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A Deadwood Waif

By Jerry L. Bryant, RPA

DEADWOOD—The fascinating history of Deadwood and the surrounding Black Hills has generated a multitude of legends, controversies, myths, and outright lies. One of the most perplexing of these controversies concerns gunfights and violent deaths in Deadwood. Allegedly, in 1876, the first year of the gold rush, one person violently met his or her doom on the streets of Deadwood each day.

In checking with other historians, the number of violent deaths in Deadwood falls far short of that legendary statistic. Bob Lee, the late area historian and author, gives an estimate of 77 total violent deaths in the entire Black Hills region during the first two years of the gold rush. That said, I would like to both draw attention to - and emphasize -the use of the word “estimate.” No one truly knows how many men and women ran away from home in 1876-77 and were never heard from again. Are some of their remains at the bottom of an abandoned mineshaft buried by years of mill tailings? How many fell victim to foul play in the wilderness of a forgotten gulch, only to have their bones scattered by coyotes and rodents? In truth, we will never know the answers to these questions. Victims could die in the center of town and pass un-noticed, their deaths never recorded, leaving families to wonder, “why doesn’t he write?”

Such is the case of “The Waif of Deadwood,” an article published in the Black Hills Champion. Is this a true story? Or is it rather an ill-advised spot of frontier journalism designed to entertain the miners? Subsequent research has failed to locate, identify, or verify the existence of the story’s hero. But perhaps the true existence of the story’s main character is less important than the questions the article raises and the cultural milieu to which it points. Numbers aside, Deadwood was, without a doubt, a rough and tumble town, especially for young people far from home. Below is the article as printed on August 27, 1877.

NOTE: Mr. Bryant is the research curator and resident archaeologist at Deadwood’s Adams Museum and the Historic Adams House. His original research is published in the museums’ newsletter, the Adams Banner Quarterly. The Banner is one of the many benefits of membership to the two museums. For more information on becoming a member, please call 605-578-3724.

The Waif of Deadwood

With all their roughness there is an inner womanish feeling deep down in the hearts of the men who people new frontier towns and cities. This feeling has often been demonstrated by those who bore the name of desperadoes, and the remote western states and territories can show some champion specimens, particularly in the mining districts. Protection for the young and the helpless rises in many cases to a feminine love for the object around which it centers, and the waif of Deadwood is no solitary example. Of all human beings, those untutored and coarse men delight in a manly boy, if the two qualities can be linked together, and help him build up his young fortunes with parental eagerness. Here is an exceedingly well told and pathetic little story of the pride of the family.

The Pride of the Family

The proprietors and their industrious visitors also, were for a moment diverted from the contemplation of sundry piles of “chips” and some other matters pertaining to gambling, by the appearance of a small boy in their midst. He was an uncommon boy too, because no common boy would have gone of his own accord into the Minerva Saloon.

“Young chap, where did you come from, and who are you, anyhow?”

“My name’s Jim, and I cum to here from Cheyenne to make stamps, like the rest of you. Don’t you want a boy here, boss?”

“A boy! Good God! Major, do you hear that? The boy wants a place here. Jim’s his name he says.

“Yes, and I recon we had best take him, too; only what will we do with him, that’s what I don’t know. Jim, where’s your folks?”

“Dun no “ home I spect.”

“And where’s that?”

“I don’t like to tell you that; and you don’t know them “ my folks- so what’s the use in telling all about them, eh?”

“That boy is sharp, Major, sharp. And you want a place here, boy, do you?”

“Yes boss, I am looking for a place. I can shine boots and do most anything. I never cusses and swears, but I like to smoke cigar butts and whole ones, too.”

“Shine, can you? Now lets see how you can shine before we hire you for steady work.”

And Major Showers left the “lookout” seat at the faro game to test the capacity of the small boy who wished for a place. Major Showers was a gambler-a faro dealer; and his partner, “Doc” Puffer had earned the curses, because he had been the ruin of more than one poor fellow.

This small boy, Jim, was certainly the only small boy without an owner in Deadwood. It was a wonder how such a little waif came away there in the Black Hills. His own statement was perhaps as good as any:

“I jest kept a comin’ till I got here, boss; that’s the way it was.”

“And that shirt of yours, Jim, ain’t quite up to what we’re used to here; but maybe you’ll improve. You see we don’t care what it costs, but we must have the best.”

That was the only bargain ever made with the boy; but he became presently, and curiously too, part and parcel of the establishment. Like a rare painting or a curiosity, the lad became an attraction. His quaint and old-manish ways and sayings caused many a rough customer and those better bred, too, to stop and wonder at the boy.

“Whose little cuss is he, Doc?” asked Joe Bunche, a Deadwood terror, as he watched the boy till he wholly forgot and neglected his faro chips.

“Mine and the Major’s.”

“Young fellow, what’s your name?”

“Jim”

“Jim what? Out with it quick or---”

“Jim-----I don’t like to tell, so I don’t. My momma wouldn’t like for me to tell neither. She said how I was going to be the pride of the family someday, if I was a good boy. O, I wish I could se Momma just onst. O----o!”

And a torrent of tears told the earnest love the lad had for his far away mother. Other eyes, total strangers to such sensations, were puzzled at the effect of the boy’s tears.

“Let the little chap alone, Joe! You’ve made him cry”and I won’t have it,” Doc said sharply.

“I didn’t go to hurt his feelings, Doc, I only wanted to call the little one by his full name.”

The desperado was actually trying to sooth and caress the lad.

“Then call him Jim Pride, if you want to, and let him alone.”

And so he was called Jim Pride after that. A very nice boy in his ways, he remained so too, in spite of the fearful life around him. And those gamblers of the Minerva Saloon were presently as watchful and jealous of the welfare and morals of this boy as a lover would be of his mistress.

“The boy don’t know anything bad, and he ain’t going to learn it from you,” was the quietus Doc and his revolver put upon the wickedness of more than one too talkative desperado.

“Why don’t you set up a Sunday school for the boys here? When me and little Jim takes a hand you will have to call in your checks and close the game, eh, Doc?”

From no greater cause than this banter of Joe Bunce, with the laugh of others around the gambling table, came hot words, and then the inevitable revolver. There was in a moment cursing, shooting, yells, and the terrific uproar of a frontier barroom fight. Finally the noise ceased and the crowd came slowly back again. The faro dealer took his seat again.

“Nobody hurt, gentlemen. Now we’ll go on with the game!”

It was then that somebody pointed to the corner. A little bunch of clothes lay there behind a chair.

“Oh, God!” Cried the dealer, springing up and throwing away his box and cards. “It’s our little boy, Jim. Dead? Yes, dead. And I wish it was me, so help me God! I wish it was me and not him!”

The next day Deadwood had a funeral- a very sad one. There was small coffin into which the entire population in town gazed earnestly and tearfully. Many rough hands, and some cruel hands suddenly became strangely tender and wished to help bear away the coffin.

No one knew the boy’s real name; but there was a marble slab at his grave. Was it a tender chord in a gambler’s heart that prompted this description?

“Under this bit of turf, under this forest tree waiting for God to call, lies the pride of the family.”

Published Online: March 23rd, 2007