Telegraph Days (26 page)

“Shoot 'em!” I said. “Shoot them!”

The men looked at me strangely.

“No point in shooting them,” Danny told me. “The calf's dead and the mother cow's dying. It would just be a waste of bullets.”

I was too shocked to accept this passive wisdom. Sam had a Winchester in his saddle scabbard. I jerked it out and charged the wolves, firing as fast as I could lever the gun. I am no markswoman. I didn't hit a single wolf, but I did scatter them, though only for a bit. Then I put the cow out of her misery by shooting her in the forehead at point-blank range. Her hoarse bawling was a sound I will never forget.

Before I even handed the rifle back, the wolves had covered the calf again.

“I'll replace those shells at my expense,” I told Sam. “You will not be out a cent.”

The men looked at me as if I had gone crazy and they were not far wrong.

“What do you want to do now—I fear it may snow,” Ned asked me.

“I want to inspect the cattle—that's my job,” I reminded them. “If it snows we'll build an igloo.”

The cowpunchers did their best. They got me fairly close to several
bunches of cattle, all of which, at least, were healthy enough to run. The snow fell off and on—no igloo was required and it didn't affect our strange inspection. I could not get the bovine Madonna off my mind, or the calf who passed from the womb of his mother to the bellies of wolves without even drawing breath.

Once back at the cabin, Lanky Jake prepared a substantial supper of spuds and beans. Again I slept out rather than risk the close company of lice. That night I dreamed of blood red snow, a dream that was to recur now and then for the rest of my life.

The cowboys were so lonesome for fresh company that they teared up when we left.

I doubt I spoke five words on the trip back to North Platte—and don't ask me what the five words were. It's all a blank in my mind.

I
WAS JUST
coming into the hall at the big house in North Platte, stamping snow off my feet so as not to track it in, when I happened to glance down the hall into the big sitting room and glimpsed about the last thing I would have expected to see in North Platte, Nebraska: a young woman practicing ballet! She was a beauty too, black-headed and so pretty in the face and figure that I was in danger of being jealous of her before I even met her. And limber, my Lord! While we watched—Danny had come in too—she stuck one leg straight up, higher than her head. Then she turned and saw us, which produced an immediate blush.

“Don't spy, come in, it's your house,” she said, making us a little bow.

“I am Giuseppina,” she said, with an accent no different from what an Italian might have.

I heard a chuckle and a tall, lanky fellow in buckskins who came within a hair of being as handsome as Bill Cody ambled up and put an arm around his petite wife.

“Texas Jack Omhundro,” he said, shaking both our hands. “And this little wildcat is the peerless Morlacchi.”

“It's too much name, just call me Jesse,” the peerless Morlacchi told us with a flashing smile.

Of course I had heard of Texas Jack, who was one of Cody's closest sidekicks, both from scouting days and acting days. The two were sometimes rivals and sometimes partners, but no one had told me about the peerless Morlacchi, who would soon become my best friend.

“Excuse my mud,” I said, and it was excused. In no time Jesse Morlacchi and I settled into the kitchen for several cups of tea. Every time Gretchen paraded her belly though the room Jesse smiled.

“Who's the poppa?” she asked, when Gretchen left the room.

I shrugged—I had no idea who the poppa was—but I was delighted to have another experienced female to talk with me about such things.

Texas Jack, though he was vastly amused by his pretty wife, didn't hang around long. I think he saw that he might interfere with our girl talk.

“I'll just slide off down to the saloon,” he said.

“Just drink beer, no whiskey,” Jesse said, at which Texas Jack lifted a fond eyebrow.

“Why do females feel the need to boss grown men?” he wondered. “Bill Cody don't stay around Lulu because she bosses him so. What if I stayed gone nine-tenths of the time, like Billy does?”

“Then you could stay gone ten-tenths of the time and I would get another husband,” Jesse told him. She did not appear to be joking.

“He told me Lulu tried to poison him—what do you think of that claim?” Jack asked.

“You know the man—wouldn't you say he has a tendency to exaggerate?” I asked him.

Jesse Morlacchi would sometimes startle the company by flinging her limber leg up beside her head. She did it two or three times, while studying her husband soberly.

“Well, you wouldn't ever try to poison me, would you, Jesse?” Texas Jack asked.

The question didn't seem to interest Jesse Morlacchi—she didn't answer. Texas Jack, looking a little disappointed, went on out the door.

“When he's drunk I make him sleep on the floor,” Jesse said. Then she grinned at me in her appealing way.

“I met one of your lovers—he is here,” she said.

“One of my lovers?”

“Yes, Zenas,” she told me. “He came on the boat with us. If I were single he would soon be my lover.”

I suppose I blushed from head to toe because Jesse laughed.

“In a place like this what is there but the beds?” she said.

“Where is Zenas? I need to see him,” I exclaimed. Jesse pointed toward the room where she had been practicing. Zenas wasn't there but I found him in a little study of sorts, down a hall. He was as snaggle-toothed
and irresistible as ever—we kissed and kissed. Zenas had been scribbling on a tablet when I rushed in but he soon let the tablet fall off his lap.

“I was just writing up a piece about Texas Jack when you came in.”

“Texas Jack can wait—I can't!” I told him warmly.

Jesse Morlacchi was right. In North Platte there were mainly the beds.

B
UFFALO
B
ILL
C
ODY
showed up three days later and immediately had a red-faced fit when he discovered that I was bunking with Zenas Clark.

The fit took me completely by surprise.

“You are my majordomo, don't you realize that!” he said. Then he threw his big hat across the room.

“I'm your what?” I asked. “And even if I am, what's it got to do with Zenas Clark?”

“Newspapermen are triflers,” he said. “Triflers!”

“Even if they are, that's not as bad as being a murderer or a horse thief,” I responded. “And speaking of triflers, which of the local no-goods is responsible for Gretchen's belly?”

Cody ignored the question. He was bound and determined to make me feel guilty for my attachment to Zenas Clark.

I was proud of the job I was doing for the Codys and had been foolish enough to expect praise for the good organization I had put in place—instead I got attacked because I had a cute little snaggle-toothed boyfriend.

Bill finally calmed down, but only because I burst into tears.

“Oh hush!” he said. “You know you are my favorite darling.”

“Favorite darling! I doubt it!” I said, my shoulders shaking.

“Yes you are … you are,” he repeated. “There's no woman who can hold a candle to you, unless maybe it's the peerless Morlacchi.”

Bill dropped that in at the last second, because Jesse Morlacchi was standing in the doorway looking at him coolly.

I guess Bill Cody could not stand the scrutiny of two smart women who were not inclined to overlook dubious behavior on his part.

“I see I am outnumbered and am about to get a licking,” he said, picking up his hat. Then he bent over and kissed me three or four times.

“What did I do that was so bad?” he asked, looking as innocent as a lamb.

“My husband better not come home drunk,” Jesse said.

“Good Lord!” Cody said. “Can't two old pals even bend the elbow a little, for old-times' sake?”

Neither of us answered. Bill never liked lengthy conversations, so he left.

“What do you think of him, Jesse?” I asked. “When I first met him I didn't think I could resist him but I didn't have to resist him. In fact, he resisted me.”

Jesse laughed her lilting laugh.

“Big Billy Cody loves all women—a little,” she said. “He makes time for flirtation, but he don't make time for love.”

“Doesn't that seem odd to you?”

“Love's just not his interest,” she told me. “He meets a pretty girl like you and he thinks he's in love with you for a few minutes or a few hours, but then he gets the chance to chase some Indians or act in a melodrama and he's gone.”

Jesse Morlacchi was only four years older than me, but she seemed a lot sturdier—or maybe I mean wiser. Maybe her wisdom came from Europe—I don't know.

“Bill won't really let himself be loved,” I said. “If you think about it it's a little sad.”

Jesse vigorously disagreed with that statement.

“Not sad at all,” she insisted. “Bill is a generous man. When we started acting together we had no costumes—he outfitted us and has never let me pay him back. But don't waste time feeling sorry for Billy. He always does exactly what he wants to do, and he always gets away with it.

“Once he gets his Wild West running he's going to be a big star,” she added.

“I can act circles around him, but I'll never be the star William Cody will be—and neither will my husband.”

“I suppose you're right.”

Jesse shrugged.

“He's America's most glorious boy,” she said. “He's the best rider I've ever seen—he just looks right on a horse and he's handsome as a god. Rich people like him and rich people don't usually like troupers—we're too wild for them.”

Jesse went back to her practicing and I sat in the kitchen for a while, drinking tea.

W
HEN
Z
ENAS
C
LARK
told Cody he intended to make him the main hero in a book he was writing about Western scouts, Bill eased up on him a little—he never objected to being made a hero, which is not to say that he eased up on me to any noticeable extent. What he wanted was for me to stay in love with him, even if he didn't do much about it; and of course, he wanted me to go on being his efficient, well-organized majordomo.

Before he'd been in North Platte a week I was beginning to wish he'd hurry up and leave. It wasn't because I didn't like him, though. It was just he was more than I was up to dealing with on an hourly basis.

When I told him I thought he ought to sell all those half-wild cattle up on the Dismal River he looked startled.

“Why, did they look poorly?” he asked.

“I don't think so but they're so wild I mainly saw their rear ends. Why keep 'em?”

“Because then I can say I'm a rancher,” he said, looking at me as if I couldn't understand the simplest thing.

“Why do you need to say you're a rancher?”

“Because the public will like it,” he explained. “Being a rancher's just part of being Western—it goes with being a scout and a Pony Express rider and an Indian fighter. I'll look good on a poster, surveying my vast herds.”

I suddenly saw the light. What Bill was really interested in was publicity—regarded in that light, everything he did made sense. He had no objection to whatever normal business I was able to do for him—real estate, or stocks and bonds, a part interest in a grain silo, or any improvement I could make in the royalties from the Buffalo Bill's
monthly and other dime novel contracts—but what he really had to have was publicity, and who could blame him? If he didn't get lots of publicity Bill Cody might never realize his drama, which was to get the Wild West up and running. He had to sell himself, and he had to sell the West—otherwise there'd be no show.

“I understand now, I think,” I told him—we were in his little office, with files piled all around. “You're a salesman—a pure salesman.”

“That's me,” he admitted. His hat was off—his hair needed trimming—but then he needed long hair for the posters.

“And you're the smart woman who's going to keep me solvent until I can make it all work.”

“I can do it,” I said, “but deep down I'd rather we'd had a romance. I don't think it would have been a small one.”

My confession didn't surprise him—I think he may have been really flattered, and also a tiny bit sad.

“I don't know—maybe I just wasn't really intended for romance, Miss Nellie,” he said.

“I agree, but I can't figure out why not,” I said.

In another part of the house Jesse Morlacchi was tinkling a piano and singing a sad Italian song.

“Seems like flirting's about as far as I usually get,” Bill said.

The two of us were low for a moment, together. Then Bill stomped off to look at some horses he might buy, and I went back to work.

B
ILL
C
ODY WASN'T
the only man with a jealous nature—my lover, Zenas Clark, had a powerful jealous streak, as I found out one crisp morning when Zenas caught me chatting with young Warren Earp, who had ridden up from Dodge City to try his hand at riding Bill Cody's big buffalo, Monarch.

In fact I liked Warren Earp, and was glad to see that he had enterprise enough to leave his surly brothers and strike out on his own.

I suspect Warren was a little sweet on me too, which, from my point of view never hurt—but in Zenas Clark's mind Warren's mere presence was tantamount to adultery.

Cody was on the other side of the corrals, watching several cowboys try to get a saddle on the big buffalo. Five cowboys had ropes on him, but so far Monarch was jerking them around at will. If Warren was discouraged by the formidable beast he had agreed to ride, he didn't show it. He had greeted Cody respectfully and was being perfectly polite to me, when Zenas came running up from the big house, his shirt unbuttoned and his feelings in an uproar.