The Honorable Cody

by Richard S. Wheeler

  Perhaps that’s why I like children so much. They haven’t been exposed to all the folderol. They gather around me and stare at my goatee and my long locks and my buckskins and boots, and that’s all they see, a man quaintly dressed. So they don’t expect me to leap over the moon or ride three hundred miles at a time, wearing out six horses, or engage in hand-to-hand combat with half a dozen fierce Sioux or Cheyenne.

  But now, in the quiet of my tent, I sometimes ask myself whether I participated in all these exaggerations, whether for the sake of that ticket window I let myself be remade into the man I never really have been. It’s an old man’s question. The young wouldn’t think of it. It’s the question a man asks as he prepares for the final curtain and the last bow.

  I think, as I look back, that these things had a momentum of their own and were largely beyond my control. In short, I vindicate myself. I never had time to read all the reams of copy written about me. And even if I had time, I wouldn’t have. I could barely stand to read one paragraph, much less several hundred pulp novels. They started with true stories about myself and began inserting things. Before I knew it, some editor had changed the facts around. I suppose in show business no one would mind but the strange thing is that I do. There’s some frontier boy in me that wants the stories right, and that boy is still there, still wanting the stories to be right.

  Maybe the historians will sort it out. Maybe that’s why I find myself penning this memoir, rectifying the absurd, whittling down the exaggerations. It’s an old man’s labor of love, I suppose. But I don’t mean to belittle what I am. If the world had received nothing but absolute truth about me, washed clean of the publicist’s hand, the world would still esteem old Buffalo Bill and I would still esteem my loyal followers.

  Chapter 5

  Harry H. Tammen

  There was no time to spare. I intended to butter Louisa Cody into planting Buffalo Bill in Denver and I had to reach her before the heat left him. I thought I might have a persuasive argument, notably my bank account.

  She was staying at the Windsor, having scorned the residence of Cody's sister, May Decker, where the colonel lay abed, failing each hour. By means of relays of messengers I arranged an audience with her in a red-velvet chamber off the mezzanine of the hotel the evening of the tenth, barely eight hours after Cody had crossed the divide.

  She was attired in silky black but did not seem unduly desolated.

  “Ah, Mrs. Cody, my most earnest condolences. I am grateful to you for coming at this most inopportune moment,” I began.

  “Now, now, Mr. Tammen, please leave the door open.”

  She looked like she wished I wouldn’t.

  “For you, Mrs. Cody, it will always be open.” I meant it in more ways than she could imagine.

  She nodded, her gaze following me as I settled in a wing chair across from her. She was a most peculiar woman, bug-eyed, pout-lipped and vaguely repellent. Her marriage to Cody had been the mismatch of the century. Her lips were pursed now, curved slightly downward, awaiting my proposition. Her frog-eyed gaze raked me.

  “My dear Louisa, as you know, we at the Denver Post have had certain business arrangements with the late colonel, and in fact we own the name, Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, though everything else we owned has now departed. But I am not here on business. No, no, not that, not at such a moment as this. Let me set all business matters aside, stand above and beyond the counting house and consider what is sacred to me now. I’m here to honor a man who delighted millions of people on two continents. I’m here to offer him one final tribute.”

  “I’m glad you think he deserves one,” she said.

  That was an illumination for me, and I knew I could play her like a trout. It was no secret that she was estranged from Cody, had found his neglect of her desolating, had despised his show business, and had, after thwarting divorce, gotten her own revenge out of it all by extracting every cent she could from him by whatever means she could. She was a woman with whom I could enjoy some rapport.

  “You know, Louisa, the colonel deserves more than a grave in an obscure corner of Wyoming near some rude village he set up and named after himself. He deserves the best memorial money can buy, in a majestic and imperial city of the West where he will be celebrated for centuries to come. He is the greatest man America has ever produced. Next to him, George Washington is a piker, Thomas Jefferson is a shrimp. If you were to bury him here in Denver, the world would not soon forget Colonel Cody. But if you were to bury him on some lonely hill, surrounded by gloomy forest, overlooking that little Wyoming frog pond, his name and his legend would swiftly vanish and there would be no more of him than his fifteen minutes in the sun.”

  She stared levelly at me. “He wishes to be buried in Cody. I think it’s in his will.”

  “Wishes! That’s nothing to worry about. It’s merely a wish, Louisa. He loved the plains and he loved Denver and we would love to bury him here, free from the politics and passions that may have affected his choice of the place of eternal rest. Just think. From a noble mountaintop here, his spirit will gaze forever out upon the plains where he was a scout, where he was at his best. Think of it; he’ll be right here, not hundreds of miles away.”

  “His sisters want to bury him in Cody. So does Irma.”

  “But you’re the widow, and I know you want to do the right thing for the colonel. It's your choice. And this is the right thing! Lay him to rest close to a great city, where pilgrims will flock to his final resting place to pay tribute to a man honored by presidents and kings and everyone who ever saw him.”

  “I believe it’s in his will, Mr. Tammen.”

  “Why, you just need to reinterpret it a little. As any probate court knows, what is wished by the decedent and what is to be done with the estate are two different things, especially if the language is permissive. The Post wishes to honor Colorado’s leading citizen. The Post sees Buffalo Bill as an asset for Colorado, for the West, a great man worthy of the highest honor the grateful citizens of this state can offer him.”

  “Ah...”

  “Forever and ever.”

  “Well...”

  I paused, pregnantly. “If you will bury him here the Post will contribute generously to his funeral and a memorial graven in granite that will last a thousand years. Cody’s grave will be there forever, long after the American Republic has turned to ashes. Say, ten thousand dollars?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.” She rolled that around in her mouth like a bonbon.

  That was more than a contribution to his funeral. That was about seven thousand simoleons in Louisa’s bank account after the morticians had been paid. I saw it as a trivial price to pay for such an asset to the local economy. Cody was worth almost as much dead to the Post as he was alive. Maybe more. I had plans...

  She didn’t pause for a second. “That would be most kind of you,” she said. “I will expect the check before I retire in an hour.”

  An hour. It could be managed. The Windsor was only a ten minute stroll from my offices.

  “I suggest that you make the announcement in the morning,” I said. “We’ll feature it in the Post, front page news right along with our obituary. And of course, the ten thousand is a charity, just between the two of us, that won’t be mentioned, our private way of honoring your magnificent spouse.”

  She smiled, something I thought was alien to her nature. “You are most kind,” she said.

  “Think nothing of it. We want to give the colonel everything he deserves.”

  “I don’t suppose he will ever get what he deserves,” she said. “Good night, Mr. Tammen. I will be awaiting the check.”

  A half hour later the draft was in her hands. The next day, the Post announced that Buffalo Bill Cody would be buried on Lookout Mountain where his spirit would always be at home. Until a crypt could be hewn out of rock up there, he would lie in Denver. And there would be a vigil.

  On the front page of the next edition I invited the children of Denver and all of Colorado to con
tribute their pennies, but never more than five cents, to help construct Cody’s grave. The request made a great splash across Colorado and soon the cash rolled in from boys and girls eager to honor the great Colorado scout. There would be more than enough to plant the old boy in style and maybe even repay the Post for its contribution to Cody’s funeral.

  And so it was settled. I had kept my mitts on Cody. Denver had an asset. Tourism would increase. Thousands each year would urge their motor cars up that winding grade to the top of Lookout Mountain, there to pay homage to the scout. I could sell a lot of papers and booklets and lithographed posters.

  It was a good evening’s work but not an unusual one for me and I think back upon it now with satisfaction. I believe that one can shape one’s opportunities, and I did. I stop at nothing. I’ve known Cody for many years; he was a habitué at the Windsor when I tended bar there, though he scarcely paid me heed. My partner, Fred Bonfils and I bought that old relic, the Denver Post, and soon it was the premier paper of Colorado, battling for the people and against evildoers and private interests such as the Circus Trust.

  Actually, Colonel Cody came to me in 1913. He was still hale and imposing, though his long locks had grayed and his cheeks had sunken a bit. By this time, his Wild West had gone through several permutations and now was the Two Bills show. He had combined with Pawnee Bill, whose real moniker was Gordon Lillie, to produce the combined Buffalo Bill Wild West and Pawnee Bill Great Far East show. It had been doing just fine. Buffalo Bill was, of course, the senior man. No one could touch him. He outdrew everyone else at the ticket window, garnered most of the publicity, and continued to draw huge audiences even though some of his greatest attractions, such as Annie Oakley, had long since decamped, and the show was less well managed than when Nate Salsbury or John Bailey were holding the purse-strings.

  The Wild West was three decades old and yet it was still churning along, and the old Colonel was still riding his white horse out in the arena, arrow-backed and grand, waving to the throng, introducing the familiar acts. He was doing better than most circuses, better than my own Sells-Floto circus, even though we had the best elephant and the best elephant acts in the business.

  I had met Cody in the Red Room. The place gives me some leverage.

  “Freddy, old friend, I’ve come to ask a favor,” he began without preamble.

  “It's Harry.”

  “Ah! You remind me of old Freddie.”

  Old Freddie indeed. Cody and I had a nodding acquaintance at best.

  “At your service, colonel.”

  “I need a loan. Substantial loan. My mine down in Arizona’s eating up all my income. It’s got some splendid tungsten ore and the signs are getting better the farther we tunnel. Good ore, rare metals, my retirement income sitting there, waiting for the last infusion that will put the mine into production.”

  “You know mining as well as ranching, colonel.”

  “I daresay I do! I’ve been personally supervising the operation, down in Oracle outside of Tucson, and the prospects have never been brighter. But now I’m strapped. Gordon Lillie, my partner, wants twenty grand from me to winter the livestock and I temporarily don’t have it. I’m looking for twenty thousand dollars.”

  “And what is your surety?”

  “Myself; a lien against the Wild West, my part of it, anyway.”

  “And how will you repay?”

  “Out of profits, Mr. Tammen. We’re doing well.”

  I mulled that and liked it. For twenty thousand I could buy the world’s foremost showman and I thought that was dirt cheap. To be sure, he was frayed around the edges, but so what? There could be fifty thousand a year in it for the Post, plus invaluable publicity for Sells-Floto.

  I didn’t consult Fred Bonfils. He is too conservative for my taste. He sees the numbers but not the boodle. Cody had never been able to hang onto a nickel. In a year, I’d own him. But if I tried that out on Bonfils it would sail right past him.

  “Let me draft a little agreement, colonel, and tomorrow we’ll put the greenbacks in your capable hands.”

  The next day, he walked out with twenty thousand. That’s a lot of cash and I had to scratch it up.

  The following season was rainy and the Two Bills Show wasn’t doing well. Debts were piling up. All to the good, I thought. When I saw the Cody-Lillie combination was going to play Denver, I hastened matters along by having our sheriff attach the show for various printing debts. We auctioned off the whole thing, including Cody’s saddle and white horse, and the old Deadwood Stage that had been a fixture in the Wild West from the beginning. That was the last of the Wild West. It never surfaced again.

  And that is how I bought Buffalo Bill. He was now my private property. I owned him. I still own his name. I could tell him when to eat, when to sleep, when to shave. Within a brief period I gutted the Wild West, forced it into bankruptcy, fended off lawsuits by Pawnee Bill, and added the one and only William F. Cody to my circus, my trained seal for a hundred bucks a day. It was, if I may say so, the best coup of all. I own the name, Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. And even a dead Cody can pump value into a name like that. As long as I had Cody’s widow in hand, the future could only be rosy.

  (From the memoir of Colonel William F. Cody)

  The thing about Harry Tammen is that he’s greatly misunderstood. I always got along splendidly with him but not with his newsmen and shysters. He is, actually, one of God’s noblemen. I cannot think of a more gracious and accommodating man. He is a true genius as well, having built up a great and public-spirited newspaper. His gifts, which are beyond numbering, include the ability to spot talent, hire it for whatever it takes, and then encourage the best from that talent. By this means he became the most influential and valued citizen of Denver and also my bosom friend.

  When I first heard of Tammen, it was always in the negative. Isn’t it awful what he’s done to the old Post. Red headlines! Crime on the front page! Things like that. But I thought the occasional red headline was striking, appropriate and dignified. I told my advance man, Burke, there’s a paper to watch. Maybe we should be putting red headlines on our programs and pamphlets. Burke just shook his head. He’s so conservative I can scarcely get him to try new things.

  But the Post blossomed in the space of a few years into the greatest paper of the Rocky Mountain West, and I credit Tammen, more so than his obscure counting-house partner Bonfils, who was always a worrier. Harry Tammen, I’m told, started off humbly, but he always had an eye for the main chance and took it. Once he got hold of the Post he turned it into the beautiful conscience of Denver. Did poor children need shoes? There would be the red headline, and a story about barefoot children in the snow, and a plea for nickels and dimes that would go into a special fund to buy shoes for urchins. Now that’s how to sell a paper and do good at the same time. I’ve always thought that Harry Tammen and I have an unspoken bond between us; we see the world through much the same lens.

  Now I’m not saying that everything between us was smooth sailing. The trouble with Tammen was that once he purchased all that talent he could never curb it. He bought the wildest and fastest horses and never got a bit into their mouths. Take that young reporter Fowler who’s been dogging me for years. He sidles up and asks the most impertinent questions, with such effrontery it leaves me breathless. My cure for Fowler would be a good whipping. I know Harry would like to curb the young pup, but Fowler is almost unstoppable. That’s what you get when you hire talent like that. Harry Tammen’s got lawyers just as bullheaded as his news staff but he can’t rein them in, and that’s how I got into some trouble with the Post.

  But that’s not Harry’s fault. He’s a showman and a genius, and he understands how to make newspapers bloom. The real purpose of a newspaper is to entertain. News is dull. Who wants it? But you put some hoochy-koochy in one of those old relics, and it springs to life like a fifty-year-old maiden lady getting married to a millionaire. It’s the showman in him. A newspaper’s a show just like the Wild West o
r the Sells-Floto Circus, and it requires a content that amazes and delights and lifts up the community.

  When I first met him I saw the showman. Here was a newspaper executive with a yen to own a circus, so he created one out of some ragtag dog and pony shows. There’s a man I can understand. Where he outshines me is simply words. I could understand his wanting the name Sells for his circus. Sells Brothers is one of the great circuses so Tammen finally got a fellow named William Sells to let him use the name. But the Floto part of it is what brings out the genius in him. Tammen simply liked the sound of the name, which belonged to his sports editor, Otto Floto. He rolled it around on his tongue and decided it was a fine circus name and ought to decorate broadsides and posters. So Otto Floto, the sports editor whose sole ambition is tormenting his rival sports reporter Bat Masterson, lent his marvelous name to Harry Tammen. I consider that a stroke of show business.

  Now the first person I thought of when I was strapped for cash a few years ago, was Harry Tammen. If he didn’t have it in his vault he certainly could dig it up. I headed for the Post, and arranged a little lunch with Harry, and broached the subject of a loan. Harry Tammen is the soul of kindness and those blue eyes sparked with interest when I described my temporary straits.

  “Why, Colonel, that’s the least I can do for you,” he said, making a note on a linen napkin. “I’ll need a lien on your half of the show, of course, but that’s no problem, is it?”

  His blue eyes searched me.

  “Not at all, Harry,” I said. “Fact is, that tungsten mine of mine is going to disgorge a small bonanza any moment now and I imagine you’ll be paid to the last penny, usury included, in three or four months.”

  He can act fast, and within hours he had a contract ready and a bank draft for me. Of course I forwarded the draft to Lillie, and thought the matter was over. Harry Tammen had bailed me out, generously too, and with all the instinct of a true showman who knows the ups and downs of the business. He ranks right there with the greatest, such as John Bailey or Nate Salsbury, or even Barnum. And his distaste for the Ringling brothers and their circus trust was an asset to me; the Wild West has wrestled with the Ringlings for years, booking towns, scheduling trains, avoiding head-on competition, dodging around those mastodons of the arena. In Harry Tammen the Two Bills show had a fine new ally, and I never doubted his good will.