Spring, 1885
Medora, Dakota Territory, United States of America
The Little Missouri Inn was the only saloon in town, so if you wanted a drink or a place to sleep, you'd have no other options except river water and whatever clear bit of land you could find. He hadn't been in town very long—hell, no one had. The only reason there was a town at all was because a year ago, a trussed up Frenchman fell in love with the idea of owning his own ranch to grow beef for Chicago, and followed the Continental Railroad west until he found a spot he liked. The cowboys had followed, and proprietors nearafter.
"Frankie, if you don't hurry up and close the door, your whiskey will cost you double!" shouted the petite bartender, setting down a freshly cleaned glass with a slam. The man in question quickly pulled the door shut against the spring storm, making sure it latched. The small dining room was almost empty, just a snoozing railworker propped in a corner and a postal worker who looked up only briefly to eye the newcomer.
"Yes, Miss Morton," he smiled back, which made the bartender roll her eyes. He kicked the rain off his boots and removed his wide hat, shaking it dry.
"What'll it be, then?" asked Miss Morton. By coastal standards, she was far too old to be a proper miss, but had successfully avoided the aggravation of marriage in pursuit of her own fortune, and out here she was a calico-clad empress.
"Just water for now," Frank replied, taking a seat at the bar and setting his hat on the seat next to him. "I've not the money for whiskey, certainly not at your prices."
"Don't go maligning my good name," she chided, filling a glass with water and sliding it over to him. "I only charge what is fair, and my whiskey is good for it," as she spoke, she filled two shot glasses, and plunked one down next to Frank's water. "On the house."
Frank paused in drinking his water to regard the whiskey with polite hesitation.
"Molly, I can't take this, this is your livelihood you're giving me."
"I know, so drink it before I change my mind," she downed her shot and set the used glass aside. "I'm too bored to drink alone. Go on, now."
Frank shook his head and tossed back the drink, sliding the glass back across the bar. He shook his head, mouth burning.
"You sure do buy the strong stuff," He commented, which made her smile and give him a wink. "True woman of class."
"Ha!" Molly laughed at him, turning away to tidy what small mess there was at her empty bar. "A woman of class wouldn't choose to winter out here, no more than a man of class would do the same." she gave him a pointed look.
"That's no fair," he said, "I've got nowhere else to go."
"Now that is a lie if I ever heard one," she waggled a finger at him. "A good strong man like you? You could work any which way you pleased and I'm sure you'd strike gold. Or you could cross the border, go find whoever it is that keeps sending me your mail."
"Mail?" Frank's face lit up. He'd seen the post officer on his way in, but hadn't wanted to get his hopes up. "Is there anything new?"
"Yes, actually, but I'll only give it to you if you open it in front of me."
"What?" Frank wasn't enthused by the idea. "You want me to read it out to you, as well?"
"I'm bored,"
"And what if it's private?" He countered cheekily, "It could be anything. Maybe I have a secret wife waiting back east, a mistress, even. You want me to read raunchy love letters out loud in your place of business?"
"Oh, I'd especially want you to read them out loud it if that were the case," she ducked down to fetch something from a cabinet. "But I have a feeling this 'Matthew' fellow isn't that sort of correspondence." Frank had expected her to produce an envelope, or several, so when she pulled out a full parcel wrapped with twine, his eyebrows shot skyward.
"I've been trying to guess what it might be all afternoon," Molly told him, setting the wrapped bundle and an envelope in front of him. "Be a dear and put me out of my misery."
Too intrigued to tell her to mind her own business, Frank tore into the parcel immediately, wrestling with the triple-wrapped twine before eventually taking it in two hands and snapping it clean in two.
"Holy hell, Frankie," Molly's eyes bugged, "take it easy." Frank ignored her and swept away the rest of the packaging. Once he saw what was inside, a huge smile bloomed across his face.
"Oh, bless you, Mattie!" He said aloud, unfolding and admiring the bearskin mittens and brushing a hand over the smooth fur. They were not normal mittens, and had straps sewn in that would help them fit perfectly over his riding gloves for when the cold was at its worst. Molly let out an appreciative whistle.
"Heaven above, if your not-mistress could send you cash instead of gifts, I could make a year's wages off of you!"
"Not for these," Frank tried the mittens on with a smile; they fit perfectly. "Not for the world. I got frostbite this year, after my old ones wore out, nearly lost a finger. I told him as much, didn't think he'd go this far. These will certainly come handy when the roundup comes, it's looking to be a cold spring."
"Roundup?" Molly asked, "Did the Marquis offer you your job back?"
Alfred's smile faltered. The Marquis, the entitled Frenchman who'd founded the town by buying many thousands of acres and setting up a slaughterhouse, had been his employer for the last cattle season. However, the man's dominant, angry command of the town as well as his cowboys had rubbed Frank the wrong way. After a heated argument over a greenhorn who'd been in an accident that killed a horse (and nearly cost the poor kid his own life), Frank's indignance and short temper had boiled over and he'd insulted his employer in fluent, absolutely vulgar French. He'd been fired on the spot, and told never to come back.
"No," Alfred answered at length. "But I figure there's other work to be had."
"Out here? Other than cattle?" Molly asked him incredulously. Frank sighed and shrugged, pulling the unopened envelope up off the bar.
"Miss Morton," called the postman across the room, "I don't suppose I could get another pint?"
"You most certainly can," Molly replied cheerily, happy for something to do. While she tended her business, Frank pried the envelope open and unfolded the multi-leaf letter within.
Dear Alfred,
I would say that I cannot believe you, but I've known you long enough to know that you are, in actual fact, the exact kind of idiot who'd let his fingers fall off from frostbite and then complain upon being unable to throw a lasso. The good Lord has gifted you with incredible intellect, and yet so little sense I feel it is my familial duty to make sure you don't fall victim to yourself again. I hope these mittens serve you well. I've had them made to the description you wrote to me some time ago, taking some further advice from the ranch hands up in Alberta—there are so many more than last I visited!
I hope your afflicted fingers have recovered well, and not lost their ability to hold a pen, for it has been quite some time now since I've heard from you. I agree with you that it is most bizarre that a Frenchman should find himself the proverbial king of the Dakota badlands, but stranger still that you should find yourself there, as well! Your railroads are paving all kinds of new improbables westward.
So you know, your absence is as ever felt in Washington. President Arthur has not written to me, but his Secretary of State has, as have his predecessors for nearly twenty years now, asking if I know where you are. It should, perhaps, alarm me how good I've become at lying to your statesmen. I suspect you may ignore this portion of my letter altogether, but I must ask, do you intend to return east anytime soon?
I will not lecture you on obligation or responsibility, but will simply tell you that I miss you, and that as the world changes in wonderful and unexpected ways, I feel your absence acutely. I know for certain you've heard of Thomas Edison, and his electric lights. I've saved newspaper clippings from when he illuminated the Times building in New York City—I wish I had been there with you! That you ghosted in and out of New York for the occasion without telling me is something for which I don't wish to forgive you, but I am a decent sort of brother and I suppose I must.
As always, my door remains open, should you need a warm bed or a friendly face. Perhaps cattle driving is your life's new passion and you'll remain lost to the prairie for years more, but I prefer to believe I'll see you sooner rather than later. I'm glad you've been free to explore your newer territories, but admit I am baffled as to why you do not return east, when so much excitement is happening here. It is not at all what you left behind in '65.
I do not wish to end my letter on a sour note, but I find little else to say. Should you like to write back, I have returned to the address you know in Ontario and will remain here for some time. I love you and wish you all health, luck, and—God willing—warmth to keep all of your fingers attached through the next year.
Warmest affection,
Matthew
"Well?" Molly's voice cut through Alfred's thoughts and he jumped, realizing he'd been staring at the last page for some time.
"Oh," Alfred breathed, folding up the pages and tucking them into his waistcoat pocket, "nothing that would satisfy your appetites," He told her, and Molly scoffed. "My brother is long winded and enjoys berating me for getting frostbite."
"Oh, a brother, is he?" Molly was washing up the dishes leftover from the postman's dinner. "Canadian?" She'd seen the return address.
"Yes."
"Older, I assume?"
"Younger, actually. I'm afraid I'm the family disappointment, he makes a much better eldest son than I."
"Oh, don't say that," Molly soothed, "what could he do that is more interesting that taming the west?" She paused, then asked with pointed nonchalance, "is he a bachelor, still?"
"He is, but don't think you'll get your claws into him," Alfred—no Frank, he had to remind himself—chuckled, "you wouldn't like him if you did. He's an empire type; aide to the Governor General, last I heard."
"Does that make him a knight, or something?"
Frank snorted. "Just a very fancy secretary to one of Victoria's many toadies," he explained with evident humor. "He's been trying to lure me back east for years."
"And where's east? I didn't peg you for a Canadian."
"Oh, no," Frank laughed, "Never me. Mattie's the loyalist of the family. I was born in Virginia, but I've been out here so long I can't imagine going back."
"Well, you're still a young man," Molly told him, streaks of gray hair lending her an air of authority, "you'll have plenty of time to find your fortune and bring it back east, if you like." At this, Frank shrugged, finishing off his glass of water and handing it back to Molly.
"I don't suppose I could get a bite to eat, too?"
"Of course you can, but it'll not be on the house this time. It's beef stew tonight."
"Sounds perfect."
Molly disappeared around the bar to where the iron stove crackled, allowing Alfred to drop his facade, if only for a few minutes. He picked at the many pages of Matt's letter, feeling guilty and annoyed in equal measure. It was only twenty years, but he'd changed considerably since fleeing D.C., after Lincoln had been shot. He'd grown taller, broader, and tanner since then, with sun-bleached hair and a new faceful of stubble that provided enough disguise for him to travel back to New York, Boston, even Baltimore when it suited him. Driving cattle didn't earn him a great fortune, but it was enough for the train east and back every few years.
Still, he always returned west. The cities out east were still his, truly his, just as he was theirs, but the crowds and the noise and the smoke had all grown too much. After so many years of solitude, he was not sure how he could possibly return to the jaws of his federal government and the stifling airs of high society. He'd not met any of his last presidents since Johnson, except Grant, who he'd only met during the war. He'd not even had the chance to meet poor president Garfield, who'd been assassinated six months into the job.
And that's why you haven't been back, his inner pessimist told him. Because the humans will always find a way to ruin it all if you let yourself get attached. 'I miss you', Matt had written, and Alfred missed him, too. But it had been so long since he'd seen his brother, since he'd seen any of their kind, that even coming from Mattie, an invitation filled him with bone-deep anxiety.
However, having displeased the Marquis King of the badlands, his days in Dakota were numbered. It hadn't been long enough yet for him to return to any ranches further south without drumming up questions about how he'd aged—or rather, how he'd not. That left only the dying fools' errand of California gold, or to return east and all that it entailed.
"You know," Molly arrived with an aromatic bowl full of stew, and wiped the bar before setting it down. "I've been getting a few bits of mail for a new fellow in town, too."
"Oh?" Frank was grateful for the distraction.
"Yeah, always addressed from New York City. He was out here last fall, came to hunt buffalo, but now fancies himself a rancher. Gave me an excellent night of business last September when he was celebrating his deal on the land, and now it seems he's back to get all set up. No cattle yet, I don't think, but it's early days." She looked around conspiratorially and leaned her elbows on the bar. "Now I may be a simple girl, but I know a rich man when I see one," she winked at him. "That boy doesn't know a heifer from a steer, and is going to need help learning to put the saddle on straight, let alone to drive a herd."
"He hiring?" Frank asked, interest piqued.
"He didn't say so, but if he's not now, he will be soon. I saw him with Norm Lebo last month, sounds like he's using Paddock's old cabin for the minute. You should ask Lebo about work next you see him—if not cattle, they'll need help with a new cabin."
"I will," Frank said, silently praising whatever power oversaw the universe for giving him the chance to stay out west where he belonged. "What's this fellow's name, anyway?"
"Oh, now you're embarrassing me and my memory," Molly complained, setting aside her washing rag and disappearing once more behind the counter. "It was Timothy or some such," she rustled in the cabinet where she kept the mail, "Thomas, or Thaddeus or something," she straightened back up, an envelope in hand, and flipped around to see the addressee. "Oh, Theodore," she remembered out loud, "he's called Theodore Roosevelt."
Historical notes:
1. The Little Missouri Inn is very much my own creation; I was unable to find records of the actual first hotel in this town (Medora, North Dakota), but typically, a hotel/saloon or public house would be the first thing to pop up after the railroad and the post office.
2. The Marquis is properly known as Antoine-Amédée-Marie-Vincent Manca Amat de Vallombrosa, Marquis de Morès et de Montemaggiore, a French aristocrat who in 1883 bought over 44,000 acres of land in North Dakota along the Little Missouri River, built a slaughterhouse, a stagecoach business, and a chateau for himself and his family. He named the town itself after his wife, Medora. He was known to be quick to anger and was a domineering man with a love for duels who was charged with murder multiple times in his life but was always acquitted. Notably, while he owned a sizable ranch in the Dakota territory, he and his family never wintered there, and returned to France when the weather got too cold.
3. Thomas Edison would've been rising to fame during this time! His latest feat of public spectacle was to electrify the New York Times building in NYC, to much fanfare and acclaim. Electric streetlamps had been installed in select places in NYC by this time, but the Times building was one of the first to adopt electricity. By the by, my number one historical crush, Nikola Tesla, would have also been operating at this time, and was in my opinion a greater engineer. Edison prevails in public memory because he had a more effective marketing strategy.
4. Following Andrew Johnson, the U.S. Presidents were, in order, Ulysses S. Grant, the famed U.S. general and Civil War hero, followed by Rutherford B. Hayes and James A. Garfield, who was indeed shot and killed just six months into his presidency. His vice President, Chester Alan Arthur, would assume the presidency 1881–1885.
5. First appointed in 1867 upon confederation of the Dominion of Canada, the position of Governor General was and remains the federal viceregal representative of the reigning British monarch, in this context Queen Victoria.
6. Norman Lebo was a real person, usually referred to as S. N. Lebo, who was a hunter and a guide to Teddy Roosevelt when he went hunting buffalo in 1883, and was later a ranch manager for Roosevelt's cattle ranch. His family had around this time moved into the log cabin home previously built and occupied by the Paddock family.
7. You heard that right, Teddy was a cattle rancher. More info on that to come. ;)