Deadwood.”
“No marshal?”
“Mr. Johnson, there was no town here this time last year. We surely haven’t gotten around to hiring
a marshal. Besides, I don’t think the boys’d stand for one. They’d kill him first thing. Just two weeks
back, Bill Hickok was killed here.”
“Wild Bill Hickok?”
“That’s him.” Perkins explained that Hickok was playing cards in Nuttal and Mann’s Saloon when
Jack McCall came in and shot him through the back of the head. The bullet passed through Hickok’s
head and lodged in the wrist of another player. Hickok was dead before his hands touched his guns.
“The Jack McCall I had dinner with?”
“That’s him. Most folks figure Jack was hired to shoot Wild Bill by folks who were afraid he’d be
hired as town marshal. Now I reckon nobody’s eager for the job.”
“Then who keeps the law here?”
“There is no law here,” Perkins said. “This is Deadwood.” He was speaking slowly, as if to a
stupid child. “Judge Harlan presides over the inquests, when he’s sober enough, but other’n that,
there’s no law at all, and people like it that way. Hell, every saloon in Deadwood is technically
against the law; this is Indian territory, and you can’t sell spirits in Indian territory.”
“All right,” Johnson said. “Where is the telegraph office? I’ll wire my father for funds, pay you,
and be gone.”
Perkins shook his head.
“No telegraph office?”
“Not in Deadwood, Mr. Johnson. Not yet, anyway.”
“What do I do about my stolen money?”
“That is a problem,” Perkins agreed. “You been here three days now, you owe six dollars plus your
dinner tonight, that’s a dollar more. And you stabled your horses with Colonel Ramsay?”
“Yes, down the street.”
“Well, he’s going to want two dollars a day, so that makes six or eight dollars more you owe him. I
reckon you can sell him your wagon and team to square it.”
“If I sell my wagon and team, how can I leave with my bones?”
“That is a problem,” Perkins said. “It surely is.”
“I know it is a problem!” Johnson began to shout.
“Now, Mr. Johnson, keep a cool head,” Perkins said soothingly. “You still intending to go to