Creating Fiction from History: Dave Wilson

March 17, 1891

My dearest Marie,

I trust this letter finds you well, my love. I have arrived in Castle Town, Montana – 2 months gone and hopefully only another five or six weeks before I see your beautiful face again! I came across a sad piece of news yesterday while browsing through old newspapers in the Chronicle office. I'll write it out as it appeared in the paper on February 4.

Dave Wilson died on Tuesday. He was 79. He was buried in Boot Hill on Wednesday.

And....that was it, three lines in the local paper for Dave. But they didn't know Dave like I knew Dave!

I haven't seen Dave in over five years but he looks exactly the way I remember on that day I first met him in 1879. There I was, all of 11 years old, just broke out of the orphanage, helped greatly by the worst blizzard I've ever seen to this day. Unfortunately, that blizzard was also the reason Dusty stepped into a hole, broke his leg and rolled over on me before I could get away and broke my right leg! Fifteen miles from the orphanage and another nine to the next town, I was done for. I managed to get my gun out and put Dusty out of his pain and tried to drag myself over to a clump of trees but the drifts were too much – that's when I passed out. Woke up screaming in pain to an old man pulling on my leg, mumbling about how he had to set it because it was gonna be awhile before we could get to a doc. The next three days were a blur, he built a fire, fed me some broth every once in a while, said the only reason he found me was because of the gunshot (I came to believe it must have been divine intervention)!

You know the rest of the story... after the doc fixed me up, Dave paid him and said I could ride with him – seeing as how both of us was alone with no family. For the next seven years, this man, who is still the smartest man I've ever known (even though he couldn't read or write) taught me about life. Skinning a deer, taming a horse, building a fire, building a house, fixing fence, living off the land. Those are just a few of the things he taught me as the only real father figure I ever had. We moved from town to town, doing odd jobs, never staying more than two or three months in any of them. He taught me to do an honest day's work and showed me more integrity than I see in most people these days. He was a rough man, hardened by lots of things in his past, some of which would slip out after a couple of bottles by the campfire. But...in his own way, I really think he loved me – which was something I'd never experienced, always saying that I could be better than him, that I could do something with my life.

That's why, in September of 1886, he pulled $100.00 out of his saddlebag (which I never knew he had since we spent all the money we made just getting by), said it was time for me to settle down, find a good steady job, a good woman and start a life. I begged him to stay but he was never the staying type, left the next day. I took his advice, learned how to survey and three years later, met you, the absolute love of my life! I never had a picture to show you of Dave before, but that's him, eyes staring straight through you; but a kinder, gentler man there has never been. This is the kind of town, a mining camp, he would have stayed in maybe two months, probably working on wagons – he was always good with repairing wheels and axles.

But something's caught my eye....that medal he's wearing...can't quite make out what it says or what it's for. I'm leaving town in the morning but I'm gonna stop in at the saloon tonight and see if I can find any of the old-timers that may have run into Dave, see if they might know anything about that medal. I'll let you know what I find out in my next letter. Please kiss little Davey for me and tell him I love him and will see him real soon. I love and miss you so much, Marie!

Forever yours, Jack