STARRING.
Texas Jack and I spent several weeks in hunting in the western part of
Nebraska, and at the end of our vacation we felt greatly re-invigorated
and ready for another theatrical campaign. We accordingly proceeded to
New York and organized a company for the season of 1873-74. Thinking that
Wild Bill would be quite an acquisition to the troupe, we wrote to him at
Springfield, Missouri, offering him a large salary if he would play with
us that winter. He was doing nothing at the time, and we thought that he
would like to take a trip through the States, as he had never been East.
Wild Bill accepted our offer, and came on to New York; though he told us
from the start that we could never make an actor out of him. Although he
had a fine stage appearance and was a handsome fellow, and possessed a
good strong voice, yet when he went upon the stage before an audience,
it was almost impossible for him to utter a word. He insisted that we
were making a set of fools of ourselves, and that we were the
laughing-stock of the people. I replied that I did not care for that, as
long as they came and bought tickets to see us.
Wild Bill was continually playing tricks upon the members of the
company, and it was his especial delight to torment the "supers." Quite
frequently in our sham Indian battles he would run up to the "Indians"
(the supers), and putting his pistol close to their legs, would fire at
them and burn them with the powder, instead of shooting over their
heads. This would make them dance and jump, so that it was difficult to
make them fall and die--although they were paid twenty-five cents each
for performing the "dying business." The poor "supers" often complained
to me about this, and threatened not to go on the stage and be killed
again if that man Wild Bill did not stop shooting and burning their
legs. I would order Wild Bill to stop his mischief; he would laugh and
then promise not to do it any more. But it would not be long before he
was at his old tricks again.
My company, known as the "Buffalo Bill Combination," did a fine business,
all through the East. Wild Bill continued his pranks, which caused us
considerable annoyance, but at the same time greatly amused us.
One day at Titusville, Pennsylvania, while Burke, the business agent, was
registering our names and making arrangements for our accommodation,
several of us started for the billiard room; but were met by the
landlord, who stopped me and said that there was a party of roughs from
the lower oil region who were spreeing, and had boasted that they were
staying in town to meet the Buffalo Bill gang and clean them out. The
landlord begged of me not to allow the members of the troupe to enter the
billiard room, as he did not wish any fight in his house. To please the
landlord, and at his suggestion, I called the boys up into the parlor and
explained to them the situation. Wild Bill wanted to go at once and fight
the whole mob, but I persuaded him to keep away from them during the day.
In order to entirely avoid the roughs, the members of the company entered
the theater through a private door from the hotel, as the two buildings
joined each other. While I was standing at the door of the theater taking
the tickets, the landlord of the hotel came rushing up and said that Wild
Bill was having a fight with the roughs in the bar-room. It seemed that
Bill had not been able to resist the temptation of going to see what kind
of a mob it was that wanted to test the pluck of the Buffalo Bill party;
and just as he stepped into the room, one of the bruisers put his hand on
his shoulder and said:
"Hello, Buffalo Bill! we have been looking for you all day."
"My name is not Buffalo Bill; you are mistaken in the man," was
the reply.
"You are a liar!" said the bruiser.
Bill instantly knocked him down, and then seizing a chair he laid out
four or five of the crowd on the floor, and drove the rest out of the
room. All this was done in a minute or two, and by the time I got down
stairs, Bill was coming out of the bar-room, whistling a lively tune.
"Well!" said he, "I have been interviewing that party who wanted to
clean us out."
"I thought you promised to come into the Opera House by the private
entrance?"
"I did try to follow that trail, but I got lost among the cañons, and
then I ran in among the hostiles," said he; "but it is all right now.
They won't bother us any more. I guess those fellows have found us." And
sure enough they had. We heard no more of them after that.
Another incident occurred, one night, at Portland, Maine. Bill found it
impossible to go to sleep at the hotel on account of the continued
talking of some parties who were engaged in a game of cards in an
adjoining room. He called to them several times to make less noise, but
they paid little or no attention to him. He finally got up and went to
the room with the intention of cleaning out the whole crowd. He knocked
and was admitted; greatly to his surprise, he found the party to be some
merchants of the city, whom he had met the previous day. They were
playing poker, and invited him to take a hand. Bill sat down at the
table, and said that, inasmuch as they would not let him sleep, he
wouldn't mind playing for a while, provided they would post him a little
in the game, for he didn't know much about it. At first he didn't play
very well, intentionally making many blunders and asking numerous
questions; but when morning came, he was about seven hundred dollars
ahead. Bill put the money in his pocket, and just as he was leaving the
room he advised them never to wake a man up and invite him to play poker.
[Illustration: LEARNING THE GAME.]
Wild Bill remained with me until we reached Rochester. I met my family
there, and having bought some property in that city, with the intention
of making the place my home, I asked Bill not to cut up any of his
capers, for I wanted the performance to go off smoothly, as I expected a
large audience that evening. He, of course, promised to behave himself.
When the curtain rose the house was crowded. The play proceeded finely
until the Indian fight in the second act, when Bill amused himself by his
old trick of singeing the legs of the "supers."
After the curtain dropped, the "supers" complained to me about it.
Bill's conduct made me angry, and I told him that he must either stop
shooting the "supers," or leave the company. He made no reply, but went
to the dressing-room and changed his buckskin suit for his citizen's
dress, and during one of my scenes I looked down in front and saw him
elbowing his way through the audience and out of the theater. When I had
finished the scene, and had retired from the stage, the stage-carpenter
came up and said:
"That long-haired gentleman, who passed out a few minutes ago, requested
me to tell you that you could go to thunder with your old show."
That was the last time that Wild Bill and I ever performed together on
the stage. After the evening's entertainment I met him at the Osborn
House. By this time he had recovered from his mad fit and was in as good
humor as ever. He had made up his mind to leave for the West the next
day. I endeavored to persuade him to remain with me till spring, and then
we would go together; but it was of no use. I then paid him the money due
him, and Jack and myself made him a present of $1,000 besides.
Bill went to New York the next day, intending to start west from there.
Several days afterwards I learned that he had lost all his money in New
York by playing faro; also that a theatrical manager had engaged him to
play. A company was organized and started out, but as a "star" Wild Bill
was not a success; the further he went the poorer he got. This didn't
suit Bill by any means, and he accordingly retired from the stage. The
company, however, kept on the road, using Bill's name, and employing an
actor to represent him not only on the stage but on the street and
elsewhere. Bill heard of this deception and sent word to the manager to
stop it, but no attention was paid to his message.
Finally, Bill resolved to have satisfaction and he proceeded to a town
where the company was to play; he entered the theater and took a seat
near the stage, and watched the performance until the bogus Wild Bill
appeared. He then sprang upon the stage, knocked the actor clear through
one of the scenes, and grabbing the manager by the shoulders he threw him
over the foot-lights into the orchestra.
[Illustration: GETTING SATISFACTION.]
The other actors screamed and yelled "Police!" The audience could not at
first understand what it all meant, some of them supposing the affair to
be a part of the play.
Wild Bill retired from the stage in good order, resumed his seat, and
told them to go on with their show. A policeman now appearing, Bill was
pointed out as the disturber of the peace; the officer tapping him on the
shoulder, said:
"I'll have to arrest you, sir."
"How many of you are there?" asked Bill.
"Only myself," said the policeman.
"You had better get some help," said Bill. The officer then called up
another policeman, and Bill again asked:
"How many of you are there now?"
"Two," was the reply.
"Then I advise you to go out and get some more reinforcements," said
Bill, very coolly.
The policemen thereupon spoke to the sheriff, who was dressed in
citizen's clothes. The sheriff came up and said he would have to take him
into custody.
"All right, sir," replied Bill, "I have no objections to walking out with
you, but I won't go with any two policemen." At the court next morning
Bill stated his reasons for having acted as he had done, and the judge
fined him only three dollars and costs.
This was the last time that Wild Bill appeared on the stage. He shortly
afterwards returned to the West, and on arriving at Cheyenne, he visited
Boulder's gambling room and sat down at a faro table. No one in the room
recognized him, as he had not been in Cheyenne for several years. After
losing two or three bets he threw down a fifty dollar bill and lost that
also. Boulder quietly raked in the money. Bill placed a second fifty
dollar note on another card, when Boulder informed him that the limit was
twenty-five dollars.
"You have just taken in a fifty dollar bill which I lost," said Bill.
"Well you needn't make any more such bets, as I will not go above my
limit," replied Boulder.
"I'll just play that fifty dollar bill as it lays. If it loses, it's
yours; if it wins, you'll pay me fifty dollars, or I'll know the
reason why."
"I am running this game, and I want no talk from you, sir," said Boulder.
One word brought on another, until Boulder threatened to have Bill put
out of the house. Bill was carrying the butt end of a billiard cue for a
cane, and bending over the table, he said: "You'd rob a blind man." Then
he suddenly tapped Boulder on the head with the cane, with such force as
to knock him over. With another sweep of the cane he tumbled the
"look-out" from his chair, and then reaching over into the money drawer
he grabbed a handful of greenbacks and stuck them in his pocket.
At this stage of the game four or five men--who were employed as
"bouncers" for the establishment to throw out the noisy persons--rushed
up to capture Bill, but he knocked them right and left with his cane, and
seeing the whole crowd was now closing in on him, he jumped into a
corner, and with each hand drew a revolver and faced the enemy. At this
moment the bar-keeper recognized him, and sang out in a loud voice:
"Look out boys--that's Wild Bill you've run against."
That settled the matter; for when they heard the name of Wild Bill they
turned and beat a hasty retreat out of the doors and windows, and in less
time than it takes to tell it, Wild Bill was the only man in the room.
He coolly walked over to Dyer's hotel, and retired for the night. Boulder
claimed that he had taken $500, but he really got only $200. Boulder,
upon learning that it was Wild Bill who had cleaned him out, said nothing
more about the money. The next day the two men met over a bottle of wine,
and settled their differences in an amicable manner.
Poor Bill was afterwards killed at Deadwood, in the Black Hills, in a
cowardly manner, by a desperado who sneaked up behind him while he was
playing a game of cards in a saloon, and shot him through the back of the
head, without the least provocation. The murderer, Jack McCall, was tried
and hung at Yankton, Dakotah, for the crime. Thus ended the career of a
life-long friend of mine who, in spite of his many faults, was a noble
man, ever brave and generous hearted.
Jack and myself continued playing through the country after Wild Bill
left us, and we finally closed our season in Boston on the 13th of
May, 1874.
Business called me from Boston to New York, and after I had been there a
few days, I met an English gentleman, Thomas P. Medley, of London, who
had come to America for a hunt on the Plains. He had often heard of me,
and was anxious to engage me as his guide and companion, and he offered
to pay the liberal salary of one thousand dollars a month while I was
with him. He was a very wealthy man, as I learned upon inquiry, and was a
relative of Mr. Lord, of the firm of Lord & Taylor, of New York. Of
course I accepted his offer.
When we reached the hunting ground in Nebraska, he informed me, somewhat
to my surprise, that he did not want to go out as Alexis did, with
carriages, servants, and other luxuries, but that he wished to rough it
just as I would do--to sleep on the ground in the open air, and kill and
cook his own meat. We started out from North Platte, and spent several
weeks in hunting all over the county. Dr. W. F. Carver, who then resided
at North Platte, and who has recently acquired considerable notoriety as
a rifle-shot, hunted with us for a few days.
Mr. Medley proved to be a very agreeable gentleman and an excellent
hunter. While in camp he busied himself in carrying wood and water,
attending to the fire, and preparing and cooking the meals, never asking
me to do a thing. He did not do this to save expenses, but because he
wanted to do as the other hunters in the party were doing. After spending
as much time as he wished, we returned to the railroad, and he took the
train for the East. Everything that was required on this hunt was paid
for in the most liberal manner by Mr. Medley, who also gave the members
of the party several handsome presents.
About this time an expedition consisting of seven companies of cavalry
and two companies of infantry--to be commanded by Colonel Mills of the
Third Cavalry, was being organized to scout the Powder River and Big Horn
country, and I was employed as guide for the command. Proceeding to
Rawlins, Wyoming, we "outfitted," and other guides were engaged--among
them Tom Sun and Bony Ernest, two noted Rocky Mountain scouts. We there
left the railroad, and passing through the Seminole range of the Rocky
Mountains we established our supply camp at the foot of Independence Rock
on the Sweetwater. I was now on my old familiar stamping ground, and it
seemed like home to me. Fifteen years before, I had ridden the pony
express and driven the overland stages through this region, and the
command was going into the same section of country where Wild Bill's
expedition of stage-drivers and express-riders had recaptured from the
Indians a large number of stolen stage-horses.
Leaving the infantry to guard the supply camp, Colonel Mills struck out
for the north with the seven companies of cavalry. One day while we were
resting on a prairie near the head of Powder river, a horseman was seen
in the distance approaching us. At first it was thought he was an Indian,
but as he came near we saw that he was a white man, and finally when he
rode up to us, I recognized him as "California Joe," a noted scout and
frontiersman who had spent many years in California, on the plains and in
the mountains. He was armed with a heavy old Sharpe's rifle, a revolver
and a knife. I introduced him to Colonel Mills and the other officers and
asked him where he was going. He replied that he was out for a morning
ride only; but the fact was that he had been out prospecting alone for
weeks along the foot of the Big Horn mountains.
Having no permanent occupation just at that time, Joe accompanied us for
two or three days, when Colonel Mills suggested that I had better employ
him as a scout, so that he could make a little money for himself. Joe
didn't seem to care whether I hired him or not; but I put him on the
pay-roll, and while he was with us he drew his five dollars a day. It was
worth the money to have him along for company's sake, for he was a droll
character in his way, and afforded us considerable amusement. We finally
surprised Little Wolf's band of Arapahoes and drove them into the
agencies. We then scouted the Powder river, Crazy Woman's Fork, and Clear
Fork, and then pushed westward through the mountains to the Wind river.
After having been out for a month or two we were ordered to return.
I immediately went East and organized another Dramatic company for the
season of 1874-75, Texas Jack being absent in the Yellowstone country
hunting with the Earl of Dunraven. I played my company in all the
principal cities of the country, doing a good business wherever I went.
The summer of 1875 I spent at Rochester with my family.
For the season of 1875-6, Texas Jack and I reorganized our old
Combination, and made a very successful tour. While we were playing at
Springfield, Massachusetts, April 20th and 21st 1876, a telegram was
handed me just as I was going on the stage. I opened it and found it to
be from Colonel G.W. Torrence, of Rochester, an intimate friend of the
family, who stated that my little boy Kit was dangerously ill with the
scarlet fever. This was indeed sad news, for little Kit had always been
my greatest pride. I sent for John Burke, our business manager, and
showing him the telegram, told him that I would play the first act, and
making a proper excuse to the audience, I would then take the nine
o'clock train that same evening for Rochester, leaving him to play out my
part. This I did, and at ten o'clock the next morning I arrived in
Rochester, and was met at the dépôt by my intimate friend Moses Kerngood
who at once drove me to my home. I found my little boy unable to speak
but he seemed to recognize me and putting his little arms around my neck
he tried to kiss me. We did everything in our power to save him, but it
was of no avail. The Lord claimed his own, and that evening at six
o'clock my beloved little Kit died in my arms. We laid him away to rest
in the beautiful cemetery of Mount Hope amid sorrow and tears.