Telegraph Days (22 page)

“We could just stay to ourselves and not go into towns,” I suggested, but Cody wasn't assuaged.

“The Wild West will be family entertainment, Nellie,” he informed me. “Performers ain't narrow-minded people—they like their frolics, and you can't get around human nature. For me to travel alone with a lively beauty such as yourself is sure to produce publicity—and the wrong kind of publicity at that.”

I realized from the look in his eye that I had gone from being an asset to being a risk—a big risk. He was about to abandon me to protect
his shows—I saw it in his eyes. I know Billy liked me but he liked his Wild West better, and would ditch me if he had to to protect it.

I needed to think quick and I did think quick. We were not too far from where Ripley Eads's barbershop had burned down—I could smell the ashes still.

“Let's take Ripley Eads!” I said. “He lost his barbershop. He's got no place to operate. Won't the Wild West need a barber?”

Bill looked at me with admiration—once again I had shown myself to be organized.

“Of course it will need a barber,” he said. “Ripley will do fine.”

Then he gave me a little soft smile and an appraising look. I believe he liked it that I was quick-minded enough to come up with a chaperone in a flash, in the hope of not being left behind.

Ripley, of course, was as pleased as Bill. He was trying to rent a corner of the jail to cut hair in, but most of his customers had seen the inside of a jail cell from time to time and might not be comfortable coming into one just for the purpose of barbering.

The three of us left Rita Blanca about the middle of the afternoon—I was on my roan and Ripley astraddle our mule, Percy, who had fattened up considerably during his days of easy living in Rita Blanca. Nearly the whole town showed up again to see us off—or rather to see Buffalo Bill off. Nobody cared much whether Ripley or I went or stayed. Bill Cody, of course, was in full fig, wearing one of his fine buckskin suits. Mrs. Karoo cleaned it for him.

The man did like to make a show!

I cried a little bit when we rode past my little telegraph office.

“I won't tolerate much blubbering,” Bill said, amiably. “If you are able to work up fond memories of a stinkhole like this, then I can't wait to show you Broadway.”

“No, I'm thinking of haircuts,” Ripley said. “I suppose play actors are particular about how they cut their hair.”

“Not as particular as the Indians,” Bill replied.

“Indians?” Ripley replied. It was clear that he had not given much thought to that aspect of his new job.

“There'll be Indians, but not for a while yet,” Cody said. “And I expect they'll mostly want to do their own hair.”

“I hope so,” Ripley said.

“You didn't see the Indian on your hunt, did you?” I inquired. Being out on the barren plains always took adjusting to—part of it was worry that the Indian might appear. What if he was one of those Indians who Cody had said would get the best of him?

“What Indian?” Cody asked.

I explained about the snowstorms and the lance and Ros Jubb's goggles—before I could finish Bill Cody gave one of his big, hearty laughs. He even slapped his leg.

“That's not an Indian, that's just Mickey—he's Frisian,” he said. “Mickey likes to wonder around spooking people. I may get him in my Wild West if he'll consent to settling down.”

At the time I had no idea what a Frisian was, but I didn't feel like admitting it. Now and then Bill Cody would chuckle a little, as we rode, at the ignorance of people who couldn't tell Indians from Frisians.

I never mentioned the Indian again.

E
XCEPT FOR WHEN
they needed to shoe their horses the Earp brothers seemed to live in front of a low dive called the Tascosa Saloon, which was on the main street of Dodge City. They stood there like big black birds of a feather, watching us come. At least the four older Earps stood—the youngest brother, Warren, sat on the steps whittling a stick. He was a willowy youth, maybe a few years older than me. I decided on the spot that if fate put me much in the company of the Earps again I would concentrate my attentions on young Warren.

Cody had no interest in the Earps—that was easy to see. I think he planned to go trotting straight on through Dodge to the train depot.

But Virgil Earp, no doubt still stung by my rejection, came hurrying out to intercept us. I guess Bill Cody concluded that it would be impolite just to ignore the man completely, so he drew rein. Ripley and I did the same.

“Hello, Mr. Earp,” Cody said. He wore no pistol but had a rifle in a scabbard under his leg.

“Hello, yourself, Cody,” Virgil said. “I see you have an impudent wench with you who considers herself too good to accept the proposal of an honest man.”

“I wasn't even aware that an honest man had proposed to Miss Courtright,” Bill said, without a glance at me.

“I proposed to her—don't you consider me honest?” Virgil said, in a loud, ringing voice.

“Well, I consider you loud, at least,” Cody said. “As I have only seen you twice in my life I have no opinion on the honesty issue.”

“Watch your tongue, there's four of us here,” Wyatt said. He stepped off the porch and then he wobbled. I believe he was dead drunk.

Young Warren Earp didn't like what his brother had just said.

“Only four, Wyatt—four?” he said. “What do you think I am, a toadstool?”

“Warren, you are not involved in this,” Wyatt said. “It's between Virgil and the wench.”

“This is Miss Antoinette Courtright of Waynesboro, Virginia,” Cody informed them. “‘Wench' is not a term she is used to hearing and I don't think she ought to hear it again.”

“Oh you don't, do you?” Virgil asked.

Cody didn't bother answering. It was clear he had no fear of the Earps and little interest in what they might think of me or anything else.

Ripley Eads turned white, as if he feared there might be gunplay, but before Virgil could decide whether to risk calling me a wench again, young Warren Earp rose from his seat and dove into Wyatt in a running tackle.

“I am not a toadstool—I'm a full-grown Earp!” Warren said loudly, after he tackled Wyatt.

Not only was Wyatt Earp dead drunk, his little brother was astraddle of him, making it hard for the famous marshal to put up much of a defense. Fortunately for him he had three stout brothers, James, Virgil, and Morgan, who set about pulling Warren off. Even so, subduing young Warren proved no easy matter. He fought like a tiger cat. Once or twice the older brothers thought they had Warren safely under control, only to have Warren twist loose and pounce on his dusty brother, who rose to his knees twice, only to be flattened by a new assault.

“Now this is interesting,” Cody said. “The whole of the Earp brethren can barely manage that boy.”

The older Earps were all obviously horrified at what was happening. They all seemed to feel that they could not possibly allow young Warren to whip the famous Wyatt, and their embarrassment grew as Warren kept breaking loose and launching new assaults. Being left out of the family count had obviously tapped into a deep pool of temper—and now the question was, who was invincible and who wasn't?

“They're losing prestige every time Warren whops Wyatt,” Cody whispered to me. “And prestige might be all that's keeping them alive in a raw place like Dodge.”

“Besides that, it's happening in front of an important witness … me!” Cody added.

One thing was clear, at least: Virgil Earp now had more important things to think about than calling me a wench. He ignored me entirely and tried to push the conversation to other topics.

“I hear you're working up a show, Cody—where's it going to be?” he asked.

“It's not a show, it's the Wild West, authentic down to the last Bowie knife,” Cody informed him. “I'm in the process of assembling stars and heroes now. We may open in Omaha or we may just do a tryout or two in North Platte.”

“Anything we could do in your show?” Virgil asked. “Wyatt thinks Dodge City's mostly lost its snap.”

Cody laughed—he had a good, deep laugh and he suddenly let it roll out.

“I can't see that young Warren's low on snap,” he said. “I see he's a smart boy. I prefer to take my opponents from behind, myself—reduces the likelihood of gunplay.”

By this time a crowd had gathered, either to watch the fight or because they'd recognized Cody—easy to do when he was in one of his fine buckskin suits.

Wyatt Earp was on his feet, but he still looked shaky. His brothers James and Morgan tried to steady him but he shook them off.

“I intend to beat the tar out of that young whelp as soon as I sober up,” Wyatt remarked, wiping blood off his nose. “And I may beat the tar out of all of you, for not warning me about his sneak attack.”

The older brother, James, who was dressed like a bartender and was a bartender—as Cody later told me—was anxious to curb such inflammatory talk.

“Warren's as much an Earp as you,” James pointed out. “There was no reason to leave him off the count.”

“Mind your own business or go tend bar,” Wyatt said. “And shut your damn trap or I'll whip you first.”

Virgil and Morgan Earp glanced nervously around, but James Earp didn't glance anywhere.

“I know you're the famous one, Wyatt,” James Earp remarked.
“But don't let it go to your head. The sun has never risen on a day when you could whip me.”

“Now that's well spoken,” Cody remarked in admiration. “I do like a man who can put things crisp like that.”

“I'm getting about enough of derogatory comment,” Wyatt Earp said, turning toward Bill. “And for my money you're too damn fancy, Cody.”

Bill ignored Wyatt's comments completely and turned toward young Warren, who was sitting on a step, catching his breath.

“Can any of you boys ride a buffalo?” he asked.

“Supposing we could, why would we want to?” Morgan Earp asked.

“Money,” Cody said. “Virgil asked if there was a place for Earps in my Wild West, and the one thing that comes to mind is the buffalo-riding event. We caught a big bull named Monarch and so far no cowboy's even been able to stay on him for thirty seconds. I'm thinking of offering a big prize for anyone who can stay on Monarch for half a minute.”

Warren stood up.

“I can ride anything that's got four legs,” he announced. “And sometimes I can even ride critters who have only got two.”

Warren Earp was looking right at me when he made that remark.

If Cody noticed Warren looking at me he didn't let on.

In the far distance we hard a train toot.

“Gentlemen, we've got an appointment with the railroad,” Cody said, in an amiable voice. “I have a little Indian chasing left to do. In my absence Miss Courtright here will be managing my affairs in North Platte.”

“Her?” Virgil Earp asked—he was suddenly reminded of my existence and my impudence.

“Yes, she's a capable manager,” Cody told him. “I intend to put her through Harvard sometime when I can spare her.”

Then he looked at Warren Earp, who looked loose and lively.

“I admire your tactics, young man,” he said. “Anytime you feel like trying to ride my buffalo just present yourself to Miss Courtright and you can have a try. There must be somebody who can ride Monarch—and maybe it's you.”

“The hell he'll leave!” Virgil exclaimed. “Who's going to haul firewood and clean guns if Warren runs off to be in your show?”

Warren walked over and formally offered to shake hands with me. He stuck out his hand and I shook it firmly.

“Thanks, Mr. Cody,” Warren said. “I just might take you up on your offer one of these days.”

His brothers glared, but I don't believe Warren cared. I gave him a smile and we rode on to meet our train.

“I
CAN ASSURE
you right now that you're safe as a kitten in my house,” Lulu Cody informed me as we were laying the table for my first meal under the Cody roof in their big, drafty house in North Platte, Nebraska.

“Billy don't cavort with girls who are smarter than he is,” she added. “And I can see already that you're smarter than he is.”

In truth it was nothing more than my excellent Courtright pedigree that got me off on the right foot with Lulu Cody, who, of course, was not half a continent away, in Rochester, New York, as Bill had assured me she would be. The first thing we saw, as we were riding up from the depot in a hired buggy, was the stout, square figure of Lulu Cody waiting for us on the porch. Just the way she stood, her hands on her hips, convinced me that Lulu meant business.

“Now look at her! Look at her! No warning!” Bill exclaimed, when he saw her.

He immediately got red in the face. It was obvious that he was highly vexed.

“Isn't she your wife?” I asked. Somehow I was not entirely surprised to find Lulu waiting for us in North Platte, her skirt blowing in the incessant Nebraska wind.

“What's that got to do with the price of eggs?” he asked.

“If she's your wife, why shouldn't she be here?” I inquired.

If anything, Bill Cody had less use for my questions than he had for the wife of his youth.

“Say she is my wife!” he exclaimed. “Does that give her the right to invade every nook and cranny of my life? Can't a man expect a little privacy once in a while?”

“How long since you've seen Mrs. Cody?” I asked.

“I spent a whole week with her no more than eight months ago,” he declared, easily managing to feel sorry for himself.

“If you were married to me—God forbid—a week every eight months wouldn't be enough,” I told him flatly.

“All right, Nellie—since you're on her side, why don't you drive this buggy home?” he said. “I feel an urge to wet my whistle.”