by Bill Albert
“Lucky to be alive, son,” he said, as he poked at me with his long fingers. “Damn lucky. Wished I knew what the devil those Indians smeared all over you. Might have helped knit those ribs but sure enough stinks like . . . like I don’t know what. Say, when’s the last time you had a wash, son?”
I couldn’t tell how long ago that had been, but I didn’t give a knife grinder’s whistle, for I had just met Buffalo Bill and that filled me up to forgetting everything else.
The doctor pushed Sunset Buffalo Dreamer’s eagle’s claw to one side, stuck a cold stethoscope on my chest and told me to take a deep breath.
“That hurt?”
I pointed to my throat.
“Yeah,” he said. “I bet it does. Can’t speak? Not a word?”
I moaned at him.
“That’s it, is it?”
That was it. Grunts hurt too much.
He sat down on the side of the cot and laced his fingers together.
“I surely don’t know, son. I surely don’t.”
It was only then that I started to get scared about my voice. I knew I had been hurt bad. I’d seen the bruises in a mirror and it looked sort of pushed in, but like a sore throat, I’d been figuring it would get better after a while or that once I saw a real doctor he would fix me up. Now the doctor’s face and his tight-laced fingers were telling me different.
It was right after that he asked about my parents. I could have told him, but weighing it all up as best I could, I figured Dead was the answer which gave me room to move around and maybe stay near to Buffalo Bill.
“I’m sorry for that, son. No family at all?”
I shrugged and wrote, Sunset Buffalo Dreamer.
He raised his eyebrows at me and then laughed, unlacing his fingers and smacking his hands together like plates of meat.
“Sure, son. You bet. Sunset Buffalo Dreamer! Mighty fine! I gotta hand it to you. Mighty damn fine!”
He made me drink something awful, but I was getting used to foul-tasting stuff, what with the potions Sunset Buffalo Dreamer cooked up. I wanted to ask the doctor about getting back my voice and I was thinking about it as I fell asleep. When I opened my eyes the tent was dark. The doctor was sitting at a folding table writing in a book. He turned at the sound of the bed creaking.
“You up, son? How you feeling? Let’s have a look at you.”
He brought the lantern over and put it beside the bed. I pulled back sharply when he felt for my throat.
“Sorry, son. I’ve got to be sure. You just take her easy, I’m not going to hurt you.”
He did though. There was fiery broken glass in my neck and when he touched me it sliced and burned. I cried, but that made it hurt even worse, so I gritted my teeth, which didn’t help much either but I couldn’t think of what else to do.
“OK, OK, it’s all over. I’m not going to bother your throat anymore. Let me give you something for that pain.”
Once again the foul tasting medicine and once again within a few minutes I was asleep.
When I woke up it was morning. The doctor looked me over again, this time without touching my throat and then gave me some cold oatmeal with molasses. It went down a treat.
Oatmeal and molasses would go down a treat right now, but I’m too many years away from Trenton and the Wild West Show and I don’t know if it’s morning yet or if it ever will be. I guess maybe I should have written “Liebermann” on the doctor’s piece of paper.
5
There’s a lot of people who’ll tell you how they know Buffalo Bill. Most of them probably won’t be lying either. He gets around plenty, traveling all over the country as he does. He’s shaken a lot of hands and so it stands to reason that there are hundreds, could be thousands of people out there, who can look you square in the eye and say, “Sure, I know Buffalo Bill.” That is all to say that knowing Buffalo Bill is not such an altogether special thing. However, for an eleven-year-old New York kid whose one idea of a worthwhile life was found between the covers of a dime novel, knowing Buffalo Bill was pretty damn special.
At least that’s what I thought as the doctor walked me through the encampment to the Great Scout’s tent. There were dozens and dozens of tents all laid out in neat rows and two large rope corrals with hundreds of horses and a smaller corral where they kept the buffalo and deer. There were only about ten buffalo and they didn’t look as big as I had imagined, sort of moth-eaten and missing big patches of fur. I had also figured that the main arena would be in a high-top tent like a circus, but it was instead an enormous open ring surrounded by hundreds of yards of pegged-down white canvas, like a low circular fence made out of sheets. Behind the canvas were tiers of bleacher seats.
MAIN ENTRANCE
Buffalo Bill’s Wild West
it read in fat red and black letters. To one side was a wagon where they sold tickets for the show. Other fancy-painted wagons were parked here and there and on the far side of the camp were the Indian tipis, their flaps folded back. Some Indians were sitting outside, but I was too far away to see who they were. Men walked, sauntered, strolled, or ran, some carrying buckets and others with timber, coils of rope, boxes, or long rolls of paper, blocks of ice, shovels, rifles, metal trays piled high with bread or just about anything I could think of and quite a few things I had never conjectured. Some were leading horses or pushing carts, others drove wagons, while there were others who seemed to be out for nothing more than an early morning constitutional. These, I found out later, were the performers. There was a goodly amount of friendly greetings being shouted back and forth. What with all those feet pounding and churning at the dry ground and throwing up dust it looked like every one of those walkers, strollers, runners, and saunterers was being followed by his own personal cloud.
When he got to the tent the doctor whispered something to an enormous scowling man standing out front, and went straight in. I was left outside with five or six men who were waiting to see Buffalo Bill too. No one said anything, but I caught some none-too-friendly looks from a couple of them, like I might be trying to steal their place in the line.
I scuffed my moccasins in the dirt, making my own dust, thinking about everything, focusing on nothing. I was too excited at the prospect of meeting Buffalo Bill again. What could I say to the man who had ridden for the Pony Express, hunted wild buffalo, been Chief Army Scout, and killed the murderous savage Yellow Hand in that famous duel? What could I say to the hero of Summit Springs?
“You, boy,” the big man at the tent flap called. “The Colonel will see you now, come on with you, hurry along.”
I don’t know what I was expecting inside, maybe something that went along with my idea of how the Great Scout of the Plains should live—a saddle, stacked rifles, a bedroll, that kinda stuff. But, it wasn’t even a real tent, more like a parlor in a regular house. First off it was roomy, maybe twenty foot square and more than high enough for all of Buffalo Bill’s six feet plus his Stetson. The floor was made out of planks and covered with a thick patterned carpet. White wicker arm chairs and a wicker sofa with red velvet cushions, decorative banquet lamps cut with flowers and such and a large bowlegged table covered with papers, bottles, cups, and glasses. There were even pictures on the walls, pictures of Buffalo Bill.
Buffalo Bill himself was no buckskin-attired borderman, but was dressed for his city parlor in a tight-fitting black jacket, a blue tie, and pinstriped pants which covered the tops of lace-up shoes. Hanging across the belly bulge of his waistcoat was a gold watch chain. Except for the long hair and the black Stetson he could have been a banker or a lawyer, almost anything but the hero of Summit Springs. I gotta admit to being sorely disappointed.
The doctor was there and two other men. One small and thin, the other tall and portly, like two sides of a coin. The thin man had tight lips and sunken eyes, wore a too-big suit and a derby hat. He had a short peppery beard. That was Nate Salsbury, Buffalo Bi
ll’s right hand and vice president of the Show. The other was Major Arizona John Burke, manager of the Show. Like Buffalo Bill he had gray hair that fell down past his shoulders, although his was more curly and he sported a mustache which must have been two foot wide. A long jagged scar was cut down one cheek. He was dressed in a frock coat, striped pants, and a broad-brimmed hat. Unlike Salsbury he also wore a big smile.
“Well!” bellowed Buffalo Bill, “if it isn’t Little Buffalo, or maybe we should just call you Little Mr. Trouble!”
I tried my damnedest to smile, but I didn’t pull it off.
“You got pain, boy? The Doc here he tells me you don’t have any folks. That true?”
I shook my head.
“So you do have folks!” He looked a question at the doctor. “Glad to hear that, boy! Where would they be living? New York?”
I shook my head again.
“That’s where the old Chief said he found you.”
I walked over to the table and took a blank piece of paper and a pen. Dipping the pen in the ink bottle I wrote, My father is Sunset Buffalo Dreamer, in my finest flourishy Spencerian handwriting, miles better than I had ever done for Dr. Cohen, who was always rapping my knuckles and shouting at me for doing nothing but “chicken scratchings.”
“Now that is one darn fine scrawl, boy, darn fine. Rarely seen the one to match it. Nate, John, you come over here and have a gander at this.”
He shoved the paper into Salsbury’s hands.
“Yes, a child of the gutter with an educated hand. That sure does beat all, Will.”
He had a soft whisper of a voice, more so against the Colonel’s loud bray. He passed the paper to the Major, who lifted his eyebrows appreciatively.
“Where’d you learn to write like that, boy?” Nate Salsbury asked me sharply, as if I’d stolen it from someone.
School, I wrote with a smoothly curved line, enjoying my skill.
“And where’d you find a school to teach you to write like that?”
I shrugged, immediately regretting that I’d ever seen The Spencerian Key to Practical Penmanship. Too many details and sooner or later they would trap me into telling the truth. I had a lot to learn about keeping one step ahead in my new life.
“Come on, boy, where’d you learn this at?”
“Nate,” interrupted Major Burke, “don’t go on at the poor benighted boy so. With all the terrible trials and taxing tribulations he’s been through, why, it’s all been enough to crush the heart clean out of a stronger man to say nothing of the tender trusting heart of a small defenseless child. He writes a good hand, so what?”
“So what?” returned Nate, agitated by the bigger man’s question. “Don’t you understand anything? I wonder sometimes if you haven’t lost your sense in amongst all the flowery words you . . .”
“OK, OK!” said Buffalo Bill, raising his hand, “lets all keep our hair on. This ain’t getting the job done.”
Swinging himself around in his chair, he waved me to come closer. He put his hand on my arm. I reckon he could feel my knees shaking. Close up and in his banker’s clothes he seemed much older than he had the day before and years older than in the Dimes. Wrinkles around the eyes, loose skin at his neck like a turkey, brown blotches on his hands. Through the stink of whisky and cigars he smelled a lot like my grandfather, an old man’s smell. I was feeling damn queer. It was getting difficult to adjust my expectations quick enough to what I was banging up against.
“Now I want you to listen real good,” Buffalo Bill said in a voice so loud they must have heard it down at the Indian tipis. “We know for 200 percent sure that Sunset Buffalo Dreamer ain’t your paw. So do you. Indians are always dreaming but that don’t make what they dream true, does it? Course not. Besides, from what I hear from the Doc, the only tribe you belong to is the Lost Tribe!”
The men laughed, all except Nate Salsbury.
“What I mean to say is that the Doc tells me you are of the Hebrew persuasion. A Jew, boy.”
How had he worked that out? Was I giving things away without knowing or was he just guessing? If I let them get as far as Jewish, it wasn’t much farther to the Upper West Side and from there only a stone’s throw to the house on Eighth Avenue. Being a Jew wasn’t going to do me any good at all at the Wild West Show. I shook my head.
“No? That’s what you’re telling me? No? Come on, ain’t nothing to be ashamed about being a Jew, boy. Why Mr. Salsbury here is married to the nicest Jewess you’d ever want to meet. Ain’t that right, Nate?”
Nate coughed, shifted in his chair and recrossed his legs.
The Major laughed. “That’s right, son. Mrs. Salsbury’s a regular English-Hebrew nightingale she is. Charm the apples off the bough when she sings.”
I still shook my head again as firmly as I could given the state of my throat.
“Doc?” commanded Buffalo Bill.
The doctor walked across the room. Under the thick rug the floorboards heaved and squeaked. I thought about Charlie Pinto Face and the Carlisle boots.
“I reckon maybe he just doesn’t know, Colonel,” said the doctor. “Why should he? Maybe he thinks everybody’s like that.”
“Do you, boy?” asked Buffalo Bill, amazed. “Do you really? Well that would be something!”
By then I had pretty much lost the thread. All that talk was unsettling, but it was nothing to the unsettlement which sneaked up on me a few moments later.
Buffalo Bill grinned, reached forward and ever so gently put his hand inside my pants and grabbed my penis. Just grabbed it as if it were no more than shaking your hand! I mean to say, banker’s clothes, wrinkles, lace-up shoes and a fancy rug on the floor was one thing, but grabbing my penis and shaking it like a cow’s teat! I’d never read anything in the Dimes about that. I let out a throat-hurting squeak and Buffalo Bill let go of me.
“That little pecker there, boy, that little pecker it says it all. Loud and clear it does. The Mark of Abraham. So don’t you be telling me ‘No’!”
The long and short of it was that I had discovered through Buffalo Bill’s educating hand, together with the doctor’s more conventional explanation, that not all men were circumcised. Little Cut-Penis was cleared up too. After that, until my recent unfortunate lapse with Montana Jim, I was dead careful to pee alone, leaning away to the side or doing it through Jewdiciously cupped hands, as you might say. I figure there is no need to make extra trouble for myself.
Sure, I know Buffalo Bill all right. I know him a lot more than for just shaking his hand.
6
There’s no end of thinking about the “what ifs.” All those stray happenings stumbling over each other to push you along, and all the time you’re thinking it’s you that’s doing the pushing. It wasn’t much different for me that morning in Buffalo Bill’s tent. Events were moving full tilt and while I thought I was having an influence on the outcome, when I look back I can see that I had no more push than a leaf caught up in a fast-flowing creek.
Nate Salsbury was for turning me over to the police or the local Jewish community in Trenton.
“It ain’t our business to look after orphans and strays. If we did that with all the kids that come along, where’d we be. Will? Must be dozens of them each day want to run away from home and join the Show. Some of them younger than this one here.”
Buffalo Bill now had hold of my shoulder. He gave me a friendly squeeze.
“Sit yourself down over there, boy,” he said, pointing to the wicker sofa with the red cushions and then patted my behind to help me on my way.
“Can’t fault you, Nate. You’re right all the way down the line on that. Dozens of ‘em for sure. How old are you, boy?”
12, I wrote, although I should have lied older.
“Kinda small for it, but never mind. You know what I was doing when I was your age?”
“Bill!” Nate Salsb
ury cried out in irritation. “We don’t got time . . .”
“Wait up a minute, Nate, let me just tell the boy how it was. He ain’t the first, won’t be the last kid having to make it through on his own. When I was younger than you, boy, I was working with the wagon trains out of Leavenworth, Kansas, a bullwacker for Majors and Russell. That’s right, eleven years old I was!”
I knew the story better than he did. How he became the man in the family after his father was knifed to death for speaking out against slavery, how he drove teams and cattle when he was no older than me and had to fight off Indians and Mormons, how he saved a wagon train during a buffalo stampede and how he killed his first Indian.
“I was just a boy like you and I didn’t know any better, but I still feel bad about that poor Indian,” he said. “Probably didn’t mean no harm, sitting there watching was all. A dumb kid with a gun is all I was!”
That’s not how it read in the Dimes. Wasn’t the Indian about to shoot one of the his pards when Buffalo Bill picked him off with a single shot? Why should he feel bad about that?
“And we still got us an Indian problem,” chipped in the Major.
“That’s right, John. We got Sunset Buffalo Dreamer and Charlie Pinto Face and a mess of the others ready to pack up and ride if we take the boy away. What’re we going to do about that, Nate?”
“Can’t have the Indians telling you how to run things. Will! I already got Bailey come storming around last night shouting at me as to how you had no call to make Barnum eat crow in front of them Indians like you did.”
“Damn circus people!” Buffalo Bill exploded. “What the hell do they know about handling Indians? Freak shows and caged animals is what they know! We were going fine before, just fine before Bailey come along.”
“That’s right. Bill,” offered the Major. “Just fine and dandy.”
“Fine, was it?” Nate returned, aiming a sneer at the Major. “Bailey got us properly on the road and making money again. Remember that, Will.”