By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
One hot August morning, a day even drier and dustier than it had been that June more than 123 years before, I said goodbye to Alan Dumas and added some more dust to the Little Bighorn Battlefield, where George Armstrong Custer had made his last stand.
I'd been to this spot before with Dumas, almost a decade earlier, when the swathe of land along the Little Bighorn River in southeastern Montana was still known as the Custer Battlefield -- but historians were already pushing for a name that more accurately reflected that battle of June 25, 1876. We were on our way to some more revisionist history: Former Westword writer Frank Hogan had written a play based loosely -- very loosely -- on his days at the paper, and his Harpooners was to have its debut at a prestigious (and now defunct) playwright's festival in Big Fork, Montana. Dumas, another former Westworder then writing for the Rocky Mountain News, and Bryann Lynch, an alum who is now a cop, and I were using the play's premiere as a splendid excuse for a road trip. A thousand miles stretched between Denver and our destination, miles studded with landmarks both natural and manmade; each of us got to pick a tangent. I took Wyoming's Register Rock, where pioneers making the trek across the Oregon Trail left their names -- their bylines -- in the soft stone. Lynch yearned to see the bison range north of Missoula. And Dumas?
He wanted to stand where Custer had made his last stand.
"A Master Storyteller's Final Chapter"
April 22, 1999
Alan Dumas knew how to spin a yarn.
Unlike so many who visit this killing field, Dumas was not obsessed with the minutiae of the battle itself, or even its role in the final, sorry subjugation of the Indians. But he was fascinated by Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer, surely as much a showman as a military tactician--perhaps a genius, more likely just plain nuts. Dumas loved the theatrical and made us play a tape of "Garry Owen," the 7th Cavalry's favorite bagpipe song, as we toured the battlefield and then again at odd times throughout the rest of the trip. (It sounded once more at his funeral.) Alan Dumas understood living large.
And he would have appreciated the bit of stagework that now allowed two friends to say a private goodbye in what is a very public setting. A truck had flipped across the road that runs through the park, and just a few cars -- including ours -- had been let through before the road was closed altogether. That left us alone to listen to the wind whip through the greasy grass, to watch the tourists far away at the Custer Monument and to leave Dumas behind at Calhoun Hill, where so many good soldiers had perished.
Dumas would have liked that, we thought, then thought again -- about the mysterious one-vehicle accident that had led us straight to that spot. Hell, Dumas had probably arranged it. He'd do anything for a good story.
There was another good story -- and another coincidence -- just a few hours up the road in Butte. Perched on a gutted mountainside, this old mining town looks like San Francisco after the bomb -- and in fact, around the time of World War I, Butte's red-light district was rivaled only by San Francisco's. The country's longest-running brothel, which opened in Butte in 1890, had operated right up until 1982, the year the town's big mine closed. The brothel's name? The Dumas.
"That's doom-ass," said the chipper preteen guide who led our tour of the building, now a museum and the home of the International Sex Workers Foundation for Art, Culture and Education that was founded by former Los Angeles cop-turned-prostitute Norma Jean Almodovar, who bought the Dumas last year. Almodovar was too busy to chat; she was preparing for an upcoming Harley rally that would help fund further renovations and, no doubt, shock the good citizens of Butte down to their shorts. So the perky adolescent took us past the alley-side windows, where girls once advertised their unique charms, and through the basement that had been sealed off in 1942, creating a time capsule of the dank space where the "old and ugly ones" did their work, surrounded by WWII posters and Hollywood pinups.
We wished we had a little of Alan left to sprinkle in this structure built by the two Dumas brothers, whose flair for showmanship clearly marked them as some kind of relation (and whose French origin meant the new proprietors could use a pronunciation lesson).
Dumas would have loved that, we thought, then thought again -- about the odd roadside-attraction Web site that had led us there. Hell, Dumas had probably arranged that, too.
And Dumas's travels are just beginning. Over the next few months, friends stunned by his unexpected death at age 44 this past April will be taking him along on journeys to many of the places Dumas loved: to the canyon country of Utah, to the mountains of New Mexico, to Monument Valley and to a few more sneaky public spots that shall remain private here.
Of course, you do not need a package of cremains to remember those who've gone beyond. Your memory keeps bringing them back. There's always another story ready to surface.