Then the Pony Express. Oh, yes, recent history alive. The post rider rushing along, letters in his mochilla, reaching a stage stop, throwing his saddle onto a new mount and racing off, past lurking Indians and bandits, his fleet ponies carrying him safely to the next stop. Oh, the amazement! Letters and news crossing a continent by horse in just a few days, before the telegraph and the railroad.
Next was the immigrant train, the great Conestoga wagons lumbering West only to encounter lurking Indians, pioneers in peril until rescued by myself, riding over the horizon and driving off the tribesmen with blazing guns.
They loved that. They loved to see old Bill rescue the immigrants. That was worth plenty of cheers and a few whistles.
Then the Rough Riders. Cossacks, Arabs, Syrians, all demonstrating amazing feats of horsemanship that would electrify our audiences. Whirls of red and blue. Jumps and trots and backing and sidestepping and weaving, great columns wheeling, battle lines forming, bugles summoning. Was ever the world so grand?
Johnny Baker was next, costumed as a cowboy, chaps and a flat-crowned hat, compact and precise, knocking down targets so expertly he brought great cheers upon himself. A little grin, a tug of the hat, a shrug. My boy never failed to win his audience and I watched proudly every time.
The Vaqueros from old Mexico came next, their woven riatas snaking over cattle, tripping up calves, their horsemanship some of the best in all the world. Tan color and lithe grace, fluid motion, magical herding of spotted little long-horned cattle. I would wait, expectantly, for the sharp burst of applause, and it never failed to explode over us all.
I remember them fondly, grinning, dusky souls, proud of their abilities, fond of their cerveza, wowing the senoritas.
Then it was the cowboys again, having fun, plucking up hats from the ground at a full gallop, riding unbroken broncs, hooting and hollering until that whole crowd laughed with them and cheered each crazy stunt. Oh, those were my North Platte boys, my plainsmen, almost my flesh and blood.
I introduced the acts one by one, projecting my voice so far that even those in the most distant bleachers could hear me. I loved to introduce my people, tell that audience what a joy it was to offer these thrills on this splendid summer’s day. I had them in hand! But there was more, much more, awaiting them on a typical afternoon. Oh, I see it all now, as if it were only yesterday instead of twenty years ago.
Next came the military on parade: guidons and colors, scarlet, gold, white, gray, blue, green, all performing intricate maneuvers. The Sixth Cavalry of the United States Army, then the First Guard Uhlan, the famed Potsdamer Reds, of Kaiser Wilhelm II, and then the Chasseurs a Cheval de la Garde Republique Francais, and then the 12th Lancers, the Prince of Wales Regiment. Oh, how could anyone beat that? Imagine it! This was Nate Salsbury’s genius at work, and often audiences stood and cheered.
Oh, but there was more. Next came the authentic, the actual, the historic Deadwood Stage creaking and weaving around the arena, and its capture by Indians, and its rescue by myself and some of our cowboys. Lots of powdersmoke and plenty of drama there, until at last the stagecoach rolled away in safety, and our audiences cheered. I remember those cheers. I stood up in my stirrups and waved my hat in gratitude.
Then the bareback race! No saddles, just wild Indians careening around the arena, somehow hanging on with great feats of horsemanship. That was good for some hearty laughs and some great cheers, and the Indians knew how to win them.
Now it was Indian time, and our Sioux and Pawnee formed into villages, and then fell into their migratory ways, on horse and travois, to the music of our Cowboy Band. The audience was always strangely hushed and contemplative.
I came next on my white mount, performing some trick shots, often at high speed and it delighted me to show all those good people that I was more than a showman. Once again I bowed and lifted my hat to that fine crowd.
And then it was buffalo time. We ran them out there, great shaggy brown beasts few modern people had ever seen, the last remnant of the huge herds that once grazed the prairies. There they were, the authentic remnant, and next came the hunt; the Indians racing beside them, firing imaginary arrows into them, and the plainsmen drawing close with rifles, and pumping shots into them, blanks of course, as the buffalo careened around the arena. Then, amiably, the noble bison were trotted back to their pens, and the stage was set for the finale, an act so splendid I marvel that we were able to stage it. We did the Battle of the Little Big Horn, and in short order Custer and his bluecoats were surrounded by howling Sioux, some of whom had actually participated in that epic battle. There was Custer, there were the savages, there were the Seventh Cavalry dying one by one until at last General Custer remained, firing his matched revolvers until, suddenly, they were empty, and the great warrior fell.
Now I always counted the success of that scene not by applause but by the silence that shocked the arena, as my audience beheld the scatter of bluecoats, the drift of powder smoke, and the whisper of the wind. That silence was as deep and dark as midnight. Not until my Cowboy Band struck up our final salute did the crowd stir, and then we all sprang to life, took our bows, waved, and watched the thousands of happy folks drift away.
Another day, another show.
I will pass, but the Wild West will never die.
Author’s Notes
There is a widespread belief that the early exploits of Buffalo Bill Cody, the scout, the hunter, the Indian fighter, are the more important and authentic aspects of his life, while his later career as an impresario was mostly the result of puffery and publicity, and therefore less authentic.
I have come to an entirely different view. I believe that Cody’s genius came into full flower when he was an older showman operating an enormous traveling enterprise. He brought the early west to indelible life for audiences in America and Europe with authenticity, verve and skill, and he gave this nation an inheritance that lingers to this day. In short, I believe the older Cody’s achievements were more important than his early successes. His show business career cannot be dismissed as smoke and mirrors. I have focused in this novel more upon his brilliant later life as an impresario than his younger years, even though his record as an army scout was outstanding.
The historical record is silent about much of Cody’s private life, so I have freely invented scenes and interpreted his marital difficulties in ways that seem plausible to me. The rest of the novel hews closely to what is known about him.
Central to any novel about Cody is Don Russell’s splendid demythologizing biography, The Lives and Legends of Buffalo Bill. Other works of value to me include Buffalo Bill and His Wild West by Joseph G. Rosa and Robin May, The Life of Hon. William F. Cody Known as Buffalo Bill by himself, Buffalo Bill, Last of the Great Scouts by Helen Cody Wetmore, Annie Oakley by Shirl Kasper, Black Elk Speaks as told by John G. Neihardt, The Great Rascal, The Life and Adventures of Ned Buntline by Jay Monaghan, Timber Line by Gene Fowler, and The Real Wild West: The 101 Ranch and the Creation of the American West by Michael Wallis.
I want to thank my friend Steve Fox for some splendid genealogical sleuthing into the life and background of Katherine Clemmons Gould. I also wish to thank Dr. Paul Fees, who expertly provided leads to the best Cody material, and I especially want to thank my friend Dale Walker for his excellent counsel.
–Richard S. Wheeler
September, 2005
About the Author
Richard S. Wheeler has been winning readers to his fiction for more than three decades. He writes historical novels, mysteries, western fiction, and short stories. He has won six Spur Awards from Western Writers of America, and is also the recipient of the Owen Wister Award, given for lifetime contributions to the literature of the American West.
Wheeler has penned more than seventy novels for such publishers as Doubleday, Forge, M. Evans, Walker and Company, Bantam, Ballantine, and Fawcett. His short stories have appeared in collections published for William Morrow, Berkley, and Forge.
W
heeler lives in Livingston, Montana, in the heart of the country about which he writes. Learn more in his memoir An Accidental Novelist, and visit him at his Goodreads page.
Titles by R.S. Wheeler
Western Fiction
Bushwack
Beneath the Blue Mountain
Winter Grass
Sam Hook
Richard Lamb
Dodging Red Cloud
Stop
Fool’s Coach
Montana Hitch
Where the River Runs
Cutthroat Gulch
Incident at Fort Keogh
The Final Tally
Deuces and Ladies Wild
The Fate
Flint’s Truth
Flint’s Gift
Flint’s Honor
The Witness
Restitution
Drum’s Ring
Bounty Trail
Vengeance Valley
Seven Miles to Sundown
Fire in the Hole
From Hell to Midnight
Historical Novels
Badlands
The Two Medicine
The Rocky Mountain Company
Fort Dance
Cheyenne Winter
Cashbox
Goldfield
Sierra
Second Lives
The Buffalo Commons
Aftershocks
Sun Mountain
Masterson
The Fields of Eden
The Exile
Eclipse
An Obituary for Major Reno
Trouble in Tombstone
The Honorable Cody
Snowbound
The First Dance
The Richest Hill on Earth
Skye’s West Series
Sun River
Bannack
The Far Tribes
Yellowstone
Bitterroot
Sundance
Wind River
Santa Fe
Rendezvous
Dark Passage
Going Home
Downriver
The Deliverance
The Fire Arrow
The Canyon of Bones
Virgin River
North Star
Nonfiction
An Accidental Novelist (a memoir)
Mysteries
Bad Apple: A Cletus Parr Mystery
writing as Axel Brand
The Hotel Dick, A Lieutenant Joe Sonntag Mystery
The Dead Genius, A Lieutenant Joe Sonntag Mystery
Night Medicine, A Lieutenant Joe Sonntag Mystery
The Saboteur, A Lieutenant Joe Sonntag Mystery
The Honorable Cody Page 26