The city of Deadwood stretches out at the bottom of the wooded gulch that bears its name, a sinuous snippet of civilization amidst an impenetrable coniferous forest.

Towering spruce and pines cling to the rocky hillsides that border the town. The slopes appear to recline at nearly 90°, with trees growing parallel to the spalling crags. Houses that are only a block off Main Street are perched 100 feet higher than the center of town.

My wife and I recently visited Deadwood to attend the South Dakota Festival of Books. My goal was to confer, confabulate, and hobnob with other writers. My wife’s goal was to go shopping.

Deadwood began as an Old West outpost that was renowned for gambling and gold. The casinos have evolved into sleek 21st century enterprises. Gold is available for purchase in many of the town’s emporiums; you no longer need to sledgehammer rocks or sluice sand in a pan while standing in an ice-cold creek.

James Butler Hickok is Deadwood’s most famous resident even though he died in 1876. The hotel where we stayed wasn’t far from Mount Mariah where Wild Bill Hickok and his compadre Calamity Jane are buried. Below our room was a road that thrummed with traffic. My wife and I are unaccustomed to noise, so getting shuteye was problematic. The traffic would cease at about 2 a.m. and resume at 2:15 a.m.

Wild Bill is still making money 147 years after his passing. At least Saloon No. 10 is because that is where Bill is shot in the back of the head three times a day by the dastardly Jack McCall. Shortly after one such reenactment, I espied Jack and Bill walking up the hill together, each with a cup of coffee in his hand. I guess a little murder between friends doesn’t necessarily result in hard feelings.

Speaking of murder, the festival gave me the opportunity to reconnect with my friend Clay Stafford, who founded the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference. Clay and I became acquainted some years ago at a previous book festival.

Clay, like me, grew up on a hardscrabble dairy farm. After chatting with Clay, I realized that his childhood was harder and scrabblier than mine. For instance, I never had to pick up coal along the railroad tracks so that we could heat our farmhouse. I just had to carry in some corn cobs, which, I’ll admit, are much lighter than coal.

Clay rose above his humble beginnings to become an author, playwright, screenwriter, showrunner, and actor. My sole acting gig was when my fifth-grade teacher informed my parents that I had been “acting up” in class.

Speaking of teachers, I listened to a talk by former science teacher and current children’s book author and illustrator Henry Cole. Like me, Henry grew up on a dairy farm. The similarities end there. The only thing I can draw is a stick man who has a severe case of the rickets.

Henry loved to draw ever since he was a little kid. He related how, in eighth grade, he and his classmates were given the daunting assignment of writing a story. Henry’s teacher sensed his unease, so she pulled him aside and suggested that he draw a story book instead.

“It was as if the clouds parted and the angels sang!” Henry exclaimed.

Many years later, after achieving considerable success as an illustrator, Henry received a packet that contained the story book he had created back in eighth grade. His teacher, who had held onto it for all those years, included a note that read, “You are my success story!”

“She had it backwards,” Henry said as he choked back tears. “She was my success story!”

My wife and I have a young grandson, so we obviously had to purchase some of Henry’s books for him. And Clay’s book, “Killer Nashville Noir” for me.

I think we bought roughly a metric ton of books. But that’s fine with me. I overheard a lady at the book fest say, “I look at a pile of new books and think, ‘OK, now I’m ready for winter.'”

As our car began its slow climb out of Deadwood Gulch, we passed a trio of men who were decked out in Old West cowboy garb. The six shooters strapped to their hips told us that they would be part of the gunfight that takes place daily on Main Street.

They all looked very authentic — except for the one cowpoke who was surfing the internet on his smartphone.

Like countless others before us, we left some money in Deadwood. But we’re also ready for winter.

— Jerry’s book, Dear County Agent Guy, is available at http://Workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.