The Return of Little Big Man

by Thomas Berger

  “They don’t even know you did it.” It might of been my imagination but I thought he looked a little disappointed.

  “Say, Jack,” says he, “that’s a fine dog you have. While he stayed with us at the Welcome Wigwam I noticed he was a very bright animal. Have you taught him any tricks?” I allowed as how I never thought of it. “Well,” Cody goes on, “you might want to consider the matter. People like trained dogs, especially the children, and such a feature would be quite edifying, demonstrating the benevolent domination of the higher type of mentality, as in the human, over that of the beast, to the betterment of both.”

  I says I would think about it, but whether I could get Pard to do it was another thing, for though I never knowed how old he actually was, he was getting a bit grizzled under his pointy chin, and I figured it had been a while since he was a candidate for learning new tricks.

  With this second season the show seemed to be doing better due to Nate Salsbury’s business sense, but a couple misfortunes happened.

  Major Frank North, Cody’s old friend from Cheyenne-fighting days, was throwed from his horse when a saddle girth busted during a performance at Hartford in Connecticut, and he got badly trampled. He never did fully recover, and died the following year.

  The next trouble was only temporary, but highly inconvenient and not without expensive damage. We had give well-attended performances in the major cities of the East, including even New York, where I hadn’t ever been before and on this occasion never saw anything of beyond the Polo Grounds where we was camped, because like most places we went that season it was but for one day after all the effort in getting there and setting up. I ought to mention how big the Wild West was getting, with the troupe of cowboys, all the Indians, as well as now a bunch of Mexican vaqueros, the buffalo herd, horses, mules, and donkeys by the hundreds, the Deadwood stagecoach and other wheeled vehicles, the collapsible scenery including the settler’s cabin that was attacked by the Indians at every performance and canvas backdrops of painted mountains, crates of ammunition, extra weapons, costumes, saddles, horseshoes, ropes, and non-perishable foods, the fresh having to be purchased wherever we stopped. It was a traveling town in every sense of the word.

  Well, this whole shebang got dumped into the Mississippi River that winter, when Cody and Salsbury decided to keep the show going during the months it would usually be closed, performing at Southern places where the weather was warm enough, so we all loaded onto a steamboat at Cincinnati, the name of which always reminded me uncomfortably of Mrs. Agnes Lake Thatcher Hickok and the money of Wild Bill’s I lost, but I didn’t have time to look her up right then.

  We went down the Ohio River, joining the Mississippi at Cairo, Illinois, stopping at various places on the route to New Orleans, but the attendances was disappointing, and then our boat slammed into another at Rodney Landing, Mississippi, and sank, taking with it a lot of livestock, much of our wheeled equipment except for the Deadwood stage, and a deal of other stuff, but fortunately no human life, and not Pard, who I never saw swim before but who did a real good job with churning paws. As is obvious, I too made it to shore.

  Soon as we all got in and was counted, Cody found the nearest telegraph and sent Nate Salsbury, in Denver at the moment, a wire as follows: OUTFIT AT BOTTOM OF RIVER PLEASE ADVISE. And when Nate telegraphed back, GO N ORLEANS REORGANIZE, why that’s just what Buffalo Bill did in eight days, getting hold of another herd of buffalo, more wagons and all, and opening when it had been announced for weeks earlier—and then it rained in the Crescent City for the next forty-four days straight, keeping most people away, and the show was in the red sixty-some thousand dollars by winter’s end. Cody advised Salsbury he had a mind to go home and, for a change, get drunk.

  Though Buffalo Bill wouldn’t call off a performance if three tickets was sold, we had some time on our hands and New Orleans weren’t a place without interest, with its mix of all kinds of people speaking different lingos including not only what was supposed to be proper French but a version known locally as Coonass, which hadn’t no meaning of colored, for the black folk talked what they called Gombo Zerbes, combining West Indian and African palavers with everything else, and they had also concocted a tasty stew of the same name, which might burn your mouth if you had only previously used salt on your steak, though speaking for myself I had ate a meal or two in the better eateries of Tombstone like the Maison Doree and swallowed stuff with foreign names which underneath it all was usually proved to be the familiar meat and potatoes, but the New Orleans fodder was really different, maybe including even bugs and lizards and so on, but I reckon you could get a taste for it in time. The sporting houses was awful fancy too and offered special features unavailable in the cattle and mining camps—or so I was told by acquaintances.

  So far as I was personally concerned, I had got another of my crushes on a respectable female, though you might well ask why I was still wasting my time. All I can say is I was only doing what came natural to me, though in this case you might question what was natural about a man now forty-four being attracted to a girl who looked fourteen, with a fringe over her forehead and long wavy brown hair back of her ears and falling down over her shoulders, and not quite as tall as me, and I will hasten to tell you it was mostly a fatherly feeling, protective and not romantic, she being just the kind of pretty little thing any man would be proud to take care of and maybe write about as follows:

  She’s a loving little fairy

  You’d fall in love to see her.

  Her presence would remind you

  Of an angel in the skies.

  And you bet I love this little girl

  With the rain drops in her eyes.

  Now, I sure could never write such fine poetry myself, and in a minute I’ll tell you who did, but at the first time I ever saw this pretty gal we was still in N.O. camped out beyond Audubon Park in the rain and she was entering Cody’s tent accompanied by several men, among them our press agent John Burke, a big heavy fellow also known as Major or Arizona John, for most everybody around Cody had to have a title, nickname, or both, Buffalo Bill even naming each of his rifles.

  Having fallen for her on just that glimpse, scoff if you want, I waited till she left and then went to ask Cody whose daughter she was, and I tell you I wasn’t uneasy in so doing, given the clear conscience of my feeling.

  But he was busy at the time, going over the schedule with Burke, so I couldn’t ask him till later and by that time, what with his money worries and all, he couldn’t recall much about her except she was a performer with the Sells Brothers circus, which was also appearing locally and also suffering from the weather and about to leave town. I was disappointed to hear that, given the general reputation of females involved in entertainment in that time, which my experience with Dora Hand hadn’t gone to disprove, so with the idea that her schoolgirl appearance and demeanor was intended to deceive, and likely she was one of them lady acrobats wearing indecent tights that outlined the limbs, I dropped the matter from my mind.

  As it happened Buffalo Bill didn’t go home but instead took the Wild West upriver to Louisville, Kentucky, towards the end of April, and one day early in the engagement he called most of the company together in front of his tent and by the hand he brings forward the pretty girl I seen in New Orleans, and for a minute I thought what was the Wild West coming to, was we doing such bad business we had to hire a girlie act?

  “Little Missie here is joining us,” Cody says. “She’ll be the only white woman with our company, and I want you boys to welcome and protect her.”

  Standing next to me was another newcomer to the show—at least I assume he was for I never seen him before—a good-looking fellow of the middle height, with short, neat hair and a well-trimmed mustache, and I says to him out of the corner of my mouth, “She looks like a real velocipede,” which was what you might say in them days to mean quite lively.

  And he says, “Sure if she’s not my wife, little man, and I’ll kick your arse.”
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  I had put my foot in it for fair, for he turned out to be an Irishman named Frank Butler, a sharpshooter of reputation, and this little wife of his was even better though nobody knew at the time that she was just about the best as ever held a firearm, man or woman. Of course I’m talking about Annie Oakley.

  I sincerely apologized, explaining I had meant nothing immoral by the word, which in fact I wasn’t even sure of the meaning anyway, and thereupon begun a friendship with Frank that lasted all the while we three was with the Wild West, which meant I was Annie’s friend as well, for them two was close as could be, Frank being a rare fellow for that day or maybe any other in that he give up his own career to manage his wife’s after recognizing her greater talent. And I’ll say further that I kept my crush on Annie, who was actually about twenty-five at this point, but even when you knew that, she seemed like one of them young girls whose unstained character you wanted to protect from the ugly traffic of the world as long as possible. In fact there was little about harsh reality that Annie didn’t know from the age of nine or ten, when to take the strain of supporting a half-dozen other kids off her widowed mother, she was farmed out to a married couple what managed a poorhouse and insane asylum in that part of Ohio, and this pair put her at hard labor all day long. So she finally run back home, got her Pa’s old rifle, and subsequently become the provider of meat to her own family, killing so much small game she sold the excess to hotels and restaurants in the region.

  Now with the Wild West the Butlers had their own private tent, which in fact was their only residence at this point, so Annie made it homey as possible, with a nice carpet on the ground and proper furniture, including the rocking chair where she sat between shows, doing fancy embroidery or working on her costumes, of which she made all by hand. Frank wrote more of that poetry of which I give a sample earlier, not all of it romantic, some being what I guess could be called moral instruction, like the one entitled “What the Little Bird Said”:

  Life is like a game of cards

  In which we pass our stand.

  Sometimes the stake is a true heart,

  Ofttime it’s but a hand.

  Sometimes we take in the trick

  Which we should have passed,

  But if you play your cards for all they’re worth

  You’re bound to win at last.

  But in case you might think him a henpecked sissy, I should say Frank Butler was a fine enough shot to hold his own with the best, and sometimes he’d compete in shooting contests, apart from the show, keeping his aim keen, but his best talent of all was as a shrewd businessman, a much rarer gift in the world of entertainment than marksmanship. Not only did he set up profitable deals for Annie, both with Cody and in other public and private appearances in between seasons when the Wild West was shut down, but Frank was also a representative for several companies making guns and cartridges. I don’t think Annie ever had to reach into her own pocket to pay for a weapon or a round of ammunition. What weren’t given her gratis by some manufacturer, as an ad for his product, was sent by admirers first in this country, then all over the world, and the presents included valuable jewelry, silver services, rare china and crystal, and she also got medals everyplace she went.

  There wasn’t many who was not in love with Annie Oakley, so I don’t feel funny about including myself with the majority for once and not joining the few who detracted, usually with nothing more forceful than that she was stingy. I’d call it prudent. The fact was everybody looked parsimonious around Bill Cody, who was a big spender even before he had much money, so if she filled her little pitcher with lemonade from the gallon-sized one in his tent, you can be sure he didn’t complain, especially since he kept that fluid on hand only to give to child visitors and maybe to make Nate Salsbury believe it was what he himself was drinking. Though I’ll say again, Cody never missed a performance owing to drink, nor did it seem to affect his aim. He might not of been on Annie’s level, but there wasn’t nobody better at shooting from horseback.

  What did Annie do that was so special? Well, she would trip into the arena like a girl returning home from Sunday school, and then as if only just becoming aware there was people watching, shyly curtsy and wave and blow a kiss to all, wearing her wide-brimmed hat with a single silver star on the edge of the upturned brim, and a fringed dress and matching leggings that looked like buckskin but wasn’t, Annie considering leather too hot to perform in in summer.

  So there she was, a little, frail, helpless figure all alone in the middle of the arena big enough for the simulated buffalo hunts and Indian attacks to follow, and then she’d lift her rifle and begin to shoot, the first noises of which, extra-loud due to bouncing off the grandstand, would always startle the female spectators, who might scream at first, adding to the dramatics of the occasion, but gradually get used to the rapid fire from then on.

  What would she shoot? Glass balls, some filled with red-white-and-blue feathers or confetti, and clay pigeons hurled into the air by spring-powered traps operated by Frank. She could bust five balls, launched simultaneously, before any reached the ground. She would wait till the traps sent up two clay pigeons, then jump over a table, grabbing her gun off the top, and fire two shots busting both birds in the air. At times she tied her skirt at the knees, took off her hat, stood on her head, and, upside down, hit everything she aimed at. She shot a cigarette out of Frank’s mouth, and a dime held between his fingers at a range of thirty feet. She would hit targets behind her, holding a mirror in one hand and with the other firing the gun over her shoulder and, sighting on the thin edge, slice a playing card in two.

  Then, when her act was over, she would take a bow, blow a kiss, and make a cute little kick, a finale which become as famous as her shooting.

  But the biggest crowd-pleaser, though frankly I had a hard time watching it, was when she shot an apple off the head of her little poodle named George, and he would catch one of the burst slices in his mouth and eat it. I always feared a big horsefly, of which there was always plenty around due to our livestock, would buzz around when this act was in progress and George might snap at it just as Annie squeezed the trigger. The fact is this never happened, George staying ever still as a dog made of china. But then Annie’s reflexes was so fast she might of gotten off a safe shot even if he moved.

  Remember Cody’s suggestion I train old Pard to do tricks? Damn if I wanted to try that one. I sure never took Pard along when I went to the Butlers’ tent for a cup of tea. Just as I feared the Indians might eat him, I suspected he might of gotten the same idea about little George!

  Annie was the biggest single attraction of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, which by the way she was wont to call “B.B.W.W.,” with the possible exception of Cody himself, and the poster for the show, plastered all over every city we played, usually featured her stanch little person, wasp-waisted and bosom covered with medals, “The Peerless Lady Wing and Rifle Shot,” but she was to get an even better title by which she has been remembered ever since. And this come about as follows.

  I ain’t spoken about the Indians with the show since bringing Wolf Coming Out and the other Cheyenne to it, but my bunch done fine that season, enjoying the buffalo hunt and shooting at the settler’s cabin and the Deadwood stage even if the shots was blanks, and they never got tired of producing the bloodthirsty yells Cody encouraged, which in my experience was louder than what you heard in real fights and also a lot more gunpowder was burned in just one show than in any historical battle, for the redskins never had that many cartridges to burn, whereas the Wild West was better supplied than the U.S. Army, and it was fun for the Indians to be able to fire at whites and get paid and applauded for it. And if you think they might of been upset by having to lose every battle when Buffalo Bill showed up, they was not, for though going so much by dreams and visions and “medicine” like they did, Indians was at the same time rock-bottom realists: having lost the whole country in fact, they wasn’t bothered by getting whipped in make-believe fights, but mo
re important was the consideration that Buffalo Bill was paying them and supplying their meat, which by the way had to be beef at every meal unless one of the show buffalo died by accident, and Cody understood such details. I never knowed any other white person who never having lived with Indians got on so well with them as him, and I figure it was some of the same qualities that made him so good a showman that appealed to them: the taste for display and color and noise, and his personal style of being the center of attention without lowering the value of them around him, which was the manner of an Indian chief. So with real admiration and pride Bill could promote Annie’s career without any worry it would diminish his own.

  Nevertheless it was during that last disappointing engagement at the end of the season that Wolf Coming Out told me him and his bunch wanted to return home.

  I made the mistake of thinking their decision had to do with the show. “It will stop raining sometime,” I says. “Anyway, we’ll be moving north before long and the Wild West will get back to normal.”

  “We have to return for spring planting,” Wolf told me.

  “I am surprised to hear you talk like a farmer.”

  “That’s one of the things I learned at that very fine school,” says he. “It’s hard work and I don’t like it very much, but it is what I ought to do. Maybe I will come back some other time if you ask me, but now I have to go and do the plowing. The agents doesn’t want the women to perform that sort of work, because whites think women should be idle.”

  “The idea is that women are smaller and not as strong,” I pointed out, “so men should do the heavier tasks.”

  He raised his chin defiantly. I should mention this was not long before a performance and he was wearing the red-and-yellow facial war paint for the show, which Cody had them apply extra-gaudy so it could be seen clear from the grandstand. “The women of the Human Beings are stronger than most American men.”