Centennial Read online

  The food went sour and my disappointment must have shown, for Ringold said, reassuringly, “We always work this way, Vernor. We work like demons month after month on a project ... best writers in America ... but at the end we always want someone with real brains to vet the damned thing. That’s why we stay in business—facts are important to us, but understandings are vital. We inject a very high percentage of understandings in our rag and we’re asking you to help us on our next big project.”

  My vanity was destroyed and my intellectual integrity humiliated. “I think this lunch is over, gentlemen,” I said. I tried to rephrase the sentence so as to include Miss Endermann, and loused things up.

  It was young Wright who faced up to the debacle. “I’m going to make a suggestion. Professor Vernor, as you must know, Mr. Ringold’s offer was most generous. I handle these things all the time and I can assure you we would not hesitate to offer Arthur Schlesinger such a deal. We made such a generous offer because we respect you. You thought you were writing an article for us. I understand your confusion. Let me suggest this. Go out to Centennial. Carol’s already cased the joint. She’ll go with you to see if you respond the way she did. We’ll pay someone to take your classes. You can leave tomorrow. Better still, leave tonight. And if you decide to join us, when your report is finished, you’ll be free to publish it under your own name—maybe as a book. Six months after our publication the property becomes yours.”

  “That’s a damned good idea, Wright,” Ringold said. “That’s exactly what we’ll do. Vernor, can you fly out to Centennial this afternoon? There’s a United plane at three.”

  “I’d have to ask President Rexford.”

  “Get him on the phone. Toots! You got a phone there?”

  For the first time in my life a waiter brought a phone to my table, curling the long black wire across my chair. In a moment I was speaking with President Rexford, but I had barely introduced myself when Ringold took the phone. “Rexford? Sure I remember you. The Baptist Committee, that’s right. We want to borrow your bright boy for one week. We’ll pay three hundred dollars for some graduate student to cover for him. Is that a deal?” There was some conversation, after which Ringold handed me the phone. “He wants to talk with you.”

  “Hello, Vernor? Is the project germane to Oregon?”

  “Totally. But it’s not what we thought at all. I’d just be doing legwork for background stuff.”

  “Could it lead to anything substantial?”

  “Yes. It’s work I would have to do later.”

  “Do they pay well?”

  “Very.”

  “Take it. Fly out to Colorado tonight. Professor Hisken could use the three hundred dollars and we’ll forget the graduate student.”

  So that afternoon at three Miss Endermann and I boarded the jet for Denver, and because of the time difference we arrived there at four. She hired a car, and while it was still light we drove north. To the west rose the noble Rockies, to the east stretched the prairies, mile upon mile of treeless land. At the end of an hour I saw the sight which had been familiar to all travelers westward, a line of scrawny, limb-broken cottonwoods.

  “There’s the Platte,” I said, and we entered upon a small north-south road which took us down to the river, one of the strangest in the world. It was quite wide, several hundred yards perhaps, but most of the width was taken up with islands, sand bars, rocks and stumps of trees. Where was the water? There was a little here, some over there, but the spring floods had not yet broken loose, and it was all a stagnant muddy brown. Its principal product seemed to be gravel, endless supplies of gravel waiting to be hauled away by trucks which lined the bank.

  Across the Platte lay the little town of Centennial. The sign told the whole story:

  CENTENNIAL

  COLORADO

  Elev. 4618

  Pop. 2618

  When we turned right into the one-way circle that took us across the Union Pacific tracks and into town (See Map 01 – Centennial, Colorado 1973), I heard someone shouting, “Hey! It’s Carol!” and I looked over to see a black man standing before a barbershop.

  “Nate!” Carol called. “How about Mexican food tonight?”

  “Like always,” he called back. “Eight?”

  We pulled in behind the barbershop and parked where a sign said that if we did not intend to register at the Railway House, our car would be towed away at a cost of twenty-five dollars. The bellman who came out to greet us recognized Carol, and they too had a reunion.

  “I wanted you to stay here, right by the railroad, in order to catch the old flavor,” she explained as we registered, and this was prudent judgment, because everything about the place was old: the smell, the carpets, the uniform of the bellman and my room. But it was likable. Men traveling from one Colorado town to another in times past had climbed down from the Union Pacific and lodged here, and for a historian they had left memories.

  At quarter to eight I met Miss Endermann in the lobby and she took me out onto Prairie—not Prairie Street or Avenue or Boulevard. Just Prairie.

  “If you’re like me,” she said, “you orient yourself properly at the start. Well, Prairie runs due north and south. The center of town is where Prairie and Mountain cross, because Mountain runs due east and west. We’ll walk there.”

  We went to the intersection, and she said, “It all starts from here. West to the Rockies. East to Omaha. South to Denver. North to Cheyenne. Streets begin at the east and run by number up to Tenth Street. Avenues begin at the railroad and run north to Ninth Avenue. It’s well laid out.”

  We turned east on Mountain and walked four blocks to a noisy restaurant called Flor de Méjico, and there again we were warmly greeted, this time by a robust Mexican introduced to me as Manolo Marquez. “We knew you’d be back,” he told Miss Endermann. “Tonight the best in the house, on me.”

  He showed us to a table covered by a red-checkered cloth and a well-greased menu which Miss Endermann told me had been invariable for the past five years. “I hope you like Mexican food,” she said.

  “It’s not common in Georgia.”

  “We’ll introduce him to it, Manolo,” she cried. “Three plates, with a sample of everything. And some Coors beer.” She asked if I knew this Colorado beer, and I said no. “With Mexican food it’s sort of heaven,” she assured me.

  The door opened and the black man I had seen on the street entered and came to our table. Miss Endermann kissed him, then said, “This is my friend and counselor, Nate Person. Not only a good barber but a sagacious one. He knows where the bodies are buried.”

  Person, a gray-templed man in his fifties, asked where I was from, and when I said Georgia he laughed. “That’s a state not high on my list.”

  “It’s getting better,” I assured him.

  “High time,” he said evenly.

  “You must tell him everything you told me,” Miss Endermann said, and Nate nodded.

  I suppose it was a good dinner, but the items that faced me were so unlike what I was accustomed to in Georgia that it all tasted like a hot jumble. “The toasted thing is a taco,” Miss Endermann explained. To me it was more like French-fried cardboard, and the enchilada and tamale seemed so nearly identical that I never did discover which was which. The stuffed pepper, called a chili relleno, was mostly fried cheese, but the salad was great. So was the small glass of pomegranate juice. And the Coors beer was, as she had predicted, “as light as a cupful of mountain water.”

  After we had finished the dinner, which Miss Endermann and Person gulped as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks, I began to experience the most pleasing sensation. It was as if my stomach were in harmony with the world. “That must have been pretty good food,” I said. “Tastes better now than it did going down.”

  “Join the club,” Miss Endermann said. “Nate, remember that first time you made me try it? Thought I’d die.”

  There was a commotion at the door and Marquez hurried over to greet a tall, gangling westerner who had slouched in.
He wore a cowboy hat, a bandanna and crooked-heel boots with fancy spurs. He was what western writers call a “lean, mean hombre,” but he moved with an easy grace and made himself at home wherever he was.

  He came directly to our table, where he grabbed Miss Endermann, pulled her to her feet and kissed her.

  “Cisco!” she cried. “This is too much. I thought you were in Chicago.”

  “I was. Got back Monday. Heard you were in town. Knew I’d find you here.”

  She introduced him to me as Cisco Calendar, and he let me know at once that he didn’t think much of me. He turned a chair around and straddled it, resting his chin on the back. “Good to see you,” he said to Carol. He spoke elliptically and kept his half-savage face close to hers.

  It was obvious that he intended getting Miss Endermann off by himself, and it was just as obvious that she wished it that way, so after a few uneasy moments he said, “Got the car out here. Wanta take a spin?” She did, and that was the last I saw of this angular, aggressive cowboy.

  In the morning Miss Endermann said, “If you’re up to it after the Mexican food, let’s reconnoiter.” She drove me up and down the two main streets until my bearings were set. She then took me to the plush northwest segment: “The Skimmerhorns, the Wendells, the Garretts. Those are the names that count.” In the northeast sector, where the homes were noticeably poorer, she said, “Zendt’s Farm, which started it all, and down here, the original Wendell place. There was a great scandal about it, and you’ll want to look into that.”

  As we passed the Flor de Méjico in the southeast, she said, ‘That’s where we ate last night. Down here by the tracks is where Manolo Marquez lives, and along here is Nate Person’s barbershop, where we came into town yesterday.” In the remaining sector, the southwest, there was not much: along the tracks the ramshackle home of Cisco Calendar. “He could afford much better, of course, but that’s where his family has always lived.”

  That was Centennial, at least the part I would be concerned with. “Not quite,” Miss Endermann said. “Two more localities, and they loom large.” And she drove me north on Prairie and well up toward the Wyoming line, where I saw something which astonished me: a massive castle complete with spires and donjon.

  “It’s Venneford,” she said. “All the land we’ll be on today, and millions of acres more, once belonged to Earl Venneford of Wye. Greatest cattle ranch in the west.”

  “Does the noble earl figure in my story?”

  “Not unless you want him to,” she said. “But what we see next is the heart of your story.”

  And she drove me east onto dry land such as I had never before seen, bleak and desolate, and at the top of a rise she stopped the car and said, “This is how they found it. A vast emptiness. Nothing has changed in a million years.”

  In no direction could I see any sign that man had ever tried to occupy this enormous land—no house, no trail, not even a fence post. It was empty and majestic, the great prairie of the west.

  Miss Endermann interrupted my reflections with a promise: “When we reach the top of that next hill you’ll see something memorable.”

  She was right. As we climbed upward through the desolate waste, we reached an elevation from which I looked down upon a compelling sight, one that would preoccupy me for the next half year. It was a village, line Camp, she said, and once it had flourished, for a tall grain silo remained, but now it was deserted, its shutters banging, its windows knocked in.

  We drove slowly, as if in a funeral procession, through the once busy streets marked only by gaping foundation holes where stores and a church had stood. We found only devastation, gray boards falling loose, school desks ripped from their moorings. Somehow I must make the boards divulge their story, but now only hawks visited Line Camp and the stories were forgotten.

  Two buildings survived, a substantial stone barn and across from it a low stone edifice to whose door came a very old man to stare at us.

  “The only survivor,” Miss Endermann said, and as we watched, even he disappeared.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “We want you to tell us,” she said.

  It must have been obvious that I was captivated by Centennial and its environs, because at lunch we began to pinpoint my commission, and I said, “By the way, nobody has told me who wrote the story I’m supposed to fortify.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “I did.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. I researched this story on the scene for five months.”

  “I knew ...” I was confused. “Of course, I realized that the people here knew you. But I thought you’d been ...”

  “Helping someone else? Helping someone important?”

  She asked these questions with such a cutting edge that I thought we’d better get down to cases. “Miss Endermann,” I said, “you’ll forgive me, but your magazine is asking me to spend a lot of time on this project. May I ask what your credentials are? Do you mind a few questions?”

  “Not at all,” she said frankly. “I’d expect them. I know this is important to you.”

  “What do you think of Frank Gilbert Roe?”

  Without batting an eye, she said, “On horses, terrific. On bison, I prefer McHugh.”

  This was a sophisticated response, so I proceeded: “What’s your reaction to the Lamanite theory?”

  “A despicable aberration of Mormonism.” She stopped and asked apologetically, “You’re not Mormon, are you?” And before I could answer, she said, “Even if you are, I’m sure you agree with me.”

  “I respect the Mormons,” I said, “but I think their Lamanite theory asinine.”

  “I’m so glad,” she said. “I don’t think I could work with. someone who took that sort of bull seriously.”

  “What was your reaction to the Treaty of 1851?”

  “Ah,” she said reflectively. “Its heart was in the right place. But the government in Washington had such a perverted misunderstanding of the land west of Missouri that there was no chance—none ever—that the Arapaho would be allowed to keep the land they were given. If it hadn’t been gold, it would have been something else. Stupidity. Stupidity.”

  This young woman knew something. I asked her, “What is your judgment on the Skimmerhorn massacre?”

  “Oh, no!” she protested.. “It’s your job to tell us what you think about that. But I will confess this. I’ve studied the Skimmerhorn papers at Boulder and the court-martial records in Washington, and I’ve interviewed the Skimmerhorns in Minnesota and Illinois. I know what I think. Six months from now I want to know what you think.”

  I had one final question, and this would prove the depth of her investigation. “Have you done any work on the reports of Maxwell Mercy?”

  She burst into laughter and astonished me by rising and kissing me on the cheek. “You’re a real dear,” she said. “I did my master’s thesis under Allan Nevins at Columbia on some unpublished letters I’d found of Captain Mercy. On my bedroom wall at home I have an old photograph of him taken by Jackson at Fort Laramie, and for your personal information I got damned near straight A’s at Illinois and honors at the University of Chicago, where I took my doctorate.”

  “Then what in hell are you doing knocking around with Cisco Calendar till four o’clock this morning?”

  “Because he sends me, you old prude. He sends me.”

  Next morning I drove her to Denver, where she caught the plane back to New York. At the ramp she told me, “Stay the rest of the week. You’ll fall in love with this place. I did.” When I wished her luck at the office, she said, “I’ll be working on maps.” Then, impulsively, she grabbed my hands. “We really need you ... to make the thing hum. Call us Friday night, saying you’re signing on.”

  I drove back by way of the university at Boulder because I wanted to consult my old friend, Gerald Lambrook of their history department, and he said, “I can’t see any pitfalls in the arrangement, Lewis. Granted,
you’re not writing the article and you lose some control, but they’re a good outfit and if they say they’re going to give it first-class presentation, they will. What it amounts to, they’re paying you to do your own basic research.”

  Lambrook was an old-style professor, with a book-lined study, sheaves of term papers, which he still insisted on, and even a tweed jacket and a pipe. I worked in a turtleneck and it was sort of nice to know that the old Columbia-Minnesota-Stanford types were around. I had known him at Minnesota and it was easy to renew our old friendship.

  “But I’m interested, historically speaking,” he said, “in the fact that you haven’t mentioned the thing for which Centennial is most famous. The area; I mean.”

  I asked him what that was, and he said, “The old Zendt place.”

  “I know about it. Saw it yesterday. The fellow from Pennsylvania who wouldn’t build a fort but did build a farm.”

  “I don’t mean the farm. I mean Chalk Cliff, on his first place.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “That’s where the first American dinosaur was found.”