The Overlords & the Wild Ones

by Matt Braun

  Murphy’s Exchange was located across from one of the trading companies. Three buffalo hunters, lounging out front, gave them a squinted once-over as they moved through the door. The establishment was a combination saloon, dance hall, and gaming dive. Opposite a long mahogany bar were faro layouts and poker tables. A small stage at the rear overlooked a dance floor, with a piano player and a fiddler providing the music. Saloon girls in full war paint mingled with the crowd.

  All conversation ceased as the soldiers and hide hunters treated Lillian to a slow inspection. She had the sinking sensation that they were undressing her with their eyes, layer by layer. Frank Murphy, the proprietor, walked forward from the end of the bar. He was a toadish man, short and stout, with jowls covered by muttonchop whiskers. His jaw cranked in a horsey smile, revealing a gold tooth, as he stopped in front of them. He regarded the finery of their clothes.

  “From your duds,” he said, flashing his gold tooth, “I’d say you’re the Fontaines. Welcome to Dodge City.”

  “Thank you so much,” Fontaine replied. “Our arrival was delayed by a slight skirmish with Kiowa brigands.”

  “Yeah, the word’s all over town. Custer and his boys pulled your fat out of the fire, huh?”

  “An apt if somewhat colloquial description.”

  “Well, you’re here now and that’s all that counts.”

  “Indeed we are.”

  Fontaine stared a moment at the miniature stage. His arm swept the room with a patrician gesture. “There is no sin but to be rich; there is no vice but beggary.”

  “Uh-huh,” Murphy said, stroking his whiskers. “That wire I got about you folks, from Lou Gordon? He said you was partial to Shakespeare.”

  “Yes, I understand, Mr. Murphy. For the sake of your clientele, tread lightly with the verse.”

  “I guess it’s sort of like bitin’ into a green persimmon. A little bit goes a long ways.”

  “A green persimmon?” Fontaine said thoughtfully. “I’ve not heard the expression before. Is it a bitter fruit?”

  “Right tasty when they’re ripe,” Murphy said. “A green one’ll make your mouth pucker up worse’n wormwood.”

  “I have no doubt you dispense sound advice, Mr. Murphy. However, from the look of your customers, a dab of culture and a hot bath would do wonders. Charity demands that I acquaint them with the Bard.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Consider your duty done.”

  Murphy turned his attention to Lillian. “You must be Lilly, the singer Gordon told me about. His wire said you’re better’n good.”

  “How nice of him,” Lillian said with a dimpled smile. “I’ll certainly do my best, Mr. Murphy.”

  “Hope you’ve got some racy numbers in your songbook. The boys don’t come here for church hymns.”

  “I sing all the popular ballads. The audiences in Abilene weren’t disappointed.”

  “Hide hunters are a rougher lot than cowhands. Maybe just a little something off-color?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Too bad.” Murphy examined her outfit. “Maybe you’ve got a dress that don’t dust the floor. The boys like to see some ankle.”

  Lillian glanced at her father, clearly uncomfortable. Fontaine quickly intervened. “We are what we are, Mr. Murphy. Neither ribald nor risqué is included in our repertoire.”

  Murphy considered a moment. He thought he’d made a bad deal but saw no practical remedy. October was almost gone, and the chances of importing another act for the winter were somewhere between slim and none. He decided there was nothing for it.

  “Guess we’ll have to make do,” he grouched. “I’m a man of my word, so I’ll still pick up the tab for your lodging and your eats. Just try to gimme a good show.”

  “Have no fear,” Fontaine said stiffly. “We never fail to entertain.”

  Outside, Fontaine led the way back toward the hotel. Lillian and Chester were silent, aware that his dour mood had turned even darker. He finally grunted a saturnine laugh. His expression was stolid.

  “I believe our employer lacks confidence.”

  “Who cares?” Chester said. “We’re a far cry from Broadway.”

  “You miss the point entirely, my boy.”

  “What point is that?”

  “We are the Fontaines, and we thrive on challenge. Need I say more?”

  Lillian thought that said it all.

  CHAPTER 8

  FONTAINE PROVED to a prophet. By the end of the week, Murphy’s Exchange was the most popular spot in town. The other saloons were all but empty.

  Every night, at show time, the house was packed. The audience, mainly buffalo hunters and soldiers, suffered through Shakespeare with only occasional jeers. The melodrama usually held their interest, though that was hardly the reason for their presence. They were there to see Lilly Fontaine.

  Frank Murphy was the most amazed man in town. To his profound shock, he discovered that burly cavalrymen and rancid-smelling hide hunters all had a soft spot. A tender ballad, sung by a young innocent with the face of an angel, left them a-sea in memories of lost and long-ago yesterdays. Even the saloon girls wept.

  The nature of the men made it all the more astounding. Buffalo hunters, who traveled where others feared to tread, lived from day to day. They wandered the plains, constantly under the threat of Indian attack, for they killed the beasts that were the very sustenance of nomadic tribes. The horse soldiers, even more inured to brutality, were in the business of killing Indians. Sentiment seemed lost in the scheme of things.

  Yet none among them was so hardened that memory of gentler times failed. All of which made Frank Murphy the happiest saloonkeeper in Dodge City. Winters were harsh on the plains, with blizzards that sometimes left the land impassable, locked in snow and ice. The freezing cold drove men into town, often for weeks on end, seeking sanctuary from polar winds howling out of the north. The longer they stayed, the more they spent, and Murphy saw it as the winter of great fortune. He’d cornered the trade with Lilly Fontaine.

  Lillian sometimes felt guilty. She was flattered by all the attention and adored the appreciative cheers of men who watched her perform. But she was saddened for her father, whose love of Shakespeare played to an unreceptive audience. He jokingly referred to them as “buffoons and jackanapes” and tried to slough off their indifference with nonchalant humor. Still, she knew he was disheartened, often embittered, while at the same time he gloried in her success. Her father’s pride merely served to underscore her guilt.

  On Monday morning, Fontaine’s pride was put to the test. They were in his room, rehearsing the lines of a new melodrama he’d written, when someone knocked on the door. Fontaine moved across the room, opening the door, freshly inked script still in hand. A portly man in a checkered suit stood in the hallway.

  “Mr. Fontaine,” he said, “I’m Joe Porter. I own the Lucky Star Saloon and I’d like to talk to you.”

  “May I inquire the purpose of your call, Mr. Porter?”

  “Let’s just say it’s a private matter. I’d sooner not discuss it standin’ here in the hall. Could I come in a minute?”

  “Of course.”

  Fontaine held the door. Porter entered, hat in hand, nodding mechanically to Chester. He smiled warmly at Lillian. “Miss Fontaine, a pleasure to see you.”

  “How may we assist you?” Fontaine asked. “I believe you said it was a private matter.”

  “Well, sir, just to be truthful, it’s a business matter. I’d like to hire you folks over to the Lucky Star.”

  “As you must know, we are currently engaged.”

  “Yessir,” Porter confirmed. “Everybody in a hundred miles knows about your daughter. And you and your boy, too, naturally.”

  Fontaine pursed his mouth. “I believe that rather nicely covers it, Mr. Porter.”

  “No, not just exactly it don’t. What would you say if I was to offer you twice what Frank Murphy’s payin’ you?”

  “I would ha
ve to say … no, thank you.”

  “Then name your price, if that ain’t enough. I’d pay pretty near anything to have your girl singin’ at the Lucky Star.”

  “Mr. Porter.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We are not available,” Fontaine said firmly. “We accepted a winter’s engagement at Murphy’s Exchange. We intend to honor our commitment.”

  “Look here,” Porter insisted. “Your girl’s runnin’ the rest of us saloon owners out of business. We don’t get no trade till your show’s over every night. It just ain’t fair.”

  “I most sincerely regret the inconvenience.”

  “Hell’s bells, you gotta have a price! Name it!”

  “Good day, Mr. Porter.”

  Fontaine opened the door. Porter gave him a look of bewildered disbelief, then marched out with a muttered curse. When the door closed, Fontaine turned back into the room. His gaze settled on Lillian.

  “You appear to have the town bedazzled, my dear.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa,” she said, genuinely contrite. “So very sorry.”

  “Never apologize for your talent. You deserve all the accolades one might imagine.”

  “What about the money?” Chester interjected. “Porter would have paid through the nose. We may never get another offer like that.”

  Fontaine smiled. “I daresay Mr. Murphy will be open to renegotiation. He most certainly will not be pleased, but then … business is business.”

  There were no secrets in a small town. Joe Porter made the mistake of grumbling about his unsatisfactory meeting with the Fontaines. The news spread on the moccasin telegraph, and Frank Murphy heard of it long before the noon hour. He took it as a personal affront.

  “Tryin’ to steal away my trade!” he huffed to one of the bartenders. “I always knew Joe Porter was a no-good sonovabitch.”

  Murphy’s Exchange and the Lucky Star were located catty-corner from each other on Front Street. Porter, as was his custom, took his noon meal at the Silver Dollar Café, three doors down from his establishment. Shortly before one o’clock, he emerged from the café and turned upstreet. He had a toothpick wedged in the corner of his mouth.

  Murphy stepped from the door of his saloon. He held a Colt Navy revolver at his side, and cognizant of the rules in such affairs, he prudently avoided being tagged a bushwhacker. He issued the proper warning to his opponent.

  “Porter!” he shouted. “Defend yourself!”

  Porter, taken by surprise, nonetheless reacted with dispatch. His stout legs pumping, he sprinted along the boardwalk as he drew a pistol from his waistband. Murphy fired, imploding a storefront window, and Porter winged a wild shot in return. He barreled through the door of the Lucky Star, diving for cover. Murphy wisely retreated within his own saloon.

  The gunfight soon evolved into siege warfare. Murphy and Porter, after emptying their revolvers, switched to repeating rifles. They banged away at one another with more spirit than accuracy, bullets whizzing back and forth across the intersection. All along Front Street people took cover in saloons and dance halls, watching the duel as though it were some new and titillating spectator sport. By two o’clock, the windows in both Murphy’s Exchange and the Lucky Star were reduced to shards of glass.

  There was no law in Dodge City. The town was not incorporated and lacked either a city council or a town marshal. Law enforcement was the province of deputy U.S. marshals, who only occasionally wandered into western Kansas. An hour or so into the siege, someone decided a stray bullet would eventually claim the life of an innocent bystander. The military seemed the most likely solution, and a rider was dispatched to Fort Dodge. The onlookers settled down to await developments.

  Capt. Terrance Clark, at the head of a cavalry troop, rode into town late that afternoon. He dismounted the company, stationing troopers armed with Springfield rifles around the intersection. The sight of fifty soldiers and the threat of military reprisal got the attention of Murphy and Porter. Clark arranged a cease-fire and then, ordering the saloonkeepers to lay down their arms, coaxed them into the street. There he negotiated a truce, which concluded with the two men reluctantly shaking hands. The onlookers applauded the end of what would later be called the Darlin’ Lilly War.

  Before departing town, Captain Clark seized the opportunity to call on Lillian at the hotel. She was already aware of the reason for the shooting and highly embarrassed rather than flattered. Yet her spirits were restored when he invited her to a military ball, two weeks hence at Fort Dodge. She was planning her wardrobe before he was out the door.

  Terrance Clark, for his part, felt like clicking his heels. He’d taken the first step in his campaign to capture Lilly Fontaine.

  I have done the state some service, and they know ’t;

  No more of that. I pray you, in your letters,

  When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,

  Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,

  Nor set down aught in malice: then, must you speak

  Of one that lov’d not wisely but too well.

  The lines from Othello fell on deaf ears. Fontaine, in blackface and costumed as a Moorish nobleman, wrung agony from every word. The buffalo hunters and soldiers in the audience stared at him as if he were a field slave, strangely dressed and speaking in foreign tongues. He slogged on through the soliloquy.

  There were times, alone on the stage, when Fontaine despaired that the majesty of the words had the least effect. He wondered now if the men watching him had any comprehension that he—Othello—had murdered Desdemona, a faithful wife falsely accused of betrayal. He despaired even more that he was acting out the tragedy for an audience of one. Himself.

  The crude stage in Murphy’s Exchange had no curtain. When he completed his oration, Fontaine paused with dramatic flair and then bowed his way offstage. The crowd, by now resigned to his nightly histrionics, gave him a smattering of applause. The fiddler and the piano player struck up a sprightly tune, allowing him time to run backstage and hurriedly scrub off the blackface. Saloon girls circulated with bee-stung smiles, pushing drinks.

  The windows fronting the saloon, now empty holes, had been boarded over. The pitched battle that afternoon was all the talk, and Frank Murphy found himself something of a celebrity. He had, after all, defended what was rightfully his, and other men admired a man who would not tolerate insult. The crowd tonight was even larger than normal, standing-room-only and spilling out onto the boardwalk. Everyone wanted to see the sweet young temptress now known as Darlin’ Lilly.

  Lillian was repulsed by the whole affair. She thought it sordid and tawdry, and she felt soiled by the nickname bestowed on her just that afternoon. Earlier, when she performed her first number, she’d fixed her gaze on the front wall, ignoring the crowd. Where before she had given them the benefit of the doubt, she suddenly found the men brutish and coarse, rough vulgarians. She felt they stripped her naked with their loutish stares.

  The melodrama that evening was titled The Dying Kiss. Fontaine, who recognized his limitations as a playwright, had plagiarized freely from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Lillian and Chester played the tragic young lovers, and Fontaine, casting himself as the villain of the piece, played the girl’s father. The buffalo hunters and soldiers, caught up in what was a soppy tearjerker, roundly booed Fontaine off the stage. The final scene, when the lovers’ suicide left them in eternal embrace, made tough men honk into their kerchiefs. Saloon girls wept so copiously they spoiled their war paint.

  The audience gave the cast three curtain calls, albeit sans the curtain. Then, as though the brotherhood of men were of a single mind, they began chanting, “Lilly! Lilly! Lilly!” Lillian performed a quick change of costume, slipping into one of her two silk gowns, royal blue with white piping. The piano player and the fiddler, by now thoroughly rehearsed on her numbers, segued into Stephen Foster’s immortal classic, Beautiful Dreamer. Her voice resonated poignantly through the saloon.

  Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me

&nb
sp; Starlight and dew drops are waiting for thee

  Sounds of the rude world heard in the day

  Lulled by the moonlight have all passed away

  The crowd hung on her every word. The saloon was still as a church, the men and saloon girls a hushed tableau. Her face was turned as to the heavens and her eyes shone with emotion. On the last note there was an instant of impassioned silence, and then the audience erupted in raucous adulation and cheers. She bowed low, her features radiant.

  A buffalo hunter lurched forward from the front of the crowd. His eyes were bloodshot with liquor and he drunkenly hoisted himself onto the stage. He spread his arms wide, reaching for her, and like a bull in rut bellowed, “Darlin’ Lilly!” She backed away, unnerved and frightened, moving toward the wings. He lumbered after her.

  She saw another man leap over the footlights. His features were wind-seamed, ruggedly forceful under a thatch of sandy hair and a bristling mustache. Though he wasn’t a tall man, he was full-spanned through the shoulders, his wrists thick as a singletree. He grabbed the hide hunter by the collar, jerked him around, and lashed out with a splintering blow to the jaw. Clubbed off his feet, the hunter crashed to the floor.

  The man stooped down, lifting the drunk by the collar and the seat of the pants. He walked to the footlights, carrying his load like a sack of potatoes, and hurled the buffalo hunter off the stage. Saloon girls squealed and men scattered as the inert form tumbled across the dance floor and skidded to a halt. The crowd roared with laughter as the man on the stage grinned and neatly dusted his hands. Their voices raised in a rowdy chant.

  “Cimarron! Cimarron! Cimarron!”

  Waving them off, the man turned and strode across the stage. Lillian noted he was dressed in the rough work clothes worn by the other buffalo hunters. But unlike them, his clothing was clean and freshly pressed and he smelled faintly of barber’s lotion. His eyes crinkled with amusement as he stopped in front of her. He doffed his hat.