by Matt Braun
“How enlightening,” he said sourly. “I hardly think we’ll follow Mr. Foy’s advice.”
“What would it harm, Papa?” Lillian suggested. “Melodrama with a few laughs might play well.”
“I will not pander to vulgarians! Let’s hear no more of it.”
On the street, they turned toward the hotel. A group of cowhands, ossified on whiskey, lurched into them on the boardwalk. The Texans stopped, blocking their way, and one of them pushed forward. He was a burly man, thick through the shoulders, with mean eyes. He leered drunkenly at Lillian.
“Lookee here,” he said in a rough voice. “Where’d you come from, little miss puss? How about we have ourselves a drink?”
“How dare you!” Fontaine demanded. “I’ll thank you to move aside.”
“Old man, don’t gimme none of yore sass. I’m talkin’ to the little darlin’ here.”
Chester stepped between them “Do as you’re told, and quickly. I won’t ask again.”
“Hear that, boys?” the cowhand said, glancing at the other Texans. “Way he talks, he’s from Boston or somewheres. We done treed a gawddamn Yankee.”
“Out of our way.”
Chester shoved him and the cowhand launched a murderous haymaker. The blow caught Chester flush on the jaw and he dropped to his knees. The Texan cocked a fist to finish him off.
A man bulled through the knot of trailhands. He was tall, with hawklike features, a badge pinned to his coat. His pistol rose and fell, and he thunked the troublemaker over the head with the barrel. The Texan went down and out, sprawled on the boardwalk.
“You boys skedaddle,” the lawman said, motioning with the pistol. “Take your friend along and sober him up.”
The cowboys jumped to obey. None of them said a word, and they avoided the lawman’s eyes, fear written across their faces. They grabbed the fallen Texan under the arms and dragged him off down the street. The lawman watched them a moment, then turned to the Fontaines. He knuckled the brim of his low-crowned hat.
“I’m Marshal Hickok,” he said. “Them drunks won’t bother you no more.”
Lillian was fascinated. His auburn hair was long, spilling down over his shoulders. He wore a frock coat, with a scarlet sash around his waist, a brace of Colt pistols tucked cross-draw fashion into the sash. His sweeping mustache curled slightly at the ends.
Hickok helped Chester to his feet. Fontaine introduced himself, as well as Lillian and Chester. The marshal nodded politely.
“I reckon you’re the actors,” he said. “Heard you start at the Comique tomorrow.”
“Yes indeed,” Fontaine acknowledged. “I do hope you will attend, Marshal.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China.”
“Allow me to express our most sincere thanks for your assistance tonight.”
“Never yet met a Texan worth a tinker’s damn. Pleasure was all mine.”
Hickok again tipped his hat. He walked off upstreet, broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his coat. Fontaine chuckled softly to himself.
“Do you know who he is?”
“No,” Lillian said. “Who?”
“Only the deadliest marshal in the West. I read about him in Harper’s Magazine.”
“Yes, but who is he, Papa?”
“My dear, they call him Wild Bill Hickok.”
CHAPTER 3
A JUGGLER dressed in tights flung three bowie knives in a blinding circle. The steel of the heavy blades glittered in the footlights as he kept them spinning in midair. His face was a study in concentration.
The Comique was sold out. Tonight was opening night for The Fontaines, and every seat in the house was taken. The crowd, mostly Texas cowhands, watched the juggler with rapt interest. They thought he might slip and lose a finger.
The juggler suddenly flipped all three knives high in the air. He stood perfectly still as the knives rotated once, then twice, and plummeted downward. The points of the blades struck the floor, embedded deep in the wood, quivering not an inch from his shoes. The Texans broke out in rollicking applause for his death-defying stunt.
The orchestra blared as the juggler bowed, collecting his knives, and skipped off the stage. A chorus line of eight girls exploded out of the wings, squealing and kicking as the orchestra thumped louder. The girls were scantily clad, bosoms heaving, skirts flashing to reveal their legs. They bounded exuberantly around the stage in a high-stepping dance routine.
Lillian stood in the wings at stage right. She was dressed in a gown of teal silk, with a high collar and a hemline that swept the floor. Her heart fluttered and her throat felt dry, a nervous state she invariably experienced before a performance. Her father appeared from backstage, attired in the period costume of a Danish nobleman. His hands lightly touched her shoulders.
“You look beautiful,” he said softly. “Your mother would have been proud of you.”
“If only I had Mama’s voice. I feel so … inadequate.”
“Simply remember what your mother taught you. You’ll do fine, my dear. I know you will.”
Her mother had had an operatic voice, with the range of a soprano. Lillian’s voice was lower, a husky alto, and her mother had taught her how to stay within her range, lend deeper emotion to the lyrics. Yet she never failed to draw the comparison with her mother, and in her mind she fell short. On her best nights, she was merely adequate.
The chorus line came romping offstage. The curtain swished closed, and Lou Gordon stepped before the footlights, briefly introducing his new headliner act. When the curtain opened, Lillian was positioned center stage, her hands folded at her waist. By contrast with the chorus girls, she looked innocent, somehow virginal. The orchestra came up softly as she opened with Darling Nelly Gray.
There’s a low green valley
On the old Kentucky shore
There I’ve whiled happy hours away
Sitting and singing by the cottage door
Where lived my darling Nelly Gray
Something extraordinary happened. A hushed silence fell over the audience as her clear alto, pitched low and intimate, filled the hall. She acted out the song with poignant emotion, and her sultry voice somehow gave the lyrics a haunting quality. She sensed the cowhands were captivated, and she saw Wild Bill Hickok watching intently from the back of the theater. She played it for all it was worth.
Oh, my darling Nelly Gray
Up in heaven there they say
They’ll take you from me no more
I’m coming as angels clear the way
Farewell now to the old Kentucky shore
There was hardly a dry eye in the house. The Texans were Southerners, many having served under the Confederate flag during the late war. They were caught up in a melancholy tale that was all the more sorrowful because of Lillian’s striking good looks. She held them enthralled to the last note, and then the theater vibrated to rolling applause. She took a bow and bowed a final time before disappearing into the wings. The Texans chanted their approval.
“Lilly! Lilly! Lilly!”
The curtain closed as the clamor died down. Gordon again appeared before the footlights, announcing that the famed thespian Alistair Fontaine would now render a soliloquy from Shakespeare’s masterpiece Hamlet. A moment later the curtain opened with Fontaine at center stage, bathed in the cider glow of a spotlight from the rear of the theater. He struck a classic profile, arresting in the costume of a Danish prince. His voice floated over the hall in a tragic baritone.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep …
The cowhands in the audience traded puzzled glances. They knew little of Shakespeare and even less of some strangely dressed character called Hamlet. Though they tried to follow the odd cadence of his words, the meaning eluded them. Fontai
ne doggedly plowed on, aware that they were restive and quickly losing interest. He ended the passage with a dramatic gesture, his features grimly stark in the spotlight. The Texans gave him a smattering of polite applause.
The finale of the show was a one-act melodrama titled A Husband’s Vengeance. Chester played the husband and Lillian, attired in a cheap print dress, the attractive wife. Fontaine, following a quick change from Danish prince to top-hatted villain, played a lecherous landlord. In Scene 1, Chester and Lillian’s love-struggling-against-poverty was established for the audience. In Scene 2, with the husband off at work, the lustful landlord demanded that the wife surrender her virtue for the overdue rent or be evicted. The crowd hissed and booed the villain for the cad he was.
Scene 3 brought the denouement. Chester returned from work to discover the landlord stalking his wife around the set, with the bed the most prominent item of furniture in the shabby apartment. The husband, properly infuriated, flattened Fontaine with a mighty punch and bodily tossed him out the door. The cowhands jumped to their feet, whooping and hollering, cheering the valorous conquest of good over evil. Then, to even greater cheers, the curtain closed with Chester and Lillian clinched in a loving embrace. The crowd went wild.
The show might have ended there. But the Texans almost immediately resumed their chant. They stood, shouting and stomping, the jingle of their spurs like musical chimes. Their voices were raised in a collective roar.
“We want Lilly! We want Lilly! We want Lilly!”
Lou Gordon hastily improvised an encore. After a hurried backstage conference with Lillian, he ran out to distribute sheet music to the orchestra. Some minutes later the curtain opened with Lillian center stage, still costumed in the cheap print dress. A hush settled over the audience as violins’ from the orchestra came up on Take Back the Heart. Her dulcet voice throbbed with emotion.
Take back the heart that thou gavest
What is my anguish to thee?
Take back the freedom thou cravest
Leaving the fetters to me
Take back the vows thou hast spoken
Fling them aside and be free
Smile o’er each pitiful token
Leaving the sorrow for me
The ballad went on with the story of unrequited love. By the time she finished the last stanza, hardened Texans were sniffling noisily and swiping at tears. Their thoughts were on mothers and sisters, and girlfriends left behind, and there was no shame among grown men that night. Lillian bowed off the stage to tumultuous applause.
Gordon caught her as she stepped into the wings. “Little lady, from now on you’re Lilly Fontaine! You hear what I’m saying—Lilly Fontaine!”
Lillian was in a daze. Her father was waiting as she turned backstage. He enfolded her into his arms, holding her close. His voice was a whisper.
“Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee calls back the lovely April of her prime.”
“Oh, Papa!” She hugged him tightly. “You know that’s my favorite of all the sonnets.”
Fontaine grinned. “Your mother and the Bard would be proud of you.”
She desperately hoped it was true.
Hickok was waiting at the stage door. The alleyway was deep in shadow, faintly lighted by a lamppost from the street. He knuckled the brim of his hat.
“Evenin’,” he said pleasantly. “You folks put on a mighty good show. Liked it a lot.”
“Why, thank you, Marshal,” Fontaine said. “We’re delighted you enjoyed yourself.”
Hickok shrugged. “Figured I’d see you back to your hotel. Things get a little testy on the streets this late at night.”
“How kind of you, Marshal. As it happens, Mayor McCoy invited Chester and myself for a drink. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind escorting Lillian.”
Joseph McCoy, the town founder, was also Abilene’s mayor. His invitation, extended backstage following the show, did not include Lillian. Women of moral character never patronized saloons.
“Be an honor, ma’am,” Hickok said, nodding to Lillian. “A lawman don’t often get such pleasurable duty.”
Lillian batted her eyelashes. “How very gallant, Marshal.”
On the street, Fontaine and Chester turned north toward the Alamo Saloon. The Alamo catered to wealthy Texas cattlemen and local citizens of means. Lillian and Hickok walked south along the boardwalk.
“Tell me, Marshal,” Lillian said, making conversation. “Have you been a peace officer very long?”
“A spell,” Hickok allowed. “I was sheriff over at Hays City before I came here. How about you?”
“Pardon?”
“How long you been in variety work?”
“Oh, goodness, all of my life. I was born in the theater.”
Hickok looked at her. “You was born in a theater?”
“A figure of speech,” Lillian said gaily. “I started on the stage when I was five. The theater’s all I’ve ever known.”
“Well, now, don’t that beat all.”
A young man stopped in front of them. He was dressed in cowboy gear, a pistol holstered at his side. His eyes were cold slate blue, and Lillian placed him at about her own age. He gave Hickok a lopsided smile.
“How’s tricks, Wild Bill?”
“Tolerable, Wes,” Hickok said shortly. “You stayin’ out of trouble?”
“Yeah, I’m on my good behavior. Wouldn’t do to get on your bad side, would it now?”
“Never figured you any other way.”
“Well, I’ll see you around, Marshal. Don’t take any wooden nickels.”
The young man stepped around them, never once looking at Lillian. As they moved on, she darted a glance at Hickok. His expression was somber.
“How strange,” she said. “I really don’t think he likes you.”
“Miss Lillian, the feeling’s mutual.”
“Who is he?”
“John Wesley Hardin,” Hickok said. “Got himself a reputation as a gunman down in Texas. I warned him to mind his manners here in Abilene.”
“Gunman?” Lillian said, shocked. “You mean he killed someone?”
“More’n one, so folks say.”
“He doesn’t look old enough.”
“They raise’em quick in Texas.”
Hickok bid her good night in the lobby of the Drover’s Cottage. From her father she knew that Hickok himself was a notorious gunman. Apparently, a raft of dime novels had been written about his exploits on the frontier, dubbing him the “Prince of Pistoleers.” She wondered how many men he had killed.
Upstairs, she undressed and changed into a nightgown. She got into bed, too exhilarated for sleep, remembering the applause. In her most fanciful dreams, she would never have imagined the reception she’d received tonight. The thought of men shedding tears at the sound of her voice made her shiver. She closed her eyes and fervently prayed it would last. An image of her mother formed… .
A gunshot brought her out of bed. She realized she’d fallen asleep, dreaming of her mother. There was no noise from the street, and she thought it must be late. She went to the window, still confused by the gunshot, and looked out. Three rooms down from hers, she saw a man leap from the window and land heavily on the boardwalk. He jumped to his feet.
The spill of light from a lamppost momentarily froze his features. She recognized him as the young man she’d seen earlier, John Wesley Hardin. She saw now that he appeared disheveled, shirttail flapping, boots in one hand, his pistol in the other. He searched the street in both directions, spotting no one, and then sprinted off in his stocking feet. He disappeared around the corner.
Some minutes later she heard voices in the hall. She opened the door a crack and saw her father and Chester, barefoot, their nightshirts stuffed into their trousers. Other men, similarly awakened from sleep, were gathered before a door two rooms down from hers. They all turned as Hickok pounded up the stairs into the hall, his gun drawn. He brushed past them, entering the darkened room. A moment later lamplight glowed from the
doorway.
“Good Lord!” her father exclaimed. “He’s been shot.”
Hickok stepped out of the room. His features were grim as he looked around at the men. “Anybody see what went on here?”
There were murmurs of bewilderment, men shaking their heads. Then, stuffing his pistol back in his sash, Hickok saw Lillian peering out of her door. He walked down the hall.
“Miss Lillian,” he said. “Some poor devil’s been shot and killed in his own bed. You hear anything unusual?”
“I saw him,” Lillian said on an indrawn breath. “The gunshot awoke me and I went to my window. It was the young Texan you and I met on the street earlier. He leapt out the window of his room.”
“You talkin’ about Wes Hardin?”
“Yes, the one you said was a gunman.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Why, he ran away,” Lillian replied. “Around the corner, by the mercantile store.”
“I’m most obliged for your help.”
Hickok hurried to the stairwell. Fontaine and Chester, who were listening to the conversation, entered her room. She explained how she’d met Hardin and later recognized him as he fled the hotel. Fontaine slowly wagged his head.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, clearly shaken. “I’ve brought you to a place where murderers lodge just down the hall.”
“Oh, Papa,” she said quickly. “You mustn’t blame yourself. It might have happened anywhere.”
“I am reminded of the Bard by this dreadful affair. ‘As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.’ ”
Chester snorted. “Shakespeare should have seen Abilene!”
Several days later they learned the truth. John Wesley Hardin, after a drunken night on the town, was annoyed by the rumbling snores of a hotel guest in the next room. Hardin fired through the wall and killed the man where he lay fast asleep. Then, rather than face Hickok, he fled on foot to a cowcamp outside Abilene. From there, he made good his escape to Texas. He was eighteen years old.
Lillian, thinking back on it, was struck by how very little changed with time. Shakespeare, nearly three centuries before, had penned an axiom for all time.