Act Two, Legend vs. History

Ernest Pratt was arranging his tie when a solid knock sounded against his door. He walked over to open it, staring down at the cloth as he fiddled with the knot.

Outside the door, Pratt found a young man waiting patiently. The boy was tall and thin, and his hair was very bushy and stood straight up on his head.

"Ah. What is it now, Skeeter?"

"Mr. Legend! Good morning! I have a telegraph message for you." The boy spoke with excessive enthusiasm. In his hand he held a folded slip of paper.

Pratt reached for the paper, but Skeeter clenched it tightly so that he could not take it easily from him. Pratt tugged it out of his fingers with a frown and an ironic, "Thank you!" He dug into his vest pocket and tossed the boy a penny, then turned away and pushed the door so that it would close. Skeeter's foot kept it from doing so. When he heard that the door had not closed, Pratt turned back.

"What?"

"Aren't you going to read it, Mr. Legend?"

Pratt held up the paper. It had obviously been opened, read, and refolded many times. "Why should I? You obviously already know what it says."

"Yes, but you don't know what it says," said Skeeter, coming into the room. He had a big grin on his face. "Go on... read it. I can wait."

Pratt tossed the paper on the dresser and resumed mussing with his tie. "Why don't you just tell me what it says... can't you see that I'm in a hurry? I have a date with death and dismemberment, courtesy of our dear Prof Bartok."

"It's a note from your publisher, sir. He's sending Mr. Farber to see you with some high-fa'lutin' gentleman from back East who writes history books." Discreetly, Skeeter glanced at the contents of the manuscript pages littering the table. "He says they should be in on the stage today."

Pratt lunged for the telegram, ripping it in half in his urgency. He quickly read it through, his head turning back and forth between the fragments. "Today? When did this telegraph first arrive?"

"Last week, Mr. Legend. Ol' Barney down at the telegraph office, he don't get around like he used to... bad leg, you know. Work's been piling up on him for some time. Now, if you were eager to get your mail promptly, I'd be happy to check for you on a daily basis... for a small fee."

Pratt felt panic rising through him like a flood. "Do you know what this note says?"

"Of course, Mr. Legend! Who is this Franky fella anyway?"

Pratt knotted the fragments of paper in his fists. His reply came out as a strangled whisper, "Sir Franklin Gutridge is one of the most noted and respected writers of historic text! His name is a by-word in every literary institute between Cambridge and San Francisco. And he's coming here. To meet me." Pratt ran his hands through his hair, looking around wildly. "Whiskey... I need whiskey... right now."

"Mr. Legend! It's ten o'clock in the morning! I thought you didn't drink hard liquor!" Skeeter called out as Pratt grabbed his coat and tore out of the room.

His voice echoed back to Skeeter's ears, "Then I'll drink it softly, as long as it's liquor..."

Pratt hurried through the alley, ducked under Mother Baker's laundry line, and slipped into the rear entrance of the Buffalo Head Saloon with no one the wiser. The tavern was nearly deserted, only the bartender and one sleepy hostess were at the bar. The tables were empty as it was still quite early in the day.

Pratt threw himself upon the bar, grasping the edge. "Lamar! Give me your best pot of single malt, 12 year old Oolong Tea!"

Lamar glanced at the woman who was dozing in her seat, then winked solemnly at Pratt. He set a china cup and saucer on the bar and filled it with bourbon.

Pratt grabbed the cup and drained it before the liquor had a chance to wet the china. "Ah-ack! Again, Lamar! I don't want to see the bottom of this cup!"

"You better go easy on that, Mr. Legend. You want to be at your best for your meeting, sir."

The cup clinked against the saucer as Pratt dropped his arm in surprise. "You read that message, too? Did anyone not read it?"

"Was it the one from your publisher, or the telegram from your mother about your 'little problem' back home?" asked the drowsy woman.

"Ack! Just... pour the whiskey, Lamar! Or maybe you could just hit me over the head with the bottle... that would take less time and still achieve the effect for which I am hoping!"

"He's had enough, Lamar." Janos Bartok stood in the open door of the saloon, a look of supreme disappointment on his face. His disappointment in his friend was clearly expressed beneath the round tones of his mild Hungarian accent. "Ernest. You promised you would help Ramos and I today."

"And I was on my way to do exactly that, Janos... I swear! I just got this message..." Pratt produced the torn page from two different pockets.

"Yes, yes, so I heard..." Bartok waved the note away, then walked in to take a closer look at Pratt. "Ernest?"

"What?" Pratt straightened himself up self-consciously. "What!"

"You dressed."

"Well, I don't intend to test the descent parasol in the nude..." Pratt reached for his teacup that Lamar had refilled.

"No," Bartok intercepted the cup with practiced ease and set it out of Pratt's reach, "no, I mean... you dressed. You look quite... dapper."

Pratt tilted back his head and favoured Bartok with an ironic smile, patting his lapels. "Thank you! If it is to be that I must die, I plan go out looking my best." He looked past Bartok's shoulder at his drink, obviously trying to think of some way to get past the Hungarian scientist.

Bartok grasped his arm and steered him toward the door, "Well, this is fortuitous! You can go and meet Mr. Farber without delay, and we shall still be able to take advantage of the day. Atmospheric predictions suggest perfect weather to test my newest invention..."

"Ack! No!" Pratt wrenched his arm from Bartok's grip, twisting back toward the bar. "I'd rather jump out of the balloon first! There's a chance I might not survive. Sir Franklin will be..."

"Sir Franklin is here." At the door stood a stout man. He was in solid health, well dressed and well groomed. His hair was neatly tied back and silver-shot at the temples, his face clean-shaven and unlined. His black eyes were bright and sharp, taking in every detail of the room. Beside him stood a meek woman dressed in gray. Beside her stood Milton J. Farber, looking distinctly disheveled and annoyed.

"There you are, Pratt. I am glad to see you received Mr. E. C. Allen's wire and prepared to receive your guest. Sir Franklin Gutridge... Ernest Pratt, also known as Nicodemus Legend. Pratt... Sir Franklin." For once, Farber did not seem angry about the fact that Pratt was in a saloon and likely soiling the impeccable reputation of Nicodemus Legend. Indeed, he seemed so eager to leave that he rushed the introduction. "Well, it's been a long journey. I will see Miss Plain to the hotel and let you two to get acquainted." He took the lady's arm and hurried away.

To Janos Bartok's confusion, Ernest Pratt seemed to shrink before his eyes. Normally, Ernest was assertive, curious, and out-going, but now he stood frozen, staring at Gutridge. Finally, a few whispered words escaped his lips. "Sir Franklin. What an honour..."

"The honour is entirely yours," Sir Franklin said brusquely. He came into the room and removed his coat, tossing it into Bartok's arms as if he were a valet. "See to it that it is brushed and hung up." He tossed a coin toward the stunned scientist, who caught it by reflex.

Pratt stiffened as he watched his friend being treated like a servant. He could tolerate almost any abuse directed toward himself, but he could not stand to see a friend demeaned. "Sir, I think you've made a mistake..."

"Oh, I have. I made a mistake by allowing Allen and that Farber fellow to talk me into this ridiculous trip. I am on my way to San Francisco, to an interview with the heads of education in the University of California... that is my idea of a necessary engagement. I have been railroaded into this pointless trip to a filthy cow-town in order to meet some dime-store novelist..." Gutridge's dark eyes looked Pratt up and down. "Not my idea at all, sir."

Pratt straightened his shoulders, attempting to pull himself together. "E.C. Allen is my publisher, sir. He knows intimately how much respect I hold for you and for your works of historical research. I must have mentioned to him how much I wanted to meet you, and he must have decided that such a meeting might be favourable to our careers, therefore enhancing his own company's reputation..."

"Truly, I see no way this meeting could further either of our careers," Gutridge said dismissively. "My readers do not have any interest in dusty fairy-tales and drunken fantasies, and your readers..." Gutridge gave a scoffing chuckle, "your readers could hardly be familiar with any of my works." The words landed on Pratt like physical blows; he winced and dropped his shoulders.

"Perhaps more of Ernest's readers know of you that you realize, Sir Franklin," Bartok said. He was indignant on behalf of Ernest, but he kept his cultivated demeanor carefully in place. "I am familiar with your dissertation on the cultural influence of Europe in the Americas. I read it during my tenure in the New York University."

Gutridge seemed to see Bartok for the first time. "Have we been introduced, sir?"

Weakly, Pratt attempted an introduction, "Sir Franklin, this is my friend and technical advisor Janos Cristo Bar--"

Gutridge cut him off again. "Obviously the formalities of our meeting have been observed, Mr. Pratt. I am going to the hotel now. Good night... gentlemen." Gutridge took his coat from Bartok's numb fingers and stepped through the swinging doors.

Bartok came to Pratt's side where he stood staring at the place where Gutridge had been. Without comment, he took the teacup from the bar, still full of liquor, and handed it to Pratt. "The velocipede is outside of the hotel, Ernest. I'll just go and get it warmed up."

Pratt stared into the cup, nodding slowly. He sighed, then lifted the cup and drained it before following his friend.

In the Silver King Hotel, a window on the upper-storey was ajar, the curtain held back by a delicate hand. The owner of that hand watched as a dejected Ernest Pratt exit the Buffalo Head Saloon and crossed the dusty street. He paused beside the strange horse-less carriage, speaking to a man standing next to it. He gestured toward the hotel and then to himself. When he stepped onto the boardwalk he disappeared from her view. The brim of his hat shaded his eyes from her, but she didn't need to see his face to tell that he was very upset.

The woman listened carefully. She could hear someone blustering about in the room next to hers, the door dividing their suite was open a sliver. She waited until she heard the person leave again, then she slipped out onto the balcony.

Pratt had changed his clothing and just opened the door of his suite to leave again, when he heard a tapping at his window. Looking up, he saw a shadow outside on the balcony-- a female shadow. He crossed the room and unlatched the French door.

Ernest had always had an eye for women. It had often gotten him into trouble, but more often than not, it had well been worth it. The woman that stood outside his window was slim, her skin was smooth and white, and her hair was dark and pulled back into a pin and thong that was too severe for her delicate face. Her eyes were large and hazel-coloured.

"Madam, if you are lost I would be happy to find you."

A brilliant blush spread over her high cheeks, and Pratt smiled kindly and took her hand, kissing her fingers. The meeting with Sir Franklin might have been a bust, but at least he could say that the day had not been a total waste.

"Mr. Legend… that is, Mr. Pratt," the woman said softly. Her accent told Pratt that she had been raised on the West Coast, but schooled in the Northeast. "Forgive me for this intrusion. I know it is most unseemly to come here like this, uninvited…"

Pratt bent and kissed her hand again. "All is forgiven, madam. I never turn a lady away from my window. Would you care to come inside?"

"I'm sorry… I can't, sir. I… I believe you met my uncle Sir Franklin Gutridge."

Pratt's pleasure evaporated, and he released her hand. "Ah. I understand. You wouldn't want anyone to see you with such an undesirable person as a dime novelist." Traces of hurt creased his eyes, and Mary Jane felt a wave of sympathy wash over her.

"That is not why… I can't explain. I have to get back before I'm missed. I just wanted to say that I am sorry that my … uncle… is such a boor. I like your books very much, and… " She blushed again. She reached into the folds of her skirt and came out with a folded paper-backed book. "I was hoping you might sign this for me, sir. I would treasure it forever."

Depression melted away as Pratt took the book from her. It was a dog-eared copy of one of his books, obviously read many times.

Few things could raise the spirits of Ernest Pratt more quickly than flattery. "Madam, I would be delighted." He produced a pencil from his pocket and smiled. "May I ask to whom I should make this out?"

"To Mary Jane, please." The pencil scrolled over the page, though those brown eyes never left hers. He held the book out to her.

As she took it from his fingers, something crashed in the hall outside of Pratt's room and a voice bellowed something indistinct. The noise spooked Mary Jane, and bobbing a curtsy she turned and fled. Pratt watched her disappear through a window at the end of the balcony. He twirled the pencil in his fingers thoughtfully for a few moments, then latched his window and turned to leave. The pages of his latest book still lay on the table, but he didn't glance at them. His mind was on hazel eyes and blushes. He hummed as he left the room, locking his door behind him.

Standing beyond the corner of the hall, where Pratt had not seen him hiding, Sir Franklin Gutridge stood in the shadows and glowered. Slowly, his frown was replaced by a calculating leer. He walked quietly to the door of the suite he shared with Miss Plain and carefully locked it behind him.

Mary Jane was standing in the room, looking out of the window. She saw Pratt seat himself in the strange vehicle. It belched a cloud of vapour and lurched away, and she watched it until it disappeared in a cloud of dust down the road out of town. Her cheeks still rosy from her meeting with Pratt, and her precious book was hidden away beneath her bedspread.

Sir Franklin pushed the door open and laughed as she jumped in surprise. "Expecting someone, my dear?"

"What do you mean?" She hid her hands behind her back, hoping that her emotions did not show on her face.

Franklin enjoyed her discomfort. "Don't unpack. We aren't staying for very long. I am going to arrange transport back to Denver on the next available coach. Farber will have to cut his business short. I doubt that Legend will be finishing his novel anytime soon. "

Mary Jane's startlement was swiftly replaced by anger. "I heard what you said, Franklin… everyone in town heard! I can't believe you said those things… you are such a snob! How could you be so indifferent to a person's feelings?"

Sir Franklin grunted, pouring himself a generous whiskey. "That man is a wastrel and an insult to the literary community. What could I possibly care about his 'feelings'?"

The woman turned toward him, allowing the curtain to fall closed. "Nicodemus Legend is a successful writer who creates his own stories. The insult to the literary community is you, Franklin. I have participated in this masquerade for far too long. I should never have agreed to write books for you."

"Heh. Like you had a better option for a future. You could be teaching school to a handful of cow-herder's children, or maybe you could be a librarian, looking after the books that others write, rather than writing them for others to read. Nobody will take a book seriously if it is written by a woman." Franklin's rough laugher stung her ears, "Maybe you could write dime novels like your darling Nicodemus Legend? Even he has to change his name to sell his books!"

"My books are well-researched and well-written, and they stand alone as accomplished works of literature. It shouldn't matter if they were written by a woman or a man! I think E. C. Allen would understand if I told him the truth. I don't have to have my name on the book, Franklin. I just want Mr. Allen to know..."

Franklin set his empty glass down and grabbed the woman's arm roughly. "If you go to Allen with the truth, I'll deny everything. I've been selling books under the name of Sir Franklin since before you were born. Do you think that anyone will believe you if you claim to have written them? Don't forget, Mary Jane, that you signed a contract to research books for me, and if you break that contract, I can see that you will never work in a decent job ever again. And if you think that Nicodemus Legend is going to come riding to your rescue, then I'd say you'll be waiting by that window until you are old and gray."

Mary Jane burst into tears. Franklin released her arm and his voice becoming soft, cajoling, "I do well by you, and you do well by me. I'm sorry, Mary Jane, but you know this is the only way you'll ever be able to do what you were meant to do… write books. We're a team. Don't throw it all away." He whispered these platitudes, keeping his delight concealed as he watched her lashes bead with tears. "This is the best you can hope for."

She lowered her eyes in defeat and nodded. He patted her arm patronizingly and then turned away to refill his glass. Thus he did not see her raise her head, and he missed the flash of defiance in her hazel eyes.