#23: Soapy Smith, A Cracked Head, & It Takes A Bullet

EVERY TOWN HAS ITS VILLAIN STORY. Skagway is no different.

I was driving motor coaches for HollandAmerica-Princess the summer of 2011. When assigned a tour to Skagway's Pioneer Cemetery, I took to acting out the famous shoot out between our legendary Soapy Smith, villain, and Frank Reid, hero. I played all three roles: Soapy, Frank, and the narrator as Me, Myself, and I.

The real event happened the night of July 8, 1898, after an eight-month "reign of terror." Virtually all coin and gold coming in and going out of Skagway was funneled through Soapy's pockets. This bothered Frank Reid, a businessman. Each man desired to run Skagway in his own way and bad blood thickened. Their last shots, fired at each other, still linger.

So now, a hundred-plus years later, we take Skagway's visitors up to the old Gold Rush Cemetery to visit these dead men and tell all about the bitter rivalry and deadly dual. On July 8th of 2011, however, exactly 109 years later, my friend Shari and two other drivers decided to act it out to rousing applause. I liked the tips that came in. So straightaway I took the idea for myself and ran with it--acting out the whole thing starring, as I said, Me, Myself, and I.

The cemetery sits a mile north of town, up on the east bank of Skagway River. A gnarly place. Trees have grown up, their roots spread all through the site and tipping headstones off balance. Paths lined in rocks take people through the haphazard markers. Sharp rocks.

I chose my "stage" carefully, leery of both roots and stones. But one day in mid-August I got myself a bit off stage, and in the full spirit of the story and playing the part of Soapy, I flung myself straight backward, shot through the heart by Frank Reid, and whacked my head with a thwack and a crack on a rock. I heard the sound--like a baseball bat smacking a ball clean over a fence. I then heard a collective gasp from my audience. But the show must go on, bump on the head or no. Still flat on my back, I flopped my head to the side and hung out my tongue per usual. Soapy fully dead, I got up to carry on as Reid. People started to rush me.

"That hurt," I agreed, "but I'm all right, and I'm not done." As Frank, I staggered about with a bullet in my groin, finally falling to my side while firing simultaneously at the dead Soapy and gasping, "I got him, boys, by God, I got him." And I smiled--as did Frank, heedless to his pain and euphorically pleased with himself.

But no one was smiling a minute later when, after wrapping it up as the narrator--"Frank Reid lingered 12 agonizing days before he too drew his last breath and died"--when it was discovered I had blood running down my head and onto my shirt.

Lovely. Ducky. Now what? I still had to get everyone up to the Overlook, where on the other side of the river my guests could look down on our town and see just how beautiful it is. But the growing chorus of concern gathering around me was making this awkward to navigate. I kept insisting I was fine until one kind lady showed me her hand with my blood all over it.

A second shock wave. I was determined, however, to finish the tour. "Really, I can do this," I insisted, everyone digging into their pockets for tissues to staunch the flow of my blood. Finally a big fellow by the name of Dan came alongside and took my arm, "Sweetheart," he whispered, "we don't want you to take us up there. You need to call your dispatch."

"Oh."

I was really quite bummed. Folks herded me back to the bus. We broke into the first aid kit. The cold compress didn't work. A tour guide from another company supplied me one of his. And then my tour was snatched away from me and handed off to Bronn. One kind lady slipped me a fiver. And then the next thing I knew Casey, goddess of our dispatchers, had me at the health clinic where the PA (no doctors in this town) fired three staples into my head. 

"Can I go back to work?" If I kept my coat on I figured, over the bloody shirt, I could still catch my second tour of the day. Transportation boss said no.

In fact, I wasn't allowed to go back until the staples came out.

I went right back at it, of course, re-enacting the shootout. 

Because that's the way it is up here in Alaska. A knock on the noggin doesn't slow us down. That requires a bullet.

Frank Reid's tombstone
Remembering Him As Skagway's Fallen Hero