As the crowd settled and the lights dimmed, a man slipped from between the curtains, removed a wide-brimmed hat, and bowed. She recognized Langrishe immediately, the long, angular face with the prominent nose and solid chin, a big man who moved with grace, dressed out in boots, black trousers, a fine vest of silver brocade, black coat, and silk shirt of a rich purple.
“Ladies and gentlemen . . .” The crowd broke out in applause. Ellen clapped excitedly.
The impresario laughed. “Well, we shall see if you shower us with applause or rotten fruit after our performance this evening in this wonderful and exotic city. But first, I have to make a sad announcement. One of my poor, sweet actresses, the incomparable Lenore McKee, is a little off her feed. Must be the altitude—although we hail from Denver, and that’s a mile high. And that leaves us without a Lucy.”
The crowd fell silent. Ellen feared her evening on the town would soon end, without a performance.
“But I understand this is a city of thespians, that citizens in this very theater performed Ingomar the Barbarian just last year.”
Professor Dimsdale shook his head and whispered, “How well I know, having to sit through all four wretched acts.”
“Be quiet,” Ellen admonished.
“So . . . if I may be so bold and brave, might I ask for a volunteer. There are no lines to remember. I—Not you, sir. Your beard does not fit my interpretation of sweet, pure Lucy.”
More laughter. A few hoots.
“There are no lines to remember. You will have a copy of Dion’s play in your hands. Just follow along with us, and read your lines . . . with feeling.” He stepped back.
Seth Beckstead turned in his chair and said, “Ellen, here is your chance. To see what your dream would have been like.”
Her face flushed, and Langrishe stepped to the edge of the stage, as if he had heard the doctor or read his lips.
“Madam.” The colonel bowed. “Would you do us the honor? As a thespian, as a production manager, and leader of a troupe of rascals and vagabonds, I can promise you nothing other than . . . that greatest of all treasures—applause!”
“Get up there, girlie,” someone yelled.
“Yeah. I paid seventy-five cents to see something.”
Dimsdale nodded, Beckstead stood, offering her his hand. Hers, trembling, reached up, and he lifted her from her seat, guided her to the steps at the side of the stage. There two other actors helped her up, and the curtains parted. Someone placed the drama in her hands, turned the pages, showed Ellen her first appearance, and then flipped back to the beginning. “Just stay here,” he whispered. “Read along. And when your line comes up, read. Enunciate. Have a blast. We sure will.” He left, leaving behind the scent of his rye-soaked breath.
So she stood there, trembling, afraid she’d drop the book or rip the pages, listening to the young man playing Mr. Badger talk to the outlandish and energizing Mr. Bloodgood, played by the great Langrishe. And when act 2, scene 2, began, she saw the stage instructions for the first time:
Enter LUCY, with a box.
She thought: What on earth am I doing here?
But there was no piano or orchestra to play, and the actor playing Livingstone nodded at her, grinned, and whispered, “You’re on, lassie.”
Her mouth opened, and she heard herself say, hearing every tremble at every syllable, “My dear mother.”
Followed by a deafening roar of approval.
* * *
They cheered. They hissed. They gasped at the fires the evil Bloodgood had set, even if the flames were orange-painted wooden cutouts with a few actors not involved in the scene blowing smoke from cigars and holding up lucifers. They cheered when Badger slapped the manacles on Bloodgood’s wrists. And the applause hurt Ellen’s ears when she stepped onto the stage, hands locked with Langrishe and the actress who played Mrs. F, stepped toward the edge of the stage, and bowed.
* * *
“You are a natural actress, Ellen.”
“Bosh.” But she so enjoyed the compliment.
“I am surprised you did not accompany Langrishe and his troupe to Birmingham’s eating house,” Beckstead said.
She pushed open the door. Grace Martin stepped to the door, smiling. “She’s asleep, ma’am,” the young blonde said.
“Any trouble?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Let me get your payment, Grace. How is your mother, by the way? I was so rude not to ask. We were in such a hurry.”
“Ma’s fine. She says come over and show off that sweet little girl you got. She’s adorable. Don’t bother with the money, ma’am. Doc Beckstead’s already taken care of it.” She got her shawl and bonnet and hurried into the night.
Ellen turned, found herself alone with Seth Beckstead.
Her heart skipped, and her throat turned dry.
But Seth Beckstead bowed, smiled again, his eyes bright, and said, “It was a lovely evening, Ellen. Now get some rest. I will call on you, officially, two days from now.”
Like a gentleman, he pulled the door shut.
PART III
Summer
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Kansas winds and the summer sun quickly dried out ground, grass, and men. They found the Santa Fe Trail, and followed it east till near Dragoon Creek Crossing, turned north along the Fort Riley Military Road to Topeka, rode over the Kansas River on that pontoon bridge—where it seemed like half the town came out to watch in awe—and eastward to Leavenworth. A few miles before reaching the fort and the town, Story had the herd bedded down.
“Boone,” Story said as he halted his horse beside the two wagons. “Catch yourself a fresh horse. I want you to ride into town with me. See if Jameson Hannah is dead or in jail.”
The lean Texan did not appear overly excited about climbing into a saddle again, but he nodded without comment and moved toward the remuda.
“You planning on selling this herd to the army?” Kelvin Melean put his hands on his hips. “Or maybe you figure to drive this herd all the way to Chicago.”
“I heard tell of a fellow who took his cattle all the way to New York City,” Luis Avala said. “In the ’50s, I think.”
Tom Allen and Bill Petty looked at each other, then at Story. Ernesto Martinez dropped his saddle on the ground and stared. Fabian Peña stopped rolling a cigarette, and Jody Barley stopped gathering dried buffalo dung for the fire. Boone would be with Cesar Lopez now at the horse herd, and Jordan Stubbings and Ryan Ward remained with the cattle. Standing to the right of, but not offering to help, José Pablo Tsoyio set up a coffeepot and stewpot over a fire pit.
“We’ve been shorthanded since you sent Sam, Hannah, and Combs off,” Melean said. “And I ain’t rightly sure why you sent them away. Hire some new men, I figured, maybe stock up on coffee and salt pork. But how many men does that take?”
“We have been taking a roundabout way to get this herd to market,” Jody Barley said.
“And now you take Boone into town.” Peña spit in the dirt, paper and tobacco still in the fingers of his right hand.
Melean. That came as no surprise to Story. The Irishman had always displayed a temper, and Barley rode drag, and Story had yet to find a drag rider in a good mood. But Peña? Story had figured the Mexican would ride forever and never question where they were going or how long it would take. Petty and Allen knew Story’s intentions, as did Boone. And the two men with the cattle, Stubbings and Ward, probably would not have complained, maybe would have even backed Story.
Story said, “You want to quit, quit.” He looked at the cook. “How much longer till coffee and chuck?”
José Pablo Tsoyio rose and leaned against the wagon. “Supper,” he said, “can wait.”
So here it was. The mutiny. Well, Story knew it would come to this at some point.
At that point Boone led a dun horse into the camp, oblivious to the rumblings.
Story walked to his tethered horse, grabbed the reins, and stepped into the saddle. “There’s a good café
in Leavenworth,” he said. “Coffee’s better there, too. If any of you are still around when Boone and I get back, we’ll talk.”
“What the hell was all that about back there?” Boone asked when they had trotted a hundred yards out of camp.
“If it were any of your business, I’d tell you,” Story said.
* * *
His mood had worsened by the time he stepped inside the Leavenworth city jail. The deputy, an old gimp holding a shotgun, hammers cocked, stepped into the corner of the narrow hallway. Inside the only occupied cell, Jameson Hannah lifted his black hat off his face, grinned, and sat up on the bunk. Fresh scratches on his knuckles, one missing thumbnail, a swollen bottom lip, a bloody scratch through the beard stubble on his left cheek, and a deep shiner surrounding the right eye.
Hannah grinned. “You might not believe this, Story, but I won the fight.”
“I didn’t send you to Leavenworth to whip the whole damned town.”
Hannah tested his jaw. “If I’d whipped the whole damned town, I wouldn’t be here.” He nodded at the jailer. “He used the butt of that cannon on the back of my head when I was just getting started.”
The gimp spit tobacco juice into a bucket in the corner. “If there weren’t so many people around, I would’ve given you the other end,” he said.
“How long have you been here?” Story asked.
“Three days.”
“Eighty-seven more to go,” the jailer said. “Or two hundred dollars.”
Hannah stood. “The judge was generous,” he said. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
“To stand your bail?” Story shook his head. “I could let you rot for three months.”
“But you won’t. I got something you want. That’s why I was celebrating. It was the Fourth of July. I just told the bartender what I thought of that damn Yankee holiday. Some Kansas boys took exception.”
“Where are Ireland and Combs?”
“Guarding your purchase.”
Story turned to the jailer. “I pay you, Deputy?”
“You pay the court,” the gimp said. “I’ll walk you to the courthouse.”
“Well, hell,” Hannah said, “that’ll take you a week and a half.”
The gimp spit tobacco juice on Hannah’s shirtfront as he limped past. Hannah just laughed.
* * *
Dalton Combs pried open the crate and withdrew one of the Remington rifles, handing it to Story. “Just like you asked for. Fires a .56-50 Spencer rimfire,” Hannah said as he sipped coffee on the camp two miles outside of town. “Sam tested one. Managed to get off five rounds in a minute, and that’s with Sam’s bum hand.”
Story looked at Sam Ireland, with his hand still bandaged from that ruction with the herd thieves south of Baxter Springs. “Kicks like a damned mule,” Ireland said, “but it’ll put down whatever it hits.”
“You know why I want these rifles.” It wasn’t a question. Story looked at Ireland, then at Combs.
“I reckon we ain’t fools, boss.” The black cowboy raised his eyes and held Story’s stare. “Man don’t need this kind of protection to get a herd of cattle to Kansas City.”
“There’s a job for you in Montana Territory if you ride with me. At the ranch I plan to start.”
“We got to get to Montana Territory first,” Ireland said.
Story held out the heavy rifle. “These might help.”
“You talked to the rest of the boys?” Hannah asked.
“Not yet. That’s why I wanted to get to Leavenworth. Plenty of men to replace any quitters.”
“I wouldn’t call them quitters, boss.” Combs stood and pushed back his hat. “You hired them for a job. Get your cattle to Kansas. They’ve done that. And more.”
“Would you have hired on had I told you we were going to Montana?”
The black man smiled. “Maybe. I kinda like seeing the elephant. And Texas ain’t exactly friendly to men of my color. Any folks up in Montana look like me?”
“Some.” Story turned to Ireland. “What about you?”
Before he could answer, Jameson Hannah said, “Boys, this is your chance to make history. They’ll write songs and books about what Story here plans to do.”
“You going?” Ireland asked.
He looked at Story. “If I get an invite. Is there a job waiting for me in Montana, Story?”
“Most likely a rope.” He handed the Remington breechloader back to Combs. “You got a bill of sale for these guns and ammunition?”
Hannah laughed and nodded at Combs, who untucked his shirt to reveal a money belt. He unfastened it, reached in, and handed a slip of paper to Story.
After glancing at the paper, Story stared hard at the grinning Hannah. “Sold by Dick Turpin,” he said.
“It’s a bill of sale, Story,” Hannah said. “And you have to admit, I do have style.”
“Just remember what happened to Dick Turpin in England.” Story nodded at the mules. “Load these up. We’ll see how Boone’s making out in town.”
* * *
Mason Boone, freshly shaved, wearing a new shirt, stood in front of the general store, leaning against a hitching rail and cleaning his fingernails with the blade of a pocketknife. The Texan wasn’t as stupid as Story had figured him, for he had visited one of Leavenworth’s tonsorial parlors instead of a saloon—though he might have visited one of those, too—and now waited in front of two loaded freight wagons.
When Story and his men reined up, Story asked, “Room in those wagons for what the mules are carrying?”
Boone folded the blade and slid the knife into his trousers pocket. “Yeah.”
“All right.” A nod at Ireland and Combs sent the cowboys swinging out of the saddles and moving to the mules. “I’ll put Allen and Petty on these wagons,” Story told Hannah. “Then we’ll hire another man to drive our extra wagon.”
“What about him?” Hannah pointed his jaw toward Boone.
“He’s an old horse soldier,” Story said. “I want him on the back of a pony.” He continued speaking to Hannah. “Then we’ll see how many men I have to replace, other than the dead one. With Combs and Ireland sticking with us, it might not be as bad as I thought. They carry some weight among the boys.” Boone stood at Story’s side. “You got an aversion to getting that store-bought shirt dirty, Boone?” He pointed at the crates strapped to the mules.
Boone reached inside his vest and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “You’re gonna need more men than you figured,” the Texan said. “A lot more men.”
Story snatched the notice from Boone’s hand.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
General Order No. 27
Headquarters Department of the Missouri,
St. Louis, Missouri, February 28, 1866.
For the security of trains and travellers crossing the great plains during the coming season, the following rules are published and will be enforced by all commanders of military posts in that region:
I. Fort Ridgley and Fort Abercrombie are designated as points of rendezvous for all trains or travellers pursuing the routes from Minnesota to the mining regions of Montana, by way of Fort Berthold, Fort Union, and the valley of the Upper Missouri and Yellowstone rivers; and to the same region by way of Sioux falls, Fort Pierre, the Black Hills, and Powder river. This latter route is believed to be safe to travel as far as Fort Pierre or Crow creek, on the Missouri river, even for small parties. Beyond the Missouri river all precautions herein indicated must be taken.
In like manner, Fort Kearny is designated as the point of rendezvous for all trains destined for Denver City or Fort Laramie, by way of the Platte River route; and Fort Riley and Fort Larned as the rendezvous for trains for New Mexico and for Denver City or other points in Colorado, by the Smoky Hill or Arkansas River routes. These points can be reached from the Missouri river without danger.
II. At the posts above designated all trains will be organized for defence by electing a captain and other officers, and organizing the teamsters, emplo
yes, and any other persons travelling with or belonging to the train, into one or more companies. Every person who accompanies a train must be properly armed for defence, and must submit himself during the journey to such regulations as the captain of the train shall lay down, and perform such duties, as guards, sentinels, herdsmen, &c., as may be designated by the same authority. No train consisting of less than twenty wagons and thirty armed men, organized as above indicated, will be permitted to pass into the Indian country; and during the transit across the plains these trains will be held responsible for the faithful observance of the rules and regulations laid down and the treaties with the Indian tribes through whose country they are passing.
III. The commanding officer of each military post on any of the routes west of the posts herein indicated as rendezvous is directed to inspect each train which passes his post, sufficiently to assure himself that the military organization herein specified has been made, and that the usual precautions against Indian attacks or surprises have been carefully observed. When it is found that the provisions of this order have not been complied with, the train in which such neglect occurs will not be permitted to pass beyond the military post where it is discovered until it is made manifest to the commanding officer that such neglect will not occur again. The commanding officer who discovers this neglect will also report the facts to the commander of the next post on the route, in order that careful examination of the train may again be made at that post.
IV. All persons travelling across the plains, except those belonging to the military service of the United States and such as are transported in the mail coaches or other conveyances on the overland routes, must join themselves together in a military organization, consisting of not less than thirty armed men, or must connect themselves with some train.
A Thousand Texas Longhorns Page 26
