Buffalo Girls (44 page)

Have I informed you that Cody was killed—the dog I mean, not Billy. He was an old dog, the wolves caught him. Cody killed many wolves when he was in his prime, I guess they got their revenge. I didn't find him, Johnny did, he said it looked from the blood on the ground like Cody put up a good fight. He died snarling, Johnny said.

I believe that means the end of my traveling, Janey. I would be afraid to venture far without my old dog. Satan is wearing out too. He has been sorefooted lately and the blacksmith can't figure out why—he shoes him carefully. I know why Janey—he's old. Satan and Cody and me have covered the miles—well, we've covered the west. Now Cody's dead and Satan's worn out. My ankles swell so I can hardly walk myself.

This is not the letter I meant to write, it is just another list, I might as well stop.

Your mother,
Martha Jane

Darling Jane—

I have failed again Janey, I come up here to the Yellowstone only to get another piece of bad news, Doosie has died. Johnny told me—he is like a walking newspaper, my old friend Johnny, he's just got the one arm but he keeps pacing up one trail and down another, looking for the creek of gold.

I was headed for Blue's, I am almost too decrepit now to navigate for myself—Blue always looks me up and buys me drinks when he's down in the Black Hills, he has invited me to live at his ranch many times, I finally decided to take him up on it. I began to have a yearning to see Doosie, she is an old-timer too and was faithful to Dora through all their years.

But I got here to Miles City and found out she had developed a tumor and died. I think I will just turn back Janey, Satan is too sorefooted now to go all the way to the Musselshell. I think I will
leave him here in Miles City, he has carried me far enough. Probably there will be a wagon going down toward the Black Hills, maybe the boys will let me ride with them. Blue still travels everywhere, he'll be restless the day he dies I guess. Blue will find me, I'm too tired to find him. The next time he's in the Black Hills we will have a visit.

Your mother,
Martha Jane

Darling Jane—

I left my old horse, Janey—for my part it was hard to leave him. I think Satan was too tired to care. I borrowed ten dollars from Johnny and paid for Satan's keep at the livery stable in Miles City—I requested that he be shot when the cold weather comes if he looks poorly. His teeth are gone, I would not want him to have to endure another hard winter.

The boys who drove the wagon were just young sprouts. I made a bad choice to throw in with them. They tried to tease me and insult me, they were very rude, I have seen men treat Indians that way. Finally I pulled my pistol—I am not a child to be played with, boys, I told them, keep it up if you want to be shot. After that they let me be but showed me no respect—it made me feel I had outlived my time, no doubt the Indians feel the same way. We are treated like jokes now—these young men are just braggarts, they think they are great adventurers when all they do is drive wagons along the Bozeman trail. I would have liked to see them take that road when the Sioux and Cheyenne were in their glory, they would have been killed like dogs, they wouldn't be bragging long, they'd have all they could do to keep their hair, not many of them could even do that much.

Your mother will never travel again Janey, not unless Blue or Bartle or somebody, maybe Billy Cody, comes and gets me in a buggy.

Your mother,
Martha Jane

Darling Jane—

There will not be many more letters, Janey, my eyes are fading fast. I wish I would procure a photo of you before my eyes are too far gone to allow me to see my darling.

I have been thinking about Cody a lot lately, Janey—Bill, I mean, not my dog. I had a letter from him, he wants to come and see me—he says he misses his friends from the old days. I would be ashamed to see Bill Cody, Janey—he is the most successful person ever to come out of the west, and I am the worst failure—how could we ever sit at the same table? Billy took an idea and sold it to the whole world—he has supped with kings and queens. They say that he has buffalo and elk on his ranch, and fine cattle and horses.

But I am just an old drunken woman, too poor to keep a horse. Not that Billy would scorn me—he has never scorned anyone.

I mop out a saloon in Deadwood, about all it gets me is drinks and a little shack to bunk in. I'm afraid I will end my days a fallen woman—mopping up a saloon in Deadwood is about as far as you can fall.

Your mother,
Martha Jane

Darling Jane—

Your Daddy, Mr. Burke, was kind, Janey. If he is alive I send him my blessings. Wild Bill had married the Lake woman, I hated her, I was at my wit's end. It ended when I met your Daddy. It was not love—not love as Blue and Dora knew it.

It was only kindness Janey—you should always respect your Daddy for that.

Your mother,
Martha Jane

Darling Jane—

I feel I will not be here long now Janey, I had better try and tell the truth. Sometimes when I'm drunk I lie, or when people scorn
me I exaggerate—I put myself in adventures I didn't have. The battle of the Rosebud, for example—I wasn't there but sometimes I say I was—it is just storytelling Janey. People like to hear stories about the old times, Bill Cody made his fortune on such a fact. Bill Cody only killed one Indian, but look what it got him. If you put yourself in the stories people like them better.

It is not of that that I want to write about now, those tales can die with me, I don't care.

You may hear people say your mother wasn't even a woman, Janey, don't believe it. In my youth when I was always traveling I dressed like a man, it's easier.

Then later I disguised myself as a man to get work—in those days nobody would hire a woman mule skinner, even now they wouldn't think of it, not unless they were desperate and there was not a man within a hundred miles.

I worked with men so much I guess I thought I was one at times—it was partly too that women had such hatred of me, all except Dora and a few others. They didn't like it that I went my own way and cussed and smoked—I had to face off so many old biddies that I got tired of it, I gave up and went off with the men, at least I did when I could get work.

You can't run off from what you are though—you have to make camp with what you are, every night, Janey. I'm glad I met your Daddy Burke, otherwise I might not have believed there was kindness among men, I had collected too much scorn and was about to give up and go off and die.

I was born odd though, Janey—not that I was an idiot or didn't have enough toes or fingers—there are other ways of being odd. When I was young I looked more like a man than plenty of these little soft fellows—I think there are plenty of fellows who would have been happier being a woman—but of course they were not given the choice, no more was I. It's sad to be odd, Janey—I used to envy Dora, to think what a comfort just to be a woman as she was, even though at the time she might be
crying her heart out because of some trick of Blue's. Dora wasn't always happy but at least she was never odd—stuck in between, as I was.

I went to several Doctors Janey—even in London I snuck off and went to a Doc, no one knew it, they just thought I got drunk and got lost. It was a disappointment, the Docs didn't really know what to make of me either, they used names that I won't repeat—I can't spell them anyway—to refer to my condition. The old Doc in London was the most interested, he wanted me to stay around so he could study me. You can believe I told him off fast, I was not such a freak as to want to stay around London and be studied. Doc Ramses wasn't a real Doc, but he knew I was odd, he was always sniffing around—it was just business with Doc Ramses though, he wanted to put me in a medicine show. He didn't quite have the nerve to mention it though, and a good thing too, I would have killed him.

Can't write no more. Can't write no more about this now, I remember those doctors' offices and get too sad. It is a discouraging business sitting around those places waiting to be studied.

Your mother,
Martha Jane

Darling Jane—

This may be my last letter Janey, I have the shakes so from drinking I can hardly hold the pen.

I used to have guts, Janey—nobody denied me that. Now I had better muster what I have left of my guts and write the truth.

I remember that first night, when I sat in the evening dews upon the Yellowstone, looking at the tablet in the firelight. I only meant to keep a diary—it was at Buntline's urging, when I first knew him he was always encouraging me to note down a few of my adventures—he planned to put them in a book and make me as famous as Billy. I thought I would just oblige him and keep a diary, plenty of cowboys keep them—even Blue has one. If he
put
his
adventures in it and his little wife ever reads it Blue will have to light out for the hills, she will scald him for sure, though who knows if Blue is truthful, even in his diary.

I started to write “Dear Diary” and I wrote “Darling Jane” instead. I wanted you so much I made you up—it was not planned, I had no intent to deceive, the words just came. No sooner had I written them than I could see you, all pretty in your school dress—then I could not give up my own fancy. You are the child I would have chose, Janey, had I been normal—why can't I at least have you in my head? In my hopes I am normal, so was your kind Daddy Burke, we would have had you if it had been possible. It was a disappointment to both of us that it wasn't. I didn't mean to invent you when I sat down with the tablet, I just meant to scribble a few memories to send to Buntline.

I guess you rose out of my hopes, Janey—I had thought I put them out of my heart long ago, when all the doctors told me I couldn't bear a child. None of them were kind about it—I would have thought my hopes would have died then and there, in one of those old dingy offices.

But we don't have the say about our hopes, Janey—truth, if that's what it is, can't stop us from hoping. Or didn't stop me at least—why else did I scratch down your name on that tablet? It was the name your Daddy and I planned to give you before we became discouraged.

So I wrote those letters Janey—you could say they are letters to my heart. I could not resist imagining the sweet girl I would have had if I could.

In my mind I made you alive, Janey—that's better than nothing ain't it?

I understand now how Buntline and them other writers dash off their tales—once I began with the tablet, pictures just came to me. I saw a well brought up little girl living a nice life in Illinois, pretty dresses and school.

I made up the best life I could for you Janey, it is the opposite
of the life I have lived out here in this mess they call the west. Though I love the west, for all its sadness.

I suppose Buntline hoped to be a hero, like Custer or Wild Bill—he wasn't, so he flung all his hopes into stories about Billy Cody, who was only a half-hero himself. Though I will respect Bill Cody till I die, he treated me fair.

Once I started the scribbling I couldn't behave—I guess I wanted to outdo Buntline or something, that's why I wrote of my romance with Hickok.

I am ashamed of that one, Janey—couldn't resist flattering myself, I guess. Wild Bill practically held his nose when I walked by, he would have as soon wallowed with a pig in the mud as to bed down with me—I only saw him three or four times anyway.

Yet I wrote in this great love that never happened. I don't recall that Wild Bill even spoke to me—if he did it was just to borrow a match or something.

Once I wrote it I guess I convinced myself, I started blabbing about it, now everyone believes it, I'm sure they'll bury me beside him when I die. That's a joke not many will appreciate—certainly Wild Bill wouldn't have appreciated it. Well, the man's been dead twenty-seven years, what can he do about it now?

I even believed my own tale to the point of nearly attacking Blue, who spoke ill of Hickok once in Cheyenne. Of course Blue knew well what the man was, and so did I—I improved him in the letters, never expecting it to get stuck in my head the way it did.

I will close now Janey, I am just writing to myself anyway—why take the trouble?

Your mother,
Martha Jane

Darling Jane—

I meant to stop writing these letters—here I am doing it again. What does that say about human beings?

I will not destroy these letters Janey. To do so would be to destroy you—I feel you live now in some way, maybe you will always live—you were the finest of my hopes, may you always live.

I keep these letters in my saddlebags, I don't have a horse now but I still have my saddlebags. If some stranger should find them before the rats chew them up I hope he will take them to Blue. But if a stranger should read them and find them demented let the stranger consider that I was very lonely.

Your mother,
Martha Jane

 

B
ARTLE
B
ONE
, P
OTATO
C
REEK
J
OHNNY, AND
S
EVERAL OTHER
old-timers chipped in and hired a wagon to bring Calamity's body back to Deadwood from Tinville, where she died. Bartle, whose troupe was not prospering, nonetheless bought her coffin himself.