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Trixie needs a smoke. She lifts the warm weight of Sol's arm from her belly and slides off the cot. The faint rasp of his snore doesn't change.
There's no lamp burning in the store, but her bare feet know every splinter in the rough floor and where to turn to slip past the barrels of rakes and picks. She steps into the early morning light and -- around the corner of the store, out of sight from the inside -- she rolls a cigarette and scratches a match into flame on the siding.
Deadwood's never quiet, but it's less noisy now than any other time. The serious miners are out working their claims already and the hoople-heads and gamblers are on their way to passing out after a night of whiskey. Over at the Gem, the whores'll be lying down for a catnap, Jewel sweeping up, and Al doing whatever that devious cocksucker gets up to when no one's watching.
Alma's sleeping too, if she's not puking her delicate guts out. Not for the first time, Trixie wonders if helping the widow kick the laudanum was the smartest move she could have made; all it's won her so far is the sickly sentiment of Alma's friendship. Well, Trixie's no whore with a heart of gold and Alma had best learn that soon. Asking how to flush her womb, bold as brass, just like a woman who's been denied all too damn little in her life.
Trixie doesn't often think of the five times she drank strong pennyroyal tea; it's not like she can recall much anyway. She was on so much dope back then that all the memories are smeared together into one mess of racking cramps and bloody sheets and pisspots full of gore. She takes a drag on her cigarette hard enough to scorch her fingers. It's been two years since the last time, thank fuck. Her insides must be twisted enough now to keep any seed from taking root.
A darker clot separates itself from the shadows along the wall of the livery stable. Mrs. Bullock drifts slowly down the street like a haunt, white face and pale hair floating above a black dress. She isn't paying any mind to where she's going, just wandering in a more or less straight line. The few men on the street get out of her way, which is good, 'cause she ain't getting out of theirs; Trixie doubts she even sees them.
Where the fuck is Bullock? Can't he rouse himself to keep one eye on a grieving mother? Maybe she should fetch Sol to deal with this -- but by the time she'd roused him and heaved him out the door, the woman could be long gone. Trixie drops the end of her cigarette into the mud, grinds it under her calloused heel and steps out into the street.
"Good morning, Mrs. Bullock."
No answer. Trixie walks alongside the woman for a good ten paces before the greeting finally sinks into her addled head.
"Hello, Trixie." She forces her mouth into a numb smile, and Trixie is the first to look away. She doesn't know Martha Bullock well at all, but it's plain to anyone with half a fucking brain that most of her is very far away from Deadwood.
Half the main drag passes by before Trixie says anything else, and "You're out early," is all she can come up with.
"I thought I'd lay some flowers on William's grave." Mrs. Bullock lifts one black-gloved hand vaguely, tracing an arc with the cornflowers clutched in it. "The sunflowers won't bloom for a long while yet, so I found these."
Shit. Maybe her mind's snapped altogether. Trixie doesn't dare take the woman's arm; she looks brittle enough to shatter. "Can I walk with you?"
"If you like." Complete indifference masks her voice.
It isn't far from anywhere to the boneyard; sometimes Deadwood is still a very small place. On the short way there Mrs. Bullock's abstracted grief earns the two women clear room to walk, even a few doffed hats from some of the unlikeliest shitheels in camp. Trixie glares at each one, silently promising them a beating if they so much as open their fucking mouths.
The chunks of yellow clay heaped on the grave are still sticky. The black letters Sol painted on the wooden cross are stark and clear: WILLIAM BULLOCK BELOVED SON.
"William was lonely." Mrs. Bullock touches the shining paint with one gloved finger. "He had no companions his own age; there are so few children in the camp. It seems as if most people come here seeking to escape such encumbrances."
It seems pretty goddamn obvious to Trixie. "You're probably right."
She turns her head stiffly as a doll, and stares at Trixie with fixed eyes. "I should never have brought him here. I had misgivings, but I told myself they would be overcome. I should have heeded them instead."
Jesus fuck. Trixie wishes she'd never stepped into the street. How the fuck is she supposed to console a genteel bereaved mother? "You did your best for the child, ma'am. A runaway horse, it could have happened anywhere."
The sun is rising above the hills now, and red light races along the ridge above them like a forest fire. Trixie lays a hand on Mrs. Bullock's elbow to guide her back, but she moves and Trixie's hand falls away. They walk back to the camp together in uncompanionable silence. Trixie stays beside her right to the foot of the stairs to the Bullocks' house, where they part without a word. Trixie watches her climb the stairs, open the door and vanish into the dark house with a whisper of her skirts.
She goes back to the hardware store and Sol, rubbing her arms against the cold.