Twain said, “It’s a prototype, not yet available on the market. Edison invented it. It requires no dipping; a reservoir inside the barrel furnishes the ink automatically. The Wizard of Menlo Park challenged me to amuse his young friend, a clever machinist’s apprentice named Ford, born to a farming family in Michigan of Irish and German stock. Edison had never seen the fellow crack a smile, but I reduced him to tears with a simple anecdote about Jewish immigrants. That was my prize.”
“It seems a splendid instrument.” Cody handed it back.
“It leaks something fierce. I gave up on it after it expectorated over an entire page of Roughing It.”
“Then why carry it?” asked the frontiersman.
“For occasions such as this.” Twain returned the pen to its box and the box to his pocket.
Cody emptied his glass and glanced at the waiter, who refilled it and Twain’s, which lacked an inch of vacancy. “I heard something about a wager.”
“My bump of humor against your trigger finger?” Twain sipped and flicked drops of bourbon from his mustaches.
“A series of increasingly difficult targets against a queue of mountingly humorless listeners,” Cody said. “When one misses, the other must score, or forfeit the contest.” He tossed down his drink in one motion and slammed down the glass on the table that separated them.
“And the stakes?”
“My part of one week’s proceeds from the Wild West in Chicago to three months’ royalties from your latest literary effort.”
“One month,” Twain said. “It isn’t Ben-Hur, but it’s kept my loudest creditors silent.”
Cody dismissed the matter with a gesture. “Who shall hold the stakes?”
“Friend Roosevelt, who is too honest to cheat and far too wealthy to corrupt.”
“I accept!” The commissioner’s broad face flushed with excitement; then he cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “I must, however, insist upon a more appropriate venue. Hotel personnel are notoriously unreasonable about indoor gunplay. May I suggest Colonel Cody’s exhibition grounds?”
Twain put out his cigar. “His advantage would be too great. The gallant South made that mistake when it took the field at Gettysburg. We are but a few hours by rail from Missouri, where a man may shoot all day and not disturb so much as a mule.”
“But knock a chip off a statue of Mr. Clemens in every direction,” Cody said. “I fought with the North, but fortunately was not present at Bull Run. I have an alternative, provided civilization has not crept that far.”
When he identified the spot, all three men touched glasses and drank. The waiter hastened to refill them.
“Hideous!” Roosevelt, clad in tweeds and high laced boots, scraped a foul mess off one heel onto a plank. “To think that such a sordid place should exist in the midst of one of the greatest cities of the world is shameful. If someone does not come forward to reclaim this land from its inhabitants, I shudder to think what the twentieth century will hold.”
Buffalo Bill Cody, who had exchanged his soft bleached buckskins for rougher hides stained with old sweat and darkened from smoke, thumped his chest with both fists and breathed deeply the scents of Blue Island, a neighborhood neglected by all but derelicts and the saloonkeepers who lived off their thirst. “Where you see only decay and despair, I see my youth. It was here that Ned Buntline and I recruited Indians for Scouts of the Plains fifteen years ago.”
“The Old Pepper tribe, I suspect.” With a toe, Mark Twain nudged an empty bottle whose label advertised that pungent brand of whiskey. He was careful to avoid contact with the rubbish and horse offal with his white linen cuffs. He alone was attired more fittingly for a lecture hall than for the dregs of a city.
“We sold out everywhere we played, from here to Albany,” said Cody.
“It’s gratifying to see you earned enough to afford real Indians.”
“Spare your ammunition,” warned Cody. “The contest hasn’t begun.”
The location, originally a sandbar in one of the canals fed by Lake Michigan, had been built up over the years by deposits of garbage and manure scraped from the streets. Clusters of saloons stood upon it, ramshackle affairs without foundations, but a spot where one had burned recently and its remains scavenged for firewood offered space and an unobstructed view of the lake, where expired rounds could fall to rest without causing casualties.
Roosevelt alone had come without the support of acquaintances. Cody was accompanied by reloaders from the Wild West; a number of genuine Sioux and Cheyenne from the exhibition, resplendent in tribal trappings; some unidentified parties; and a young man named Johnny Baker, a protégé who wore his hair long like Cody, dressed in buckskins, and specialized in launching and setting up targets. Twain had brought along an amiable band of admirers, men and women whose eyes twinkled even as they picked their way carefully among the topographical hazards and whose lips quivered perpetually on the edge of laughter. “Even the finest pump requires priming,” the humorist had explained.
“Quite proper,” Cody said. “One warms up with the easier marks. However, I shall select the audience.”
“And I shall select the targets.”
Simultaneously, the two contestants produced bank drafts—Twain from a pocket, Cody from inside the sweatband of his great Stetson—and held them out to Roosevelt. The pair averred that the totals were averages only, to be amended later should protest arise.
The commissioner placed the drafts in a flat wallet and slid it into a pocket. “Surely, this is not just a matter of material gain.”
Twain said, “In the words of my creditors, ‘It ain’t the principle of the thing, it’s the money.’ There is, however, a question of pride.”
“The gentleman from Missouri has struck the critter square betwixt the eyes,” said Cody. “He’s claimed for himself the championship title without raising so much as a pistol or a fist in its defense. I’m challenging it. Henceforward, the winner of today’s match will be known exclusively as ‘The American.’”
“Satisfactory, Mr. Clemens?”
“The gentleman from Missouri” slid the band off a fresh cigar. “Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Cody, it suits me right down to the ground.”
The contestants and their parties retired to opposite ends of the narrow island to practice. Young Johnny Baker drew specially blown glass balls from a trunk he’d brought along and hurled them over the lake while Cody, using a Deluxe Winchester 1873 carbine with gold plate on the receiver, burst them first one by one, then in twos and threes, levering fresh rounds into the chamber with lightning speed. His group met each success with cheers and applause, not counting occasional exceptions: The Indians observed the spectacle with impassive expressions, their arms folded beneath their blankets, while a stoutish, middle-aged woman wearing an abundance of clothing and a hat with a veil remained glum-faced.
On his end, Twain, puffing his cigar and hooking his thumbs inside the armholes of his snowy vest, related a succession of stories from his childhood in Hannibal through his adventures as a riverboat pilot on the Mississippi for his increasingly appreciative audience. As with Cody, not all were voluble: A leathern man in a rumpled suit smeared with tobacco ash, his fingers stained with ink, stood silently, scribbling with a stub of yellow pencil on a thick fold of newsprint.
At length, both competing parties announced that they were ready to begin. One of Twain’s companions handed him a flask of brandy. Twain slanted it Cody’s way inquiringly. The other demurred. “That which fuels the storyteller’s engine clouds the sharpshooter’s eye.”
“A metaphor well and truly mixed.” Twain swigged. “Defer to me the art of oratory and I in turn will keep my paws off your guns.”
Cody bared his teeth. “Choose a target, sir.”
Twain held out the flask for his companion to take, then cast his glance up and down the length of the island. Finally, he turned his attention toward the lake. After squinting against the sun’s glare for most of a minute, he took the cigar fro
m his mouth and used it as a pointer. “Yon piece of flotsam, to start.”
All stared in that direction, Cody holding up his hat as a shield against the brightness. An elongated section of driftwood, bleached white and rounded at the edges like soap, bobbed in the swells sliding toward shore. From that distance it seemed no larger than a needle.
Cody looked at Roosevelt. “Sixty yards?”
The man addressed raised and resettled his spectacles, scowled. “I’ll accept your word. I myself can see nothing but blue water.”
“Fortunately,” Twain said, “politics is one of the few professions where shortsightedness is no obstacle.” His coterie chuckled.
“Wait your turn, sir.” Cody put on his hat, bent to scoop up a handful of loose earth, and cast it with the wind. He accepted his Winchester from Johnny Baker, worked the lever, shouldered the weapon, and pressed the trigger; he seemed hardly to aim. The pale target stood on end, spun, and fell back to the surface with a smack. A hoot went up from his admirers. The Indians and the woman remained silent.
“Well done,” said Twain. “The choice now is yours.”
Cody’s gaze swept both groups. It rested momentarily on the grim visage of the woman in his own party. A bitter smile touched his lips. Then he shook his head and clapped a hand on the shoulder of the leathery fellow in the wrinkled suit. “Samuel Clemens, Prentiss Ingraham. A journalistic colleague of yours. He’s my official biographer and a permanent fixture of the Wild West.”
“How many biographies of you has he written?” asked Twain.
“Fourteen,” snarled Ingraham before his employer could respond.
“And is the fourteenth life of Buffalo Bill a patch on all the rest?”
Both parties broke into laughter; Cody’s ending in embarrassed coughs. The Indians, the woman, and Ingraham were stony.
“I should warn you, Mr. Clemens, that Ingraham has written more than two million words, is familiar with every witticism ever spoken, and is utterly impossible to amuse.”
Twain blew a ring. “Is that true, Mr. Ingraham?”
“I had my bump of humor removed at an early age.” The biographer’s tone was parched, as if he seldom used his voice. “I’ve never missed it.”
“Who is your publisher?” Twain asked.
“Street and Smith.”
“Who publishes you abroad?”
“Every damn rag with a staff that reads, and I don’t get a cent.”
“I’m confident that when Geronimo is President we’ll have an international copyright law.”
Ingraham grunted. Twain turned his cigar in his fingers, regarding him through narrowed eyes. Just as his silence brought nervous coughs from his listeners, he removed the end from his mouth and said:
“The Pope, it’s rumored, ascended to Paradise, where St. Peter conducted him to his quarters, a monastic cell with a narrow cot and no window. On the way, His Holiness noted one of his neighbors resting beyond the open door of a palatial suite in a Morris chair overlooking all of blessed eternity, with Helen of Troy preparing a mint julep for his consumption. Quite understandably, the Pope was curious and asked Peter who the gentleman had been in life. ‘A publisher,’ came the reply; whereupon the newcomer asked to speak with the Holy Father. Having been duly conducted into the Presence, the Pope asked why he, the spiritual leader of earth, should be put up so meanly whilst a mere publisher was treated with all the luxury of an Oriental potentate. God considered, then responded: ‘This is Heaven. I’m up to My chin in popes, but when the first publisher made it through the pearly gates, I decided to pull out all the stops.’”
Ingraham’s face reddened with some suppressive effort, but he could not sustain it. Presently, he threw back his head and guffawed. Twain, sanguine, pulled on his cigar while both groups applauded his success. Cody acknowledged the feat with a sardonic bow, then proceeded at his opponent’s request to pluck a nuisance of a seagull out of the air with a single shot.
“Poor creature!” exclaimed the stern-faced woman, interrupting the accolade.
The frontiersman glared at her, a muscle twitching in one cheek. He opened his mouth, then shut it with purpose and shifted his gaze to one of the silent braves in his entourage. He made a sign to the man, who stepped forward with slow dignity. The Indian was tall, with the features of a Roman senator engraved in red marble. His blanket was intricately woven and his headdress was fashioned from spotless white eagle feathers tipped with black.
“This is Stands with His Lance,” Cody told Twain. “He was one of the victors at the Little Big Horn. The Sioux appreciate a good jest as much as the next man, but I’ve toured two continents with this fellow, and I can attest that mirth does not repose within his breast.”
Twain studied the man—both their profiles were hawkish and challenging. “Does he understand English?”
“If he does, he refuses to acknowledge it. He has no love for our nation. His only reason for joining the exhibition is to donate everything he earns to the reservation in South Dakota.”
“That seems unfair,” Roosevelt put in. “Mr. Clemens can hardly be expected to relate an amusing anecdote in the Sioux language.”
“I anticipated that argument, and have brought along a mission-school graduate to interpret.” Cody signaled to a youthful Indian in store clothes with a white man’s haircut. Twain, however, halted the young man with an upraised hand.
“His services won’t be necessary. I upended an entire Russian colony in Eureka, California, without uttering a word.”
He asked to borrow Cody’s hat, coat, and the belt containing his showy revolver, which he requested be unloaded. Amused, Cody complied. Twain handed his cigar and linen jacket to a dark-haired negative of himself in a black suit who turned out to be his brother, Orion, and climbed into his challenger’s rig. Sniggers arose when despite the humorist’s bushy abundance of hair, the big Stetson slid past his ears to rest on the bridge of his nose. Unfazed, Twain drew himself up, expanded his chest, and strutted in a circle, sweeping off the hat in an exaggerated gesture reminiscent of Cody’s in response to his cheering audiences. Cody’s smile set hard as iron. Members of his group cleared their throats restlessly. Stands with His Lance watched the spectacle, not a nerve showing in his face.
Suddenly, Twain let out a whoop, scooped the Colt from its holster, and twirled it with an ease that astonished all those present, squeezing the trigger just as the muzzle pointed down. When the hammer snapped on an empty chamber, his shout turned into a yelp. He dropped the weapon and hopped around on one foot, holding the other in agony as if wounded.
The victor of the Little Big Horn let out a surprised bark, as of air pent up for years. He doubled over, hooting and slapping his knees, tears streaming down his face like water running off a rock. His blanket slid off his naked shoulders. Most of the others joined in, including the Indians and even Prentiss Ingraham, his facade demolished now. The woman in Cody’s assembly lowered her chin briefly but was impassive otherwise.
Buffalo Bill’s face was scarcely more mobile. His eyes were steely as he accepted the return of his gear. Dusky red spots glowed high on his cheeks.
He appeared, however, to have composed himself in time for Twain’s next challenge: the ace of spades from the humorist’s own deck, nailed to the wall of a vacant shop and observed by way of a looking glass with the Winchester pointing backward and resting on Cody’s shoulder. The spectators were still; but he’d succeeded many times in placing similar trick shots in the center ring.
They gasped collectively when the bullet pierced the cigar Twain was smoking, leaving the tattered stump clamped between his teeth. The playing card, of course, was untouched.
Shouts of concern and outrage, evenly divided between the two groups, drowned out the echo of the report. Roosevelt lunged to catch Twain when his legs wobbled, but Cody reached him first, seizing his shoulders. “Ole hoss, you hit?” His voice shook.
Twain turned his head and spat out the stump. “You owe me the price o
f a cigar.”
Both groups melded, gathered around him, with Cody’s stammered apologies rising above the jabber. Twain cleared space around him by igniting a fresh cigar and laying down a cloud like fly spray. He silenced the frontiersman with a palm, tugged down the points of his vest, and said, “Your choice now, sir.”
Roosevelt polished his spectacles with a handkerchief. “Under the circumstances, I think it best we postpone the rest of the competition, or cancel it altogether. Can we not agree that we are in the company of the two greatest Americans, and leave it at that?”
“This is a contest, not an accord. Now that my esteemed opponent has faltered, is it your wish to rob me of the opportunity to triumph?”
“It seems a small thing against the risk.”
“That’s merely a question of timing. Had I gone up with the boiler of the Paul Jones in fifty-seven, the event would have attracted little notice, but the loss would have been far greater. I had not yet published a line. I would rather go out at the height of my powers—and a lurid exit would certainly pose no threat to future royalties. However, I don’t intend to tempt another stray round. I’m a titter away from claiming the title I came for.”
Cody’s face darkened during Twain’s speech. Now he showed his fine white teeth, swept off his Stetson, and bowed to the severe-looking woman in the veiled hat. “Madame, would you honor us by stepping forward?”
An opening appeared around the woman, who began to shake her head, then lifted her chin and approached the contestants at a stately pace, lifting her skirts slightly to avoid dragging them in the dust.
Roosevelt placed a hand on Twain’s arm and turned him away, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “I advise you to forfeit this challenge.”
“Come, come, Theodore. She’s a dragon, I confess, but I’ve faced worse.”
“The woman is Louisa Cody. Buffalo Bill’s wife.”
Lost Trails Page 2