“Brace up, Windhouveren!” Prince Edward said. “No nonsense now! Break your bird.”
Lord Windhouveren went back to the line feeling distinctly uneasy. The Prince of Wales rarely rose so early, even for a sporting event; it was plain that he would not look kindly upon defeat. Windhouveren glanced at Annie Oakley to see if he could detect signs of fatigue; he saw none. She had not bothered to sit down, had only taken a little tea. Still, he considered that she might tire. A gun that felt light at the beginning began to feel deucedly heavy after seven or eight hundred swings. Let her keep her lead for now; he would take her in the last two hundred.
Never in his long life of shooting had Lord Windhouveren concentrated as hard as he did on the second two hundred and fifty targets. He concentrated as if his life depended on it—as if he were firing at advancing Zulus or shrieking disciples of the Mahdi. Yet a sense of injustice rose in him in proportion to the intensity of his concentration. Instead of shooting better, he shot rather appallingly worse.
When the five-hundredth target had been thrown, Lord Windhouveren had missed twenty-nine targets. Annie Oakley had missed eight. The shocking thought that he might actually lose could not be forced out of his mind. He wanted to strangle the girl. Why wouldn’t she miss? He had never supposed for a second in his life that any woman could outshoot him; now one was doing it, and doing it quite casually. The filthy old men in their smelly buckskins loaded her guns and handed them to her as if it were the simplest business in the world—she might have been shooting sparrows, not being matched against the finest shot in the kingdom. An appalling calamity was occurring, and the deuced thing was, Lord Windhouveren had no idea how to stop it.
In the circumstances he thought it best not to approach his sovereign during the halfway break.
The thought that Windhouveren might lose had occurred to others, too. Stanley had stopped pestering Buffalo Bill and stood in amazement, watching the girl shoot. Russell of the Times sat with his back against the wheel of a buggy and scribbled on a pad. Before the match began, Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack had ambled among the gentry, smiling and accepting large wagers at long odds. The gentry had unanimously bet on Lord Windhouveren; now a number of the men were scowling. What did the man think he was doing? His shooting was an appalling embarrassment. A number of pale ladies, jolly only hours before, foresaw a difficult evening—none more so than Daisy, Countess of Warwick.
“I was never fond of Windhouveren,” she gently pointed out. “I’ve told you so, Eddie.”
Prince Edward was at a loss for words, though far from at a loss for indignation. With every Windhouveren miss he flinched; it didn’t help his dyspepsia at all. It was inconsiderate—indeed, impertinent—for the man to go on missing. Windhouveren had ample estates, too; he usually produced excellent arrangements. It was a very great nuisance that he continued to miss.
“I am not a man to overlook a nuisance,” he remarked darkly to Daisy. He was not telling the Countess anything she didn’t know.
“She’s a nice shot, ain’t she?” Bartle remarked to Russell of the Times. Champagne flowed liberally among the observers; despite his attention to the guns, some had flowed into him.
“She’s better than that,” Russell said. “I’d choose her for my regiment any day, if I had a regiment. Windhouveren’s finished—that’s how I judge it.”
“I admire your beard, sir,” Bartle said—he was picking up a little English style.
At the end of seven hundred and fifty targets, silence prevailed on the field. Only the quick pop of the guns and the occasional stamp of a buggy horse broke the silence. Even the breeze seemed to seize the sound of the guns. Lord Windhouveren had missed forty-seven targets, Annie Oakley only ten.
Russell of the Times scribbled, Stanley walked around with his hands in his pockets, Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack held their peace; no use rubbing it in.
Windhouveren took a draught of beer; as he was drinking it he noticed the Prince’s carriage leaving. The sad thought occurred to him that he might never see Prince Edward again.
The gentry stayed to the bitter—exceedingly bitter—end. Lord Windhouveren missed sixty-five targets, Annie Oakley only sixteen.
Though she had won, Annie was not overly pleased. Nine hundred eighty-four out of a thousand seemed to her only fair shooting. She had never expected much of the Englishman; he was clearly no shot. She felt she had been lax in her adjustment to the wind. The news that Billy and Jack had won over two thousand pounds in bets didn’t interest her. She felt she had better come back to the field tomorrow and get in several hours of practice. Perhaps if she paid Bartle and Jim, they would come load for her.
The boys from Lord Windhouveren’s kitchen were instructed not to unpack the picnic baskets. The twenty pheasants, the goose, and the leg of mutton would not be eaten—at least not then. “Splendid shooting, ma’am—quite the best I’ve seen,” Lord Windhouveren said to Annie Oakley; as a gentleman, as well as a sporting man, he meant it, but Annie Oakley hardly seemed to notice. He said as much again to Russell of the Times, who thanked him politely. Buffalo Bill, too, was very polite; he said it was Annie’s practice on shipboard that helped her adjust to the breeze.
“Where shall we go now?” his Lordship’s aged valet asked—he was disturbed by the gray look on his master’s face.
“I expect it will have to be India, and now that damned Curzon’s there!” Lord Windhouveren said.
5
AT CODY’S URGING, NED BUNTLINE TRIED HIS HAND AT a Lewis and Clark skit—in fact, he produced six versions in the course of a morning. Speed had ever been his forte—but Ned was a cool judge of his own productions and knew that in regard to Lewis and Clark, his work lacked spark.
Of course, Lewis and Clark were among the great names of history, but what had they done that you could make into a drama? For drama you needed death or, at the very least, battle. There was no doubt in Ned’s mind that death had its part to play in every successful story.
His own highly successful career had only served to reinforce this view. Crockett dying at the Alamo, Custer massacred on the Little Bighorn, Billy the Kid shot down young in New Mexico—his vivid accounts of those famous deaths had produced huge sales. He had even done fairly well with Bigfoot Wallace and the black beans; although Bigfoot had actually drawn a white bean and lived, nineteen of his Texas bravos had drawn the fatal black beans and been stood before a firing squad in the city of Mexico.
Death had been there, as it had been when Billy Cody killed Yellow Hand—whereas Lewis and Clark had made it back. True, they had opened the west, but where was the climax?
“Sacajawea,” Billy Cody insisted. “It was a story of jealousy—two brave explorers and only one Indian maiden. At least we could have them flare up and shoot off their long rifles at one another.”
“What long rifles?” Bartle asked. “Jim and me just brought plain Winchesters.”
Billy almost wished he hadn’t brought the two old-timers. He had tracked them across the Dakotas and then brought them across the ocean only to have them disagree with him about firearms.
It sometimes seemed to him that he was the only one in the whole troupe who could see the greatness of the pageant they were part of: the Pages of Passing History, they called it in the show. It seemed that he alone could feel the wonder of the past they had all lived, as it came alive in re-created scenes. The rest of them thought it was just silly, or wanted to argue endlessly about details.
Sometimes, contemplating the gap between himself and the troupe, he felt a considerable sadness, so sharp that once or twice it came near to overcoming him. These people he had gone to such trouble to hire, riding from agency to agency to persuade Indians to come, collecting a cowboy here and a Pony Express rider there, didn’t see the glory of their own lives. They just saw trivial detail.
Jim and Bartle had been the first white men to trap the dangerous Bitterroot. They were true mountain men, the spiritual sons of Lewis and Clark, of Fremont and P
ike; they had known all the great Indians too: Red Cloud, Spotted Tail, Crazy Horse, Gall, Dull Knife, Touches the Sky, and many others. They had been there almost at the beginning of the great western adventure, and had walked the very paths followed by Lewis and Clark, the men he wanted them to play. As he saw it, their lives were part of the fabric of a great time: they should realize it.
If they didn’t, Buntline, certainly should; he was a writer and could be expected to display a little imagination—and yet, no one seemed to realize it except himself and maybe poor Calamity, who, at the moment, was sleeping under the Deadwood stage, dead drunk. Dead drunk now, and dead drunk most of the trip—and yet she alone, with the possible exception of No Ears and one or two other Indians, understood what it was that made their Wild West show a spectacle that held the attention of people everywhere: lords and ladies, queens and earls, down to the poorest street urchin.
Calamity and he knew what they all should have known: that the story of the west was a great story. You had a wilderness won, red race against white race, nature red in tooth and claw, death to the loser, glory to the victor: what could ever make a nobler show? It seemed to him that it was finer than Dickens, and Calamity—who hadn’t read Dickens—thought so too.
Yet now he couldn’t even get the celebrated novelist Ned Buntline to write in Lewis and Clark, the men who got it all started.
“I told you Coronado would work better,” Doc Ramses said. Doc was always one to insist that his ideas were better than anyone’s.
“Oh, what did Coronado do, except get lost and wander all over Kansas?” Billy asked.
“Well, he found the Brazos River,” Texas Jack said. “I was born not two miles from the Brazos River. If he hadn’t found it, where would that leave me?”
“Don’t you suppose the Comanches knew where the Brazos River was long before Coronado?” Billy exclaimed, exasperated by the ridiculous arguments he was hearing.
“If they did, it’s not common knowledge,” Texas Jack remarked. Of course, now that Billy had called his attention to it, it was rather likely that not only the Comanches but Kiowas, Kickapoos, and various other tribes might have stumbled on the Brazos in their travels.
“Coronado was Mexican and you don’t even speak the language!” Billy snapped, still annoyed at Jack.
“Why, Bill, I may not speak it, but I can court in it, and I have,” Texas Jack said, amused at how hot Billy got when things didn’t go his way in regard to the show.
“We could rent some suits of armor,” Doc Ramses mentioned. “There’s plenty of suits of armor here in England.”
“No, Coronado ain’t part of the American story,” Billy insisted. “We ain’t doing the whole history of the world—if we were I guess we’d have to get Calamity to play Eve.”
That notion brought the company up short: Calamity had been unusually quarrelsome of late.
“If Calamity had been Eve I doubt the whole business would have gone much further,” Bartle said. “Her tongue’s getting rougher, and it never was smooth. If she was Eve, Adam might as well have let the rattlesnake bite him.”
“Oh, now, be fair,” Billy said. “She might just dislike the climate here.”
He felt obliged to take up for Calamity, though she had recently been nothing but trouble. He had had to get her out of jail three times; she could often be seen drunk outside some bar. Then she had given them all a dreadful scare by falling off the Deadwood stage while it was in full flight from Red Shirt and his boys—and on the very day the Queen was there too. If hands less cool than Texas Jack Omohundro’s had been driving the team, she would likely have been run over and killed. As it was, people assumed it was just a stunt, that she was just pretending to be shot; Red Shirt had the presence of mind to jump off his horse and pretend to scalp her—all the Indians carried wigs in their belts, in case a sudden scalping opportunity arose. The Queen thought Calamity’s fall was the most thrilling part of the show, too—or so her man, Mr. Ponsonby, had said.
Unfortunately Calamity had taken to cursing anyone who interfered with her behavior in the slightest, and this the London constabulary was not willing to tolerate.
Billy couldn’t find it in his heart to be severe with her, though—she was too bound up with his memories of Dora, and he did miss Dora terribly. If only she hadn’t had such a troublesome fondness for T. Blue, he believed he could have persuaded her to come.
He decided, thinking about it, to dispatch Dora a few souvenirs of the show—programs and such—to show her how grand it was. Perhaps next year, when they did the big exposition in Paris, Dora could be persuaded to come too.
But he could not help feeling irked with Doc and Ned, Jack and the mountain men, as well as many of the cowboys and Indians. They were all living legends, in the main thanks to himself, and yet they didn’t seem to appreciate the legend part. They just wanted to go on living, as lazily as possible. Sitting Bull was the exception. He might be a scoundrel and a braggart, demanding endless attention, but at least he cared about his own legend. He was Sitting Bull—he had said so to Queen Victoria herself, and the Queen had been properly impressed. She had even given him an engraved saber, which he displayed proudly and might yet use to slice off a few heads if people weren’t careful.
Jim Ragg got up and left the discussion. He didn’t object to being either Lewis or Clark—let Billy and/or Ned decide. After all, Billy was handling the expenses; let him order up what skits he wanted.
He put a buffalo robe over the sleeping Calamity and went striding off through London to see his beavers. He had long since learned the route and rarely bothered with the buses—he frightened the passengers too much, and in any case he preferred to walk.
Jim felt light and calm—it was wonderful what having a few beaver to watch had done for his disposition. Everyone commented on it, particularly Bartle. After years of daily argument, Bartle suddenly found Jim a hard man to raise an argument with. The restlessness that had driven him for twenty years had vanished. Every day he spent his mornings with the beavers, returning to do his bit in the parade, or perhaps work as a stage passenger; then he went back to the zoo, often sitting by the pond far into the night.
There were eighteen beaver, and he had named them all, mostly after mountain men he and Bartle had gone up the Missouri with. His favorite he named Hugh Glass, after the mountain man who had been clawed almost to death by a grizzly and had then made his famous two-hundred-mile crawl to safety. Hugh the beaver was a big fat specimen who would swim right over to where Jim sat and look at him impertinently. Sometimes Jim brought the beavers a few stalks pulled from the bank of the Thames, but more often he merely sat and watched them, happy that they were there. He was calmed by the knowledge that the world had not been emptied of beaver, as had seemed to be the case for so many years.
The boy—his name was Oliver—who fed the musk-ox and drove the ostrich cart passed Jim so often that he outgrew his shyness, stopped to talk, and became a kind of friend.
Intrigued by Jim’s concentration on beaver—in Oliver’s view the zoo held far rarer and more interesting beasts—he often tried to get Jim to explain why he fancied beaver, and only beaver.
“Why not otters?” Oliver asked. “Why not seals?”
Jim liked the boy. Sometimes he walked with him on his rounds and watched him feed the various creatures under his care. Some of them were fierce—the huge old warthog, in particular, worried Jim—but Oliver was careful and never got into trouble.
Jim would have liked to explain to Oliver why he devoted himself to beaver, but the longer he looked at the beaver and at the freckled English boy, the more he felt at a loss to explain. It meant looking too far back in his memory, reviewing too many years and too many hopes.
“Well, you see . . .” he said more than once, and more than once Oliver waited patiently for the old man to finish the sentence. But Jim never could. How could he explain his attachment to beaver to a youth who had never seen the upper reaches of the Missouri or any of
the western lands in their prime? To explain it would be to explain his life, a task Jim didn’t feel up to.
“I’ve just always fancied them,” he said finally, aware that the answer was inadequate. “You’d have to have seen them as I saw them in the old days, when you found beaver in every pond.”
“What I like is the mongoose,” Oliver said. “You ought to see it fight a snake—now and then we give it one.”
“Why, I expect it’s a dandy,” Jim said—he did like the boy. Even so, he was glad when Oliver left, so he could sit alone with the beaver again.
Darling Jane—
I’m afraid you won’t be proud of your mother today Janey, I’m ashamed even to write about what happened, but it may get in the papers, I had better tell it. I fell right off the Deadwood stage with the Queen watching. We were all nervous having the Queen there, I guess I was more nervous than most, I started to shoot my gun and I just tipped off. Texas Jack did marvelous to keep the stage from running over me. Red Shirt had the good sense to jump off and daub some red paint on my head and pretend to scalp me. The Queen thought it was all part of the show. Billy Cody was white as a sheet though, he knew it wasn’t part of the show. I guess if I had been killed with the Queen watching they would have had to close down.
I did not meet the Queen, Janey, only Billy and Jack and Annie and a few chiefs met her, Sitting Bull I think and Red Shirt. They say she took a fancy to Red Shirt, I guess she likes handsome men. Red Shirt is as handsome as any, Billy and Jack are both jealous of him, he gets so much attention.
I saw the Queen only from a distance, I was disappointed. She is short-built and seemed fat, she reminded me of Mandan women, they are mostly short. I am not suited for royalty though, they are too dressed up and stiff, I get nervous just seeing them from a distance. I have not spent my life among royalty, I don’t know how to behave. Anyway they only want to talk to Billy and Annie, they have got the style down better than the rest of us. The Prince said it was a pity there weren’t more women like Annie—I wonder what his wife thought about that?
Buffalo Girls Page 18
