by Matt Braun
Chester went to warm himself by the fire. Custer nodded to a manservant, who shortly returned with a tray of hot toddies in porcelain mugs. The mix of brandy, water, and sugar, heated with a red-hot poker, brought a flush to Lillian’s face. Clark raised his mug in a toast.
“Merry Christmas,” he said cordially. “You look lovely today.”
“You’re being gallant,” she said with a smile. “I’m sure my nose is red as an apple. I thought I would freeze before we got here.”
“I’m afraid it will be even colder when you drive back.”
“Yes, but as you know, there’s no rest for actors. The show must go on, even on Christmas night.”
“We could change that easily enough. All you have to do is say the word.”
Lillian avoided a reply. Over the past month Clark had proposed on several occasions, and each time she had gently turned him down. She was still attracted to him, just as she was to Jordan, who continued to court her whenever he was in town. But the thought of being stranded in Kansas, marriage or not, made her shudder. She looked for a way to change the subject.
“Oh, what a marvelous tree!” she said, turning to Libbie. “Why, it’s absolutely gorgeous.”
Libbie brightened. “I sent all the way to Chicago for some of the ornaments. I’m so happy you like it.”
George Armstrong Custer was not a man to do things by half-measure. In mid-December, he’d had a fir tree imported from Missouri, freighted overland with a consignment of military stores. Libbie had decorated the tree with cranberries and popcorn strung together on thread and gaily-colored ribbon bows. Her most treasured ornaments, ordered from Chicago, were white satin angels with gossamer wings and shiny glass balls. The tree was crowned with a silver papier-mâché star.
The Custers were childless, but Christmas was nonetheless a time of celebration. Watching them, it occurred to Lillian that there was something childlike about the couple. They were forever inventing reasons for gala parties, amateur theatricals, or nature outings that often involved a dozen or more officers and their wives. Yet Christmas was clearly their favorite festivity of the year, eclipsing even the Fourth of July. The tree, imported all the way from Missouri, stood as testament to their Yuletide spirit.
The hot toddies were apparently a tradition in the Custer household. Apart from wine with dinner, women seldom drank hard liquor in the company of men. But Custer insisted, and before an hour was out Lillian felt as though her head would float away from her shoulders. Libbie coaxed her into singing a Christmas carol, and she managed to get through it without missing a note. She was giddy with delight.
Fontaine, who needed little prompting, was then asked to perform. To their surprise, he selected a poem written by Clement C. Moore, one that had gained enormous popularity in recent years. He positioned himself beside the tree and recited the poem with a Shakespearean flair for the dramatic. His silken baritone filled the parlor.
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring—not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there …
“Bravo!” Custer yelled when Fontaine finished the last line. “Never have I heard it done better. Never!”
Libbie was reduced to tears. Lillian, still lightheaded from the hot toddies, was amazed. Apart from Shakespeare, she had no idea that her father had ever committed anything to memory. She glanced at Chester, who offered her an elaborate shrug. He seemed equally nonplussed.
The manservant, with impeccable timing, announced dinner. The table was decorated with greenery, bight red berries, and tall colored candles. A roasted goose, its legs tied with red and green bows, lay cooked to a crisp on a large serving platter. Custer, wielding a carving knife as though it were a cavalry saber, adeptly trimmed the bird. After loading their plates, he waited for the manservant to pour wine. He hoisted his glass.
“You honor Libbie and I with your presence on the day of Our Lord’s birth. Merry Christmas!”
Everyone clinked glasses and echoed the sentiment. The serving bowls were passed and their plates were soon heaped with stuffing, winter squash, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and a rich oyster gravy. Fontaine offered his compliments to the chef, though the army cook in the kitchen had never been seen on any of their visits to the house. The manservant kept their wineglasses full.
Lillian was acutely conscious of Clark seated on her right. He hadn’t spoken since their earlier conversation in the parlor, when she’d blithely evaded his reference to marriage. His manner was sullen, and while the others ate with gusto, he merely picked at his food. No one else seemed to notice, but she saw Libbie glance at him several times during the meal. He drained his wineglass every time it was replenished.
Later, after dessert, the men retired to the study for cigars and brandy. Clark was bleary-eyed with wine on top of hot toddies and scarcely looked at Lillian as he walked from the room. Libbie led her into the parlor, where they seated themselves on a sofa before the fireplace. The gaiety of the party seemed diminished for Lillian, and she scolded herself for having hurt Clark with an unintentional rebuff. There was an awkward silence as she stared into the flames.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” Libbie finally said. “Did you and Terrance have words?”
Lillian smiled wanly. “I’m sure you knew he asked me to marry him.”
“Yes, he mentioned it to the general.”
“I’ve told him no any number of times. I think he realized today it’s really final.”
“What a shame,” Libbie said sadly. “Terrance would make a fine husband.”
“I know,” Lillian said, a tear at the corner of her eye. “I just hate it, but I’m not ready for marriage. I haven’t yet sorted out my own life.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, it seems I’ll never see New York again. And I so wanted a stage career.”
“Aren’t you scheduled to play Wichita next spring?”
“Wichita isn’t New York,” Lillian said fiercely. “I really loathe performing for cowboys and buffalo hunters, and drunken, brawling men. Everything in the West is so crude and … uncivilized.”
“Yes, unfortunately, it is,” Libbie agreed. “I often have those same feelings myself.” She hesitated, considering. “Tell me, have you given any thought to Denver?”
“Denver?” Lillian looked at her. “Isn’t that somewhere in Colorado? The mountains?”
“My dear, you have never seen anything like it. The Rockies are absolutely stunning, and Denver itself is really quite cosmopolitan. A very sophisticated city.”
“Honestly?”
“Oh, goodness yes,” Libbie said earnestly. “Theater, and opera, and shops with all the latest fashions. And scads of wealthy men. Just scads!”
Lillian’s face lit up. “It sounds like the answer to a dream.”
“Well, for someone who wants a career on the stage, it’s perfect. I just know you would be a sensation there.”
“Would you tell Father about it? Would you, please?”
“You mean, how grand and sophisticated it is? Perhaps a little hyperbole?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Why, of course. What are friends for?”
The men trooped in from the study. Lillian caught Chester’s eye and warned him to silence with a sharp look. Then, artful as a pickpocket, she got her father seated on the sofa. She gave the general’s wife a conspiratorial wink.
Libbie Custer began her pitch on the wonders of Denver.
Murphy’s Exchange was mobbed. The blizzard a few days past had driven every buffalo hunter on the plains into Dodge City. They decided to stay and celebrate Christmas.
Their idea of celebrating the Christ Child’s birth was little short of heathen. The first stop was a saloon, where they got modestly tanked on rotgut whiskey. The second was a whorehouse, where the girls baptized them in ways unknown to practicing Ch
ristians. After a carnage of drinking, gambling, and whoring, they were ready at last for Christmas night. They came, en masse, to see Darlin’ Lilly.
Lillian was beside herself with excitement. On the drive back from Fort Dodge, her father had spoken of little else but Denver. Libbie Custer’s glowing account had left him intrigued by the thought of a cosmopolitan oasis in the heart of the mountains. The general, not to be outdone by his wife, had embellished the Mile High City with an aura of elegance second to none. His comments added authority to an already dazzling portrait.
The marvelous thing was that Alistair Fontaine adopted the idea as his own. New York was a tattered dream, and Wichita was yet another cowtown quagmire, hardly better than Dodge City. But Denver, he declared after the Custers’ stirring narrative, was the affirmation of an actor’s prayer. He hadn’t committed to a journey into the Rockies, but Lillian told herself it was only a matter of time. A gentle nudge here and there and he would talk himself into it.
Tonight’s show was almost ended. Lillian was waiting in the wings for the finale, her last song of the evening. Her father was farther backstage, involved in a discussion with Frank Murphy. Chester approached her, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the conversation was still in progress. He gave her a dour look.
“Dad’s back there grilling Murphy about Denver. You sure put a bee in his bonnet.”
“Me?” Lillian said innocently. “The Custers got him started on it, not me.”
“Yeah, sure,” Chester scoffed, “and the moon’s made of green cheese.”
“Listen to me, Chester. However much Papa talks, we’re never going back to New York. Denver is our only hope for a decent life.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do,” Chester said. “The chances are nil of our ever getting a booking back East. Either we go to Wichita or we take a crack at Denver.”
“Well …” Lillian was relieved. “I hope you favor Denver.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll talk Dad into it.”
“No, he thinks it’s his own idea. Let him talk himself into it.”
Chester smiled. “I can almost hear Mom saying the same thing. You remind me more and more of her lately.”
“Oh, Chet …”
The piano player opened with her introduction. She gave Chester a quick kiss on the cheek and moved out of the wings. The fiddler joined the piano, and the crowd of drunken buffalo hunters greeted her with rowdy applause. She walked to the footlights, hoping they would appreciate her selection. She thought it a fitting end to the Christmas season. On the musicians’ cue, her voice seemed to fill the night.
Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the newborn King;
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!
Joyful all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
With th’ angelic host proclaim
Christ is born in Bethlehem
The saloon went silent. She saw Cimarron Jordan at the bar, and he nodded with an approving smile. The hide hunters, heathen or not, stared at her as though suddenly touched by memories past. To a man, their thoughts slipped from whiskey and whores to long-gone times of Christmas trees and family. Many snuffled, their noses runny, and one blubbered without shame, his features slack with emotion. A carol sung in a saloon took them back to better days, gentler times.
The hush held until her voice faded on the last note. Then they recovered themselves, and a roar went up, whistles and cheers and drumming applause. She curtsied, warmed by their reaction, and made her way offstage. They brought her back for another ovation, and then another, and she thought there was, after all, some glimmer of hope for buffalo hunters. Yet it was a passing thought, and one quickly gone. Her mind was fixed on Denver.
Later, after she’d changed, Jordan took her to a café for a late supper. The food was greasy, thick slabs of buffalo fried in a skillet, and she hardly ate a bite. But she chattered on with growing excitement as she related her conspiracy with Libbie Custer. Her eyes sparkled whenever she mentioned Denver, and she could scarcely contain herself. She bubbled with the thrill of it all.
“What about your pa?” Jordan asked, when she paused for breath. “Think he’ll go for the idea?”
“Oh, I know he will. I just know it! He’s talked of nothing else.”
“Well, I’m pleased for you. Mighty pleased.”
Lillian saw his downcast expression. She knew he was taken with her and chided herself for not being more sensitive. She touched his hand.
“You could always come visit me in Denver.”
“Suppose I could,” Jordan said, studying on it. “Course, they’ll turn you into a big-city girl with fancy notions. Likely you wouldn’t have time for a rough old cob like me.”
“That simply isn’t true,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I’ll always have time for you, Samuel. Always.”
Cimarron Jordan wanted to believe it. But he was a pragmatist, and he told himself there was a greater truth in what he’d heard tonight. Come spring, there was no doubt in his mind.
Dodge City would see the last of Darlin’ Lilly.
CHAPTER 11
SPRING LAY across the land. The plains stretched onward to infinity, an emerald ocean of grass sprinkled with a riotous profusion of wildflowers. A late-afternoon sun heeled over toward the horizon.
Fontaine rode a bloodbay gelding. A Henry repeater was balanced behind the saddlehorn, and he wore a light doeskin jacket with fringe on the sleeves. Chester drove the buckboard, drawn by the mismatched sorrel and dun team, fat from a winter in the livery stable. Lillian was seated beside him, the brim of her bonnet lowered against the glare of the sun. They were three days west of Dodge City.
Lillian thought her father was in his glory. She glanced at him from beneath her bonnet, forced to smile at the striking figure he cut on the gelding. He rather fancied himself the intrepid plainsman and looked like he was playing a role that borrowed assorted traits from Daniel Boone and Kit Carson. She was amused that he played the part of stalwart scout with such élan.
Their immediate destination was Pueblo, Colorado. By her reckoning, she marked the date at April 18, and she hoped 1872 would prove more rewarding than the year just past. She had celebrated her twentieth birthday in February, and she felt immensely matured by her experiences in Abilene and Dodge City. So much so that she seldom fell into reverie about some grand and joyous return to New York. Her thoughts were on Denver.
By New Year’s Day, Alistair Fontaine had sold himself on the idea. Over the next three months he’d devoted his time to planning their artistic assault on the Mile High City. The top nightspot in Denver was the Alcazar Variety Theater, and he had arranged for their New York booking agent to forward their notices and a glowing report on the show. The owner of the Alcazar had sent a lukewarm response, stating he was interested but offering no firm commitment. Fontaine, undeterred by details, went ahead with his plans. He was confident they would take Denver by storm.
George Armstrong Custer became their unofficial adviser. The Kansas Pacific railroad was laying track westward but had not completed the line into Colorado. The nearest railhead was Wichita, a week’s journey to the east, and at least another week by train to Denver. The better route, Custer suggested, was to follow the Arkansas River overland, which would bring them to Pueblo within two weeks’ time. From there, it was a short hop by train to Denver.
Cimarron Jordan considered the overland route to be foolhardy. He told Lillian, and then Fontaine, that Custer was playing daredevil with their lives. The country west of Dodge City, he explained, was a hunting ground for the Cheyenne, the Comanche, and other tribes. A strip of unsettled territory bordering their route, known as No Man’s Land, was also haven to outlaws from throughout the West. He firmly believed they would be placing themselves in jeopardy.
Fontaine blithely ignored the warning. General Custer was a distinguished s
oldier and the greatest Indian fighter in the West. Jordan was a common buffalo hunter and, in the end, a man who lacked the wisdom of a military commander. To no small degree, Fontaine was influenced by Custer’s derring-do and quixotic spirit. He saw the journey as another step in their westward adventure, and he cast himself in the role of trailblazer and scout. He declared they would take the overland route.
Their final week in Dodge City was spent in provisioning for the trip. Fontaine stocked all manner of victuals, including buffalo jerky, dried fruit, and four quarts of Irish whiskey. He purchased a ten-gauge shotgun, with powder and shot, announcing it was suitable for wild fowl or wild Indians. Then, in a picaresque moment, he bought a bloodbay gelding with fire in its eye and a quick, prancing gait. Custer, after seeing the horse, gave Fontaine a doeskin jacket taken in the spoils of war. He looked like a centaur with fringe on his sleeves.
Their departure brought out all of Dodge City in a rousing farewell. Custer was there, along with Libbie, who hugged Lillian with teary-eyed fondness and good wishes for the journey. Jordan and his crew of skinners accompanied them west for the first day and then turned south for the Cimarron River. Before they separated, Jordan again cautioned them to be wary at all times and to mount a guard over their livestock every night. Indians, he observed, might steal your horses and, rather than kill, leave you to a crueler fate. A man on foot would never survive the limitless plains.
Fontaine consulted his compass an hour or so before sundown. Encased in brass, indicating direction and azimuth without fail, the compass was largely a showpiece. The Arkansas River wound due west like a silver ribbon, and simply following its course would bring them to Pueblo. But Fontaine, immersed in his role as scout, wanted all the props to fit the part, and he’d bought a compass. After snapping the lid closed, he signaled Chester to a stand of cottonwoods along the riverbank. He announced they would stop for the night.
By now, they went about their assigned tasks with little conversation. Chester hobbled the horses and put them to graze on a grassy swale that bordered the river. Later, he would water them for the night and then place them on a picket line by the buckboard. Fontaine gathered deadwood from beneath the trees and kindled a fire with a mound of twigs. Lillian removed her cast-iron cookware and foodstuffs from the buckboard and began preparing supper. She planned to serve buffalo jerky, softened and fried, with beans and biscuits left over from breakfast.