by Mike Hogan
A blaze of naphtha light lit the Indian village. It was dawn. The Indians came out of their tents and performed their morning routines. A cry of welcome, and another tribe arrived and they danced an energetic war dance together. It was a strange, shuffling, rhythmic dance that relied on heavy drumbeats and ululation by a top tenor to provide the melody.
I had to cuff Churchill and Billy for improvising their own war dance in our box.
The scenes followed one another, all with highly elaborate costumes, settings and lighting effects.
Immigrants travelled west in their covered wagons, with Buffalo Bill scouting forward. He led a hunt in which cowboys chased the shaggy buffalo herd around the stadium to whoops of delight from the boys and yells of encouragement from Holmes and from me.
Night fell, and the settlers slumbered. A red glow appeared in the distance. It grew, and to cries of alarm, the Indians identified it as a wildfire. That scene, and the following that simulated a cyclone, were masterpieces of stage illusion.
In an interval between scenes, Buffalo Bill exhibited his prowess with the lasso, and in shooting, at full gallop, glass balls thrown into the air by another rider. Two young ladies, whose names I could not catch above the wild roars of the crowd, demonstrated an astonishing celerity in marksmanship using repeating rifles.
The high point of the performance was the series of mock attacks by Indians on a wagon train and their gallant rescue by a company of scouts under the command of Buffalo Bill.
As a finale, he called for volunteers to act as passengers in the Deadwood Stage Coach on a journey fraught with danger of attack by wild Indians. I turned to make a remark to Churchill and found that he and Billy were gone.
“I say, Holmes,” I said.
He pointed to where the boys were clambering aboard a closed carriage similar to the mail coaches we used before the railways took over. The coach was lightly built, but six horses pulled it.
The Deadwood Stage started with a jerk that almost had it over on its side; it sped away with driver and guard clinging to the box. A column of Indians gave chase, whooping, screaming, and firing guns at the coach. The coachman whipped the horses into a wild gallop. The coach bounced over ruts with sometimes all four wheels in the air. Heads appeared at the windows as the passengers fired back at the Indians with rifles and pistols. Churchill was to the fore, shouting imprecations that would have made his mother blush: they made me blush.
Buffalo Bill galloped out into the arena and surveyed the scene through a telescope. He formed his troop of scouts and chased the attackers. The Indians fled and the Deadwood Stage Coach pulled up at the grandstand to tumultuous applause. Young Churchill, as de facto leader of the coach passengers, shook the hands of Buffalo Bill, his scouts and the Indians.
He returned to our box with Billy, both sweating furiously and with bright feathers in their hats.
“Colonel Cody said that Billy and me would have plugged at least a dozen Indians, had it been real,” cried Churchill, panting furiously. “Mr Red Shirt, the commander of the attacking column, said something cordial in his language that I could not quite catch.”
“Billy and I,” I corrected.
The boys took their seats to a smattering of applause from our neighbours.
The band struck up ‘God Save the Queen’, and we stood. I was pleased to see that the American family stood stiffly and put their hands over their hearts in an affecting gesture.
Churchill leaned towards me during the anthem, unfolding a sheet of paper.
“Do you see that short cowboy in the big white hat?” he murmured.
I looked at the line of riders at attention during the Anthem. Towards our end of the line, a shorter man or boy sat on a palomino pony holding a huge, white Mexican hat to his heart.
“On the Palomino?”
“That’s Bobby White,” Churchill said. “That’s the missing boy.”
Peace Pipe
We joined the stream of people leaving the stands and crossing the ground towards the gates and the Great American Exhibition souvenir shops. The lights went out behind us as the gas and blazing naphtha lights were extinguished, and a sprinkling of stars and a bright Moon appeared overhead.
Holmes pulled us aside.
“This way.” He tipped his top hat over his eyes in his droll way and marched off towards the Indian village with his cane over his shoulder, whistling ‘Yankee Doodle’.
Churchill, Billy and I followed.
We passed through the village, where the natives were preparing their dinner. Haunches of meat roasted across open fires, and Indian ladies stirred aromatic soups or stews in pots. I doffed my hat and uttered a friendly ‘How’, the universal Indian greeting according to my programme, to the natives as we passed.
Holmes stopped a young Indian boy and asked for directions to the residence of Colonel Buffalo Bill. The boy pointed towards a large, brightly lit tent across the plain. I gave him a thruppenny-bit that he took with a practised air and a wink. We walked on, ignored, through a group of grazing buffalo, and pitched up outside the indicated tent. It was more like a marquee, and a party was in progress. The tent flaps were drawn back and a large group of people chatted and drank Champagne both inside and outside.
“Holmes,” I said urgently taking him by the arm. “We cannot just -”
“Oh, hello, Mr Phelps,” Churchill said to a tall, elderly gentleman with prominent grey side-whiskers. He wore a sash across his breast covered with glittering orders and medals.
“Winston, how are you, my boy?” the man said in a strong American accent. “How is Lady Randolph? And your father, of course.”
“Quite well, sir. May I introduce my companions, Mr Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson and Master William? This is Mr Phelps, the United States Ambassador to Great Britain.”
We shook hands. A waiter offered us Champagne and, despite a stern look from me, Churchill and Billy claimed glasses from the tray.
Holmes chatted with Mr Phelps - he could be sociable if the mood took him - while I looked about me at the heterogeneous collection of people conversing under Mr Cody’s canvas. About half the guests were men in evening attire or dress uniforms, with their ladies beside them in glistening gowns and scintillating jewels. The others were men and women in cowboy or Indian dress; they had evidently come directly from the show. I did not see young Bobby.
I noticed that the two boys had found a buffet table in one corner of the tent and I walked over to keep an eye on them. At one end of the table, a tall Red Indian man stood with a boy of about Churchill’s age. Churchill, a sandwich in one hand and a Champagne flute in the other, chatted with the boy. The contrast between young Churchill in his dusty but modern clothes and the Indian boy, resplendent in a waistcoat of white porcupine quills and grey leggings, was very striking. The Indian boy had a pair of red feathers stuck in his long, plaited hair.
“Oh, Doctor.” Churchill said indicating the tall Indian. “May I present Chief Red Shirt of the Oglala Lakota?”
The chief had a handsome bronzed face, high cheekbones, Asiatic eyes, and a straight Roman nose. He wore a high-necked white cotton blouse with red leggings. His most remarkable feature was his hair, which fell in a graceful tumble of curls to below his waist. A single white eagle feather was tucked behind his head. It brushed the canvas roof of the tent. In his hand, he held a long, highly decorated wooden pipe.
We shook hands. Red Shirt had a firm grip and looked straight into my eyes in a manly way.
“How?” I said.
“Good evening,” he replied affably.
“This is Running Deer, Doctor,” said Churchill introducing the Indian boy. “He speaks English.”
Red Shirt smiled at me and said something to the Indian boy.
“Chief Red Shirt asks whether you are a doctor of healing or of another thing,”
said the boy.
“I am a medical practitioner.”
He looked blankly at me.
“Doctor Watson is indeed a healer,” said Churchill helping himself to another sandwich. “He was in the Army and was jolly brave. He was wounded in Afghanistan, twice.”
The boy translated, and Red Shirt’s eyes narrowed. He spoke again.
“Is that why you carry a pistol? The Chief says that most English do not carry guns.”
I did not know what to say. I had tucked the revolver into my waistband as we left home without a thought. It said something about my state of mind, and the nature of our current case, that I should so unthinkingly carry my service piece. I wondered what effect the American Show, with its glorification of rifle and pistol shooting and of killing out-of-hand one’s own wounded and mutilating the defeated enemy, might have on the criminal classes of London. Our robbers, usually content with a cosh or a knife rather than a firearm, might take up the American custom of continuously carrying arms. That might mean the regular arming of the police, a grotesque idea that -
The Chief put his hand on my arm and smiled. It was as if he had read my wild and anxious thoughts.
“Come,” he said. “We smoke.”
I followed the two Indians onto the show ground. They walked across to the Indian Village. The Chief sat on a blanket spread outside one of the tepees and before a small fire; the boy sat beside him. Several Indian girls emerged from the tepees and spread more blankets and cushions. The chief invited me to sit with a sweeping gesture. I did so with some difficulty: the ground was hard, and my leg was awkward.
“Squaw of Red Shirt,” the chief said indicating one woman. “Great White Chief Queen Victoria.”
I struggled up again and shook her hand. She showed me a necklace and medallion of the Queen. I sat, again with an effort.
Red Shirt barked an order and, at his direction, a dozen or more men and women brought saddles and blankets and fashioned a rough armchair for me. It was exceedingly comfortable. I bowed thanks to the chief.
Churchill and Billy joined us carrying plates of sandwiches, sausage rolls, and fruit. A waiter followed them with a bucket of Champagne bottles and a handful of glasses.
“Courtesy of Mr Cody,” Churchill said with an impish grin.
Several Indians joined our circle, and Red Shirt and I greeted them in turn. They did not appreciate the Champagne, but a whisky jug appeared from Red Shirt’s tepee and it was passed around, together with tin plates piled with delicious roasted meat. I kept a careful eye on the alcohol and the boys.
“The Chief says sorry about the stink,” said Running Deer.
“Oh,” I replied. “It is strong. But I expect that you get used to the smell of buffalo, in time.”
The Indian boy dissolved in giggles, and it took some moments and a nip of whisky before he could be prevailed upon to translate my remark to Red Shirt. The Indians laughed uproariously, abandoning their previous stern and unflappable demeanour and slapping one another on the back. They beamed across at me in the firelight.
“Chief Red Shirt,” said the boy wiping his eyes and grinning at me, “meant the stink of London.”
Colonel Cody’s Last Scalp
Red Shirt bowed to me and gestured for silence. He began to speak in soft tones. Running Deer took the Chief’s long pipe and filled it with tobacco from a leather pouch. The Chief spoke slowly and the boy translated sentence by sentence. It was clearly a well-told tale.
“I will tell you the story of the death of Heova’ehe,” said Red Shirt. “Pa-e-has-ka killed him in the time of the Great Wars. That day, two chiefs rode from the line of warriors to challenge the Great White Hunter to a duel. The first, Heova’ehe, called out in a strong voice, ‘I know you. You are Pa-e-has-ka, Long Hair, and want to fight you.’ The white man shouted back, ‘Come on, you red devil, and have it out.’ He was a rude man in those days, but he has learned better manners.”
Red Shirt passed me the long pipe. I drew in the surprisingly mild and aromatic blend and blew out a long stream of smoke. A murmur of approval came from the ring of Indians.
“Heova’ehe dashed at full speed toward the white man. He, with a wild yell, rode toward Heova’ehe. They fired, the Chief with his rifle and Pa-e-has-ka with his revolver; down dropped both horses. Heova’ehe was pinned under his horse’
“With a loud war cry, Pa-e-has-ka rushed upon him. The Chief succeeded in releasing his leg from beneath his horse and again fired, as did Pa-e-has-ka, both with revolvers. The Indian’s bullet cut a gash in the white hunter’s arm, while he struck Heova’ehe in the leg; in the next instant, the white man sprang on him with his knife. The hand-to-hand fight lasted a few seconds, and Pa-e-has-ka drove his knife into the breast of Heova’ehe. He tore from his head the Chief’s scalp and war-bonnet, and waving it over his head, shouted ‘See, the first scalp to avenge Custer!’”
“Good Lord,” I said. “A white man took the Indian chief’s scalp!”
“That I did,” said Colonel Cody squatting beside me with practised ease. Holmes sat next to Cody in an Oriental meditation position with his legs tucked under him. He had his top hat on askew and I strongly suspected that he had taken too much Champagne.
“I took the scalp of Heova’ehe: Chief Yellow Hair,” Cody continued. “Then I took that of Chief Red Knife. I am Pa-e-has-ka: Long Hair. They were not my first scalps, but I hope and pray that they will be my last. Yellow Hair’s scalp is hanging in my quarters if you’d like a look.”
He took a long puff on the peace pipe.
Churchill nudged me in the ribs. “Running Deer says it is your turn, Doctor.”
“Eh?”
“You have to tell a story.”
“Oh.” I looked around me for inspiration. “Very well, I will tell the story of one hundred and thirty-nine valiant soldiers defying four-thousand brave and fierce warriors, of two cowards, of two murders, and of a boy in grave danger.”
I pulled out my packet of Arcadia Mixture from my pocket.
“Pass that to the Chief, would you, Churchill? He might like to fill the pipe with a local blend.”
I walked away from the campfire with Colonel Cody, Holmes and the boys.
“I’ll take you to see Bobby,” said Cody. “The Indians call him Little Big Hat. We are the circus and Wild West rolled into one, so we attract a lot of children. You would be surprised how many London boys want to join up. Bobby has been coming to the grounds since the day we set up, more often every week. He knows horses, he can rope, he gets on with the braves, he is a willing lad, and he speaks American, so we took him on. He made out that he was an orphan. I will not say that we believed him. A couple of weeks ago, he turned up with his traps and moved in with Running Deer. The boy is half-white and speaks both lingos as you saw.”
He pointed to a tent set against the painted backdrop of the field.
“That’s their tepee.”
“You let the Indian boy run ahead,” Holmes said.
“I did. If Bobby doesn’t want to see you, it’s his choice. I will not force him to go with you, or with the two men that he detests who call him son. This may not be US sovereign territory, Mr Holmes, but here every man is free to follow his conscience until we pack up in the Fall.”
Holmes sniffed.
“You speak as if there were no freedom of thought in England, Colonel,” I said.
Colonel Cody considered.
“I was impertinent. We are your guests. I hope that you will forgive an intemperate Yankee. I will leave you here.”
“Buffoon,” I muttered under my breath as we continued past a group of stinking buffalo to Bobby’s tent.
“No, no,” said Holmes. “He is more enlightened than you might think. We had a long talk in the marquee. He introduced me to some American Army officers who brought up the a
ffair at Little Big Horn in ‘76. Cody infuriated them by refusing to accept that the affair was a massacre. He said that the soldiers hunting the Indians were skilled fighters with orders to take no prisoners. The Indians defended their wives and little ones. He said that the commander who led the Americans thought more of his plumage than of the art of war. These are not the words of a buffoon. Colonel Cody values truth over the regard of his compatriots.”
Holmes took me by the arm with uncharacteristic intimacy.
“The Indians hold him in high esteem. It is the simple judgement, that of a ship’s crew or a company of soldiers, that shows whether a man rings true or false, Watson. You know that.”
We arrived at the opening of the tent. The flap was pinned back and we could see people silhouetted inside by the light of a lamp.
“Hello?” I said tentatively.
A head popped out.
“Doctor, come on in.”
I crawled carefully inside with Holmes and the boys close behind me.
“Hello, Harry,” said Churchill.
I looked up. “Wiggins!”
“Damn your eyes, Wiggins. You knew that Bobby was here!”
“No, Doctor, I did not; at least, not for sure. I guessed it. I came here to tell him about what happened. I mean it’s the obvious place for him to hide out, isn’t it?”
“A hit, Watson, a palpable hit,” Holmes said, as he gracefully folded himself onto a blanket next to me. Facing us was the Indian boy, Running Deer. Sitting next to him was a round-faced, handsome white boy in a tan frilled jacket with a mop of blond hair that almost covered his blue eyes. He looked back at me without expression.
