ABILENE WAS situated along a dogleg of the Smoky Hill River. The town was a crude collection of buildings, surrounded by milling herds of longhorn cattle. The Kansas plains, flat as a billiard table, stretched endlessly to the points of the compass.
The Fontaines stepped off the train early the next afternoon. They stood for a moment on the depot platform, staring aghast at the squalid, ramshackle structures. Eastern newspapers, overly charitable in their accounts, labeled Abilene as the first of its kind. One of a kind. A cowtown.
“Good heavens,” Fontaine said in a bemused tone. “I confess I expected something more … civilized.”
Lillian wrinkled her nose. “What a horrid smell.”
There was an enervating odor of cow dung in the air. The prairie encircling Abilene was a vast bawling sea of longhorns awaiting shipment to eastern slaughterhouses, and a barnyard scent assailed their nostrils. The pungency of it hung like a fetid mist over the town.
“Perhaps there’s more than meets the eye,” Fontaine said, ever the optimist. “Let’s not jump to hasty conclusions.”
Chester grunted. “I can’t wait to see the theater.”
A porter claimed their steamer trunks from the baggage car. He muscled the trunks onto a handcart and led the way around the depot. The Kansas Pacific railroad tracks bisected the town east to west, cleaving it in half. Texas Street, the main thoroughfare, ran north to south.
Lillian was appalled. Her first impression was that every storefront in Abilene was dedicated to separating the Texan cattlemen from their money. With the exception of two hotels, three mercantile emporiums, and one bank, the entire business community was devoted to either avarice or lust. The street was lined with saloons, gambling dives, and dancehalls.
The boardwalks were jammed with throngs of cowhands. Every saloon and dancehall shook with the strident chords of brass bands and rinky-dink pianos. Smiling brightly, hard-eyed girls in gaudy dresses enticed the trailhands through the doors, where a quarter bought a slug of whiskey or a trip around the dance floor. The music blared amidst a swirl of jangling spurs and painted women.
“Regular circus, ain’t it?” the porter said, leading them past hitch racks lined with horses. “You folks from back East, are you?”
“New York,” Fontaine advised him. “We have reservations at the Drover’s Cottage.”
“Well, you won’t go wrong there. Best digs this side of Kansas City.”
“Are the streets always so crowded?”
“Night or day, don’t make no nevermind. There’s mebbe a thousand Texans in town most of the trailin’ season.”
The porter went on to enlighten them about Abilene. Joseph McCoy, a land speculator and promoter, was the founder of America’s first cowtown. Texans were beef-rich and money-poor, and he proposed to exchange Northern currency for longhorn cows. The fact that a railhead didn’t exist deterred him not in the least. He proceeded with an enterprise that would alter the character of the West.
McCoy found his spot along the Smoky Hill River. There was water, and a boundless stretch of grassland, all situated near the Chisholm Trail. After a whirlwind courtship of the Kansas Pacific, he convinced the railroad to lay track across the western plains. In 1867, he bought 250 acres on the river, built a town and stockyards, and lured the Texas cattlemen north. Four years later, upward of 100,000 cows would be shipped from Abilene in a single season.
“Don’t that beat all!” the porter concluded. “Dang-blasted pot o’gold, that’s what it is.”
“Yes indeed,” Fontaine said dryly. “A veritable metropolis.”
The Drover’s Cottage was a two-story structure hammered together with ripsawed lumber. A favorite of Texas cowmen, the exterior was whitewashed and the interior was sparsely decorated. The Fontaines were shown to their rooms, and the porter lugged their steamer trunks to the second floor. They agreed to meet in the lobby in an hour.
Lillian closed the door with a sigh. Her room was appointed with a single bed, a washstand and a rickety dresser, and one straight-backed chair. There were wall pegs for hanging clothes and a grimy window with tattered curtains that overlooked Texas Street. The mirror over the washbasin was cracked, and there was a sense of a monk’s cell about the whole affair. She thought she’d never seen anything so dreary.
After undressing, she poured water from a pitcher into the basin and took a birdbath. The water was tepid and thick with silt, but she felt refreshed after so many days on a train. Then, peering into the faded mirror above the washstand, she rearranged her hair, fluffing the curls over her forehead. From her trunk, she selected undergarments and a stylish muslin dress with a lace collar. She wanted to look her best when they went to the theater.
Her waist was so small that she never wore a corset. She slipped into a chemise with a fitted bodice and three petticoats that fell below the knees. Silk hose, ankle-high shoes of soft calfskin, and the muslin dress completed her outfit. On the spur of the moment, she took from the trunk her prize possession, a light paisley shawl purchased at Lord & Taylor in New York. The shawl, exorbitantly expensive, had been a present from her mother their last Christmas together. Lillian wore it only on special occasions.
Shortly after three o’clock the Fontaines entered the Comique Variety Theater. The theater was a pleasant surprise, with a small orchestra pit, a proscenium stage, and seating for 400 people. Lou Gordon, the owner, was a beefy man with a walrus mustache and the dour look of a mortician. He greeted the men with a perfunctory handshake and a curt nod. His eyes lingered on Lillian.
“High time you’re here,” he said brusquely. “You open tomorrow night.”
Fontaine smiled. “Perfect timing, my dear chap.”
“Hope for your sake your booking agent was right. His wire said you put on a good show.”
“I have every confidence you will be pleased. We present a range of entertainment for everyone.”
“Such as?”
“All the world’s a stage.” Fontaine gestured grandly. “And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances. And one man in his time plays many parts.”
Gordon frowned. “What’s that?”
“Shakespeare,” Fontaine said lightly. “As You Like It.”
“Cowhands aren’t much on culture. Your agent said you do first-rate melodrama.”
“Why, yes, of course, that, too. We’re quite versatile.”
“Glad to hear it.” Gordon paused, glanced at Lillian. “What’s the girl do?”
“Lillian is a fine actress,” Fontaine observed proudly. “And I might add, she has a very nice voice. She opens our show with a ballad.”
“Cowhands like a pretty songbird. Just don’t overdo the Shakespeare.”
“Have no fear, old chap. We’ll leave them thoroughly entertained.”
“You know Eddie Foy?” Gordon asked. “Tonight’s his closing night.”
“We’ve not had the pleasure,” Fontaine said. “Headliners rarely share the same bill.”
“Come on by for the show. You’ll get an idea what these Texans like.”
“I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to see Eddie Foy.”
Fontaine led the way out of the theater. He set off at a brisk pace toward the hotel. “The nerve of the man!” he said indignantly. “Instructing me on Shakespeare.”
Lillian hurried to stay up. “He was only telling you about the audience, Papa.”
“We shall see, my dear. We shall indeed!”
The chorus line kicked and squealed. They pranced offstage, flashing their legs, to thunderous applause from the crowd. The house was packed with Texans, most of them already juiced on rotgut liquor. Their lusty shouts rose in pitch as the girls disappeared into the wings.
The orchestra segued into a sprightly tune. The horns were muted, the strings more pronounced, and the audience quieted in anticipation. Eddie Foy skipped onstage, tipping his derby to the crowd, and went into a shuffling soft-shoe routine. The sound of his light feet on the floor was like velvety sandpaper.
Foy was short and wiry, with ginger hair and an infectious smile. Halfway through the routine, he began singing a bawdy ballad that brought bursts of laughter from the trailhands. The title of the song was Such a Delicate Duck.
I took her out one night for a walk
We indulged in all sports of pleasantry and talk
We came to a potato patch; she wouldn’t go across
The potatoes had eyes and she didn’t wear no drawers!
Lillian blushed a bright crimson. She was seated between her father and brother, three rows back from the orchestra. The lyrics of the song were far more ribald than anything she’d ever heard in a variety theater. Secretly, she thought the tune was indecently amusing, and wondered if she had no shame. Her blush deepened.
Foy ended the soft-shoe number. The orchestra fell silent with a last note of the strings as he moved to center stage. Framed in the footlights, he walked back and forth with herky-jerky gestures, delivering a rapid comedic patter that was at once risque and hilarious. The Texans honked and hooted with rolling waves of laughter.
On the heels of a last riotous joke, the orchestra suddenly blared to life. Foy nimbly sprang into a high-stepping buck-and-wing dance routine that took him cavorting around the stage. His voice raised in a madcap shout, he belted out a naughty tune. The lyrics involved a girl and her one-legged lover.
Toward the end of the number, Foy’s rubbery face stretched wide in a clownish grin. He whirled, clicking his heels in midair, and skipped offstage with a final tip of his derby. The audience whistled and cheered, on their feet, rocking the walls with shrill ovation. Foy, bouncing merrily onto the stage, took three curtain calls.
The crowd, still laughing, began filing out of the theater. Fontaine waited for the aisle to clear, then led Lillian and Chester backstage. They found Foy seated before a mirror in his dressing room, wiping off greasepaint. He rose, turning to greet them, as Fontaine performed the introductions. His mouth split in a broad smile.
“Welcome to Abilene,” he said jauntily. “Lou Gordon told me you’re opening tomorrow night.”
“Indeed we are,” Fontaine affirmed. “Though I have to say, you’ll be a hard act to follow. You’re quite the showman.”
“Same goes both ways. The Fontaines have some classy reputation on the circuit back East.”
“The question is, will East meet West? We certainly had an education on Texans tonight.”
Foy laughed. “Hey, you’ll do swell. Just remember they’re a bunch of rowdies at heart.”
“Not to mention uncouth,” Fontaine amended. “I’m afraid we haven’t your gift for humor, Eddie. Gordon warned us that culture wouldn’t play well in Abilene.”
“You think I’d try the material you heard tonight in New York? No sir, I wouldn’t, not on your tintype! You have to tailor your material to suit your audience. Westerners just like it a little … raunchy.”
“Perhaps it’s herding all those cows. Hardly what would be termed a genteel endeavor.”
“That’s a good one!” Foy said with a moonlike grin. “Nothing genteel about cowboys. Nosiree.”
“Well, in any event,” Fontaine said, offering a warm handshake. “A distinct pleasure meeting you, Eddie. We enjoyed the show.”
“All the luck in the world to you! Hope you knock’em in the aisles.”
“We’ll certainly do our very best.”
Fontaine found the way to the stage door. They emerged into a narrow alley that opened onto Texas Street. Lillian fell in between the men and glanced furtively at her father. She could tell he was in a dark mood.
“How enlightening,” he said sourly. “I hardly think we’ll follow Mr. Foy’s advice.”
“What would it harm, Papa?” Lillian suggested. “Melodrama with a few laughs might play well.”
“I will not pander to vulgarians! Let’s hear no more of it.”
On the street, they turned toward the hotel. A group of cowhands, ossified on whiskey, lurched into them on the boardwalk. The Texans stopped, blocking their way, and one of them pushed forward. He was a burly man, thick through the shoulders, with mean eyes. He leered drunkenly at Lillian.
“Lookee here,” he said in a rough voice. “Where’d you come from, little miss puss? How about we have ourselves a drink?”
“How dare you!” Fontaine demanded. “I’ll thank you to move aside.”
“Old man, don’t gimme none of yore sass. I’m talkin’ to the little darlin’ here.”
Chester stepped between them “Do as you’re told, and quickly. I won’t ask again.”
“Hear that, boys?” the cowhand said, glancing at the other Texans. “Way he talks, he’s from Boston or somewheres. We done treed a gawddamn Yankee.”
“Out of our way.”
Chester shoved him and the cowhand launched a murderous haymaker. The blow caught Chester flush on the jaw and he dropped to his knees. The Texan cocked a fist to finish him off.
A man bulled through the knot of trailhands. He was tall, with hawklike features, a badge pinned to his coat. His pistol rose and fell, and he thunked the troublemaker over the head with the barrel. The Texan went down and out, sprawled on the boardwalk.
“You boys skedaddle,” the lawman said, motioning with the pistol. “Take your friend along and sober him up.”
The cowboys jumped to obey. None of them said a word, and they avoided the lawman’s eyes, fear written across their faces. They grabbed the fallen Texan under the arms and dragged him off down the street. The lawman watched them a moment, then turned to the Fontaines. He knuckled the brim of his low-crowned hat.
“I’m Marshal Hickok,” he said. “Them drunks won’t bother you no more.”
Lillian was fascinated. His auburn hair was long, spilling down over his shoulders. He wore a frock coat, with a scarlet sash around his waist, a brace of Colt pistols tucked cross-draw fashion into the sash. His sweeping mustache curled slightly at the ends.
Hickok helped Chester to his feet. Fontaine introduced himself, as well as Lillian and Chester. The marshal nodded politely.
“I reckon you’re the actors,” he said. “Heard you start at the Comique tomorrow.”
“Yes indeed,” Fontaine acknowledged. “I do hope you will attend, Marshal.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China.”
“Allow me to express our most sincere thanks for your assistance tonight.”
“Never yet met a Texan worth a tinker’s damn. Pleasure was all mine.”
Hickok again tipped his hat. He walked off upstreet, broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his coat. Fontaine chuckled softly to himself.
“Do you know who he is?”
“No,” Lillian said. “Who?”
“Only the deadliest marshal in the West. I read about him in Harper’s Magazine.”
“Yes, but who is he, Papa?”
“My dear, they call him Wild Bill Hickok.”