THE EVENING of October 5 was brisk and clear. A full moon washed the town in spectral light and stars dotted the sky like diamond dust. Texas Street was all but deserted.
A last contingent of cowhands wandered from saloon to saloon. Earlier that day the final herd of longhorns had been loaded at the stockyards and shipped east by train. The trailing season was officially over, for the onset of winter was only weeks away. Two months, perhaps less, would see the plains adrift with snow.
The mood was glum at the Comique. Abilene, the first of the western cowtowns, was sounding the death knell. The railroad had laid track a hundred miles south to Wichita, a burgeoning center of commerce located on the Arkansas River. By next spring, when the herds came north on the Chisholm Trail, Wichita would be the nearest railhead. Abilene would be a ghost town.
Lou Gordon planned to move his operation to Wichita. With the coming of spring, he would reopen the Comique on the banks of the Arkansas and welcome the Texans with yet another variety show. He had offered the Fontaines headliner billing, for Lillian was now a star attraction with a loyal following. But that left the problem of where they would spend the winter and how they would subsist in the months ahead. So far, he’d uncovered only one likely alternative.
Alistair Fontaine was deeply troubled. Though he usually managed a cheery facade, he was all but despondent over their bleak turn of fortune. Upon traveling West, he had anticipated a bravura engagement in Abilene and a triumphant return to New York. Yet his booking agent, despite solid notices in the Abilene Courier, had been unable to secure a spot for them on the Eastern variety circuit. A hit show in Kansas kindled little enthusiasm among impresarios on Broadway.
Fontaine saw it as a descent into obscurity. To climb so high and fall so far had about it the bitter taste of ignominy. He’d begun life as John Hagerty, an Irish ragamuffin from the Hell’s Kitchen district of New York. Brash and ambitious, he fled poverty by working his way up in the theater, from stagehand to actor. Almost twenty-five years ago, he had adopted the stage name Alistair Fontaine, lending himself an air of culture and refinement. Then, seemingly graced, he had married Estell.
Yet now, after thirty years in the theater, he was reduced to a vagabond. The descent began with Estell’s untimely death and the realization that he was, at best, a modest Shakespearian. In Abilene came the discovery that his daughter, though a lesser talent than her mother, nonetheless brought that indefinable magic to the stage. But he hadn’t foreseen the vagaries of a celebrated return to New York or the growth of the railroad and the abrupt demise of Abilene. He wasn’t prepared to winter in some primitive outpost called Dodge City.
The crowd for tonight’s show was sparse. There were fewer than a hundred cowhands still in Abilene and perhaps half that number in the audience. The melodrama finished only moments ago, Fontaine and Chester stood in the wings, watching Lillian perform her encore. For their last night in Abilene, she had selected as her final number a poignant ballad titled The Wayfarer. She thought it would appeal to the Texans on their long journey home, south along the Chisholm Trail. Her voice gave the lyrics a sorrowful quality.
The sun is in the west,
The stars are on the sea,
Each kindly hand I’ve pres’t,
And now, farewell to thee.
The cup of parting done,
’Tis the darkest I can sip.
I have pledg’d them ev’ry one
With my heart and with my lip.
But I came to thee the last,
That together we might throw
One look upon the past
In sadness ere I go
On the final note, the cowhands gave her a rousing ovation. They rose, calling out her name, waving good-bye with their broad-brimmed hats. She smiled wistfully, waving in return as the curtain closed, throwing them a kiss at the last moment. Her eyes were misty as she moved into the wings, where Fontaine and Chester waited. She swiped at a tear.
“Oh, just look at me,” she said with a catch in her throat. “Crying over a bunch of cowboys.”
“Well, it’s closing night,” Chester consoled her. “You’re entitled to a few tears.”
“I feel like crying myself,” Fontaine grumped. “We’ve certainly nothing to celebrate.”
“Papa!” Lillian scolded gently. “I’m surprised at you. What’s wrong?”
“We are not traveling to New York, my dear. To paraphrase Robert Burns, the best laid schemes of mice and men often go awry.”
“Yes, but Lou felt almost certain he could arrange a booking in Dodge City. It’s not as though we’re out of work.”
“Dodge City!” Fontaine scoffed. “Gordon seemed quite chary with information about the place. Other than to say it is somewhere—somewhere—in western Kansas.”
Chester grinned. “Dad, you were talking about a grand adventure when we came out here. This way, we get to see a little more of the West.”
“And it’s only for the winter,” Lillian added. “Lou promised an engagement in Wichita in the spring.”
Fontaine considered a moment. “I’ve no wish to see more of the West. But your point is well taken.” He paused, nodding sagely. “Any engagement is better than no engagement a’tall.”
Lou Gordon appeared from backstage. Over the course of their month in Abilene, he had become a friend, particularly where Lillian was concerned. He felt she was destined for big things on the variety stage. He extended a telegram to Fontaine.
“Got a wire from Frank Murphy just before the show. He’s agreed to book you for the winter.”
“Has he indeed?”
Fontaine scanned the telegram. His eyes narrowed. “Two hundred dollars a month! I refuse to work for a pauper’s wages.”
“Lodging and meals are included,” Gordon pointed out. “Besides, Alistair, it’s not like you’ve got a better offer.”
“Papa, please,” Lillian interceded. “Do we really have a choice?”
“I appear to be outnumbered,” Fontaine said. “Very well, Lou, we will accept Mr. Murphy’s parsimonious offer. How are we to accomplish this pilgrimage?”
Gordon quickly explained that railroad tracks had not yet been laid into western Kansas. He went on to say that he’d arranged for them to accompany a caravan of freight wagons bound for Dodge City. He felt sure they could make an excellent deal for a buggy and team at the livery stable. With the loss of the cattle trade, everything in Abilene was for sale at bargain prices.
“A buggy!” Fontaine parroted. “Good Lord, I’d given it no thought until now. We’ll be sleeping on the ground.”
“Afraid so,” Gordon acknowledged. “You’ll be cooking your own meals, too. The hardware store can supply you with camp gear.”
“Is there no end to it?” Fontaine said in a wounded voice. “We are to travel like … Mongols.”
Chester laughed. “No adventure as grand as an expedition. Nostradamus has nothing on you, Dad.”
“I hardly predicted a sojourn into the wilderness.”
“How marvelous!” Lillian clapped her hands with excitement. “We’ll have such fun.”
Fontaine arched an eyebrow. He thought perhaps her mother had missed something in her training. There was, after all, a certain limit to hardship.
Overland travel was hardly his idea of fun.
Hickok checked his pocket watch. He rose from behind his desk in the jailhouse and went out the door. He walked toward the theater.
All evening he’d been expecting trouble. As he passed the Lone Star Saloon, he glanced through the plate glass window. Phil Coe and several cowhands were standing at the bar, swilling whiskey. He wondered if Coe would at last find courage in a bottle.
Their mutual antagonism went back over the summer. Coe was a tinhorn gambler who preyed on guileless cowhands by duping them with friendship and liquor. Hickok, sometime in early July, put out the word that Coe was a cardsharp, the worst kind of cheat. He gulled fellow Texans in crooked games.
The charge brought no immediate confrontation. Hickok heard through the grapevine that Coe had threatened his life, but he suspected the gambler had no stomach for a fight. Coe retaliated instead by charming a saloon girl widely considered to be Hickok’s woman and stealing away her affections. The animosity between the men deepened even more.
Word on the street was that the last of the Texans planned to depart town tomorrow. Coe, whose home was in Austin, would likely join them on the long trek down the Chisholm Trail. Without cowhands for him to fleece, there was nothing to hold Coe in Abilene any longer. So it made sense to Hickok that trouble, if it came at all, would come tonight. Coe, to all appearances, was fueling his courage with alcohol.
Hickok turned into the alley beside the Comique. He intended to see Lillian safely back to the hotel, just as he’d done every night since she arrived in Abilene. He planned to apply for the job of marshal in Wichita, and he thought that might have some bearing on their future. Lou Gordon was opening a variety theater there, and Hickok assumed the Fontaines would tag along. He would arrange to talk with her about it in the next day or so. Tonight, given the slightest pretext, he would attend to Phil Coe.
The stage door opened as he moved into the alleyway. Lillian stepped outside, accompanied by her father and brother. He greeted Fontaine and Chester as she waited for him by the door. Her features were animated.
“Aren’t you the tardy one,” she said with a teasing lilt. “You missed my last performance.”
“Not by choice,” Hickok begged off. “Had some business that needed tendin’.”
“Wait till you hear our news!”
Lillian was eager to tell him about their plans. She fantasized that he would join them on the trip, perhaps become the marshal of Dodge City. She wasn’t sure she loved him, for she still had no idea of what love was supposed to feel like. But she was attracted to him, and she knew the feeling was mutual, and she thought there was a good man beneath the rough exterior. A trip west together would make it even more of an adventure.
“What news is that?” Hickok asked.
“Well, we just found out tonight we’re going—”
A gunshot sounded from the street. Then, in rapid succession, two more shots bracketed through the still night. Hickok was moving even as the echoes died away.
“Stay here!” he ordered. “Don’t go out on the street.”
“Where are you—”
“Just stay put!”
Hickok rushed off into the darkness. He moved to the far end of the alley, turning the corner of the building across from the Comique. Headed north, he walked quickly to the rear of the third building and entered the back door of the Alamo Saloon. He hurried through the saloon, startled customers frozen in place as he drew both pistols. He stepped through the front door onto the boardwalk.
Phil Coe stood in the middle of the street. A dead dog lay on the ground at his feet, the earth puddled with blood. He had a bottle in one hand and a gun in the other, bantering in a loud voice with four Texans who were gathered around. He idly waved the bottle at the dog.
“Boys, there lies one tough scutter. Never thought it’d take me three shots to kill a dog.”
“Hell, it didn’t,” one of the cowhands cackled. “You done missed him twice.”
“What’s going on here, Coe?”
The men turned at the sound of Hickok’s voice. He was framed in a shaft of light from the door, the pistols held loosely at his sides. Coe separated from the Texans, a tall man with handsome features, his mouth quirked in a tight smile. He gestured with the bottle.
“No harm done, Marshal,” he said. “Just shot myself a dog, that’s all.”
“Drop your gun,” Hickok told him. “You’re under arrest.”
“What the hell for?”
“Discharging firearms within the town limits.”
“Bullshit!” Coe flared. “You’re not arresting me for shootin’ a goddamn dog.”
“I won’t tell you again—drop it.”
Coe raised his pistol and fired. The slug plucked the sleeve of Hickok’s coat and thunked into the saloon door. He extended his right arm at shoulder level and the Colt spat a sheet of flame. Coe staggered backward, firing another round that shattered the Alamo’s window. Hickok shot him again.
A crimson starburst spread over the breast of Coe’s jacket. His legs tangled in a nerveless dance, and he slumped to the ground, eyes fixed on the starry sky. Footsteps clattered on the boardwalk as a man bulled through a crowd of onlookers, gun in hand, and hurried forward. Hickok caught movement from the corner of his eye, the glint of metal in silvery moonlight. He whirled, reflexes strung tight, and fired.
The man faltered, clutching at his chest, and tumbled off the boardwalk into the street. One of the onlookers, a railroad worker, eased from the crowd and peered down at the body. His face went taut and he turned to Hickok with an accusing stare. “It’s Mike Williams!” he shouted. “You’ve killed your own deputy.”
A look of disbelief clouded Hickok’s features. He walked to the body and knelt down, pistols dangling from his hands. His hard visage seemed to crack, and he bowed his head, shoulders slumped. The onlookers stared at him in stony silence.
The Fontaines watched from the alleyway. They had witnessed the gunfight, then the senseless death of a man rushing to help his friend. Fontaine was reminded of a Greek tragedy, played out on the dusty street of a cowtown, and Chester seemed struck dumb. Lillian had a hand pressed to her mouth in horror.
Fontaine took her arm. She glanced one last time at Hickok as her father led her away. Chester followed along, still mute, and they angled across the street to the Drover’s Cottage. The desk clerk was standing in the door, drawn by the gunshots, on the verge of questioning them. He moved aside as they entered the lobby, reduced to silence by the expression on their faces. They mounted the stairs to their rooms.
Some while later, changed into her nightgown, Lillian crawled in bed. She felt numb with shock, her insides gone cold, and she pulled the covers to her chin. She had never seen a man killed, much less two in a matter of seconds, and the image of it kept flashing through her mind. The spectacle of it, random violence and death, was suddenly too much to bear. She closed her eyes to the terror.
A thought came to her in a moment of revelation. She could never love a man who so readily dealt in killing. The fantasy she had concocted was born of girlish dreams, silly notions about honor and knights of the plains. She saw now that it was all foolish whimsy.
Tomorrow, she would say goodbye to Wild Bill Hickok.