Laurie laughed. “It’s all right. I can handle him.”
****
The last show had been over for some time, and Laurie had paced restlessly around her tent. Leona had gone to town to celebrate with one of the cowboys, and despite herself, Laurie was glad for the silence. Finally, she came out of the tent, wandered around, and stopped at the Indians’ tepees, where she saw Running Bear sitting and staring into a fire. Going over, she said, “Hello, Running Bear.”
The Indian looked up, and although he was not a smiling man, a gleam of humor appeared in his eyes. “Ah, my little white Sioux. Sit down.”
Laurie sat down by the fire, and as she talked to the stolid Indian who watched her impassively, she felt some of the pressure leave. There was something in Running Bear, a patience that seemed to mold him, that she envied. Finally she asked, “Will you do this forever, Running Bear? Travel around like this with Mr. Cody?”
“No. Not good.”
“Why not? You’re making money, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” The answer came reluctantly, and Running Bear shook his head stubbornly. “I miss my land and my people.”
“So do I. Maybe it’s time for both of us to go home.”
The two talked little more, sitting there enjoying the silence. Finally, Laurie got up and made her way back to her tent. She had stepped inside and started to undress when a voice said, “Laurie?”
“Who is it? I’m getting ready for bed.”
“It’s me—Bill Cody. I need to see you.”
Hastily, Laurie pulled a robe on and belted it. “Come in, Mr. Cody.” Instantly, she wished she had stepped out to meet him, but stepping outside in her robe didn’t appeal to her either. I’ve got to get rid of him, she thought quickly.
“Well, honey, you did fine tonight.” Bill’s face was glowing with the effect of the drinks he had been having. He was a heavy drinker. Nate Salsbury had made him promise once to cut down to one drink a day, and Bill had solemnly promised, but the one drink grew to be a huge, specially made schooner that would hold at least a quart of whiskey. Bill cut back on the number of glasses, but not on the amount.
“You done real fine. Didn’t miss a one.”
“It would be hard to miss, shooting bird shot.” Laurie shrugged with a rueful smile. “Somehow that doesn’t seem honest.”
“Well, a shot’s a shot, and maybe you’ll get good enough to use bullets, but I don’t see any need for it.”
He stood there talking, and she could sense the tension in the man. Suddenly he reached out and pulled her toward him. He was a tall man, and handsome, though already beginning to show the excessive use of alcohol. “You are mighty sweet, Laurie,” he said huskily, “and the prettiest thing I ever saw.”
Laurie began to wrestle with him, but he held her in his strong hands, and only by exerting all of her strength did she manage to twist away from him. “Don’t say that to me!” She stepped back and said angrily, “Get out of here. And you might as well know, I’m leaving the show.”
Bill Cody stared at her. He was not accustomed to being rebuffed by young women, but her words about leaving seemed to hit him harder than her rejection.
“Why—you can’t do that, Laurie! I need you.”
“You can get another trick rider,” she said.
“Not as pretty as you.” He began to reason with her and ended by saying, “Nate told me just tonight we need to offer you more money.”
“It’s not money. I’m just lonesome.”
Colonel Cody had the impulse to offer to console her, but he could not. Instead, he said, “Well, don’t make any quick decisions. This idea is good, Laurie. People want to know about the West.” He seemed serious for a moment, and a dreamy gaze came into his eyes. “It’s more than just money,” he insisted. “It’s saving something that’s going to be lost if we don’t do something about it. The West is dying out, and someday”—he waved his hand around—”this will be all there is of it.”
Laurie wanted to say, This isn’t the true West. This is just a show, but she knew better than to argue. Stubbornly she shook her head and said, “I’m not going to argue with you, Mr. Cody. I’ll stay one more month, and then you’ll have to get somebody else.”
Cody argued for a few moments, then she said firmly, “You’ll have to go now.” He turned and backed out, still begging her.
Laurie discovered her hands were trembling. It was not the first time he had touched her and tried to kiss her, but she was determined it would be the last. She changed into her nightdress, got into the cot, and pulled the covers up about her. For a while she read from the Bible with the worn, black cover, and then finally she put it down and turned the light down low so that Leona could see when she came back. She lay there silently with her eyes closed, praying for people she knew. Finally, Buffalo Bill came to her mind. “Lord, he is a wicked man. I pray that you would catch his attention, Lord. Let him see that he is ruining himself!” A few minutes later, she drifted off to sleep still praying.
The next day after breakfast she was strolling around when she saw a crowd over at the corral. “What’s going on?” she asked Buck Bronson.
Buck Bronson, six feet five and strong as a bull, grinned. “Gonna have a new attraction. We got us a wild, buckin’ buffalo.”
Laurie moved beside him and saw indeed that there was a huge buffalo. He was walking around, and unlike most buffaloes, which had rather placid looks, there was something wicked about the way he dug his hooves in and shook his head.
“Some of the boys got to saying that they ought to put that critter in a buckin’ act. And when Bill heard it, nothin’ would do but that’s what’s gonna happen. Look, there he is now.”
Laurie looked in the direction of Buck’s gesture and was surprised to see Bill Cody himself walking over to the corral. As she watched, two cowboys on horseback snubbed the buffalo, keeping the pressure on while another slapped a saddle on him. The girth of the animal was so big, they had had to lengthen the girth strap.
When the saddle was in place, Bill said, “Watch, you buckaroos, and see how a real horseman can ride anything with hair!”
He put one foot in the stirrup, the ropes were loosened, and instantly the buffalo began to pitch—not only up and down—but sideways. He had not gone three jumps before Colonel Cody started losing his seat. The distance of his seat from the saddle became greater each time, and finally he came down sideways, and the momentum of the next buck threw him high in the air. He made a complete somersault and landed flat on his back. The buffalo instantly stopped and trotted off to the other end of the corral, looking insulted.
Several of the men jumped off the fence and ran to the colonel, who did not get up right away.
“I think he’s hurt, Buck,” said Laurie.
“He took a pretty rough fall there. Let’s go find out.”
There was a lot of talk, and Cody had to be helped to his dressing room. Later, Laurie saw Groner, who told her, “You hear about Colonel Cody?”
“No. Is he all right?”
“Naw, they had to take him to the hospital. Wrenched his back pretty bad.”
He shook his head in disbelief, saying, “I’m surprised he didn’t break his neck—the old fool getting on a wild critter like that! You can know something about a horse, but nothing about one of them things.”
He continued talking, but all Laurie could think of was the prayer that she had made last night, and she wondered, Lord, is this to catch his attention? It sure is a hard way! She turned and asked, “Con, will the show go on?”
“Oh, you can’t hurt that old codger.” Bill Cody was thirty-seven and Groner, twenty-eight, but he had always looked upon Cody as a much older man. He shrugged slightly, saying, “He’ll be out there if we have to wheel him out in a wagon. Ain’t you found that out about the old man yet? He ain’t got much religion, but what he does have—why, it’s the show, I guess.”
Laurie wandered off, thinking about what Groner had said, and sadly
shook her head. It’s a sad thing when all a person has in his life is a show!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Net Closes
The burly foreman of the crew stepped to the edge of the huge hole—at least two hundred feet in diameter—looked down at the men wielding picks and shovels, and shouted, “Quittin’ time! Line up at the pay shack if you want your money.”
Cody looked up with a grimace and said, “Come on, Sam. I’ve had all of this I can stand for one day.”
Sam Novak was covered, as were Cody and practically everyone else, with the yellow clay that they had been struggling with all day. The cesspool they were digging would be the largest ever built as far as they could discover, and they had been excited and pleased to get a job. But after digging for three weeks in the sticky, almost unyielding clay, they were both sick of it. They climbed wearily out of the hole and lined up in the pay line. When they received their week’s wages, they jammed it into their pockets, then turned and walked along the pathway that led to the road. When they reached it, they found it, too, was muddy, for a heavy rain had turned the surface into a sea of mud. The mud made a sucking sound as they pulled their feet clear, and they compromised finally by moving over to the edge. It was not cold, for January of 1885 was mild that year—for which they were both thankful.
As they plodded along, Cody complained, “I don’t know how much more I can dig this blasted clay, Sam.” He looked down at his hands and noticed that the entire front of his clothing was coated with the yellow, sticky earth. “I’m used to hard work, but this is different.”
Novak grinned at him sharply, his white teeth showing against his muddy face. “Oh, come on, Cody—just think, you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren that you helped dig the biggest cesspool in the whole state of Missouri. Now that’s something, isn’t it?”
As usual, the light-hearted Sam was able to wring a smile from Cody, who, with a frown, said, “Well, that’s something, all right. But it wasn’t exactly what I had planned for my whole life.”
The two of them plodded along the road for half an hour, then turned in to the boardinghouse where they shared a room. It was a relic of a Victorian mansion—the corpse of one would be more accurate. In its heyday, it had gleamed whitely, its proud turrets and gingerbread work one of the marvels of St. Louis. But the town had expanded the other direction, so that now this section had become the dwelling place for the working classes. Entering the house, they made their way to a room up in the attic. It was half-round because a turret formed part of one wall, and it allowed in plenty of sunlight, which pleased them.
“Come on, let’s go down and beat that bunch to the tub,” Sam said eagerly. Grabbing underwear and fresh clothes, he left the room with Cody right behind him. When they reached the backyard, they walked toward an area closed by a canvas curtain. “I guess we’re the first here,” Sam said and stuck his head inside. “You here, Jude?”
“Yeah, come on in.”
“You go first, Cody—I mean, Jim, “ he caught himself. “I think you’ve got more mud on you than I have.”
Cody did not argue but stepped inside the enclosure, where the main furniture consisted of a huge, clawfoot, porcelain tub. Over to one side hung a huge, black pot straddling a fire, the water bubbling merrily, and the man called Jude got up and began to fill the tub. As he poured in the last bucket, Cody slipped out of his union suit, shivered in the cold air, and plunged himself into the steaming water. It was almost hot enough to scald, but the next five minutes he sputtered and soaked and lathered as the water turned to a muddy color.
Finally, Sam marched in, saying impatiently, “That’s enough, Jim. You don’t want to get too clean.” Reluctantly, Cody got up, dried off on a towel furnished by the attendant, and then slipped quickly into his clean underwear and clothes. He pulled on his boots and stood close to the fire, waiting till Novak was through, then the two of them paid their quarters and stepped outside. “I’m starving,” Novak said. “Let’s go get supper.”
“Sounds good to me,” agreed Cody. The two walked along, keeping as clear of the muddy roads as possible, and twenty minutes later found themselves in the outskirts of St. Louis. The Deluxe Restaurant was no more than a long, narrow rectangle with a portion walled off concealing the kitchen. The large room inside was filled with long tables and straight-back, cane-bottomed chairs in all conditions of disrepair. The two men walked to the back of the building, picked up tin plates, and went through the line for their meals, which was simple enough. One man tossed a chunk of roast beef into the plate, the next man dipped a large dipper full of white beans, and the third dumped a large measure of greens. Holding their plates in one hand, they both picked up a slab of apricot pie from the end of the table, turned, and found places where they sat down.
As usual, Cody waited, for it was a peculiarity of his friend that he always said the blessing. It made no difference to Novak how many or how few were around, and he never asked anyone to join him; he simply bowed his head, muttered a quick prayer, and plunged in and began to eat.
The reaction Sam’s prayer aroused amused Cody. Some of the men made fun of him, but Cody noticed that just as many were silent. He knew what they were probably thinking—that their mother or father at home had done the same thing. For Cody it brought back old-time memories of days long ago—painful memories that he tried to put out of his mind. All of these men were wanderers, men without women, without children, having no roots, floating from one job to another. But most of them could think back on a day when they had sat at a table with a family, and when some member had bowed his head and prayed. Cody never commented on it, but he admired Novak for doing such a thing.
They ate slowly, for the food was good, considering the circumstances. The beef was fairly tender, and the vegetables were well cooked and seasoned. Finally, they shoved their tin plates to one side and nodded at the young black girl who moved around filling cups with steaming, black, stout coffee. When she had filled their cups, they sat there slowly eating the pie and taking sips of the hot brew. After enjoying a second cup, Sam finally said, “It’s gettin’ a little crowded. I guess we ought to give somebody our place.”
The two men arose and made their way to the side of the room where there was a large washtub. Depositing their plates and hardware in this, they turned and walked out. When they stepped outside, someone said, “Hey, Novak—” They turned to see a tall, rawboned individual coming out from across the room and they halted until he reached them. “You fellows going to the show?” asked the man.
“Show? You mean a minstrel show of some kind?” Novak asked.
“Naw, this is Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.”
“I don’t know, Charlie. Hadn’t thought of it,” Novak shrugged.
“Well, you better get down there. I went last night, and I’m going back tonight. Best show I ever saw. It’s over there in the arena, and they got enough lanterns to light up half of St. Louis. Come on along with me, I’ll show you the way.”
“How much does it cost?” Cody asked carefully.
“Fifty cents a head.”
“Come on, let’s do it,” Cody said. “I’m tired of that room. Can’t stand to sit there again and look at your ugly face, Sam.”
“You’re on—Jim,” he said haltingly. “Maybe we’ll join up and get into show business.”
The three moved quickly along, and as they advanced along the road that led to the city itself, Cody wondered if the sight of horses would make him homesick.
****
The two men sat squeezed into their seats and watched as Buffalo Bill himself led the grand entry into the arena. He was an arresting figure in a white Stetson, bleached doe-skins, and mirror-finished black boots to the knees. He sat astride Old Charlie, a magnificent half-bred Kentucky stallion, on which, the audience was informed, he had once ridden a hundred miles in nine hours and forty-five minutes.
Behind him, high-stepping to the strains of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” came musicia
ns wearing the uniform of Custer’s Regimental Band. Indians rode into the arena in feathers and paint, and scouts followed dressed in buckskin. John Nelson drove the Deadwood coach, then came the Cowboy King, Buck Bronson, ex-sheriff Con Groner, young Johnny Baker, and dozens of others. Vaqueros in black and silver were mounted on swift little mustangs, and cowboys in Stetsons and woolly chaps straddled big American horses.
The procession circled inside the bleachers while the applause swelled and receded and then peaked, threatening to drown out the tubas and flutes. The famous leader swept off his big hat as if to scoop up the noise for later consumption. The applause slid down behind the last rider to exit, and an island of silence fell over the arena.
Buffalo Bill emerged again, announcing, “And now, ladies and gentlemen and my young friends, allow me to give you a slight demonstration of target shooting.” From a leather pouch on his saddle horn, he drew a blue glass ball, and with a quick motion launched it underhand into the air. He drew his Colt, cocking it in the same motion, took aim quickly, and fired just as the ball reached the top of its trajectory. It burst, glittering. Polite applause started, only to be lost under more gunfire, as Colonel Cody, now using his left hand, tossed more balls. When the revolver was empty, he holstered it and drew its mate without missing a beat or a target. The glittering of the balls caught the reflection of hundreds of lanterns that hung from poles all over the amphitheater.
“That’s not bad shootin’!” Cody exclaimed.
“I guess he’s had lots of practice—but look at that!” said Sam. At the moment he spoke, the Deadwood Stage came roaring out of the entrance, and thirty yards behind, rode a group of Indians. The audience rooted wildly for the driver with his exploding whip and powerful lungs as the valiant defender on top of the stage fired blanks at the pursuing band. After the Deadwood Stage, there was a pageant showing life in an Indian camp, which gave them a chance to rest the eardrums ringing with gunfire. Next came a buffalo hunt with the braves donning robes and horns to infiltrate the herd, then yelping and shrieking and turning the great, dumb beasts with their lances. The earth growled under the drumming hoofs before the Indians turned them over to trained cowboys, who drove them out of the arena toward the corrals.
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