by Matt Braun
“Sorry for the trouble,” he said, holding her gaze. “Some of these boys get liquored up and lose their heads.” He paused, still grinning. “I’m Cimarron Jordan.”
“How do you do,” Lillian said warmly. “You saved me from a most unpleasant experience. Thank you so much.”
“Why, anybody would’ve done the same for a pretty lady like yourself. No thanks necessary.”
“Are you a buffalo hunter, Mr. Jordan?”
“That I am,” Jordan said with amiable good humor. “Hope you haven’t got nothin’ against hunters.”
“Oh, no, apart from the anarchy of Dodge City. I’ve never lived in a place where there isn’t any law.”
“Miss Lilly, you just whistle and I’ll be your lawdog. Anytime a’tall.”
Lillian sensed the magnetism of the man. He seemed to radiate strength and a quiet, but certain, force of character. She was amazed at herself that she found him attractive, although somewhat rough around the edges. She amazed herself even more by inviting him backstage to meet her father and brother. His unusual name intrigued her as well. Cimarron!
She thought she would ask him about that later.
CHAPTER 9
“I WON’T have it! Goddammit, it’s Saturday night!”
“Lower your voice,” Fontaine said curtly. “I will not permit you to curse at my daughter.”
Murphy glowered at him. “Why’d she wait till tonight to tell me? I’d like to hear you answer that.”
“For the very reason we see exhibited in your behavior. You are an intemperate man.”
“You and your highfalutin words. What’s that mean?”
“Quite simply, it means you are a hothead. You lack civility.”
The Friday night show had concluded only moments ago. Lillian, with her father and Chester still in their melodrama costumes, had caught Murphy backstage. She explained as politely as possible that she had been invited to a military ball tomorrow night, Saturday night, at Fort Dodge. She asked for the night off.
“Tell me this,” Murphy said gruffly. “When’d you get this invitation?”
“Two weeks ago,” Lillian replied. “The day Captain Clark stopped you from killing Mr. Porter. He asked me while he was in town.”
“And you waited till now to tell me?”
“Father has already explained that. I knew you wouldn’t be … pleased.”
“Pleased!” Murphy echoed. “You know good and well, Lilly—”
Lillian interrupted him. “I’ve told you over and over. I will not be called Lilly.”
“All right then, Lillian, you know Saturday night’s the biggest night of the week. And everybody in town turns out to hear you sing.”
“I still have to have the night off.”
Lillian was determined. After three weeks in Dodge City, she longed for the refinement and decorum that could be found only at Fort Dodge. Terrance Clark and sometimes Cimarron Jordan occasionally took her for afternoon buggy rides in the country. But she hadn’t had a free night since she’d arrived in town. She meant to stand her ground.
“Let’s be reasonable,” Fontaine interceded. “We have performed every night—including Sunday, I might add—for three weeks running. Lillian deserves a night to herself.”
Murphy laughed derisively. “You just don’t get it, do you? Lillian’s pipes are what draws the crowd. No songs, no crowd, no business!”
“On the contrary,” Fontaine said indignantly. “Chester and I are perfectly capable of providing the entertainment for one night. We are, after all, actors.”
Chester nodded eagerly. “I can even do a soft-shoe routine. I started practicing after we saw Eddie Foy in Abilene. I’m pretty good.”
Fontaine and Lillian looked at him. Neither of them was aware that he had the slightest interest in dance routines. He had never once alluded to it, and so far as they knew, he had no talent as a hoofer. They could only conclude he’d been practicing secretly in his room at the hotel.
“There you have it,” Fontaine jumped in with a confident air. “Chester will perform a soft-shoe number, with accompaniment from the piano. I will present a special rendering from Shakespeare. Perhaps something from Macbeth.”
“You’re cracked, the both of you,” Murphy growled. “You think anybody’s gonna stick around to watch a couple of hams trod the boards? Lillian goes on and that’s that!”
“No,” Lillian said adamantly. “I insist on a night off.”
“Well, insist all you want, little lady, but the answer’s no. That’s final.”
“Then I quit.”
Murphy looked as though his hearing had failed him. Fontaine and Chester, equally shocked, appeared speechless. The three men stared at her in startled apprehension.
“You leave us no choice,” Lillian said, her eyes on Murphy. “We are forced to give you notice as of tonight. I feel quite sure Mr. Porter will welcome us to the Lucky Star.”
“You’d do that to me!” Murphy exploded. “You’d take it across the street to that four-flusher—after I made you a star?”
“You made nothing,” Lillian informed him. “We were The Fontaines long before we arrived in Dodge City.”
Fontaine and Chester were struck dumb. The girl they’d known all their lives seemed to have stepped over the threshold into womanhood. She sounded eerily like her mother, quiet and strong and utterly certain of herself. They knew she wasn’t bluffing.
Frank Murphy knew it as well. His toadish features mottled, and for a moment it appeared he would strangle before he recovered his voice. But he finally got his wits about him and recognized who was who in the scheme of things. He offered her a lame smile.
“Don’t blame me if we have a riot on our hands. Hope you enjoy yourself.”
“I’m sure I shall.”
The officers’ mess had been cleared of furniture for the occasion. Gaudy streamers festooned the ceiling, and several coats of wax, buffed since early morning by enlisted men, had brought the floor to a mirror polish. The regimental band, attired in gold-frogged uniforms, thumped sedately under the baton of a stern-eyed master sergeant.
Terrance Clark held Lillian at arm’s length. He stiffly pushed her around the dance floor, neither light on his feet nor an accomplished dancer. Although perfectly tailored, splendid in a uniform bedecked with sash and medals, he was nonetheless overshadowed by his partner. As they moved about the floor, other men kept darting hidden glances at her. The women, more direct than their husbands, stared openly.
Lillian had dressed carefully for the ball. Her hair was arranged in an en revanche coiffure of ribbons and silk flowers, a French style she had copied from a ladies’ periodical. Her svelte figure was stunningly displayed in the better of her two gowns, the teal silk with dark lace at the throat. Draped around her neck was her most prized possession, a string of black deep-sea pearls presented to her mother by her father on their tenth wedding anniversary. Lillian thought her mother would approve.
Tonight was her first formal ball. She’d never before kept company with a man, her mother wisely shielding her from the many Don Juans who populated variety theaters. Captain Clark, an officer and a gentleman, had assured her father she would be properly chaperoned during her stay at Fort Dodge. Arrangements had been made for her to spend the night with Colonel and Mrs. Custer, and Clark would drive her back to town Sunday morning. Still, chaperone or not, she wasn’t worried about Terry Clark. His intentions were perhaps too honorable.
The band segued into a waltz. Custer claimed the dance while Libbie glided away on the arms of Clark. Lillian discovered that Custer was nimble of foot, clearly a veteran of ballroom engagements. He held her lightly, his golden ringlets bobbing as they floated off in time to the music. His mustache lifted in a foxy smile.
“I trust you are enjoying yourself.”
“Oh, yes, very much.”
“Excellent.” Custer stared directly into her eyes. “Permit me to say you look ravishing tonight.”
“Why, thank y
ou,” she said with a shy smile. “You’re much too kind, General.”
“A beautiful woman needs to be told so on occasion. Don’t you agree?”
“You flatter me.”
“Hardly more than you deserve.”
By now, Lillian knew from gossips in town that Custer has an eye for the ladies. There were rumors he kept an Indian mistress tucked away somewhere, though he was circumspect around Fort Dodge. She’d also heard that his great victory over the Cheyenne was actually the massacre of a harmless band led by the peace chief Black Kettle. She chose not to believe the latter, for she remembered his valor the day he had rescued her from the Kiowa war party. But she accepted the story about his roving ways with women.
Long ago, her mother had warned her about smooth-talking men who could charm the birds out of the trees. She understood, though her mother had deftly employed a metaphor, that it was girls who were too often charmed out of their drawers. The world was full of glib, sweet-talking flatterers—George Armstrong Custer not being the first one she’d met—and she had long since taken her mother’s lesson to heart. She would not be charmed out of her drawers.
Yet, on a moment’s reflection, she realized that Custer was simply flirting. She was in no danger tonight, for Libbie rarely let her husband out of her sight. To put a point on it, Libbie reclaimed him as soon as the waltz ended. The foursome stood talking awhile, and then Custer, with Libbie on his arm, wandered off to mingle with the other guests. Clark suggested the refreshment table.
A grizzled sergeant served them punch from a crystal bowl. Their cups in hand, Clark led her across the room, where a row of chairs lined the dance floor. He chose a section with mostly empty chairs and courteously waited for her to be seated. She knew he wanted to be alone with her and sensed he had something on his mind. But Terry, as he insisted she call him, was not one of the smooth talkers and usually took the time to organize his thoughts. He finally got his tongue untied.
“Are you happy in Dodge City?” he asked. “I mean, do you enjoy theater work?”
Clark had only attended one show, and she’d intuited that he was disturbed by her working conditions. “I enjoy singing,” she replied, pausing to take a sip of her punch. “I can’t say I enjoy performing in a saloon.”
“Army life is a good deal different.” Clark seemed unaware of his awkward non sequitur. “Probably the main reason I chose a career as a soldier.”
“Oh?” She wondered where he was trying to lead the conversation. “How is the army different?”
“Well, take this ball, for example. There’s never a dull moment, and always something cultural to hold your interest. Do you see what I mean?”
“Like the ball?”
“Yes, and the theatricals we put on for ourselves. Not to mention our discussion groups on classical literature. And picnics in the summer and the evenings we get together for sing-alongs. You’d really enjoy that.”
“I’m sure I would.”
“The army’s a fine life,” he said with conviction. “Wonderful people, educated and intelligent, a stimulating culture. You couldn’t ask for a better life.”
All in a rush, Lillian realized he was trying to sell her on the army life. Or more to the point, the joys of the life of an army wife. He was, she saw in sudden comprehension, working himself around to a proposal. She thought it was a marvelous compliment, unbelievably flattering. He was so earnest, so handsome—and yet …
“Oh!” She sprang to her feet as the band swung into a lively tune. “Don’t you just love a Virginia Reel!”
Before Clark knew what hit him, she had set their punch cups on an empty chair. She laughed, taking his hands, and pulled him onto the dance floor. There seemed no alternative but that she keep him dancing all night.
She wasn’t yet ready to hear his proposal.
A warm sun flooded the streets of Dodge City. The weather was nonetheless brisk, for it was the middle of November and a chilly breeze drifted across the plains. Lillian wore her linsey-woolsey dress with a heavy shawl.
Jordan called for her at one o’clock. She’d arrived at the hotel with only enough time to change clothes. The drive back from Fort Dodge had required artifice and a good deal of chatter on her part. Terrance Clark had yet to complete the thought he’d started last night.
Fontaine had gently chided her about being a social butterfly. Out with the army last night, he slyly teased, and off with the buffalo hunter today. Still, he trusted her to do what was right and offered no real objection. He was secure in the knowledge that her mother had raised her to be a lady.
Today, with a buggy rented from the livery, Jordan drove west along the Arkansas. He and his crew of skinners returned to town every ten days or so with a load of hides. Lillian had learned that his nickname—Cimarron—derived from the fact that he was the only buffalo man willing to cross the Cimarron River and hunt in Indian Territory. His given name was Samuel.
She knew as well, from talking with the saloon girls, that he was widely admired by the other buffalo hunters. His daring had made him a legend of sorts, for he had returned time and again with his scalp intact from a land jealously guarded by hostile tribes. He was no less a legend for his ferocity in saloon brawls, though the girls vowed he’d never been known to start a fight. His temper, once unleashed, quickly ended any dispute.
Lillian found him different than his reputation. With her, he was quiet and gently spoken and always a gentleman. Today was their third ride into the country, and he’d never attempted to make advances, not even a kiss. He went armed with a pistol, and he carried his Sharps buffalo rifle whenever they traveled outside Dodge City. But she had never seen his violent side, and she sometimes wished he would try to kiss her. She found him a very attractive man.
Jordan stopped the buggy on a low rise some ten miles west of town. Off in the distance, a herd of buffalo numbering in the thousands slowly grazed southward against the umber plains. He explained that the herds migrated south for the winter, taking refuge in Palo Duro Canyon or on the vast uncharted wilderness known as the Staked Plains. At length, his explanation finished, he turned to her with a quizzical smile.
“How’d you enjoy the dance last night?”
“Very much,” she said, taken aback. “How did you know where I went?”
“Well, I got to town expectin’ to see you in the show. I asked your dad about it, thinkin’ maybe you was sick. He told me you was sweet on that soldier-boy, Clark.”
“Oh, that’s just like Papa! He knows very well it’s not true.”
“Simmer down,” Jordan said with an amused chuckle. “I was only funnin’ you.”
Lillian looked at him. “You don’t care much for the army, do you? I’ve noticed you never speak to the soldiers in Murphy’s. Why is that?”
“The cavalry tries to stop me from crossin’ into Injun country. There’s some treaty or another that says nobody’s supposed to hunt down there.”
“But you do it anyway?”
“I reckon somebody’s got to keep the soldier-boys on their toes.”
“You’re shameless.”
Her tone was light. Still, his casual manner made her wonder again at the violence of the frontier. The army fought the Indians, and the Indians pillaged settlements, and the buffalo hunters provoked the tribes even more with the slaughter of the herds. Hardly a night went by that hide hunters and soldiers weren’t evolved in a brawl, just for the sheer deviltry of it. Everyone, white and red, fought everyone else.
First in Abilene, and now in Dodge City, it seemed to her that men fought without any great rhyme or reason. There was no real effort on anyone’s part to live in peace, and the hostility inevitably led to more bloodshed. Of course, she had killed a Kiowa warrior—who thought he was justified in trying to kill her—so she had no right to be critical. But it all struck her as such a waste.
“Where’d you go?” Jordan asked. “You look like you’re a million miles away.”
“Oh, just daydreaming,”
Lillian fibbed. “Nothing important really.”
“Thinking about that fancy ball last night?”
“No, actually, I was thinking about you. Am I the only one who calls you Samuel?”
“Most folks don’t even know my real name.”
“Then I want to know even more. How did you become a buffalo hunter?”
“That’s a long story.”
“We have all afternoon.”
Jordan, like most men, was easily prompted to talk about himself. She listened, nodding with interest, seemingly all attention. Yet her mind was a world away, another time and another place. A time of gentler memory.
She longed again for the sight of New York.
CHAPTER 10
THE PLAINS were blanketed with snow. The air crackled with cold, and there were patches of ice along the banks of the Arkansas. Clouds the color of pewter hung low in the sky.
The Fontaines arrived shortly after eleven o’clock. They were bundled in heavy coats and lap robes, their breath like frosty puffs of smoke. An orderly rushed out to take charge of the buckboard and team as they stopped before the house. Libbie Custer met them at the door.
“Merry Christmas!” she cried gaily. “Come in out of the cold.”
“Yes, Merry Christmas,” Lillian replied, hugging her fondly. “Thank you so much for having us.”
“Indeed,” Fontaine added heartily. “You are the very spirit of the season for strangers far from home. We feel blessed by your charity.”
“Don’t be silly,” Libbie fussed. “Now, get out of those coats and come into the parlor. Everyone’s waiting.”
Their coats were hung in the vestibule. Libbie led them into the parlor, where a cheery blaze snapped in the fireplace. Custer moved forward, his hand outstretched, followed by Clark. His manner was jovial.
“Here you are!” he said, shaking their hands. “To quote our friend Dickens, ‘God bless us every one!’ Welcome to our home.”