By noon, I had already killed three bears, outrun six outlaws, rescued a stagecoach, and been personally thanked by the President.

None of this had happened.

But nobody in Deadwood seemed particularly interested in ruining a good story with facts. And honestly, neither was I. In a town built on mud and gold dust, a well-placed lie is just alternative currency.

I think I could be Calamity Jane for a week.

Maybe two.

Not for the rotgut whiskey, the flea-ridden buckskins, or the distinct lack of indoor plumbing.

And certainly not for Wild Bill Hickok. A man who spends that much time looking over his shoulder cannot possibly be good company.

No, I want the saloon.

The kind that smells of horse sweat and gunpowder, where the piano has been out of tune since Nebraska and every man at the bar has personally survived something nobody else remembers happening.

I’d wear the trousers.

Pull my hat low.

Put my boots on the table.

And tell a story so outrageous the bartender would pour my drinks for free just to hear how it ended.

By the third round, there would have been twelve outlaws.

The stagecoach would have been on fire.

And one of the bears would have learned to shoot.

That’s the trouble with a good story.

Once people start listening, it seems downright impolite not to improve it.

After two weeks, I’d probably miss my own bed, my own clothes, and indoor plumbing most of all.

But I might keep the spurs.

Some reputations are worth exaggerating.