The Americans Read online

  By and by hard times come a-knockin’ at the door—

  hen my old Kentucky home, good night.

  Leo and Julia sang the chorus. Overlapping the music, Gideon said, “I’m not trying to pry into your affairs. But Julia and I worry about how you and Leo are getting along.”

  She kept her eyes fixed on the stars; she answered softly, “We love what we’re doing. But acting has never been an easy profession. It wasn’t when Philip’s mother was excommunicated for going on the stage in Paris, and it isn’t today. Sometimes Leo gets discouraged because we aren’t making faster progress.”

  “So I gathered from his remarks at dinner.”

  Gideon’s voice was calm. Inwardly, he was churning. What on earth had happened to his daughter’s romantic enthusiasm? What had gone wrong?

  “Does marriage agree with you, Eleanor?”

  “Yes, Papa. Sometimes I do feel I’m horridly inadequate for the role of a wife, though.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  A too-studied shrug. “Oh—various reasons. Working in the theater, there isn’t much time for me to do all the conventional things a wife is supposed to do. Cook. Sew—”

  “You never particularly cared for them as a girl. I can’t believe you’ve suddenly become interested in them.”

  A dazzling smile. “I loathe them. But I suppose I feel guilty for neglecting that side of married life.”

  “Leo doesn’t mind, does he?”

  “No, he’s a perfect dear about it.” The smiled faded. “But I feel inadequate in other ways, too.”

  He clearly heard the embarrassment in her voice, and in a moment of uncomfortable insight, he thought he understood. Eleanor was not merely a child of the Victorian age; she was the child of Margaret Kent. Toward the end of Margaret’s life, her view of the physical side of marriage had been a warped one. That unhealthy view had finally driven Gideon to Julia. Was his daughter now struggling against the same kind of negative attitude?

  Gideon fixed his eye on a distant star. He asked gently, “Do you want to say any more?”

  “I can’t, Papa. It’s the sort of thing—well, no, I’d rather not discuss it.”

  “Would you feel more comfortable talking with Julia?”

  Vehemently: “She isn’t my mother.”

  “But she’d be happy to listen.”

  “No! I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  Her uncharacteristic sharpness upset him. He couldn’t tell whether she’d been angry about the drift of the conversation, or frightened, or a little of both.

  Eleanor was gazing over the sea, a set, closed expression on her face. Fruitless to press her on the subject, he thought. It could only lead to bad feelings between them. He tried another tack.

  “I’m curious about something else. Do you often have to deal with incidents like the one in Philadelphia?”

  “More often than I’d like.”

  “Are you finding they aren’t so easy to walk away from as you once thought?”

  Her quick frown, clearly discernible in the starlight, told him he’d hit the mark.

  “We manage.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if Leo will turn the other cheek any longer.”

  “No.”

  “I can’t say that I blame him.”

  “I just wish people would leave us alone! I hoped Philadelphia would be different. You’d think that in a big, supposedly cultured city a Jew wouldn’t have so many problems. But look what happened to Papa Goldman. We even get a few people in the Arch Street galleries who see Leo’s name in the program and throw things.”

  “Good God. What does he do?”

  “He stops the play until they quiet down. It terrifies me. Last week, a coin came this close to his eye.” Her thumb and index finger measured a narrow space in the air. “Leo gets so angry—”

  “He should.”

  “It isn’t our fight!”

  “Yes, it is, Eleanor. It’s Leo’s fight, and it became yours when you married him. But we’ll never agree on that, I fear. I do understand how Leo feels. No man wants to be forced to deny what he is. I’m sorry there have been problems. I want your marriage to be a happy one.”

  “Mostly it is, Papa.”

  She sounded completely convincing. Then he recalled that she made her living by acting. He studied her, thought he detected a fleeting look of pain on her face.

  What’s wrong? What is it that she can’t talk about? The bigotry? Or something else?

  She was conscious of his scrutiny. Quickly, she linked her arm with his. They walked along the moonlit deck toward the open door of the saloon. “Every marriage has its problems, Papa. I appreciate your worrying about us, but you mustn’t.”

  Her timing was superb. Precisely at the moment they entered the saloon, she finished by saying, “Leo and I are very happy. I love him and I’m proud to be his wife.”

  Leaning on the piano, Leo gave her a look of such intensity and sadness that Gideon’s last doubt was banished. Despite Eleanor’s protestations of happiness, something was seriously amiss.

  iii

  Three days later, Auvergne docked in Boston and the Goldmans boarded the train for Philadelphia. Gideon and Julia saw them off with a silent hope that the marriage could survive the stresses to which it was obviously being subjected.

  Sometimes I’m terrified. A coin came this close to his eye—

  As the carriage bore them back to Beacon Street, Gideon’s mind was a muddle of worries about his daughter and his son. Quite without realizing it, he began to sing softly.

  “By and by hard times come a-knockin’ at the door—”

  “That song seems to be a favorite of yours lately, dear. You hum or sing it a dozen times a day.”

  “Do you blame me? Eleanor’s hiding some unhappiness— and Will was insufferable on the cruise—never a syllable of apology to anyone—”

  “Remember what Mr. Pleasant told you. It’s typical of boys his age.”

  “That’s an explanation. It isn’t an excuse. He needs a more competent hand than mine.”

  “No, darling,” she said gently. “Just a different one for a while.”

  “That’s why I asked Theodore to take him for the summer. Now that he’s agreed, it’s time I informed Will. I’ll send him west and hope to God I’m not making the same mistake twice.”

  CHAPTER III

  WELCOME TO THE BAD LANDS

  i

  WILL TOOK THE NORTHERN Pacific west during the last week in May.

  In his valise was a note of introduction to the Hon. T. Roosevelt, the Elkhorn Ranch, Billings County, Dakota Territory. Packed with it was Roosevelt’s reply to Gideon’s first letter. In it, Roosevelt said he thought it would be grand to have his good friend’s son on the Elkhorn Ranch for the summer.

  Have him hasten here quickly, so that he may ride with us in the spring roundup of District No. 6, Montana Stockgrowers’ Association, of whose Dakota Branch I am pleased to be president. If your son is any kind of horseman, the roundup is an experience he will enjoy and will not soon forget. We shall be pleased as Punch to have him share it, and I shall personally see to his welfare.

  Did that kind of language sound like a cowboy’s? Definitely not, Will thought. But Gideon had assured him that Roosevelt had readily adapted himself to the rugged life of the Dakota Bad Lands, and had been fully accepted by the less-than-refined inhabitants of the district.

  He recalled his father saying that Roosevelt had first visited the Bad Lands on a hunting trip. He’d fallen in love with the country, and had returned there after the deaths of his wife and mother in 1884. He now made several trips a year to the Territory. A sister cared for his infant daughter, Alice, during his absence.

  Settlers in the Bad Lands were trying to develop a cattle industry there, even though conditions were not as favorable as they were in Montana or Wyoming. Roosevelt had joined enthusiastically in this effort. Gideon said Roosevelt now owned about 3,500 head of cattle, divided between h
is two ranches. The first, in which he had a partnership, was called the Maltese Cross. It was located not far from the rail stop on the Little Missouri River. Roosevelt’s own spread, the Elkhorn, lay about forty miles north.

  Roosevelt wasn’t the only gentleman-rancher in the district. A few years earlier, an authentic French nobleman had settled on the Little Missouri with his wife, the wealthy daughter of a Wall Street banker named Von Hoffman. Using the wife’s money, the Marquis de Mores—full name Antoine Amédée Marie Vincent Manca de Vallombrosa— had founded a new town on the river’s east bank. He’d named the town after his wife, Medora.

  The Marquis’ stated intention was to create a beef packing empire to match that of Mr. Armour in Chicago. In rapid order, he had organized the Northern Pacific Refrigerator Car Company, built a thirty-room mansion, persuaded the railroad to move its depot from the original settlement on the west bank of the river and developed a reputation for lording it over the local citizens.

  “Theodore’s letters make it clear he and the Frenchman don’t get along,” Gideon had observed to his son. “At first that might seem strange, since they’re both aristocrats—”

  “There are no aristocrats in America, Papa.”

  “Yes, there are. They don’t have titles, that’s all. The Roosevelts trace their ancestry back to the Knickerbocker era in early Manhattan. But that’s where the resemblance ends. Theodore believes in democracy. He says the Marquis favors the old system of privilege. Oddly enough, their personal lives don’t seem to fit with their philosophies. I gather the Marquis hangs out with the riffraff of Medora. Theodore’s morals are like those of a grandee. He doesn’t drink, smoke, or swear. If you’ve taken up any of those habits”— at that point, Gideon had managed a tolerant smile— “better get rid of them before you reach the Territory.”

  From the first, the prospect of a summer in the West had appealed to Will—much to his father’s relief. Will was a competent driver and rider, although he realized Eastern coach and saddle horses weren’t the same as cow ponies. He hoped he could hold his own out here, not disappoint his father’s friend, or become a burden. He meant to do his best. But as the train left Minnesota, he began to hear a voice whispering in the clicking wheels. The voice disparaged his hope, and spoke scathingly of his certain failure.

  He tried not to listen.

  The train was in western Dakota now, the rolling prairie with its long Indian grass dropping behind, replaced by a flatter, more barren terrain. Trees became increasingly sparse. What few there were—cottonwoods, cedars, some yellow pine—had a stunted look.

  The eastern part of the Territory had been blessed with vegetation: chokeberries, wild grapes, blue-gray pasqueflowers nodding in the spring breeze, even water lilies floating near the banks of sparkling creeks. Here little or nothing grew except the short gray gamma grass. Even that began to vanish as the train moved farther into the arid emptiness of the Missouri Slope.

  Mesas spread along the horizon. Buttes jutted into the sky, their wind-scraped faces revealing distinct layers of brick red lava and blue, gray, and yellow clay. There were only a few streams, small, sluggish, and dirty. Obviously he was coming into the Bad Lands. They had been explored by French-Canadian voyageurs who had christened them mauvaises terres pour traverser. Will’s destination, Medora, was right in the heart of the area.

  Face close to the window, he again changed position on the hard bench. Gideon had learned a lesson from Carter’s trip; Will was traveling on a second-class ticket. The car in which he was riding was nearly empty.

  The vista outside was spectacular, even forbidding. But the country was far from devoid of life. In the space of an hour, he saw huge jackrabbits jumping, whitetailed deer running, flocks of magpies circling in the blue sky—and prairie dog villages beyond counting. He felt a fresh burst of excitement. The excitement had consumed him for days now, and helped ease the tension of living in Boston.

  He knew the tension was partly of his own making. He honestly couldn’t explain why he sometimes acted the way he did, lashed out at his parents with arrogance or scorn. At the moment he did it, he seemed to want to, but he always regretted it later. Of course he never admitted that to Julia or his father.

  Things had been topsy-turvy ever since Carter had left and Dolores Wertman had moved away. His self-confidence, never great to begin with, had been utterly destroyed by those two events. Even now, he was gazing out the coach window with an anxious expression, worrying about the weeks ahead. Could he handle his duties on a working ranch? He was in fine physical condition, but was that enough? Could he hold his own among experienced cowhands?

  He was determined to try. Determined to silence the voice whispering to him through the clicking wheels: You’ll fail. You’ll fail.

  ii

  It was a brilliant sunny day. Two antelope bounded along beside the train, then veered away. By leaning against the window, Will could glimpse startling new rock formations rising ahead. Formations of lavender, olive, chalk gray. The conductor walked through to announce that Medora would be the next stop in half an hour. Will’s heart began to beat faster.

  The conductor went all the way to the head end of the train, then returned. When he reached Will’s seat, he paused and gave the young man an amused look. “Medora’s your station, isn’t it?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Plan to stay awhile?”

  “I’ll be working there all summer.”

  “Better get yourself some new clothes. If you don’t, you’ll be bullyragged all over the place. I wouldn’t hang around the depot too long, either. Not dressed that way. Just a friendly suggestion,” the conductor added in a superior way, moving on.

  For travel, Will had picked out a plaid suit, button shoes and a snappy derby. I should have bought chaps and a sombrero in Minneapolis.

  Why did he always do everything wrong? The voice in the wheels chuckled: Bungler.

  He took a deep breath, composed himself. If he wanted people at the Elkhorn Ranch to believe he’d come to Dakota eager for adventure, he had to act like it. No matter how he felt inside.

  He thought of the portrait of old Philip back home in Boston. In conscious imitation of his ancestor, he raised his chin and jutted it forward slightly. All at once he felt better, more confident. He sat in that pugnacious, if awkward, pose all the way to Medora.

  iii

  Two expressionless Indians squatted on a low embankment beside the track, puffing on corncob pipes and watching the train arrive. The end of the platform slipped into sight. Beyond it, Will saw a number of new-looking brick and wooden buildings. Colorful signs identified the merchandise they sold. Clothing. Drugs. Hardware. Liquor.

  He noticed a small white schoolhouse and then, to his astonishment, a sizable structure whose sign announced an unexpectedly civilized function:

  ROLLER SKATING PAVILION

  Out of sight at the head end of the car, the conductor was chanting the name of the stop. Will stood up, reached over his head to the metal rack holding his valise. The conductor’s voice broke off abruptly. He burst into the car.

  “Get up on the seats!”

  The half-dozen passengers exchanged surprised looks. The train lurched once more, then stopped. The conductor had just started to repeat his warning when a shot exploded under the floor of the car. Instantly, all the passengers scrambled up to places of safety, some more nimbly than others. Will got onto a bench just as a second shot rang out.

  Someone moaned in fright. Two more shots followed. Will saw smoke drifting upward between two benches three rows ahead. He heard men clambering around beneath the car, then muffled laughter. One of the passengers—a drummer, to judge from his sample cases—started to climb down from his bench.

  Cowering against the wall at the head end, the conductor yelled, “Stay where you are! They aren’t finished.”

  “Who in tarnation is it?” the drummer called back.

  “Yoo-hoo in there, you Eastern punkin lilies!” som
eone bellowed from below. “This here’s rough country. Better skedaddle back where you come from.”

  “The usual reception committee,” the conductor answered. “Cletus Maunders and his friends. Town drunks. Mean. They meet damn near every train.”

  More catcalls. The conductor continued, “Sometimes they shoot out the windows. That’s worse. They’ll probably fire a few more rounds to scare the coon waiters in the dining car. Then if we’re lucky, they’ll go awa—”

  “Hal-ooo, you punkin lilies! What you got to say in there?”

  Will was growing tired of standing on the seat. He resented a bunch of drunkards keeping him imprisoned. If he was ever going to prove he could get along on his own, maybe now was the time to start. He drew another deep breath, took a firm grip on his bag and stepped down in the aisle.

  The conductor goggled. “You damn fool, didn’t I tell you to stay put?”

  “Someone’s supposed to be meeting me. Those men may be playing their game for an hour. I’m getting off.”

  His heart hammered as he took a step toward the vestibule, then a second one. The drummer’s eyes grew round. He didn’t budge from his bench. Neither did any of the others.

  Will kept moving. Another step. Another—

  Under the car, someone said, “I think one of ’em’s moving around.”

  “You’re right. What say we put one up into his privates?”

  “How you know it’s a him, Cletus?”

  “Hell, I never thought of that.”

  “Never thought of it? Don’t you like women no more?”

  Laughter.

  Will’s palms were slick with sweat. Common sense told him to pull back, but something else within him refused. He jerked the door open and stepped onto the platform.

  The air was hot and dry. For a moment the midday sun dazzled him. He heard men scrambling around under the car, laughing and whispering to one another.

  Then a voice he recognized—the man called Cletus— said, “Let’s go see this brave punkin lily. Let’s give him a Bad Lands welcome he ain’t gonna forget.”