And then, without another word, she stood up, looked in the mirror, fixed her hair calmly and left the room. I stayed on the floor for a time and when I stood up the first thing I saw on the bed was the crumpled-up letter and I sighed. Thanks, Isaac, I thought. Time to go home.
* * *
Waiting for other opportunities to present themselves after the destruction of his town, my great-grandfather returned to work as a bullwhacker for the railroads and quickly became known as the best buffalo hunter in the state. At the same time another hunter, Billy Comstock, was gaining equal recognition in Missouri and his champions were declaring him the master bullwhacker in America. In order to settle the question, it was decided that a competition would be held with $500, and no small amount of pride, as the prize.
Comstock was a bulky man, a few years older than Bill, and not as dedicated to his work as my great-grandfather was, preferring to idle away his time in saloons when he was not working. For this alone, Bill felt that he could beat him and a date was set when they would meet and contest each other. Word of the competition spread around the neighbouring states and crowds began to descend on Kansas on the weekend it was to take place in order to see the great acts of daring which would surely take place.
‘The trick is to ride with the head of the herd,’ Bill told Matt Stepson, the young lad who took care of Bill’s horse Brigham for him as they prepared for the day’s hunting. ‘Shoot the head of the herd and keep shooting whichever animal replaces the head and you steer them in your direction. At that you have a better chance of making more kills.’
‘They say Comstock kills fifteen bulls a day in Missouri,’ said Matt, unsure whether his employer would be able to beat that, for Bill generally killed no more than an even dozen when working for the railroads.
‘We’ll have fifteen dead within the first ninety minutes, my boy,’ replied Bill with a laugh. ‘Believe me, this is no regular day’s work today. There’s more at stake. Pride, for one.’
‘Well your audience is certainly ready for it,’ said Matt. ‘There must be two hundred people gathered on the prairie.’ Bill nodded. He was pleased with the turnout, looking forward to impressing the crowds. He liked the idea of being at the centre of their attentions and putting on a show for them. Earlier in the week Comstock had protested the numbers who were planning on watching the contest, claiming that such a crowd would scare the buffaloes and they would not linger nearby, but he had been assured by the organisers that this would not be the case and that all spectators would be kept together in a plot of land of sufficient distance that they might enjoy the entertainment without their having any negative effects upon it.
‘We should have charged money for attending,’ Bill pointed out, the first signs of the future showman beginning to develop in him. ‘We could have put that five hundred dollars to shame if we’d made these people pay to watch us.’
The contest began with Bill Cody and Billy Comstock on separate ends of the prairie. My great-grandfather was using a breech-loading .50 calibre rifle, while Comstock was armed with a Homer which was a more accurate shot but took longer to reload. The crowd cheered as they began their contest and within an hour Bill had killed thirteen buffalo to Comstock’s nine. That margin widened throughout the morning and when they broke at lunchtime the scores were at thirty-eight to twenty-three in Bill’s favour. The spectators all tried to speak with both contestants as the huge picnic lunch was served for their celebrity had grown over the weeks approaching the hunt. Bill was speaking with the sheriff of Sheridan, where the prairie was located, when he spotted a familiar figure walking towards him, baby in arms.
‘Louisa,’ he said, stepping towards her quickly and kissing her cheek. ‘I never expected to see you here.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ she replied quietly. ‘I saw the advertisements in St Louis and thought I should come see how my husband spends his time when he’s away from his duties and responsibilities.’
‘Poorly, I think,’ replied Bill. ‘This is a mere pastime, that’s all. I’m back on the railroads, hunting buffalo to feed the crews.’
‘I know all about what you’re doing, Bill. Don’t think that news does not come through to me from time to time. I may have misplaced my husband but I still have some friends.’
Bill shrugged. It was good to see her again although he did not want to begin an argument while he was in the middle of this contest. He took the baby out of Louisa’s arms and held her beneath the arms at eye level to take a good look at her. The baby stared back at him in astonishment.
‘She’s a good size anyway,’ he said. ‘What did you call her in the end?’
‘Arta,’ replied Louisa. ‘After my grandmother.’
‘And why not after mine?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t my family traditions as important?’
‘Perhaps if you’d been there, things would have been different.’
Bill frowned and refused to be drawn on it. ‘Well she’s a pretty thing,’ he said. ‘So you’re back to stay then, are you? Had enough of St Louis?’
Louisa bit her lip. She had little choice for she had grown frustrated with living with her parents as a married woman and had decided to give marriage another try. ‘Until something better comes along,’ she said with a slight smile, in order to show him that she really was willing to give it another go.
‘Then we will have to speak later,’ he said. ‘For I have a contest to finish.’
And when it ended, he had sixty-nine buffaloes to Comstock’s forty-six and accepted the $500 prize with magnanimity, handing it directly to his returned wife who placed it within her bag immediately.
‘Congratulations to both of you,’ said the sheriff, who was presenting the prize from a hastily erected platform. ‘You’ve done yourselves proud. Billy Comstock, you killed forty-six buffalo today and that’s no mean feat, no mean feat at all. Congratulations to you, sir.’ The crowd applauded him politely while his own friends let out an enormous cheer to salve his wounded ego. He smiled bitterly and scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot. ‘But you, Bill Cody,’ continued the sheriff. ‘Sixty-nine buffaloes is about the most I’ve ever heard of being killed by any one man in a day. It’s a great achievement. I won’t be able to think of you as plain old Bill Cody any more, my friend, but as Buffalo Bill. That’s the name for you now!’
The crowd let out a huge roar of approval and my grandfather ascended the platform, arms raised above his head like a prizefighter, milking his every moment in the spotlight. Even as his newly christened name settled into his mind, and he determined that he would hold on to it ever after, he could see the dollar signs forming.
Chapter Six
Reacquaintance
The winter of 1868 found my great-grandfather realigned to the Fifth Cavalry but living a quieter life than he had in recent years; incredibly, despite all he had achieved so far, he was still only twenty-two years old at the time. He had mended his marriage somewhat and Louisa and he were reconciled and living in comfort in a small house with their baby daughter, not far from the fort where the soldiers were stationed. He had brokered an unusual deal with the military command whereby he would be called upon for certain potentially dangerous scouting missions into Indian territory but he was not committed to serving as part of the regular infantry. He enjoyed his life this way and his burgeoning celebrity was not something the army could easily set aside. The name ‘Buffalo Bill’ was beginning to spread through the neighbouring states and his adventures and bravery were things with which they wanted to be aligned. The Indians in some parts of the states of Kansas, Oklahoma, New Mexico and Colorado were continuing to put up strong fights in order to retain their land; there was widespread feeling for the first time that some tribes might be successful, an outcome which would have been disastrous to Andrew Johnson’s administration. To combat this, the president had placed all his faith in one general – George Armstrong Custer – to drive them out into the newly established reservations. To this end he was given re
sponsibility for bringing the armies in from the west, destroying whatever encampments they found along the way, and doing whatever had to be done to ensure success as they began that winter’s push.
George Custer was born in Ohio and had joined the army at a young age, finishing last in his class at West Point. Once graduated, however, he proved himself to be not only the bravest man in the army but also a brilliant tactician; what he had lacked in the classrooms of the military academy was more than made up for by his behaviour on the field of combat. Abraham Lincoln appointed him the army’s youngest general and he became legendary almost immediately, as much for his striking appearance – long golden locks, brightly coloured uniforms which he designed himself – as for his actions. He drew men to him, men who wanted to share in his deeds and reflect some of his glories on to themselves. Over the course of five years he served under three different presidents, Lincoln, Johnson and Ulysses S. Grant, and considered himself superior in courage and leadership abilities to all but the first.
Although they had never met, President Johnson had taken a liking to Bill through the newspaper reports of his exploits. Ever since the great buffalo chase, during which my great-grandfather had earned his nickname, he had been involved in ever more exciting spectacles, usually designed to show off his skills as an entertainer, if not as a soldier. Eliza McCardle Johnson, the president’s wife, had seen Bill perform at Saltoun, where he captured eighty buffalo in one day while riding bareback on a horse he had never seen until that morning. The first lady had been impressed as much by his handsome, youthful looks as by his bravery and had flirted openly with him at a dinner afterwards, causing some distress among the other people seated at their table. Afterwards, the head of the largest buffalo had been mounted and sent to her in Washington and it was said that she kept it on the wall of her dressing room, scandalous in itself. Reporting back to her husband on Bill’s success, the president made it clear that he wanted to keep Buffalo Bill, as he was now regularly being called in the newspapers, as an ally and had granted him his desire to be aligned to the cavalry without actually being a part of it.
The relationship between the general and the showman was an ambivalent one from the start. Bill had long been an admirer of Custer’s; indeed when he had first left the Golden Rule Hotel in St Louis with David Yountam and Seth Reid, part of the allure had been to attach his fortunes to that of the great warrior whose name at the time was only beginning to be spoken of with reverence. They were of similar age, and their careers had been equally precocious, but where Custer had made his name in the army, Bill had made his for the most part in civilian life, caring less for a uniform and a rank than he did for adventure and challenge. The general’s name had become well known across the nation for his youth and successes had also proved something of a good public relations tool for the Andrew Johnson administration, which had succeeded to power upon the assassination of Abraham Lincoln in 1865. However, when they met they found that they were simply not suited to each other and found that while they rarely argued outright, there was a tension between them that neither seemed able to define or solve. Custer was known to distrust Bill, for he observed in him a lack of commitment to the union ideals – an observation which was correct – and felt that my great-grandfather was only interested in his own glory and growing fame. Of course, Bill had a similar feeling towards the general, believing that a display of precocity in such an organised field as the cavalry shouted itself out as something more than simple idealism.
However they were thrown together in Kansas in 1869 while the next move against the Cheyenne people was being planned and they had no choice but to make the most of it. They often went out on scouting expeditions together and were perfectly cordial to each other, even taking part in a mini-tournament together where Bill easily won the rounds devoted to the capture and killing of animals, but lost badly to the general when precision shooting was the goal. There was a sense at the fort that it was only a matter of time before the two men came to blows, but they were as aware of that as anyone, and knew that such an eventuality could only prove harmful to each, and so worked to maintain their steady, troubled relationship. It was during that winter however that one of their most fraught moments occurred, in front of no less a personage than the new president of the United States.
Ulysses S. Grant had begun his administration earlier that year, having easily beaten the one-term Johnson, and as a military man, he was friendly and admiring of Custer, but there were scarcely two people more different from each other. Grant had worked his way up through the ranks slowly, from private to commander-in-chief. He was also more cautious regarding plans to move the Indians off their land and into reservations, attempting to broker peaceful deals wherever possible, while Custer was more in favour of gathering huge ranks of cavalry men and simply chasing them away, killing as many as necessary.
Two weeks before Christmas that year, Bill and Louisa were at home one evening, Louisa making a new blanket for their daughter’s bed while Bill smoked and brooded by the fire. Their own relationship had settled down since they had returned to each other. Louisa was determined to hold on to her marriage no matter what; Bill was less eager but had little choice. They spoke little in the evenings, having little to talk about. A knock on the door was a relief to both but a surprise also, as they rarely received visitors.
‘Tom Barton,’ said Bill, looking up happily as one of the young camp runners, a boy of about sixteen, poked his head through the open doorway. What brings you out to us this evening? Looking for a drink and a smoke, I’ll bet.’
‘No sir,’ replied Tom nervously, looking towards Louisa who was narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously. As a rule she distrusted visitors, particularly those who had little other reason to be there than to deliver messages. She turned her lamp a little more in his direction to get a closer look at the lad; he was tall for his age, and handsome, but his long black hair looked as if it had not seen soap or water since the previous Christmas and she had a curious urge to drag him outside to the well and submerge him in it. ‘Evening, Mrs Cody,’ Tom added, nodding at her.
‘Good evening, Tom,’ replied Louisa, putting her work down and standing up, brushing down the front of her skirts slowly. ‘You’ll have a little dinner with us, won’t you? It must be hungry work riding along the prairies this late at night.’
‘I won’t if it’s all the same to you,’ he said. ‘I’ve had my dinner already. I’m just here to deliver a message to Mr Cody, ma’am.’
‘What have I told you time and time again?’ asked Bill with a sigh. ‘Haven’t I told you to call me Buffalo Bill? That’s what my friends call me, you know, and if you don’t want to call me by my name I’ll have no reason to think you’re a friend any more and I might have cause to shoot you then. What do you say, Tom? Are we friends?’
‘Sure we are, Mr Cody,’ said Tom, stuttering slightly in his nervousness. Although he was accustomed to being around army men who believed in their own magnificence and revelled in their myths, there was something about my great-grandfather that always worried him. ‘Buffalo Bill, I mean,’ he added quickly. Most people had started to call Bill by this name, particularly those who were younger than him, but he still had to insist on it from time to time.
‘Well that’s better,’ he said, smiling with satisfaction. ‘Now what’s this message you’re in such a hurry to hand over to me. Has the war against China been declared now?’
Tom stared at him and opened his eyes wide. ‘The war against China?’ he asked in amazement. ‘No, they haven’t announced anything of the—’
‘My husband is teasing you, Tom,’ said Louisa quietly, pouring a cup of tea for the boy and handing it to him, despite his earlier refusal. ‘Bill thinks it’s very funny to tease the young men around here, forgetting he was one of them himself once.’ She pronounced her husband’s name deliberately, omitting the ‘Buffalo’ as she always did. He did not correct her.
‘The message, Tom,’ said Bill g
ruffly, unwilling to continue a conversation whereby his wife might end up mocking him in front of a private. ‘What does it say? Who’s it from?’
‘From General Custer, sir,’ he answered quickly, flustered by the dialogue so far. ‘Says he wants to see you over at the fort tonight. Something important’s about to happen, I think. There’s officers running round like crazy men over there.’
‘Really?’ said Bill. ‘And what do you suppose it’s all about?’
Tom thought about it. ‘Well I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘All I know is that everything was calm and then a runner arrived from Parkworst and all hell broke loose. We must be about to begin another push.’
‘Surely not tonight,’ said Louisa with a sigh. ‘Why, that’s just madness. It could wait until the morning, couldn’t it? What’s one more day?’
‘It won’t be another push yet,’ said Bill in frustration. ‘They don’t just announce those things without any build up. No, it’s something else.’ He raised an eyebrow and sucked on his pipe thoughtfully. ‘Well,’ he said after a long pause. ‘You’ve delivered your message, Tom, and I thank you for it. You can get on back home to the fort now if you’re not staying for some food.’
Tom nodded but stood still for a moment. ‘Aren’t you coming with me, sir?’ he asked.
‘Where to?’ he asked innocently.
‘Well back to the fort. Like I said, General Custer wants to—’
‘How did you find my house, Tom?’ asked Bill, cutting him off before he could finish his sentence. The boy looked confused.
‘How’s that?’
‘I asked how you found my house. You had a message to deliver, you got on your horse, you rode on over here. How did you know where to find me?’
Tom looked utterly confused now and glanced across at Louisa, hoping she might save him from this conversation, but she was back at her weave now and appeared to be paying little attention to either of them, muttering quietly to herself instead at the crazy actions of the army and her own foolishness for having ever become involved in a life as troublesome as this one. ‘Well, I just found you,’ he replied eventually. ‘I mean everyone knows where you live. It’s not a secret.’