It was two years ago when his father took him and the family to London to see civilization as it once was. It was in London that he realized that he was not going to go into the ministry like his older brother. And certainly, he did not want to go into law. His trip to England left him wondering, though, what was next in his life.  The same question was obviously in his father's mind. His father thought, perhaps linking Jeffery up with a more robust world, would help him focus selectively on his choice of a profession. 

His father's younger brother, Stephen, was now living in the new State of Wyoming. He settled there in 1862 under the Homestead Act.  The Act allowed him to obtain land from the federal government, and his Uncle 'Steve' as he is called, is living in Cheyenne hoping to raise sheep or cattle. In a letter to Jeffery's father, his uncle wrote that there was money to be made, especially with the arrival of the railroad, connecting the town to vast markets.

The two brothers felt that Jeffery might have the temperament to enjoy and explore what Wyoming might have to offer. With some trepidation, Jeffery agreed to spend six months helping his uncle.

When Jeffery got off the train there was a robust whirlwind of activity surrounding the Cheyenne train station. Unlike the train stations in London, it was hard to distinguish the arrivals from the departures.

The whole town’s pulse seemed to reverberate in Jeffery’s ear as one massive celebration, festering within a carnival-gambling saloon.  

Music blared from the many tents along 16th and 17th Streets. It was apparent that vice, debaucheries, and riot were rampantly out of control. In fact, four times as many railroad workers were killed in these rowdy towns as were killed by accidents on the railroad right-of-ways.

Jeffery’s father had assured him the town would be wild.  However, nothing Jeffery knew or had read prepared him for the town’s immense surge of drinking, gambling, violence, and lechery, as would be described by his Uncle 'Steve' in the next few weeks.

Jeffery weaved his way slowly among the throng. He stopped for a moment to gain his bearing when he noticed a storefront sign in bright yellow; it read HARDWARE.   The store had a small wooden porch that was relatively quiet, compared to the boisterous street. 

“Can you please tell me which way to the Rollins Hotel?”

The statuesque man seemed to size up Jeffery, before he answered with a slow Texan drawl, “It’s near the Gold Room up 16th Street.”

“That way?" Jeffery motioned towards the way he was walking.

The man nodded, “That’s right. Cross from the Ford and Durkee hotel.”

Jeffery smiled, “Thank you most kindly.” He later learned that the Gold Room was a saloon-theater-dance hall that also boasted gaming tables.   Built in 1867, it was one of the first two saloons in Cheyenne.  But by 1870 Jeffery felt that almost every other tent-house seemed to be a drinking saloon, gambling house, restaurant, or bawdy.

Jeffery knew that Cheyenne originated as one of the many end-of-the-line boom settlements or towns that preceded the laying of the tracks for the transcontinental railroad.  Cheyenne’s growth was so rapid, that it was dubbed the “Magic City of the Plains.”

As Jeffery walked up the street, he also remembered why Cheyenne was called Hell on Wheels. As sections of track were completed, sometimes whole towns were put on railcars and moved on to the end of the line. The process also brought along thousands of men and a few women who drank, gambled, and fought in the saloons, dancehalls, and bordellos.  These small settlements were called “Hell on Wheels.”

Before Jeffery left Boston for New York, his brother, a minister in New Jersey shared some interesting correspondence he had with Bishop Randall of Denver.  The missives dealt with observations made in 1868 by Rev. Cook, a new missionary in Cheyenne.

He wrote - 

The activity of the place is surprising, and the wickedness is unimaginable and appalling.  This is a great center for gamblers of all shades, and roughs and troops of lewd women, and bullwhackers.  

Another interesting comment covers Francis Emory Warren’s visit to Cheyenne in 1868.  Warren at the age of 19 received a Medal of Honor for his distinguished performance on the battlefield during the American Civil War. Upon arriving, he was greeted by a band when he disembarked from the train.  He thought it was pretty special until he learned it was a band promoting one of the saloons/dance halls.

Jeffery always sensed there was danger in staying in a tent and wooden town that was not even a city.  In fact, it was only three years ago in the fall of 1867 that a prairie fire threatened the complete destruction of Cheyenne.

Upon entering the Rollins Hotel, Jeffery found himself in a billiard room with a large and glittering bar on one side. On the train Jeffery learned a bit about saloons from various fellow passengers.

First, the most popular term for the libation served in saloons is firewater, which began when early traders started selling whiskey to the Indians.  To convince the Indians of the high alcohol content, the peddlers pour some of the liquor on the fire, and the Indians watch the fire begin to blaze.  Jeffery wrote down the many other words being used: bottled courage, bug juice, dynamite, gut warmer, joy juice, neck oil, nose paint, redeye, and scamper.

The whiskey served in many saloons is some pretty wicked stuff made with raw alcohol, burnt sugar, and a little chewing tobacco. No wonder it takes on such names as Tanglefoot, Forty-Rod, Tarantula Juice, Taos Lightning, and Coffin Varnish.

Unknowns, especially foreigners who nurse their drinks, are sometimes forced to swallow a fifth of 100 proof at gunpoint “for his own good.”

Saloons also serve up volumes of beer, but the beer is never cold. Though the beer has a head, it isn’t sudsy as it is in London or New York. Patrons have to knock back the beer in a hurry before it gets too warm or flat.

There is every type of saloon that one can imagine. There are gambling saloons, restaurant saloons, billiard saloons, dancehall saloons, bowling saloons, and, of course, the ever-present, plain ole’ fashioned, “just drinking” saloons.

In almost every saloon, one can depend on seeing the long-paneled bar, usually made of oak or mahogany, and polished to a splendid shine. Encircling the base of the bar will be a gleaming brass foot rail with a row of spittoons spaced along the floor next to the bar. Along the ledge, the saloon patron will find towels hanging so that they might wipe the beer suds from their mustaches.

Jeffery was greeted by a friendly bartender with a broad smile. “Hi there! How can I help ya?”

“Good evening. I’m Jeffery Longstaff from Boston. I have a room reservation for two nights. Here’s my confirmation.”

“Right. Well, I’m Randy.  Welcome to Cheyenne, Mr. Longstaff. I’ll be right back.”  With that, Randy took the reservation to the other end of the bar, where he opened a large ledger.

Jeffrey noticed that the room was already beginning to fill up with a number of ranchmen and railroad workers. Billiards was obviously a very popular sport, along with drinking.

“Thank you for waiting. According to our records, your first two nights have been paid for.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’ll be sharing your room with Mr. Archibald Priestley.”

“Sharing?”

“Well, that is the room and the bed.  Here’s your key. I suggest you keep the room locked at all times.” As we were talking, a short, older man with a white beard approached us from across the room. “Oh, this is Jake. Jake, this is Mr. Longstaff. He’ll show you to your room as well as to the commons area.”

Jake gave a warm and gentle smile, “Howdy.”

“Oh, by the way. Mr. Priestley is in the hotel, but he hasn’t checked in yet. Have a good evening.”

“Follow me, Mr. Longstaff.”  Jake led the way to the staircase. “Met your bunkie yet?”

“Who?”

“Dude who’s sharin’ yer bed.”

“Not yet. I believe his name is Archibald.

“That’a be Ace, Ace Priestly. Local gambler.  Fact he’s down there now gamblin’ an’ aimin’ fer a muck-out with some poor plow chaser. Ace rents a room here every Friday and Saturday, and sometimes Sunday if he gets into heavy drinkin’.  Ye mind yer wallet, ye hear.  Best sleep with it on ye, ye hear?

“I will.” Jeffery thought he had never slept with anything on him before.

“How long are ye here in town fer?”

“My uncle’s picking me up in a few days.

“Pickin’ ye up, eh? Like a flower in the desert.”

 “You’re a poet!”

 In this town, ye gotta be one of ever’ thin’ if ye wanna survive.”

 “You’re a wise man.”

“Anyhows, here’s the common lounge where you can make yer toilet. There’s brushes, combs, and a crash or two."

“Crash?”

“Sorry. I ferget yer a tenderfoot. A ‘crash’, that’s a towel, only to wipe yer face, though, if ya get what I mean. Here’s yer room. You can try yer key.”

The key turned easily and the thin door swayed open. Jeffery entered the room, followed by Jake.

“It’s kinda hot in here. I’ll open a winda’. Ya gotta nice view of the street, fer what its worth. Mind the candle there. Don't want no fire.

"Fire?"

"Like last year's. Well, as I recall, it was one mean fire from hell.  We hadda use burlap bags, wet burlap bags, mind ya, ta fight that fiery critter.”

Jeffery listened attentively, as Jake spit a chew into a spittoon next to the door. “And then the devil came to life again an’ went an’ destroyed a whole damn row on the street. Some claim it was selling it to the Yankees. I dunno, maybe. Makes no sense. No one gots any ‘surance ‘round ‘ere."

After that, all chimneys and stuff were inspected by George. He was appointed as fire warden. 

“George?” Jeffery asked.

“George Raymond. He knows ‘bout stuff like that.  Yep, he organized bucket brigades and volunteers…if ya could find any sober ones. Gotta find women and children, mostly.  Well, I’ll be leavin’ ya. Ya’ can find me down at the bar, if ya need somethin’.”

Jake left and Jeffery locked the door behind him. He took off his hat and coat and put his bag under the bed. The bed, even though a bit lumpy, would serve the purpose of a much-needed rest.

Jeffery noticed an old newspaper on a small table near the window. He sat on the bed and read the following editorial:

It was on a cool Thursday night in mid-February 1868 that James and Martin, once business partners, were at the Thomas and Beauvais’s Hall on 16th Street. They were both at the bar, and James came up to Martin saying:

“You are a dirty little bastard. I ought to kill you. You are no friend of mine; if I did you justice I’d shoot you now.”

James pointed a Derringer at Martin who stuck his hand in his pocket and taunted, “Shoot, what do I care?”

James told Martin to get out or he would shoot him. Martin started backing towards the door, with James following him every step of the way. 

Six feet separated the two men.  When James reached the end of the bar, he started to lower his gun. 

At this point Martin pulled a five-shooter from his pocket.

James fired one shot from his Derringer and missed. Martin emptied his gun and hit every time, the five wounds forming a neat line from James’s chin to his navel. James collapsed and died the following morning.

By the end of the month, Martin was arrested, tried, and acquitted, having pleaded self-defense.

Martin's acquittal created a great deal of dissatisfaction within the community.   As a result, he was lynched by a masked mob of about fifteen vigilantes. He was pistol-whipped into semi-consciousness, dragged to a crude tripod gallows, and strung up.  He was found dead the next morning 

Martin was the first of three men to be lynched in Cheyenne in 1868.

Jeffery put the paper down, stretched out and, exhausted from his travel, fell asleep.  

During the night he was unaware that Ace, having ended his night of gambling, had entered the room and joined him in bed.

Jeffery woke to find that Ace’s right leg was lying across his right leg: Jeffery could feel Ace’s steady, gentle breath on his neck, while his erect middle leg pressed against Jeffery’s right thigh.  Jeffery was not offended since he was uncertain if Ace was awake or not.  

Actually, to Jeffery’s surprise, he found the encounter enjoyable, especially when Ace began a slow, circular rubbing motion against Jeffery’s right thigh. Jeffery gave a small sigh as his own left hand moved down to his aroused manhood.  He shut his eyes as he enjoyed the sudden rush of pleasure. After a few minutes, he widened his legs, and to his delight, Ace’s right hand joined Jeffery’s in their joint, gentle massage of Jeffery's member.  He opened his legs further as a sign of acquiescence. Jeffery smiled as he heard a cock crow in the distance. Both fell asleep.

When Jeffery woke up, Ace was gone.  The event could have been a dream, but the two wet spots on the sheet proved otherwise.

Jeffery lay quietly on his back as he stared at the ornate ceiling.  The early morning sunrise sent a pleasant stream of pinkish-red light across the walls of the room.  Wyoming seemed to have much to offer.

End of Part 1