In the afternoon, he photographed the facade of the Grand Central Hotel for its owner, Sam Perkins. “You photographed everyone else,” Perkins said, “and since you’re leaving town, it’s the least you can do.”
Johnson was obliged to set up his camera across the street. Had he set up closer, the passing horses and carriages would have kicked mud in the lens. The intervening street traffic would appear to obstruct the view of the hotel, but Johnson knew that moving objects—horses and wagons—would not leave more than a ghostly streak in a time exposure; for all intents and purposes, the hotel would appear to stand on an empty street.
Indeed, it was a problem when photographers tried to represent the busy street activity of towns, because the movement of horses and pedestrians and wagons was too quick for the film to record.
Johnson made his usual exposure—F11 and 22 seconds—and then, since the light was especially strong and he had a spare plate that was wet and waiting, he decided to try to capture the street life of Deadwood in a final quick shot. He exposed the last plate at F3.5 and 2 seconds.
Johnson developed both plates in his darkroom at the Black Hills Art Gallery and, while they were drying, purchased a suitable wagon to transport his bones with the cavalry. Then he went to the hotel to load the fossils, and have his final dinner in Deadwood.
He arrived just in time to see a body carried out into the street.
Norman H. “Texas Tom” Walsh had been found strangled in his room on the second floor of the Grand Central Hotel. Texas Tom was a short, feisty man who was rumored to be a member of the Curry gang of stage robbers. Suspicion of murder naturally fell on Black Dick Curry, also staying in the hotel at the time, but no one was brave enough to make an accusation.
For his part, Black Dick claimed to have spent all afternoon in the Melodeon Saloon, and to be innocent of any knowledge of what might have happened to Texas Tom.
And there the matter might have ended, had not Sam Perkins decided to stop by Johnson’s table and ask, during dinner, about the hotel portrait.
“Did you make it today?” Perkins asked.
“I did.”
“And how did it turn out?”
“Very nicely,” Johnson said. “I will have a print for you tomorrow.”
“What time’d you take it?” Perkins asked.
“Must have been about three o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Aren’t there shadows then? I’d hate the place to look all depressing, with shadows.”
“There were some shadows,” Johnson said, but he explained that shadows made a picture look better, giving it more depth and character.
It was then that Johnson noticed that Black Dick was listening to their conversation with interest.
“Where’d you take the picture from?” Perkins asked.
“Across the street.”
“Where, over by Donohue’s store?”
“No, farther south, by Kim Sing’s.”
“What’re you fellers yammering on about?” Black Dick asked.
“Foggy took a portrait picture of the hotel today.”
“Did he.” The voice went cold. “When was that?”
Johnson instantly felt danger in the situation, but Perkins was oblivious to it. “What’d you just say, Foggy, ’bout three o’clock?”
“Something about there,” Johnson said.
Dick cocked his head; he fixed Johnson with a watchful eye. “Foggy, I warned you once about photographin’ when I was around.”
“But you weren’t around, Dick,” Perkins said. “Remember, you told Judge Harlan that you were at the saloon all afternoon.”
“I know what I told Judge Harlan,” Dick growled. He turned slowly to Johnson. “Where’d you take the picture from, Foggy?”
“Across the street.”
“Turn out good?”
“No, as a matter of fact it didn’t turn out at all. I’m going to have to take it again tomorrow.” He kicked Perkins under the table as he said it.
“I thought your pictures always turned out.”
“Not always.”
“Where’s the picture you did today?”
“I scrubbed the glass plate. It wasn’t any good.”
Dick nodded. “All right, then.” And he turned back to his meal.
“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Perkins asked later.
“Yep,” Johnson said.
“Texas Tom had a room right at the front of the hotel, facing out on the street. Middle of the afternoon, sunlight would shine right in. Did you look real close at your picture?”
“No,” Johnson said. “I didn’t.”
At that moment, Judge Harlan came in, puffing. They quickly told him the conversation with Black Dick. “I can’t see as there’s any case against Dick at all,” he said. “I’ve just come from the Melodeon. Everybody swears Dick Curry was playing faro there all afternoon, just like he says.”
“Well, he must have paid them off!”
“There’s twenty or more seen him. I doubt he paid ’em all,” Judge Harlan said. “No, Dick was there all right.”
“Then who killed Texas Tom?”
“I’ll worry over it at the inquest, in the morning,” Judge Harlan said.
Johnson intended to pack after dinner, but curiosity—and Perkins’s urging—led him to the Black Hills Art Gallery instead. “Where are they?” Perkins asked when they had locked the door behind them.
They inspected the two exposed plates.
The first exposure was as Johnson had remembered—a deserted hotel, with no people visible at all.
The second plate showed horses in the streets and people walking through the mud.
“Can you see the window?” Perkins asked.
“Not really,” Johnson said, squinting, holding the plate to a kerosene lantern. “I can’t see.”
“I think there’s something there,” Perkins said. “You have a glass?”
Johnson held a magnifying glass to the plate.
Clearly visible in the second-floor window were two figures. One was being strangled by a second man, who stood behind him.
“I’ll be damned,” Perkins said. “You took a picture of the murder!”
“Can’t see much, though,” Johnson said.
“Make it bigger,” Perkins said.
“I have to pack,” Johnson said. “I’m leaving with the cavalry at dawn.”
“Cavalry’s drunk in the saloons all over town,” Perkins said, “and they’ll never leave at dawn. Make it bigger.”
Johnson had no enlarging equipment, but he managed to rig an impromptu outfit and exposed a print. They both peered into the developing tray as the image slowly appeared.
In the window, Texas Tom struggled, his back arched with effort, his face contorted. Two hands gripped his neck, but the killer’s body was blocked by the curtain to the left, and the killer’s head was in deep shadow.
“Better,” Perkins said. “But we still can’t see who it is.”
They made another print, and then another still larger. The work became slower as the evening progressed. The rigged system was sensitive to vibration at great magnification, and Perkins was so excited he could not stand still during the long exposure.
Shortly before midnight, they got a clear one. At great magnification, the picture was speckled and grainy. But one detail came through. There was a tattoo on the left wrist of the strangling arm: it showed a curled snake.
“We got to tell Judge Harlan,” Perkins insisted.
“I got to pack,” Johnson said, “and I got to get some sleep before I leave tomorrow.”