by Matt Braun
“Go to hell,” Stroud spat through bloody gums. “You ain’t got nothin’ on me.”
“Monte Dunn.” Tuttle fixed his gaze on Dunn. “Your name’s pretty well known in Texas, too. Heard your description so often I would’ve knowed you in a crowd.”
“You got the wrong man,” Dunn blustered. “I never been in Texas in my life.”
“There’s many a stagecoach driver that would dispute that. You’ve robbed your last one.”
“I’m tellin’ you, I’m not your man!”
Tuttle straightened in his chair. “This here court sentences you gents to be hung by the neck till you’re dead.” He looked at the two cattle rustlers. “You boys are found guilty by the company you keep.”
“You sorry sonovabitch!” Stroud roared. “You can’t hang us without a trial!”
“Objection overruled.” Tuttle got to his feet. “Let’s get on with this business. Time’s awastin’.”
A lone oak tree stood between the cabin and the lake. Within minutes, the four men were bound, mounted on horses, and positioned beneath a stout limb. The Rangers tossed ropes over the limb and snugged them firmly to the trunk of the tree. The nooses were cinched around the necks of the doomed men.
Lillian turned away, unable to watch. Tuttle walked forward, staring up at the men. “You boys got any last words?”
“I do,” Stroud said, glowering down at Sally. “Hope you’re satisfied, you dumb slut. You got me hung.”
“No, Rufe,” she said in a teary voice. “You got yourself hung.”
Tuttle motioned with his hand. The Rangers cracked the horses across the rumps, and the outlaws were jerked into the air. When the nooses snapped tight, their eyes seemed to burst from the sockets, growing huge and distended. They thrashed and kicked, their legs dancing, as though trying to gain a foothold. A full minute passed before their bodies went limp.
“We’re done here,” Tuttle called to his Rangers. “Get ready to move out!”
Fontaine was aghast. “Aren’t you going to bury them?”
“We rode ten days to catch this bunch. I reckon we’ll leave’em as warnin’ to anybody that thinks they’re safe in No Man’s Land.”
“I daresay that would be warning enough.”
Tuttle studied him a moment. “You still set on headin’ for Denver?”
“Yes, we are,” Fontaine said. “Why do you ask?”
“Stroud’s woman and them other two floozies. We don’t take prisoners, specially women. You might want to cart ‘em along to Denver.”
“Good God!”
“Life’s hell sometimes, ain’t it?”
Lillian took Sally in her arms. She watched the Rangers mount, forming in a column, and ride out over the southern rim of the basin. In the silence, the creak of rope caught her attention, and she turned, staring at the bodies swaying beneath the tree. The brutal suddenness of it still left her in shock.
She prayed as she’d never prayed before for the bright lights of Denver.
CHAPTER 16
THE ARKANSAS River brought them at last to Pueblo. They had been on the trail twelve days, and the tale of the journey was told in their appearance. They looked worn and weary, somewhat bedraggled.
Fontaine was mounted astride Rufe Stroud’s roan stallion. Beside him, Chester rode the frisky gelding formerly owned by Shorty Martin. They thought it only fitting that they had appropriated the horses of their now-deceased captors. The irony of it had a certain appeal.
The buckboard was drawn by two saddle horses, drafted into service as a team. Lillian drove the buckboard, with Sally seated beside her and the other two women in the rear. Fontaine promised himself that he would never again undertake overland travel with four women. He felt somewhat like the headmaster of a seminary on wheels.
Pueblo was situated in the southern foothills of the Rockies. The surrounding countryside was arid, despite the proximity of the Arkansas River to the town. Eastward lay a vista of broken plains, and to the west towering summits were still capped with snow. The mountains marched northward like an unbroken column of sentinels.
By 1872, Pueblo was the railway center of Southern Colorado. The road into town crossed the Denver & Rio Grande tracks, which extended some ninety miles northward to Denver. Directly past the tracks, Pueblo’s main thoroughfare was clogged with wagons and buggies and the boardwalks were crowded with shoppers. The street was jammed with stores, and a block away the new courthouse was under construction. The arrival of the railroad had transformed a once-isolated outpost into a bustling mecca of commerce.
Lillian was all eyes. She hadn’t seen anything so civilized since they departed New York almost nine months ago. Abilene, then Dodge City and No Man’s Land seemed to her a journey through a wasteland most memorable for its bloodshed and violence. Several times she’d had nightmares about the brutal hangings, bodies dangling with crooked necks beneath a tree limb. She was determined never again to stray far from a city.
Sally asked her to stop as they neared the edge of the business district. She reined the team to a halt by the boardwalk, wondering why Sally wanted to stop short of the uptown area. Over the past twelve days they had become friends, confiding in each other and sharing secrets. She called out to her father and Chester, who rode back to the buckboard. Sally faced them with a sober expression.
“We’ll leave you here,” she said, nodding to the other women. “We’re obliged for everything you’ve done.”
“Why?” Lillian asked, openly surprised. “We’ve only just arrived.”
“You don’t want to be seen with the likes of us. Wouldn’t do much for your reputation.”
“Who cares about reputation? You’re as new to Pueblo as we are. How will you manage?”
“Don’t worry about us,” Sally said with a rueful smile. “We’ll do lots better here than we did at Wild Horse Lake.”
“I won’t hear of it!” Lillian said adamantly. “At least wait until we get settled.”
“No, trust me, it’s best this way. We’ll likely see you before you leave for Denver.”
Sally gave her an affectionate hug. Lillian’s eyes puddled with tears as the women crawled out of the buckboard. They were poorly dressed, and their belongings, brought from Wild Horse Lake, were hardly any better. She knew they would become prostitutes or, if they were lucky, kept women. She knew as well that Sally was fibbing about getting together. She would never see them again.
The women walked away, Sally waving back over her shoulder. Fontaine waited a moment for Lillian to collect herself, then reined his horse around. Uptown, he quickly surveyed the street and led them toward the Manitou House Hotel. An imposing brick structure, three stories high, the hotel had two bellmen. They wrestled the steamer trunks off the buckboard and carried them inside. Fontaine turned to Chester.
“Lillian and I will register,” he said. “Find the nearest livery stable and sell the lot. Horses, buckboard, everything.”
“All right,” Chester said. “What price should I ask?”
“Take whatever you’re offered. I’m happy to say we have completed our last overland expedition. We will travel by train from now on.”
“Dad, that sounds good to me. Hope I never see a horse again.”
“I devoutly second the motion.”
Fontaine engaged a suite on the third floor. After their travails, he informed Lillian, they were due some modicum of comfort. The suite contained a sitting room and two bedrooms, with windows overlooking the street. Lillian would take one bedroom, and Fontaine would share the other one with Chester. He ordered the bellmen to bring corrugated metal tubs for each bedroom and loads of hot water.
Lillian thought it grand enough for royalty. By the time she unpacked her trunk, the tub and hot water arrived. She spent the next hour luxuriating in steamy bliss, unable to remember when she’d been so content. Her very soul seemed encrusted with grime from No Man’s Land and the overland trek, and she gave herself over to the cleansing of a good scrub and wash
ing her hair. She stepped from the tub reborn.
Some while later she wandered into the sitting room. She was barefoot, wearing a fluffy robe, her hair wrapped in a towel. Fontaine, already bathed, shaved, and dressed, was attired in a suit he’d had pressed while he was in the tub. He was standing by the windows, staring out over the town, and turned when she entered the room. Before he could speak, Chester came through the door.
“I was becoming concerned,” Fontaine said. “What took you so long, Chet?”
Chester grinned, pulling a leather pouch from his coat pocket. He dumped a mound of gold coins on a table by the sofa. “I finally talked them out of three hundred dollars.”
“Three hundred!” Lillian yelped excitedly. “We’re rich!”
“Bravo, my boy,” Fontaine congratulated him. “You obviously have a gift for finance.”
“I don’t know about that.” Chester shrugged modestly. “But I have to say, I enjoyed the dickering. It’s fun to get the better of the deal.”
“Yes, of course,” Fontaine said. “Now, hurry along and have your bath. Lillian will be ready before you are.”
“Where are we going?”
“Why, we’re off to see the town. I’m looking forward to a decent meal.”
Early that evening they emerged from an Italian restaurant recommended by the hotel. Fontaine was impressed by the service and, even more so, the food; they were stuffed on fresh garden salad, beef cannelloni, and a rich assortment of pastries. On the street, Fontaine suggested they have a look at some of Pueblo’s variety theaters. He was interested to see what played well in the Rockies.
The sporting district was south of the business center. There, as in most western towns, the stage shows were mingled among saloons and gambling establishments. The largest, and by far the most crowded, was the Tivoli Variety Theater. A barnlike structure, the Tivoli boasted the longest bar in Pueblo, assorted games of chance, and a wide stage at the rear of the room. Fontaine arranged for a table near the orchestra.
A waiter seated them as a magician produced a rabbit from a top hat. Then, playing to the audience, he brought forth a pair of doves from a silk scarf. By the time Fontaine and Chester were served drinks, the headline act, billed as the Ethiopian Minstrels, pranced onstage. The troupe of twelve men, all in blackface, proceeded to rattle their tambourines while they sang and ribbed one another with colorful badinage. Fontaine was fascinated.
“I know this act,” he said. “They played many of the theaters we did on the circuit back East.”
“By golly, you’re right,” Chester remarked. “I remember we followed them into Syracuse one time. I forget the name of the theater.”
“The Rialto.”
Fontaine fell silent. He watched the minstrels clown and trade barbs, but his thoughts seemed elsewhere. His features were a study in concentration, and when the curtain came down, he scarcely bothered to applaud. He looked around at Lillian and Chester with a buoyant expression.
“I’ve just had a marvelous idea,” he said. “Do you recall the roundabout message we got from the owner of the Alcazar Theater in Denver? That we would have to audition before he would consider booking us?”
“Yes, I do,” Lillian replied. “You thought it was awfully stuffy of him.”
“Well, a better plan occurs to me now. We will make our name here and then storm the gates of Denver.”
“You mean … here … in Pueblo?”
“Exactly!”
“Oh, Papa, I so wanted to go on to Denver. Libbie Custer said it is absolutely cosmopolitan.”
“Think a moment, my dear,” Fontaine said earnestly. “We haven’t yet made our name on the Western circuit. A short time here and we enter Denver with headliner billing.”
“Listen to him,” Chester encouraged her. “Pueblo may not be cosmopolitan, but it’s the right place to start. We need good notices going into Denver.”
“No question of it!” Fontaine said vigorously. “We will make them beg for The Fontaines!”
Lillian knew she’d been outvoted. However disappointing, her father was wise in the ways of the theater. Pueblo really was the place to start.
Denver would have to wait.
Late the following morning they returned to the Tivoli. Bartenders were busy stocking the shelves, and one of them pointed toward the rear. The office was off to one side of the stage.
Nate Varnum, the owner, was a sparrow of a man. He was short and slight, with thinning hair and a reedy voice. At their knock, he invited them into the office and offered them seats. Fontaine went straight to the point.
“Mr. Varnum, I’m quite confident you are familiar with The Fontaines. We have been a headline act back East for many years.”
“No, can’t say as I am,” Varnum commented. “How’d you wind up in Pueblo?”
“We decided to come West,” Fontaine said evasively. “Naturally, we’ve heard a good deal about you and your theater. All of it quite complimentary, I might add.”
“Hottest spot in town, that’s for sure.”
“And the very reason we are here. I see by the billboard that the Ethiopian Minstrels are closing tonight.”
Varnum grimaced. “You know Foster and Davis, the comedy act?”
“Indeed we do,” Fontaine said. “They were on the undercard when we played the Orpheum in New York.”
“Well, they were supposed to open tomorrow night. But I got a wire from Burt Tully, he owns the Alcazar in Denver. Davis dropped dead last night in the middle of the act. Heart attack.”
“I am most distressed to hear that, Mr. Varnum. Phil Davis was a consummate performer.”
“Well, anyway, your timing’s good,” Varnum said. “I need an act and you pop up out of nowhere. What is it you folks do, exactly?”
Fontaine explained the nature of their show. Varnum listened, his birdlike features revealing very little. He gave them a pensive look when Fontaine finished.
“I’ll have to see it,” he said. “We’re not open for business till noon. You got any objection to doing it now?”
“Not at all, my dear fellow. We would be delighted, absolutely delighted.”
Varnum led them out to the theater. He was a middling piano player and offered to accompany Lillian. She sang Wondrous Love as her opening number, and then Fontaine delivered a soliloquy from Hamlet. Working as an ensemble, they next performed the melodrama A Husband’s Vengeance. Lillian closed the show with an evocative rendition of Molly Bawn.
On the last note, Varnum smiled at her, nodding his approval. He swung around on the piano stool, facing Fontaine and Chester, who were seated at one of the tables. His expression was neutral.
“Lillian’s a natural,” he said. “Great voice, good looks, lots of emotion. Anybody ever think of calling her Lilly?”
“Yes, they have,” Lillian said, descending a short flight of stairs beside the stage. “I was billed that way at our last two engagements.”
“Good, that’s what we’ll use.” Varnum rose from the piano stool. “Now, let’s talk about your material. You can hold an audience only so long with love ballads. Don’t you know any snappy tunes?”
“I usually sing selections similar to what you heard.”
“Little lady, you have to be versatile to get to the top. So let me put it another way. Do you want to be a star?”
“Mr. Varnum, if you please,” Fontaine interrupted. “My daughter will not lower herself to the vulgarian.”
“Hush, Papa,” Lillian said sharply. “Let him talk.”
Fontaine was stunned into silence by her tone. Varnum glanced from one to the other, then turned to Lillian. He spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
“I don’t mean dirty stuff,” he said. “I’m talking about songs with some spirit, a little oomph. You want to leave the audience feeling good. End it on an upnote.”
“Could you give me an illustration?”
“How about Buffalo Gals? Or maybe Sweet Betsy from Pike? Do you know songs like that?”
“Yes, I know them.”
“Well?”
Lillian considered it, slowly nodded. “I could open the show with a ballad and close with something more lively. Would that work?”
“You bet it would!”
“Then it’s settled.”
“Not just exactly.” Varnum’s gaze swung around to Fontaine. “Lilly’s fine and the melodrama ought to play well. But I can’t use the Shakespeare.”
Fontaine stiffened. “May I ask why not?”
“Shakespeare’s too highbrow for our crowd. They want to be entertained.”
“For your information, Shakespeare has been entertaining audiences for almost three hundred years. I rather think it will play well in your … establishment.”
“Don’t try to teach me my business, Fontaine. I said it’s out and that’s final. No Shakespeare.”
“Then we’ve wasted your time,” Lillian said forcefully. “Our act is as you’ve seen it, Mr. Varnum. All or nothing.”
“There’s no place for you in Pueblo but the Tivoli. I doubt the other joints would even take the melodrama.”
“Yes, but that leaves you without a headliner tomorrow night … doesn’t it?”
“You’d do that to save ten minutes of Shakespeare?”
“I believe I just have.”
Varnum clenched his teeth. “You’re tougher than you look, Lilly. I’ll give you fifty a week for the whole act.”
“A hundred,” Lillian countered. “Not a penny less.”
“You know, it’s a good thing you sing as well as you do. Otherwise the whole bunch of you would be out on the street. All right, a hundred it is.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Varnum.”
Arrangements were made for Lillian to rehearse with the orchestra the next morning. Then, after a cursory round of handshakes, Fontaine stalked out of the theater. Lillian and Chester followed along, and they turned back toward the hotel. Fontaine let go a bitter laugh.
“Shakespeare has no currency with our new employer. As he said, it is a good thing you sing so well, my dear.”