THE FONTAINES were quartered in a billet normally reserved for visiting officers. There were two bedrooms and a sitting room, appointed in what Lillian assumed was military-issue furniture. She stood looking out the door at the garrison.
Fort Dodge was situated on a bluff overlooking the Arkansas. To her immediate front was the parade ground, and beyond that the post headquarters. Close by were the hospital and the quartermaster’s depot and farther on the quarters for married officers. The enlisted men’s barracks and the stables bordered a creek that emptied into the river. Everything looked spruce and well tended, orderly.
The caravan, accompanied by the cavalry, had arrived earlier that afternoon. The wagons were now encamped by the river, preparations under way to continue tomorrow on the Santa Fe Trail. Colonel Custer, courteous to a fault, had arranged for the Fontaines to stay the night in the officers’ billet. Upon discovering they were actors, he had invited them to his quarters for dinner that evening. He seemed particularly taken with Fontaine’s mastery of Shakespeare.
Fontaine, on the way to the fort, had spoken at length about the man many called the Boy General. He informed Lillian and Chester that their host was the most highly decorated soldier of the late Civil War. A graduate of West Point, his gift for tactics and warfare resulted in an extraordinary series of battlefield promotions. From 1862 to 1865, a mere three years, he leaped from first lieutenant to major general. He was twenty-five years old when the war ended.
Gen. Philip Sheridan personally posted Custer to the West following the Civil War. Though his peacetime rank was that of lieutenant colonel, he retained the brevet rank of major general. A splendid figure of a man, he was six feet tall, with a sweeping golden mustache, and wore his hair in curls that fell to his shoulders. He had participated in campaigns against the Plains Tribes throughout Kansas and Nebraska, culminating in a great victory in Indian Territory. There, on the Washita River, Custer and the Seventh Cavalry had routed the fabled Cheyenne.
Josh Ingram, listening to Fontaine’s dissertation on Custer, had pointed out a parallel with Santana, the Kiowa war chief. His Indian name, Se-Tain-te, meant White Bear, bestowed on him after a vision quest. A blooded warrior at twenty, he began leading raids along the Santa Fe Trail and as far south as Mexico. He ranged across the frontier, burning and pillaging, leaving in his path a legion of scalped settlers and dead soldiers. What Custer was to the army Santana was to the Kiowa: a bold, fearless leader who dared anything, no matter the odds.
Lillian, reflecting on it as the sun went down over the parade ground, thought there was a stark difference. Santana, with his four followers who were captured in yesterday’s battle, was in chains in the post stockade. George Armstrong Custer, victorious in every battle he’d ever fought, was yet again lauded for his courage in the field. She recalled him saying that he “rode to the sound of gunfire,” and she mused that he was a man who thrived on war. She wouldn’t be surprised if he one day replaced William Tecumseh Sherman as General of the Army. Custer, too, was a leader who never reckoned the odds.
Capt. Terrance Clark, Custer’s adjutant, called for the Fontaines as twilight settled over the post. He was a strikingly handsome man, tall and muscular, resplendent in a tailored uniform. He shook hands with Fontaine and Chester and bowed politely to Lillian. Outside, he offered her his arm and led them across the parade ground in the quickening dusk. His manner somehow reminded her of Adonis, the young hero of Greek mythology. A warrior too handsome for words.
Custer’s home was a military-style Victorian, with a pitched roof, square towers, and arched windows. The furniture in the parlor was French Victorian, with a rosewood piano against one wall flanked by a matching harp. The study was clearly a man’s room, the walls decorated with mounted heads of antelope and deer and framed portraits of Custer and Gen. Philip Sheridan. The bookshelves were lined with classics, from Homer, to Shakespeare, to James Fenimore Cooper.
Elizabeth Custer was a small, attractive woman, with dark hair and delicate features. She insisted on being called Libbie and welcomed the Fontaines as though she’d never met a stranger in her life. She informed them that she was thrilled to have a troupe of professional actors in her home. Hardly catching her breath, she went on to say that she and the general were amateur thespians themselves. Lillian gathered that Libbie Custer, at least in public, referred to her husband only by rank.
“We have such fun,” she rattled on. “Our last playlet was one written by the General himself. And he starred in it as well!”
“Libbie makes too much of it,” Custer said with an air of modesty. “We stage amateur theatricals for the officers and their wives. Life on an army post requires that we provide our own entertainment.”
“How very interesting,” Fontaine observed. “And what was the subject of your production, General?”
Custer squared his shoulders. “I played the part of a Cheyenne war chief and one of the officers’ wives played my … bride.” He paused, suddenly aware of their curious stares. “We depicted a traditional Indian wedding ceremony. All quite authentic.”
“I must say that sounds fascinating.”
“Hardly in your league, Mr. Fontaine. Perhaps, after dinner, you would favor us with a reading from Shakespeare. We thirst for culture here on the frontier.”
Fontaine preened. “I would be honored, General.”
“By the by, I forgot to ask,” Custer said. “Where will you be performing in Dodge City?”
“We are booked for the winter at Murphy’s Exchange.”
Fontaine caught the look that passed between Custer and his wife. Lillian saw it as well, and in the prolonged silence that followed she rushed to fill the void. Her expression was light and gay.
“We so wanted to see something of the frontier. And the timing is perfect, since we’re between engagements until next spring. We open then at the Comique Theater in Wichita.”
A manservant saved the moment. He appeared in the doorway of the dining room, dressed in a white jacket and blue uniform trousers, and announced dinner. Libbie, ever the gracious hostess, tactfully arranged the seating. Fontaine and Chester were placed on one side of the table, and Lillian was seated on the other, beside Captain Clark. Custer and Libbie occupied opposite ends of the table.
Dinner opened with terrapin soup, followed by a main course of prairie quail simmered in wine sauce. Throughout the meal, the Custers peppered their guests with questions about their life in the theater. Fontaine, though flattered, gradually steered the discussion to Custer’s military campaigns against the warlike tribes. The conversation eventually touched on yesterday’s engagement with the Kiowa.
“A sight to behold!” Fontaine announced, nodding to Libbie. “Your husband and the Seventh Cavalry at a full charge. I shan’t soon forget the spectacle.”
“Au contraire,” Libbie said, displaying her grasp of French. “The General tells me your daughter was the heroine of the day.” She cast an almost envious glance at Lillian. “Did you really shoot an Indian, my dear?”
Lillian blushed. “I’ll never know how,” she said with open wonder. “I closed my eyes when I fired the gun—and then … he practically fell in my lap.”
Everyone laughed appreciatively at her candid amazement. Lillian was all too aware of Captain Clark’s look of undisguised infatuation. He stared at her as if she were a ripe and creamy éclair and he wished he had a spoon. She noted as well that he wore no wedding ring.
After dinner, the men retired to the study for cigars and brandy. Lillian and Libbie conversed about New York and the latest fashions, discreetly avoiding any mention of the Fontaines’ upcoming appearance at Murphy’s Exchange. A short while later, the men joined them in the parlor. Captain Clark, rather too casually, took a seat beside Lillian on the sofa.
Fontaine required no great coaxing to perform. He positioned himself by the piano, his gaze fixed on infinity, and delivered a soliloquy from King Richard II. Custer and Libbie applauded exuberantly when he finished, congratulating him on the nuance of his interpretation. Then, with Libbie playing the piano, Lillian sang one of the day’s most popular ballads. Her voice filled the parlor with ’Tis Sweet to Be Remembered.
Terrance Clark watched her as though he’d seen a vision.
Dodge City was five miles west of Fort Dodge. A sprawling hodgepodge of buildings, it was inhabited principally by traders, teamsters, and buffalo hunters. Thousands of flint hides awaited shipment by wagon to the nearest railhead.
Late the next morning, when the Fontaines drove into town, they were dismayed by what they saw. Nothing had prepared them for a ramshackle outpost that looked as though it had been slapped together with spit and poster glue. Abilene, by comparsion, seemed like a megalopolis.
“To paraphrase the Bard,” Fontaine said in a dazed voice. “I have ventured like wanton boys that swim on bladders. Far beyond my depth, my high-blown pride at length broke under me.”
Chester nodded glumly. “Dad, no one could have said it better. We’ll be lucky if we don’t drown in this sinkhole.”
The permanent population of the Dodge City looked to be something less than 500. At one end of Front Street, the main thoroughfare, were the Dodge House Hotel and Zimmerman’s Hardware, flanked by a livery stable. Up the other way was a scattering of saloons, two trading companies, a mercantile store, and a whorehouse. The town’s economy was fueled by buffalo hunters and troopers of the Seventh Cavalry. Whiskey and whores were a profitable enterprise on the edge of the frontier.
Fontaine directed Chester to the Dodge House. There were no porters, and they were forced to unload the buckboard themselves. Fortunately, it was a one-story building, and after registering with the desk clerk, they were able to slide their steamer trunks through the hall. Their rooms were little more than cubicles, furnished with a bed, a washstand, one chair, and a johnny pot. The clerk informed them the johnny pots would be emptied every morning.
Still shaking his head, Fontaine instructed Chester to take the buckboard to the livery stable. He expressed the view that it would not be prudent as yet to sell the horses and the buckboard. Their escape from Gomorrah, he noted dryly, might well depend on a ready source of transport. An hour or so later, after unpacking and changing from their trail clothes, they emerged from the hotel with their trepidation still intact. The men were attired in conservative three-piece suits and the Western headgear they had adopted while in Abilene. Lillian wore a demure day dress and a dark woolen shawl.
Murphy’s Exchange was located across from one of the trading companies. Three buffalo hunters, lounging out front, gave them a squinted once-over as they moved through the door. The establishment was a combination saloon, dance hall, and gaming dive. Opposite a long mahogany bar were faro layouts and poker tables. A small stage at the rear overlooked a dance floor, with a piano player and a fiddler providing the music. Saloon girls in full war paint mingled with the crowd.
All conversation ceased as the soldiers and hide hunters treated Lillian to a slow inspection. She had the sinking sensation that they were undressing her with their eyes, layer by layer. Frank Murphy, the proprietor, walked forward from the end of the bar. He was a toadish man, short and stout, with jowls covered by muttonchop whiskers. His jaw cranked in a horsey smile, revealing a gold tooth, as he stopped in front of them. He regarded the finery of their clothes.
“From your duds,” he said, flashing his gold tooth, “I’d say you’re the Fontaines. Welcome to Dodge City.”
“Thank you so much,” Fontaine replied. “Our arrival was delayed by a slight skirmish with Kiowa brigands.”
“Yeah, the word’s all over town. Custer and his boys pulled your fat out of the fire, huh?”
“An apt if somewhat colloquial description.”
“Well, you’re here now and that’s all that counts.”
“Indeed we are.”
Fontaine stared a moment at the miniature stage. His arm swept the room with a patrician gesture. “There is no sin but to be rich; there is no vice but beggary.”
“Uh-huh,” Murphy said, stroking his whiskers. “That wire I got about you folks, from Lou Gordon? He said you was partial to Shakespeare.”
“Yes, I understand, Mr. Murphy. For the sake of your clientele, tread lightly with the verse.”
“I guess it’s sort of like bitin’ into a green persimmon. A little bit goes a long ways.”
“A green persimmon?” Fontaine said thoughtfully. “I’ve not heard the expression before. Is it a bitter fruit?”
“Right tasty when they’re ripe,” Murphy said. “A green one’ll make your mouth pucker up worse’n wormwood.”
“I have no doubt you dispense sound advice, Mr. Murphy. However, from the look of your customers, a dab of culture and a hot bath would do wonders. Charity demands that I acquaint them with the Bard.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Consider your duty done.”
Murphy turned his attention to Lillian. “You must be Lilly, the singer Gordon told me about. His wire said you’re better’n good.”
“How nice of him,” Lillian said with a dimpled smile. “I’ll certainly do my best, Mr. Murphy.”
“Hope you’ve got some racy numbers in your songbook. The boys don’t come here for church hymns.”
“I sing all the popular ballads. The audiences in Abilene weren’t disappointed.”
“Hide hunters are a rougher lot than cowhands. Maybe just a little something off-color?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Too bad.” Murphy examined her outfit. “Maybe you’ve got a dress that don’t dust the floor. The boys like to see some ankle.”
Lillian glanced at her father, clearly uncomfortable. Fontaine quickly intervened. “We are what we are, Mr. Murphy. Neither ribald nor risqué is included in our repertoire.”
Murphy considered a moment. He thought he’d made a bad deal but saw no practical remedy. October was almost gone, and the chances of importing another act for the winter were somewhere between slim and none. He decided there was nothing for it.
“Guess we’ll have to make do,” he grouched. “I’m a man of my word, so I’ll still pick up the tab for your lodging and your eats. Just try to gimme a good show.”
“Have no fear,” Fontaine said stiffly. “We never fail to entertain.”
Outside, Fontaine led the way back toward the hotel. Lillian and Chester were silent, aware that his dour mood had turned even darker. He finally grunted a saturnine laugh. His expression was stolid.
“I believe our employer lacks confidence.”
“Who cares?” Chester said. “We’re a far cry from Broadway.”
“You miss the point entirely, my boy.”
“What point is that?”
“We are the Fontaines, and we thrive on challenge. Need I say more?”
Lillian thought that said it all.