Gold attracted its own ghosts. Diseases swept through the mining camps. Outlaws and horse thieves roamed the trails in search of easy targets. Whiskey led to brawls and gunfights, and the few who didn’t take to drink found comfort in the opium dens.
Then there were the soiled doves, many of whom, like Millie Ann, had been promised good paying jobs only to find themselves trapped in a pleasure house with no money and no way out. The ghosts of women who had committed suicide, n gu?, frightened me almost as much as the hungry ghosts — those whose families forgot to honor them after their death. Hungry ghosts emerged from the gates of hell during the seventh month, seeking food to fill their bulging stomachs and dragging mischief and misfortune in their wake. They were hideous things to behold, some with long needle-thin necks, others with rotting mouths and flaming tongues.
But at least they came only once a year, whereas suicide ghosts never went away. They wore their desperation soul deep, realizing again and again, day after day, that they were still trapped here. That there was still no way out.
Ghosts are drawn to wu-shamans like mosquitoes to an oil lamp. Here in Deadwood, I couldn’t leave the laundry without seeing their shadows from the corners of my eyes or feeling them tug at the hem of my jacket. I often took circuitous routes to try and lose them, as it was bad luck for a ghost to follow you home.
Even now I could feel the ghosts of Deadwood drifting toward me as I followed half a step behind James, my eyes downcast to keep from drawing attention, both from the multitudes of men who filled the streets and the spirits that gathered in my footsteps. When I was little, my mother always sent them away — sometimes with bribes of food, sometimes by chasing them off with a straw-bristled broom. I hadn’t realized what a nuisance they were until she was gone.
There was something unusual about the ghost of James Hill, though. Despite the arrow in his back, he maintained a light step as he walked down Main Street crisping on the apples I’d smuggled from my uncle’s stores. (After gifting them to his spirit, I’d stashed the physical apples under the walkway behind the laundry, hoping they would rot away before they were missed.)
We were two blocks from Star & Bullock’s hardware store when I noticed the commotion. A crowd of men was gathered in the street, screaming obscenities. The newspaperman was there too, trying to gather information from the shouting. Not far off, I spotted a finely dressed woman sobbing hysterically and clutching a boy — maybe seven years of age — against her hip.
Easing through the crowd, I spotted the source of the outrage. A wagon was being pulled by a couple of mules. It was loaded with two bodies and a swarm of flies.
My heart shuddered, but I didn’t look away.
James Hill’s eyes were faded in death, his corpse drained of color. Someone had snapped the arrow off at his back, but the broken shaft could still be seen protruding from between his shoulder blades.
The second body on the cart was one I didn’t recognize. A full-whiskered man with one boot missing off his stockinged feet. Two arrows were stuck in his torso, a third in his thigh.
I scanned the dozens of ghosts gathered in my periphery, but I didn’t see his spirit among them.
“Jeremiah was a good, God-fearing man!” one of the louder mouths was saying. “And his son, there, as selfless as they come! Now the Sioux come onto their land and murder them when they ain’t done nothing but work hard to provide for their family. I’ve had enough lookin’ over my shoulder for these savages. These murders must be answered!”
His words were met with a cheer and a gunshot that made me jump.
“I’ll offer a hundred dollars from my own pocket for every dirt-worshipper scalp brought back!” the loudmouth continued, to more cheering. The stench of alcohol was already heavy on more than one of them, and the sight of the bodies was spurring their bloodlust.
I turned to James, but he wasn’t watching the crowd. He was staring at the crying woman and the child. Her face was half covered by a handkerchief.
“Your mother?”
James gave a sad nod. “And my brother. Jules.”
They made a pretty family, all yellow hair and faces like you’d see in a painting.
With a start, I realized I’d seen the woman before. “She came to me once.”
James didn’t take his attention from them. “I know. About five months ago, when Jules was sick.” Some tension slipped off his shoulders. “None of the doctor’s treatments were working, and we were desperate. Some of the men in the camp told us you might be able to help.” His gaze slid toward me. “Ma said you called on the spirit of my grandmother, and she told her to make a special tea for Jules, out of plants she could only get from some of your neighbors. She followed my grandmother’s directions to the word. The very next day, Jules’s fever broke, and . . . there he is. Alive.”
I stared at the young boy, remembering how desperate his mother had been when I suggested the tea, a combination of ginger, cinnamon, peony, and licorice. It was a common treatment, used to improve the healing energy of the body.