[Illustration]
BUFFALO BILL was to be at Granger Fields for three days. Great crowds
came to see the Indians, and the Oriental acrobats, and the soldiers of
many nations, and the “rough riders of the world.” On the third day,
half an hour before the time for the beginning of the performance, Allan
and McConnell arrived at the gate.
Up to the last moment it was expected that Owen would join them. But
Owen had been unable to come for some reason, and the two boys had
walked the three miles alone. The pass carried them past the ticket man
and admitted them to the grand stand. But before taking seats there, the
boys started out to find Mr. Twink. A sleek little young man, with long
hair and a big sombrero, who looked like a candy cowboy, told them where
they would probably find Mr. Twink.
Mr. Twink, however, was very hard to find. Each person they asked said
he was in a different place. When they came down by the Indian tents,
they at last found Mr. Twink. He was talking to an Indian,—an Indian
decked out in gaudy red and yellow, and with many feathers dangling down
his back.
When they at last got his attention, Mr. Twink told the boys that
everything was in a hurry just then, that the Indians were getting ready
for the grand entrée; but that if they would come around after the show,
he would give them a chance to photograph all they wanted to.
“Hold on a minute!” he called after them, as they turned away. “We are
going to strike camp this afternoon. You had better come around as soon
as the acrobats begin. You can get back in time to see the cowboy and
Indian fight.”
“Where shall we find you?” asked Allan.
“Right here,” said Mr. Twink. “Don’t forget—as soon as the acrobats
begin.”
Allan promised to be prompt.
“But I hate to miss the acrobats,” said McConnell, regretfully.
“We can see acrobats any time,” protested Allan, “and we may never get a
chance to photograph Indians—close up—again.”
They both photographed the grand entrée from their seats in the grand
stand, though the figures of the soldiers and cowboys and Indians and
Arabs looked very small at that distance, and the heads of the people in
the spectators’ seats made a rather conspicuous foreground. They caught
the bucking broncho while two of the cowboys were trying to master him.
When the Arab acrobats came out, the boys slipped out of their seats and
went around to look for Mr. Twink. He was where he had said he would be.
“Now, what do you want to do?” he demanded, so abruptly that Allan was a
little at a loss what to say.
“We should like to photograph some of the Indians,” said Allan, finally.
“Well, here’s Walking Dog, photograph him.” And Twink caught a passing
Indian by the arm.
Walking Dog was very solemn in appearance, and when Twink said something
to him in a language the boys could not understand—it was the first
Indian talk Allan or McConnell ever had heard—Walking Dog looked at the
boys and at their camera without a smile.
Allan was sure that Walking Dog resented the proposition to be
photographed, and felt sorry he had mentioned it. The Indian looked so
savage in his paint.
“He says all right,” remarked Twink.
Now, Allan was sure Walking Dog had not uttered a sound, and he wondered
very much what language the Indian had used that Twink should feel so
sure.
“How about taking him over here?” said Twink, pointing to a spot where a
stretch of canvas would form a background.
Walking Dog seemed to understand at once, and, striding across, he stood
with his back against the canvas, his hands on his rifle, and in a
position such as soldiers take at “parade rest.”
Walking Dog refused to look pleasant while Allan and McConnell got their
camera ready. Or perhaps it was his natural look with the ugly war-paint
added.
“Get it?” asked Twink, when he heard the camera click.
“Oh, wait a minute!” cried McConnell. He had forgotten the slide of his
plate-holder. Allan rolled his cartridge another number, and took one
more to keep McConnell company. Walking Dog remained as still as a
soldier’s monument while this was going on.
[Illustration:
“Walking Dog refused to look pleasant.”
]
“I wish you would tell him we are much obliged,” said Allan to Twink.
“Oh, he knows that,” said Twink; but he spoke to the Indian as he was
moving away, and Walking Dog shook hands with both boys, stiffly and
silently, then walked majestically away.
Twink now left them for a moment and spoke to another Indian, a much
handsomer and more gorgeous Indian, though one not less solemn than
Walking Dog. They came back together.
“This is Big Wolf,” said Twink. “You can take him, too.”
“Ugh!” said Big Wolf, and he sat down near by, looking straight before
him.
“Don’t they like to do this?” asked McConnell. He couldn’t get it out of
his head that Big Wolf was likely to rebel at any moment and scalp them
both.
“Oh, they are not so bad as they look,” said Twink, smiling for the
first time. “They are quite sociable when you come to know them.”
“Is Big Wolf a chief?” asked Allan.
“Or just—just a plain Indian?” added McConnell. It seemed incredible to
both boys that Big Wolf could be less than a very important personage.
Twink waved his hand. “Big Wolf heap big chief!”
“Ugh!” said Big Wolf.
“See—he admits it himself,” said Twink.
The boys did not dare to smile. It would have seemed very inappropriate
with Big Wolf sitting there so solemnly.
When the pictures had been taken the Indian arose and left them, giving
a quick nod to Allan as he went by.
“Now,” said Twink, “if you hurry I think I can get up a group for you.
Come over here.”
The boys followed their guide across the field to where several of the
Indian tents were grouped. On their way over Twink said, “There’s
Buffalo Bill.”
Colonel Cody was seated near a screen of canvas at a point where he
could watch the arena through a hole that had been cut for the purpose.
The boys had no time to look closely at the famous plainsman, for Twink
was hurrying them over to the tents. Twink spoke to several of the
Indians, and presently, before one of the tents, a line of Indians was
formed, a squaw and baby at one end of the line. These Indians had
shields and other weapons, and stood bolt upright in all their gay
colors, and waited without sign or sound while Allan and McConnell each
made two shots with their cameras.
“If you come back here after the show,” said Twink, “you can see them
striking these tents. Meanwhile, make yourselves at home. Here is the
famous old Deadwood Stage-coach. Would you like to ride in it to-day?”
[Illustration:
“The Deadwood Stage-coach.”
]
“Oh, yes!” answered McConnell.
“Well, when the coach draws up at the grand stand you boys just climb
down and get in. I will speak to them about it.”
“Will anybody take us down?” asked Allan, a little uncertain about the
programme.
[Illustration:
“A line of Indians.”
]
“No. You just get down yourself. The men in the coach will be watching
for you.”
They stood looking at the battered old stage-coach after Twink had left
them, and a man with a coat on his arm told them that one day, in
England, when the show was over there, a king and four princes had
ridden on it, Buffalo Bill himself driving.
This nearly took McConnell’s breath away.
“Do you know where the king sat?” asked McConnell.
“I dunno,” said the man. “I guess up beside Buffalo Bill.”
“Where the princes sat ought to be good enough for us,” laughed Allan.
“Come,” he added, “let us go back to the show,” and they hurried around
to the grand stand in time to see the Mexican throwing the lasso.
“I don’t believe we thanked Mr. Twink,” said Allan.
“Won’t we see him again?” asked McConnell.
“That’s so. We can see him before we leave. I feel as if he had been
very good to us.” “Indeed he has.”
“We never could have seen so much and got those Indians without him.”
“Do you suppose he would care for a picture of Big Wolf?”
“I don’t think he would.”
“We might ask him.”
“I almost think we had better not bother him again.”
“Except to thank him, you mean?”
“Except to thank him, yes.”
Presently, the man with the wonderful voice, who made the announcements,
told how the great Deadwood stage-coach would be attacked by the
Indians, and how it would be rescued by a company of cowboys under the
leadership of Buffalo Bill.
The coach itself, drawn by four horses, now came rolling around the
arena.
[Illustration:
“The coach itself, drawn by four horses.”
]
“Are you going?” asked McConnell, his eyes twitching with excitement.
“Of course,” replied Allan; but he could not have concealed his
nervousness.
As the coach drew nearer the grand stand the boys rose and clambered
down the steps to the main entrance; and, when the coach stopped, they
walked falteringly forward, expecting the man at the bars to ask them
what they wanted anyway.
But the man at the bars, on a signal from the coach, made way for them,
and the old coach door opened. They now saw that there were two men on
the front inside seat, and, with several thousand people watching them,
the boys climbed in and sat down on the back seat, the door closed, and
the coach started forward with a jolt.
The whip cracked and soon came the louder crack of a rifle, then a
clatter of shots, and the two men in the coach, each with a rifle, began
blazing away through the window at the yelling band of Indians in
pursuit. It was all so real, the Indians looked so ferocious, the smoke
and flame from the rifles was so thrilling and threatening, that Allan
and McConnell found themselves shrinking in expectation of actual
bullets.
In the midst of the hubbub Allan saw through the window, almost at his
elbow, the now distorted face of Big Wolf, screaming a most frightful
note, and apparently on the point at last of getting even with his
photographic tormentors.
Then came a new and louder clatter, with fresh yells. The cowboys had
come, and, after a wild fusillade, the Indians fled, the smoke cleared
away, and the old coach lumbered back to the grand stand, with Allan and
McConnell staring, half-dazed, at the two men on the front seat.
“How did you like it?” asked one of the men, as he swung open the door.
“It was great!” cried Allan.
McConnell could hardly find his voice. “I guess it was like being in a
battle!” he said, as he climbed out.
“Just like it,” laughed one of the men, “only that you haven’t got any
lead in you!”
“Did you see Big Wolf?” asked Allan, as they walked, rather weak in the
knees, back to their seats.
“Yes,” answered McConnell, “and I thought I saw Walking Dog, but I
wasn’t sure. I suppose he was there. Wasn’t the noise awful!—and the
smoke! I can see now why they can’t photograph well in a battle—unless
they use that new smokeless powder I was reading about.”
There was more of the show, but nothing seemed so thrilling as that
ride. In the midst of the last performance McConnell leaned forward
excitedly to say, “Suppose some of them forgot and put in real
cartridges!”
When the Congress of Rough Riders had drawn up in line and Buffalo Bill
had swung his big hat in a final salute, the boys once more hurried
around to the Indian tents, and found the Indians all very busy in
preparation for departure, and the wigwams gradually disappearing.
[Illustration:
“The wigwams gradually disappearing.”
]
Mr. Twink was nowhere to be seen, and nobody seemed to know where he
was. It seemed for a time as if they would have to give him up.
“Oh, there’s Big Wolf!” exclaimed McConnell. “I suppose he would know
where he was.”
“I’ve a mind to ask him,” said Allan. In a moment he did gather courage
to hurry over to where Big Wolf was standing, solemnly and deliberately
folding a red blanket.
“Do you know where Mr. Twink is?” asked Allan, in a loud voice, as
people always do when they talk to a foreigner or one whom they fear
will not understand them.
Big Wolf turned and mutely pointed toward a distant group of men. Yes,
Mr. Twink was there. “Thank you,” said Allan. Big Wolf went on folding
the blanket.
When they got over to where Mr. Twink was, Allan caught his attention,
and both boys stammered their thanks to him.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Twink. “Glad to have given you a hand. Come
and see us again sometime. Good-by!”
And they left him.
“It seems to me,” said McConnell, as they walked home in the early
evening, “it seems to me that wonderfully interesting things happen to
you when you have a camera!”
“I was just thinking the same thing myself,” said Allan, swinging his
black box. “I don’t suppose we ever should have thought of going ‘behind
the scenes’ as we did to-day if we hadn’t these cameras with us.”
“And we couldn’t have talked to the Indians,” McConnell added in a tone
of profound satisfaction.
“Well, I don’t suppose we should have had any excuse.”
“Yes,” said McConnell, “the camera is an excuse, isn’t it?”
[Illustration]
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