Buffalo Girls (7 page)

“He's little and fat and he's wearing a yellow necktie with one of them stickpins in it,” Doosie said. “I didn't like his behavior.”

“My goodness, if everybody was as picky as you we'd go broke,” Dora said, taking the card. “Did he make a suggestion? Is that why you're so nervous?”

“He called me a Nubian beauty,” Doosie said. “What's a Nubian beauty?”

“I think it's in the Bible,” Dora said. “You are a beauty, you mustn't get so nervous just because a gentleman pays you a compliment.”

Engraved on the card, in elegant black letters, was a name that nearly caused Dora to drop her hairbrush: William F. Cody.

“Oh, gosh, Billy's here!” Dora said, excited. “He's got to be such a gentleman that he sends in his card. That fellow you took a dislike to was probably his servant. How do you like that?”

“He can watch what he calls me, that's all,” Doosie said. “The less conversations I have with him the better.”

“Well, is he still here—I mean the servant?” Dora asked.

“He may be, I ain't looked,” Doosie said.

“Oh, go blow your nose,” Dora said. “I'll find out for myself.” She popped a couple of combs in her hair and hurried downstairs. It was mid-afternoon and a short plump man with a yellow necktie appeared to be the only customer. He stood at the bar, or rather slightly below it, imbibing a beer.

“Hello, I'm Miss DuFran,” Dora said, wondering why Doosie
was so spooky. The little plump man seemed harmless; he just had a bit of a twitch.

“Pleased—I'm Dr. Ramses, you may remember me from Medora, I took your picture once with the Marquis but I've since ceased to do much photography,” the little man said, in a breath.

“Time has not stained your beauty, as the Bard said of Cleopatra,” he added, twitching.

Dora tried to call him to mind from her Medora days, but failed. Her Medora days had been brief—it was hard enough now even to summon a clear memory of the Marquis de Mores, much less of this odd little man.

“Here's the picture, it might help you remember,” Dr. Ramses said, smiling. He handed her a photograph. Sure enough it was her, looking such a girl, standing by the Marquis. Two of his grey-hounds were also in the picture. The odd thing was that she was taller than the Marquis. She did not remember him as particularly tall, but it was a shock to realize he was
that
short.

“Were you with the medicine show?” Dora inquired—she had a vague memory of a medicine show. Cowboys had lined up to have their photographs taken, and evidently, so had she and the Marquis.

“Ma'am, I
was
the medicine show, in much the same way as you are the Hotel Hope,” Dr. Ramses said, in a tone that touched her, she didn't know why. The little plump man with the big fake diamond in his stickpin had abruptly tugged her into the pool of memory; for a moment she felt like crying.

“There, it's just a snapshot, keep the photo, my name's on the back,” he said. “Billy asked me to bring you his card. We arrived in town only an hour ago and you were his first thought.”

“I'm glad somebody still gets to call him Billy,” Dora said, collecting herself. Doosie had not been entirely wrong to be nervous—Dr. Ramses took some resisting.

Dr. Ramses chuckled. “He told me you might think the card was overdoing it,” he said. “Billy's still quite the democrat, as
you'll see. I printed up the card at my print shop in St. Louis, same place where I made the photos. A card is useful if we need to see a governor, or even a mayor if we're in one of the larger cities.”

“I'd be careful who I give them out to in Miles City,” Dora said. “This ain't a greeting-card kind of a place. You've already spooked my maid.”

“A handsome woman,” Dr. Ramses said. “Sometimes my vocabulary runs away with me when I see a handsome woman.”

“Since Billy's so formal now, perhaps he'd like to come to tea—you're welcome too,” Dora said. “Come in half an hour but go light on the vocabulary when you're around my maid. I know it's hard for Billy to get his hair combed in half an hour, but tell him just to stick his hat on this time, I'm dying to see him.”

Half an hour later, Billy Cody walked in, wearing the whitest buckskins Dora had ever seen, with a neat little beard and his hair combed to perfection. But his eyes were still soft as a boy's—Dora just had to hug him and kiss him. Besides, Billy would have been crushed if any woman resisted him for more than thirty seconds.

“My lord, who sews your buckskins, why didn't you bring me a set?” Dora asked. “I'd wear them in a parade, if the town ever has one.”

Doosie stepped in the door, beaming, holding a set of buckskins just as white, with a touch of beadwork on the sleeves. There were other presents too: a hat with an egret feather, some elegant gloves from a store in St. Louis, a bracelet, and a necklace. Dora tried on the buckskins, and they fit as well as any clothes she had.

“How'd you know I'd still be my same size?” Dora asked, wondering why everyone felt so critical of Billy when he wasn't around. Even she felt critical of him when he wasn't around.

“Why, Dora, I knew I could trust you to keep your figure,” Billy said. “If you was to lose your figure half the men in the west would give up and get married.”

“Flatterer!” she said—but she liked it. “Who's that twitchy little drummer who's traveling with you?”

“Oh, Doc, I bought his medicine show,” Billy said. “He's a character.”

“Billy, did you really tote all this stuff from St. Louis for me?” Dora asked. He had always been a big one for presents, but this time he had outdone himself.

“I was only worried about mashing that egret feather,” Billy admitted. “The hat wouldn't look like much without it.” In fact, the feather had traveled safely in a gun case, and had only been stuck back on the hat at the last minute.

Dora looked at him thoughtfully. Billy tried to maintain a nonchalant manner, but it wasn't easy, considering what a soft spot he had always had for Dora DuFran. In the last year he had traveled the world and met many respectable beauties and even titled ladies, but in his eyes none of them excelled his Dora.

Of course, she had given him scant encouragement, and would probably have been indignant if he revealed that he thought of her as his sweetheart, and yet he did. The sadness of his life was that he had married Lulu, and not Dora. Amid the titled ladies and the respectable beauties, it was Dora he found himself thinking about, not Lulu, mother of his girls.

In his gloom he would sometimes imagine that Dora had married, that his chance for happiness was gone; as soon as he had boarded the Missouri steamer he had begun to inquire about her. No, not married that I know of, several people had said. The news made him feel as light as the clouds floating over the plains.

“Is Lulu well?” Dora asked, determined to be polite.

“Oh, Dora, why do you mention her?” Billy said. “You know that we're not happy. It was a mistake—it's always been you I love.”

Dora just sat looking at him quietly. Her presents lay all around her, but it was himself her gaze fell upon.

“I thought you were silly to marry, Billy,” she said finally. “I'm not sure it would suit you with anyone.”

Billy felt he couldn't talk about it—all failure horrified him. He hurried to scoot the conversation as far from it as he could. “You know I'm an impresario now,” he said.

“A what?” Dora asked. “Ain't that a person who sings in an opera?”

Billy chuckled—he couldn't bear to talk of his marriage, but felt his spirits rise the moment the conversation swung around to business.

“Nope, I have yet to earn a nickel singing,” he said. “I doubt there's a choir that would have me. I just manage the show, me and Doc Ramses. We're out here right now recruiting talent.”

“I'm more interested in you and Lulu,” Dora said. “What's the matter?”

“Oh, I don't know . . . shucks,” Billy said, his spirit sinking again. “I should have married you. I wish I could yet.”

At that moment Doosie came in with the champagne—a dozen bottles had made the journey from St. Louis, safely packed in straw. Dora was glad of the interruption. Billy Cody's determination to marry her—which he had sustained now for over ten years—was a bit of an embarrassment. She had first said no to Billy in Abilene, Kansas, and here they were more than ten years later, sipping champagne in Miles City, and Billy was still yearning.

It made her wonder what men had for brains. Billy Cody couldn't be dumb. He had made people believe he had been a great scout, though no one of any experience in the west considered him much of one. More than that, he had worked up his Wild West show and made a fortune with it. So he couldn't be dumb, in the normal sense of the word. And yet he couldn't get it through his head that she had no interest in marrying him. Was he so vain as to think that a pretty buckskin suit would win her over? Or his little beard?

Over the years Dora had listened to a lot of men sneer at Billy Cody. Most of that she put down to envy—people would snipe at
anyone with a reputation. She would not have claimed to be an expert on scouting or buffalo hunting or Indian fighting or much of anything, and yet it seemed clear to her that Billy's reputation was not as bogus as people wanted to think. He had worked for various generals—that took some ability. He had killed Yellow Hand—that took some brass. He had also killed lots of buffalo, and he had taken his Wild West show around the world, or at least around part of it. He might be a little silly, but he wasn't lazy, and most of the things he had accomplished took brains. Why did his brain stop working when it came to her?

“Billy, did you come all this way just to propose to me?” Dora asked.

“Well, it's one reason,” he said. “I can't stay with Lulu forever. I figure if I keep asking you sooner or later you'll get tired of saying no.”

“But what if I don't?” Dora asked pertly. “You'll divorce your wife and I'll still say no. Then what? You'll live a lonely life all because of one hardhearted girl.”

“Aw, you ain't hardhearted,” Billy said. “That line of talk won't sell.”

“Well, it should, because I am,” Dora said. “This is fine champagne.”

“Doc Ramses picked it out,” Billy admitted. “He's quite an expert on wines, and everything else too.”

“I remember him now,” Dora said. Her memories of the medicine show in Medora had begun to fill out. “He stuck something that was supposed to be a third eye in the middle of his forehead and claimed to be from Egypt or somewhere. Anybody could see that the third eye was just made of glass. But I guess it fooled some of the cowboys—the drunk ones at least. He pretended he could see the future and charged fifty cents for fortunes.”

“Let's get him to tell ours,” Billy said. “I bet he'd do it for free.”

“No, I don't want to know mine, I fear it might be sad,” Dora said.

“It won't be sad if you'll consent to marry me,” Billy said. “Say, wait till you see Europe, Dora. It's splendid. In France it takes six hours just to eat supper, they have so many dishes.”

“I thought you hoped I'd keep my figure, Billy,” Dora said, grinning. “I doubt I'd keep it long if I spent six hours at every meal.”

“Oh, you just take a dab from each dish,” Billy said, feeling suddenly happy. Her light tone enchanted him. Just seeing her smile was worth all the slow miles up the river. Though nothing she had said sounded particularly encouraging, her look was, he decided. His mood lightened so that he felt he might float off the settee. It was his old confidence filling him as full as air fills a balloon. He had felt the same confidence when he'd once raced through the buffalo herds.

The buffalo had fallen, and Dora would fall too—but in a different way. When he had his confidence, nothing had ever been able to stop him, and he had it now. Dora was watching him closely, though; he knew he mustn't be tempted into an impatient act.

“Well, if you ain't ready to marry me yet, will you at least consent to a buggy ride?” he asked. “We could ride out tomorrow and picnic by the Yellowstone. I've had some grand adventures along the old Yellowstone.”

“All right, Billy,” Dora said. Why stick at a picnic?

“It'll be fine!” Billy said, wondering if he should risk one little kiss.

Darling Jane—

It's snowing tonight, Janey, it snowed all yesterday too. If this keeps up we'll be wintering in the Owl Creek Mountains I guess. No Ears says we won't, he says it will stop tomorrow. No Ears is seldom wrong about the weather, I hope he ain't wrong this time. I would hate to winter in a place like this—also I would hate to winter anywhere with Jim and Bartle when they are out of sorts with one another.

Bartle was right, we should have stayed in Ten Sleep even if there was little to do, at least you can't get snowbound in Ten Sleep. But Jim was determined to come look—we tramped around for three days, we saw a few muskrats but no beaver. In one pond we saw some sticks that Jim said had been a beaver house about twenty years ago. What did I tell you? The beaver sold out and left, Bartle said. Jim didn't like him putting it that way. I think myself Bartle is being too surly, he always is if he doesn't get his way.

Why are men so selfish Janey? Even the nice ones like Bartle are selfish and turn surly about the slightest thing. Your father was no different I'm afraid, he was Wild Bill, nobody could tell him anything and nobody better try. Perhaps that is the reason he quit me, I've got a mind of my own. I told him he'd get killed if he stayed in Deadwood, that's why he quit me—suggesting that somebody might outwit him didn't sit right with Wild Bill. He came in with too much reputation, that's the way it always is, Janey. People will sulk around those with the big reputations, hoping to bring them down. Sure enough a low coward like Jack McCall brought down the great Wild Bill, I have wished a thousand times he had listened to my warning.