In my 2022 novel Renaissance Radio, the lead character and narrator, Riis Evans, tells this story from his youth in Cheyenne, Wyoming, with his father, Rhys Evans:
It’s June 9, 1911. I’m relaxing in our family’s sitting room, lying on my back on the rug, resting my head on a couple pillows I grabbed from the bay window, and reading a book I’m holding above me. High over me on the wall hangs my parents’ large portrait of Benjamin Franklin.
Dad strides into the sitting room. “Son, I’ve arranged a tour of the Cheyenne Club for us. In honor of your 16th birthday. Let’s take a walk.”
I set aside the book – my favorite book by my favorite writer, Eugene Rhodes, Good Men and True. I pull my head up from the pillows and toss them back on the windowsill. Standing up, giving ole Ben Franklin a glance, I look at Dad and reply, “very well, Father, I’m ready”.
We’re about a block from home when Dad starts speaking. Dad’s a high-spirited, jovial, ruddy-cheeked character who’s always ready to talk and who excels at warm-hearted repartee.
“Ah, son,” Dad says, “back in the good ole days, Cheyenne was one of the world’s most prosperous cities.” Dad comes alive, as he always does, with his own brand of nostalgia. “Filled with wealthy young men from New York and Britain, coming out here and taking up cattle ranching in Wyoming.”
“They impress me,” I say. “Commanding capital when they were so young. Enough capital to buy land and a herd and then hire a foreman and a crew.”
“It was glorious,” Dad says.
“Until the winter of 1886,” I say. The stories of Cheyenne’s glory days always end in that deadly winter.
Dad nods, then hangs his head. “All the cows perished. Every rancher lost his entire herd. The ranchers who came back at all that Spring only came back long enough to dispense of their businesses and property. Every last one of those Eastern and British ranchers sold his land and, if he had one, his house.” Then, forlorn and dejected, Dad utters what are for him the five most miserable words in the English language: “And the Cheyenne Club closed.”
When he speaks of Cheyenne’s heyday Dad always speaks of the Club. It’s personal. He worked at the Club eight years of his youth – eight years that still fire his imagination and stir in him bright and happy memories. I don’t think he’s ever recovered from the day the Cheyenne Club closed its doors.
As we finish up our palaverin’, we arrive at the premises of what is still, for Dad, the Cheyenne Club. For me, these are the premises of the Cheyenne industry and business chamber.
“Here it is!” Dad exclaims. “I was 13 in 1879, when I arrived with my parents in Cheyenne. A few days later I walked in here and talked my way into a job, beginning its first day of operation. A job at the Cheyenne Club the day it opened! That took some pluck and some charm, son!” I nod.
“My first four years I ran errands and did odd jobs around this place,” he says. “The next four years I was a waiter.”
We continue to stand in front of the building. He begins making his past come alive for me. “There were 19 hitching posts. As each young gentleman rancher arrived, he’d tip a local boy as much as five dollars to tend his horse. Five dollars! In the 1880s!”
As we walk into the entry hall with its large skylight, Dad greets the fellow at the front desk. “Mighty fine day!”
“Cer’nly is, Mister Evans,” says the deskman.
“Nice and warm out!” exclaims Dad.
“Cer’nly is,” says the deskman.
Dad is always up for exchanging pleasantries with a neighbor, and he considers everyone in the world a neighbor. His warm nature often meets with a less-than-warm response, but he pays this no mind.
Dad lights up with enthusiasm. “What did they have inside here? What didn’t they have? It was amazing, son!”
The longer we walk around, the more vivid a picture Dad paints. “Can you imagine? We had electric lighting, a telephone, and a massive refrigerator! In the 1880s!”
As we walk into each office, Dad describes what it used to be: “This one was the most elegant dining room in the West.” “This was the lounge with its grand piano, where the men played billiards and card games.” “This was the smoking room – every cigar imported from Havana.”
Then we step into the kitchen. Dad stands still for a minute or two, lost in his memories. “Four years waiting on these young ranchers,” he says. He waxes eloquent about “that world-renowned chef with world-class skills. Oh my, son, did he ever serve a range of fine and exquisite cuisine. Countless times I myself served the men oysters, fresh fruits and vegetables, cheeses, and chocolates.” His mind drifts off into more memories.
Then we head out behind the building. As we roam the grounds, we can still see the tennis courts. From here Dad looks back at the mansion and exclaims, “the place had its own trunk room and its very own post office!”
After a while we head back inside and walk up one of the two grand staircases to the second floor. All these rooms are offices now, but that’s not what Dad sees. “Each apartment had a marble-topped walnut dresser, son, and a bed made of hand-carved walnut.” He points at the elegant ceilings and the walls. “Look, it’s still here! The Japanese wallpaper!” The thick rich Turkish carpet he tells me about is gone, but some of the rooms still have the satin and velvet drapes. And Dad never lets me miss a fireplace with a marble mantle. He has me read each inscribed quotation by William Shakespeare.
Finally, Dad and I walk back downstairs and into yet another office. “This is the old library and reading room,” he tells me. “In those days, the young ranchmen could walk in and find on the library table magazines like The Atlantic Monthly and Harper’s, New York and Boston newspapers, and The Drovers Journal, which they perused to find the latest Chicago beef prices.”
As we finish our tour, Dad delivers a short sermon. “Son, the Cheyenne Club was no place for libertines. The young stockmen had rules. They held each other – at all times – to the standards of gentlemen. No fighting, no profanity, no drunkenness, no smoking except in the smoking room, no cheating at cards, no betting, and no billiard or card games on Sundays.”
Then comes the clincher. My father packs into one indelible sentence the entire purpose for which he’s brought me to the site of his most cherished memories. “Dear son,” he declares, placing his hand on my shoulder and looking me straight in the eye, “my son, Riis Luke Evans, whatever life hands you, whatever comes your way, always be a gentleman.”
This is an absorbing story, the kind you don’t see elsewhere today. I’m glad you’re on Substack.
First thought I had from your story was joining the Caribou Club in Aspen. I went once because Kevin Costner was once a member, only once then stopped going because it’s hard to get there more than once a year, alas. Worth seeing if you go north from NM. Old West rustic, but I think not as old or “west” as the Cheyenne Club. Definitely not as old…
Thank you for sharing, Mike. A great trip down memory lane for Rhys Evans and a pleasant read for us.