by Matt Braun
“I’ll leave for Philadelphia in the morning.”
“Otto.”
“Yes?”
“You musn’t fail me this time.”
“Consider it done, Mr. Stanley.”
Richter turned toward the door. When he was gone, Stanley stared into the fireplace a moment. His expression was contemplative, curiously saddened as he reflected on the unalterable nature of events. Finally, gathering himself, he walked into the foyer and went upstairs. He knocked lightly on his mother’s bedroom door.
Elizabeth Stanley was propped up on a bank of pillows. Her features were drawn, her complexion sallow in the flickering gaslight. She managed a faint smile.
“Have you come to tuck me in, Leland?”
“I wanted to say good night, Mother. How are you feeling?”
“Oh, you shouldn’t worry,” she said. “I believe I’m actually a little better.”
“Well, then.” Stanley bent down, kissed her on the cheek. “Get a good night’s sleep.”
“Leland.”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Have you learned anything more of Katherine and Augustus?”
“I have a first-rate detective on the job. You rest now and try not to worry yourself too much. I feel confident we’ll find them.”
“I pray to God they’re all right.”
“I’m sure they are, Mother.”
Stanley lowered the flame on the gaslight. He moved from the bedroom into the hall and closed the door. His face was set in a somber cast.
He thought things would be better when the children were dead.
CHAPTER 15
THE PENN Hotel was located on the corner of Sixth Street and Chestnut. Ned Buntline, ever anxious to display his expertise, noted that it was named after the founder of Pennsylvania. King Charles II of England had bestowed a large land grant on William Penn in 1682.
Hickok was deaf to the lecture. As they walked from the hotel to the theater, he was in a highly agitated state of mind. He had faced armed men and hostile Indians and survived the bloody killing ground of the Civil War. All of that he had done with equanimity but now his nerves fairly jangled along his backbone. Tonight he would face a live audience on stage.
Cody and the others were attentive to Buntline’s dissertation. The children were all eyes as they passed the most hallowed ground in the nation’s history, Independence Square. Buntline explained that the Continental Congress had convened there in 1775, and appointed George Washington General of the Army. A year later, on July 4, the Declaration of Independence had been adopted.
Buntline was a fount of information. He went on to note that Philadelphia was a Greek word for “brotherly love.” Thus it had become known as the City of Brotherly Love, the birthplace of American freedom. The children hung on his every word, peppering him with questions about the Liberty Bell and the Constitution. Ever the ham, Buntline basked in their wide-eyed wonder, playing the scholar to eager young acolytes. His initial displeasure at having them along had long since disappeared. He found them a receptive audience.
Cody was gladdened by the children’s animated manner. Yesterday, on the train from New York, they had withdrawn into despair and heartsick torment over their loss. Then, drained of tears and emotionally exhausted, they had fallen into a troubled sleep. Late last night, when the train arrived in Philadelphia, the resilience of youth had seemingly restored their spirits. They were by no means recovered, and moments of grief still shadowed their eyes. Yet they had bounded back remarkably well.
A good part of their invigorated manner had to do with the show. The play was to be staged at the Arch Street Theater, and Buntline had assembled the cast early that morning. Local actors had been hired for the roles of savage Indians, and there was a full complement of lighting men and stagehands. The entire day had been spent in rehearsal, with Buntline coaching the actors, sometimes berating them, as they struggled to memorize their lines. Buntline’s frenzied energy had at last brought vitality to the production.
Katherine and Augustus were exhilarated by the sound and fury of the play. The lights and action and bloodcurdling war cries left them agog with marvel. Neither of them had ever seen a stage production, and they spent the day watching the madness of a rehearsal unfold in the theater. Buntline was seemingly everywhere at once, and they were all but mesmerized by his stage directions and his leather-lunged exhortations at the actors. By day’s end they saw chaos and confusion transformed into some semblance of orderly stagecraft. They were bewitched by the wonder of it all.
The children’s turnaround eased Cody’s concern for their welfare. But the burden of putting on a stage play was measurably increased by his distress at Hickok’s wooden performance. Hickok seemed incapable of memorizing lines, and thoroughly bewildered by the dazzling lights and Buntline’s stage directions. There were times when Buntline’s frustration, expressed in shrill anger, put Hickok on the verge of throttling the voluble showman. Cody intervened, warning Buntline to calm down, and counseling Hickok to simply be himself rather than act the role. Yet he worried that Hickok and Buntline were a volatile mix. One the gunpowder and the other the match.
The Arch Street Theater was emblazoned with lights. The top line on the backlit marquee proclaimed in foot-tall letters THE SCOUTS OF THE PLAINS. The lines directly below, equally bold, announced the stars of the show: BUFFALO BILL CODY, WILD BILL HICKOK, and TEXAS JACK OMOHUNDRO. Buntline whizzed past as though he were a whirligig on course with momentous events. Hickok, startled to see his name in lights, felt a chill ripple along his spine. Cody thought it a fine display, with perhaps one exception. He wondered if his name might have been bigger.
The stage door was through an alleyway beside the theater. When they came through the door, the backstage area was in a state of pandemonium. The prop man was scurrying around with tomahawks and feathered lances, and stagehands were putting the final touches on the scenery. The ten actors playing Sioux warriors were decked out in black wigs with braids and tawny costumes meant to resemble fringed buck-skin. They were applying nut-brown greasepaint to their faces and hands in an effort to counterfeit the look of redskins. Buntline waded in like an evangelist exhorting the faithful
“Godalmighty,” Hickok woofed, halting just inside the door. “I’ve done joined the circus.”
Cody laughed. “It’ll all come together when the curtain goes up.”
“I ain’t sure I’ve got the gall for this, Bill.”
“Jim, you’re just a little nervy, that’s all. The show business people call it ‘opening-night jitters.’”
“I’d sooner hunt bears with a switch.”
“Stop carryin’ on so. You’ll be fine.”
“Says you.”
* * *
The show was sold out. Every seat in the house was full and a lucky few got standing room at the rear of the theater. As the audience leafed through the playbill, they saw that the show would be presented in three acts. The subtitles fairly fired the imagination.
ACT 1. THE SCOUTS AND THE RENEGADES
ACT 2. THE SCOUTS’ OATH OF VENGEANCE
ACT 3. THE TRIUMPH OF THE SCOUTS
The playbill also indicated an opening number by Mlle. Giuseppina Morlacchi. Under her resume, the audience discovered that she had studied dance at La Scala, in Milan, Italy. Her debut was in Genoa, and from there she had appeared throughout Europe and England before immigrating to America in 1869. She was the toast of New York, and her legs were insured for $100,000 by Lloyds of London. The audience fully expected to see a classical ballerina.
The curtain rose at eight o’clock. The orchestra blared to life and Giuseppina exploded out of the wings in a knee-length peekaboo gown and sheer net stockings. She pranced around the stage, her eyes bright with laughter, flapping her skirts ever higher. Then, as the tempo of the music quickened, she whirled to center stage, squealing and kicking in a rousing exhibition of the French cancan. She ended the number by leaping high in the air and landing on the stage in
a full-legged split. The audience broke out in cheers.
Giuseppina blew them kisses as she skipped offstage. The curtain dropped as the orchestra segued into a stirring rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” When the number was finished, the orchestra fell silent and the curtain rose on Act One of the play. The set was designed to replicate grassy plains with majestic mountains and an endless azure sky painted on the backdrops. A campfire, constructed of orange and red crepe paper, was positioned at center stage. Cody and Hickok stood warming their hands by the fire.
The audience gave them a thunderous ovation. There were shouts from all around the theater of “Buffalo Bill!” and “Wild Bill!” Cody beamed a jack-o’-lantern grin and Hickok looked everywhere but at the crowd. After a minute, Cody finally raised his arms and stilled the applause. He struck a dramatic pose and cued Hickok with the opening line.
“Glad you found my camp, Bill. What’ve you been up to lately?”
Hickok froze. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. His line in the script had to do with renegade Sioux warriors raiding settlers. But his mind went blank, and he was acutely aware of the audience waiting for him to speak. Cody cued him again.
“What’ve you been up to lately, Bill?”
Hickok nervously cleared his throat. He said the first thing that popped into his mind. “I’ve been out on the hunt with the Grand Duke Alexis.”
Cody blinked, momentarily thrown. But the royal hunt had been widely reported by newspapers, and he figured the audience would think it was all part of the play. He quickly improvised, feeding Hickok questions about the Grand Duke and the hunt. Once they started talking, Hickok, little by little, recovered from his stage fright. Cody gradually steered their dialogue back to the script.
The story revolved around a hostile band of Sioux. Texas Jack Omohundro next appeared onstage, to complete the trio of scouts. Shortly afterward, Giuseppina made her entrance, costumed in a wig and braids and buckskin dress. She played the part of Dove Eye, a Sioux maiden in love with Cody, offering to help the scouts thwart the renegades. The audience was held rapt by the love interest.
Act One closed with Dove Eye being captured by the hostiles. Cody, with Hickok and Omohundro at his side, swore an oath of vengeance. Throughout Act Two there were a series of running skirmishes, as the scouts pursued the renegades back and forth across the plains. The actors disguised as Sioux warriors were slaughtered wholesale, only to crawl offstage and reappear in the next battle scene. At the close of Act Two, the scouts were wearied from killing but had yet to rescue Dove Eye. They stood talking at center stage.
“We go forward,” Cody emoted, dramatically thrusting an arm overhead. “I will not cease the fight until Dove Eye is safe again.”
Omohundro postured. “We are with you unto the death. Isn’t that right, Wild Bill?”
A calcium spotlight from high above the balcony swung onto Hickok. He shielded his eyes, suddenly blinded, and took a step aside. The spotlight trailed him, and his temper, already frayed by an hour onstage, abruptly snapped. He shouted at the operator. “Turn the durn thing off!”
The dazzling light held him pinned in place. One of his pistols was charged with blanks, but the other was fully loaded. He cursed under his breath, jerking the loaded Colt, and fired. A shattering of glass exploded above the balcony and the spotlight went dead. He grinned at Cody.
“Guess that jaybird’ll listen now.”
The audience roared with laughter. The curtain fell, ending the scene, and Buntline rushed onto the stage. Hickok waved him off, ignoring his outrage, and Cody kept them separated until the curtain rose on Act Three. The story played out in a final volcanic battle, which left the ten renegade Sioux sprawled in death. Dove Eye was saved, the scouts emerged triumphant, and the packed house erupted with applause. The cast took four curtain calls.
Otto Richter was seated at the rear of the theater. He watched as Cody and Hickok came center stage for a standing ovation. The play seemed to him more farce than drama, and quickly forgotten. His thoughts turned instead to the children, how to finish the job. A plan would evolve once he trailed them from the theater, located the hotel where they were staying. All he needed from there was a fix on their habits, their daily schedule.
A way to separate them from the Scouts of the Plains.
* * *
Buntline hosted a breakfast for the cast the following morning. The reviews were in and his pudgy cheeks were cherry-red with excitement. He passed out copies of the Philadelphia Journal to everyone seated around the table. The talk stopped as they fell to reading.
Last night at the Arch Street Theater was the scene of a most extraordinary drama. The occasion was Ned Buntline’s new play with the very appropriate title of The Scouts of the Plains. Buffalo Bill Cody and Wild Bill Hickok, noted Western characters of national fame, were presented in a hair-raising tale of blood on the plains. They played their own original selves with considerable élan.
“Élan?” Hickok said dubiously. “What the devil’s that mean?”
Buntline chortled. “You gentlemen have been highly complimented. It means spirited and with great self-assurance.”
“Well now,” Cody said with a broad smile. “I like the sound of that.”
“Keep reading,” Buntline said. “There’s more!”
Texas Jack Omohundro, a frontier figure in his own right, played a stalwart scout with dash and skill. Mlle. Giuseppina Morlacchi, the Italian danseuse, essayed the part of a beautiful Indian maiden with a weakness for scouts. She sustained the dramatic interest from first to last, captivating the audience.
“You are beautiful!” Katherine bubbled. “I loved watching you, Giuseppina.”
Giuseppina blushed. “You are a leetle dear to be so kind.”
Augustus jiggled in his chair. “Don’t forget Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill, and Texas Jack, too. They were all wonderful.”
“We have a hit!” Buntline announced grandly. “We’ll take New York by storm!”
“Thanks to you,” Cody said. “You wrote another corker, Ned.”
“Casting modesty to the winds”—Buntline preened—“I have to say I outdid myself.”
“So then,” Cody said, holding his gaze. “How’d we do at the box office?”
Buntline briskly rubbed his hands together. “We’ll easily clear twenty-five hundred for the week. We’re in the chips!”
Cody did a quick mental calculation. Buntline, the writer and producer, received the lion’s share, fifty percent. Texas Jack and Giuseppina, who were worth every penny, jointly shared twenty percent of the proceeds. By rough estimate, he and Hickok would pocket close to four hundred dollars apiece for the week. He gave Hickok a sly grin.
“How do you like them apples? Told you we’d have ourselves a payday.”
“No complaints,” Hickok said amiably. “Long as you keep that damn spotlight out of my eyes.”
Buntline’s cheery manner evaporated. He pulled in his neck and puffed up like a toad. “So far as I’m concerned, we should deduct that from your share of the receipts. Do you have any idea how much calcium lights cost?”
“Who the hell cares?” Hickok said with open scorn. “That thing was so bright I couldn’t see ten feet. I won’t have it.”
“Which raises another matter. Why were you carrying a loaded pistol? You were instructed to use blanks.”
“For openers, I don’t go nowhere without a loaded gun. And you don’t instruct me to do anything. Got it?”
“Hold on now,” Cody intervened. “Ned, I wanted to talk to you about that spotlight, anyway. I’m glad you brought it up.”
Buntline pursed his mouth. “What about it?”
“Well, you saw for yourself, the audience went for it in a big way. I think we ought to let Wild Bill shoot out the light in every show.”
“You must be joking.”
“What’s more important?” Cody said. “A calcium light or a nifty piece of showmanship? You stop and think about it.”
Buntline thought about it. His forehead squinched with concentration and he seemed to drift off. He finally looked up. “By golly, you’re right,” he conceded. “The show’s the thing and showmanship’s the game. Wild Bill can shoot out the light.”
“Figured you wouldn’t let a good idea slip by.”
“Of course, we’ll have to have an extra spotlight. Dramatic effect is vital to the show.”
“I reckon so,” Cody agreed. “Just don’t put the spare on Wild Bill.”
“Why not?”
Hickok smiled. “’Cause then I’d shoot out two a night.”
Everyone laughed except Buntline. The humor of it escaped him, for the show business was serious business. Nothing to be ridiculed.
He thought the Prince of Pistoleers was going to be a handful.
CHAPTER 16
TWO DAYS later Hickok stepped off the train at Grand Central Station. He walked through the terminal, again dazzled by the zodiac painted on the ceiling. He wondered how the hell painters worked that high in the air.
Outside the terminal, he flagged a hansom cab. The driver was a gnome of a man, with a dented derby hat and the apple-red nose of a drinker. He stared down at Hickok’s Western garb with watery, bloodshot eyes.
“Where to?”
“The police station.”
“Which one?”
“How many you got?”
“Last count there was seven, maybe eight.”
“Try the one for Gramercy Park.”
“That’d be the Twenty Ninth Precinct.”
Hickok climbed into the cab. He settled back in the seat, wishing he’d slept more on the overnight train from Philadelphia. Yesterday, when he announced he was going to New York, Buntline had been livid. He’d told the fat man to stuff it.
The purpose of the trip was Katherine and Augustus. They were still in the dark about the children’s family, and the show was scheduled to open in New York in five days. Cody agreed that it was prudent to investigate the family before returning with the children. Particularly their uncle, Leland Stanley.
