Memories of Buffalo Bill

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Colonel William F. Cody "Buffalo Bill"

OF BUFFALO BILL

BY HIS WIFE, LOUISA FREDERICI CODY, IN COLLABORATION WITH COURTNEY RYLEY COOPER

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY NEW YORK : LONDON : MCMXIX iJAi^C * ^^vci

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BT

D. APPLETON & COMPANY

Copyright, 1919, by

PRINTED IN THE TJNITF,D STATES OF AMERICA

JAN '£1 ib^u

MEMORIES

OF BUFFALO BILL

Chapter I

It was more than a half century ago, May 1, 1865, to be exact. The twinge of early spring had not yet left the air, and I sat curled up in a big chair in front of the grate fire in our little home in Old Frenchtown, St. Louis.

There was a reason for the fact that we lived in Frenchtown; it carried a thought of home to my father, John Frederici, who saw in it an echo of Alsace-Lorraine, where he was born, and where he lived until the call of America brought his parents to this country. And so, when it had become necessary for him to move into town from his farm on the Merrimac River, near St. Louis, he had naturally chosen Frenchtown, with its quaint old houses of Chateau Avenue, its rambling, ancient, French market, and its people, reminiscent in customs and in language of the 1 country whence he came. My mother, plain American that she was, with the plainer name of Smith, nevertheless understood my father's yearnings and enjoyed with him the community in which he found pleasure. And so, in Frenchtown we lived and were happy.

For my part, on that evening, I was especially happy. My convent days were over, and my age had reached that point when my mother would only smile and nod her head at the thought of beaux. And to-night, I was to have two!

One I had seen many times before, Louis Reiber, who once or twice had told me that he liked me very much, and who, on more than one occasion, had shown that he could be fully as jealous as any young beau could be expected to appear. The other I did not know — even his name. I was sure of only one thing, the fact that my cousin, William McDonald, had asked for the privilege of bringing him out and had explained that he was a young man who had fought well on the Union side in the Civil War, and that he believed I would like him.

So, comfortable in the knowledge of having two young men to talk to, I was even more comfortable in the fact that I was curled up in the big chair before the fire reading the exciting adventures of some persecuted duchess and a heinous duke, as they trailed in and out of the pages of the old Family Fireside, Upstairs, my sister, Elizabeth, preparing also for an engagement that evening, sang and hummed as she arranged her toilet. The fire crackled comfortably; the adventures of the duke and duchess through their sheer nonsensical melodrama began to have a bromidic effect upon me. I nodded —

Suddenly to scramble wildly, to scream, then to struggle to my feet as I felt the chair pulled suddenly from beneath me. I heard some one laugh ; then I whirled angrily and my right hand sped through the air.

"Will McDonald!" I cried as I felt my hand strike flesh, "if you ever do that again, I'll "

Then I stopped and blushed and stammered. For I had slapped, full in the mouth, a young man I never before had seen!

The young man rubbed his lips ruefully, eyed me for a second, then began to laugh. My cousin, doubled over with joy at the unexpected success of his joke, at last managed to choke out the words :

"Louisa, this is the young man I told you 3 about. Allow me to present Private William Frederick Cody of the United States Army."

I stammered out some sort of an acknowledgment. My face was burning, and if I only could have had the chance, I would have given almost anything to have pulled out, separately and with the most exquisite torture, every hair on the head of that rollicking cousin. But Private Cody did not seem to notice. He rubbed his lips with his handkerchief, and then, his eyes twinkling, answered :

"I believe — I believe Miss Frederici and I have met before."

"Where?" I asked innocently.

"In battle," came the answer, and I flounced out of the room.

Nor would I return until my cousin had sought me out and apologized voluminously for his practical joke.

"I just couldn't resist the temptation," he begged. "I'll never do it again, honest. And listen, Louisa, if you'll forgive me, we'll have all our fun to-night at Lou Reiber's expense. You know how jealous he is. Well, you and Will Cody just pretend that you've known each other a long time and we'll have plenty to laugh about. 4

Won't you now — like a good girl, if I buy you some flowers — won't you?"

"And a box of candy?"

"Yes, and a box of candy. But from the way Cody looks at you, I'm thinking that he'll be the one "

"Will McDonald!"

"Well, it's the truth. He didn't take his eyes off you."

"How could he help it?" I asked acidly. "If I were a man and a girl jumped out of a chair and slapped me in the mouth, I would want to see what she looked like, too. Oh, Will," and my lips quivered, "he'll think I'm a regular vixen."

"No, he won't — honestly, Louisa " and

he petted me. "Come on now — please, like a good girl. Lou Reiber will be here almost any moment."

So I returned, while Private Cody apologized very seriously, while I spent the time noticing that he was tall and straight and strong, that his hair was jet black, his features finely molded, and his eyes clear and sharp, determined and yet kindly, with a twinkle in them even while he most seriously told me how sorry he was that he had hurt my feelings.

And he was handsome, about the most handsome man I ever had seen! I never knew until that evening how wonderful the blue uniform of the common soldier could be. Clean shaven, the ruddiness of health glowing in his cheeks ; graceful, lithe, smooth in his movements and in the modulations of his speech, he was quite the most wonderful man I had ever known, and I almost bit my tongue to keep from telling him so.

The apologies over, and Will McDonald safely planted in a corner where he could do no more harm, we joked and chatted and planned for the arrival of Louis Reiber. When he came, We were to act as though we had known each other for years, and, in fact, appear mildly infatuated.

"And if he asks us where we knew each other, I'll think of some foolish thing to say that will make him wonder more than ever," said Private Cody. "We'll just make him guess about everything."

"But if I've known you so long," I countered, "certainly I wouldn't call you simply Private Cody or Mr. Cody. That is — at least, if I'd known you as long as I'm supposed "

"Certainly not." He was chuckling at the predicament I'd gotten myself into. "You'd call me Willie, just like my mother used to do."

"But " it was my first chance at repartee,

"you don't look like the sort of a man to be called Willie. Do all men call you Willie?"

"Men call me 'Bill,' " came simply, and there was a light in his eyes that I had not seen before, a serious, almost somber glint. "Only one person has ever called me 'Willie.' That was my mother — I've always been just a little boy to her, and she liked the name. And because she liked it, I liked it. You are the only other person I ever have asked to call me by the name." I held out my hand.

"Thank you, Willie," I said seriously. Then he chuckled again.

"All right, Louisa. Now, that's settled." | And so, when Louis Reiber arrived, I hurried 1 to him with the information that I wanted him I to meet a very old and dear friend of mine, Private Willie Cody of the United States Army. I Mr. Reiber's black eyes flashed. J "I don't believe I've ever heard you mention ' him," he said somewhat ungraciously. Mr. Cody smiled.

"But that doesn't mean I haven't been in her thoughts, does it, Louisa?" 7

The mention of my Christian name caused Mr. Reiber to stare harder than ever.

"I thought you were joking at first," he began. "Now, I really believe you're in earnest. Tell me, how long have you known each other?"

"Oh, for a long time," I bantered. "Haven't we, Willie?"

"A very long time," he answered.

Then the conversation switched, only to be brought back by Mr. Reiber to the subject of our acquaintance. We played him between us, teased him and tormented him, and at last, in answer to one of his questions, Mr. Cody leaned forward in mock seriousness.

"If you want to know the truth," he said, "I'll tell it for the first time. Louisa and I are to be married."

"You're engaged?" Louis Reiber sat straight up in his chair.

"Of course," answered Mr. Cody. Then he turned to me. "Isn't that the truth?"

"The absolute truth," I answered.

Louis Reiber fidgeted.

"But — where did you meet each other? Of course, I understand, I haven't any right to ask

the question, but I'd really like to know. I "

"If you'll promise never to tell?" Mr. Cody held up a hand in a mock oath.

"Why — why certainly."

"Well " and the corners of Will Cody's

lips curled in spite of his attempt to be serious — "when I went out of the penitentiary, she went in!"

"Willie Cody, how dare you!" I giggled.

"Well, he wanted information."

I remember that it was just about that time that Mr. Reiber ran a finger around his collar, and rose.

"I — I'm sorry I can't stay any longer," he said at last. "I just dropped in for a moment. I rather promised Miss Lu Point that I'd come by this evening." He held out his hand. "I certainly congratulate you, Mr. Cody."

"Oh, I congratulate myself," Will agreed.

"And I feel very happy about it too," I added.

"So do I," chimed in Will McDonald, who had listened, grinning, all the while. "You see, I'm really the one who arranged it."

Mr. Reiber didn't say a word to him — he just

looked, and that was enough. Then he bade us

good-night, and we laughed at what we thought

was the great joke that we had played on him. I was especially struck by the humor and nonsense of it all. But the next morning, I realized that it wasn't as nonsensical as I had imagined, for bright and early, a messenger boy was waiting with a letter for me. I never had seen the writing before, but the moment I began to read, I knew. It was from the handsome young man of the night before, the man whose eyes always twinkled and whose lips were continually smiling, and I couldn't help wondering whether this was a continuance of the joke.

The letter long ago was lost, but I always will remember the sense of it. It ran something like this: My Dear Louisa:

I know you will forgive me for calling you this — because you will always be Louisa to me, just as I will be glad if I may always be Willie to you.

We joked a great deal last night. I realize now, however, that it was not all joking. May I call again, to-night ?

Respectfully, Willie.

I left the messenger at the door and hurried, somewhat panic-stricken, to my sister, Elizabeth.

"Certainly not," she said wisely. "If you let him come to-night, he'll begin to believe that you think something of him." 10

"Well," I hesitated, "he's— he's terribly handsome."

She looked at me sharply.

"That hasn't anything to do with it. If he thinks enough of you to really want to come, he'll ask again. Tell him that you're very sorry, but that you have an engagement for this evening and "

"Then, suppose he should never ask again," I faltered.

"Just you see," she answered wisely. "A man never likes to get what he wants right away."

"But I'd — I'd like to see him a great deal."

"Then what did you ask my advice for?"

So, dutifully I sat down and wrote a very regretful note, telling him that it was impossible for him to come that evening, but that I hoped that he would not leave the city without making another effort. I gave it to the messenger with misgivings and watched him as he hurried down the street, wishing that a girl's life was not bound with so many conventions and that — well, that he'd come anyway.

But he didn't. The next day, it was necessary for me to go into the downtown district, and according to the fashion — for the weather had 11 changed and the sun was blazing hot — I wore the several veils which were then believed so necessary to protect one's complexion against sunburn.

So heavy were they that I could hardly see, and like all other girls, I groped my way through the downtown district and back home again without recognizing any one. But an hour or so after I had returned, I realized that while I had not seen any one I knew, some one else had seen me. A messenger was at the door, and this time I knew the writing. It was poetry, and I'll never forget it :

"The blazing sun of brilliant day- May veil the light of stars above, But no amount of heavy veils Can e'er deceive the eyes of love."

Then at the bottom was written :

"I am not going to ask this time. I hope I may see you this evening."

And while the locusts sang in the old trees that lined the street that evening, he came, and I heard later that the children playing along the street — always an encyclopedia of information regarding my callers — announced among themselves that I had a new and very handsome beau. As for my- 12 self, I'm afraid that I was not very self-possessed. I had never met a man exactly like him before.

It was very warm that evening, and so we abandoned indoors for the coolness of the porch. For awhile, we talked of nonentities, while the children played about the sidewalk and while the family came and went. At last, the lazy evening changed to night, the locust ceased its singing in the maples, and the lamp-lighter, his ladder slanted across his shoulder, made his trip along the old street. Will and I had seated ourselves on the steps of the porch, I leaning against one pillar, he against another, across the way. Suddenly he changed position and came nearer me.

" You're not angry?" he asked. We were alone now.

"About what?"

"That poetry?"

"Of course not. But you didn't make it up. You copied it from something."

"Honestly I made up every word of it," he protested. "I thought it was real good."

"So did I — only I couldn't see much sense to it." I wouldn't tell him, of course, that I had it right with me that moment. "I couldn't understand it at all."

"Well," and he laughed, "I gruess I'm better at killing Indians."

"Sho' now," I looked toward him with interest, "did you ever kill an Indian?"

"A good many," came quietly. "I killed my first one when I was eleven years old."

"Yes," I laughed, "just like you and I were friends for years and engaged and all that sort of thing. Willie Cody, can't you ever be serious?"

But when he answered me, there was a different note in his voice, a note of sadness quite different from the jovial, rollicking tone that usually was there.

"I killed my first Indian when I was eleven years old," came the slow repetition. "Sometimes I think I've been fighting my way through life ever since the day I was born. Not that I'm sorry," he added quickly ; "it was my own life and I chose it and I wouldn't give it up — but it hasn't been easy."

"And you've really killed Indians?" The thought was uppermost in my mind. St. Louis, it is true, was far West then, and we saw Indians now and then who came into the city from beyond the borders of civilization, but they, as a rule, U were friendly scouts who had joined the Union forces and were acting as guides for the various contingents of the United States Army operating in Missouri. To us, the land of the buffalo, the war whoop and the tomahawk was far away — for Leavenworth, Denver, and cities that now are but a ride of a day or two from St. Louis, were then, through the lack of transportation, far in the distance.

The real West began at Kansas City — Westport, it was called then — and from there came many a harrowing story of bloodshed, of Indian attacks and outlawry. And to actually look on some one who had been through this, who could talk calmly of having killed Indians, and of having killed his first Indian when he was nothing more than a boy, was something I never before had experienced. To me, it was wonderful. But to Will Cody, sitting by my side, it was only a recital of a hard, grueling childhood and youth, spent in the midst of turmoil and danger.

"I can't remember much else but hard knocks," he said at last. "The first one came when I was seven years old. We'd moved to a place called Walnut Grove Farm, in Scott County, Iowa, near where I was born." 15

"When?" I asked.

"When was I born? In Scott County, February 26, 1845."

"Then you're only twenty years old?"

"That's right," he laughed — a short hard laugh that I did not like. "But I've seen enough and done enough to make it seem longer. It all began when Samuel — he was my brother — was killed. He was twelve. I was only about seven. We'd gone out on horseback together to bring in the cows. Sam's horse reared and fell on him. I dragged him forth, crying over him and trying to bring him back to consciousness, but I could not, and I had to jump to my horse again and ride to find my father and tell him about it — leaving my brother dying. There wasn't a chance for him — he died the next morning, and soon after that my father decided to emigrate. We were all glad. I was more glad than the others ; I wanted to get away. It seemed to me that I could always see that horse just as it toppled and fell, and hear Sam screaming beneath it."

He was silent a moment, then went on — as though he felt I should know the whole story of all that he had done, all that he had experienced 16 before that night when I jumped from my chair and slapped him.

"Kansas wasn't even as well settled then as it is now," he began again, "but my father decided to go there, and bundled up my mother and all of the children, Martha and Julia and Nellie — Mary and Charles, my other sister and brother, were born later — and with an old carriage, three wagons and some horses, we started out.

"When we got to Weston, Missouri, my father decided to stay a while with his brother, Elijah, who ran a trading post there ; then we went on to Fort Leavenworth. The cholera was raging then. Every once in a while we would see some Mormon emigrant train stopped along the road to bury its dead, and as we would pass the place we would hold our breath to keep from catching the disease. At last father established a camp near Rively's trading post, on the Kickapoo agency, and I came to know men who carried guns and knives and who fought just for the love of killing.

"While we were there an uncle who had been

in California came to visit us. His name was

Horace Billings and he was an expert rider. I

liked him, he liked me, and he taught me to ride.

Then we went out to hunt wild horses together — he had taught me to use a lasso, and I could handle it pretty well."

"Wild horses?" I asked. My eyes were wide. "I didn't know "

"A number of them had escaped a year or so before from the government reservation at Leavenworth," Will answered.

"But weren't you afraid?"

"A little— at first," he agreed.

"But your mother — didn't she object?"

Will Cody laid a hand on my arm.

"My mother always objected," came his answer. "But she never said 'no' to me. The night I went away on my first hunt, she cried, but she did not let me know it. We were very poor — almost," and he laughed — "as poor as I am right now. And the government was paying ten dollars a head for every horse that was recovered."

"And you slept outdoors and everything like that?"

"Of course," he answered me. "And killed our own game and cooked it. So you see, I began getting my education early. My uncle had had some schooling and in what time we had around the camp fire at night, he taught me the things 18 that my mother would have liked for me to have learned. But at the same time, I was learning more about how to ride and how to shoot and handle myself on the plains.

"We kept that up for a while, then my uncle decided to rove on again and I went back home. About that time, the Enabling Act for Kansas territory had gone through and there was a rush into the country. Every trail seemed to be loaded with emigrant wagons, and I saw more than one homestead staked out with whisky bottles.

"It was a while after this that the slavery question came up and my father announced himself as an abolitionist. Nearly every one was against him and one night they all gathered at the trading post and forced him to make a speech. While he was telling them his views, the crowd started at him and one of them stabbed him. That's why I'm in this uniform."

I remember how tightly I clenched my hands.

"And they killed him!" I exclaimed. But in the half darkness, I could see Will Cody shake his head.

"No — worse. They only injured him so badly that he laid for weeks in danger of death. We got him away that night and hid him. After that, 19 it was almost a constant thing for bands of pro-slavery men to come to the house hunting him. One night, a group of them on horseback surrounded the house, and, weak as he was, my father was forced to disguise himself in my mother's bonnet and dress and shawl and hide in a cornfield three days, until we could find the chance to get him to Fort Leavenworth.

"After that, we moved to Grasshopper Falls, Kansas, thinking to get away from the pro-slavery men, but it wasn't much use. My father was building a sawmill there, and one night a hired man came hurrying home to tell us of a plot to kill father at the mill. Mother called me and put me on Prince, my horse, and started me to save my father.

"I rode about seven miles when I suddenly came on a group of men. One of them started for me.

" 'There's that old abolitionist's son,' he shouted, and commanded me to halt, but I kept on. They started after me, but I was light on Prince's back and I outdistanced them. I warned father and we hurried to Lawrence, where he joined the Free State men, who protected him.

"But there never was any peace after that. 20

The pro-slavery men came to our house regularly; once mother only drove them away by pretending there was a large body of armed men in the house. At another time, they stole my horse, Prince. Often they would come and ransack the place, taking everything of value. My father could not stay at home, and money was scarce. I went to work for Russell and Majors who owned a great many wagon trains and cattle, herding for them at twenty -five dollars a month. And then I was only ten years old."

It all seemed inconceivable. And yet there was something about the quiet, modest seriousness of the tone that told me that every word he was speaking was the truth. There were no frills about Will Cody's story as he told it to me that night on the porch, no embellishments — it was only the natural story of a young man who had faced hardships and who, no doubt, was forgetting more than he told. After a moment, he went on again :

"Things kept up that way until 1857 — with the exception of the fact that I went home for a while and went to school. Then, my father died, almost as a direct result of that stab wound, and I was left to be the provider for the family. I went 21 back to the people I had worked for before, Russell and Majors, and was detailed to ride with a herd of beef cattle, under Frank and William McCarthy, for General Albert Sidney Johnson's army, which was being sent across the plains to fight the Mormons.

"We got along all right until we got to Plum Creek on the South Platte River, west of old Fort Kearney. Then, all of a sudden, shots began to sound and we heard the war whoop of Indians. We had been camping and jumped to our feet. Already the cattle had been stampeded by the Indians who had shot and killed the three men guarding them.

"I was only eleven years old then and I guess I was scared." He laughed at the recollection of it. "I don't remember much until I heard Frank McCarthy tell us to make a break for a little creek, and I was running as fast as I could. The bank gave us good protection and we started to make our way back to Fort Kearney.

"Of course, I was the youngest of the party, and I fell behind. By and by night came and the moon came out, and I got more scared than ever. All of a sudden I heard a grunt from above and looked up on the creek bank to see an Indian 22 staring about him. My gun went to my shoulder and I had fired almost before I knew what I was doing. There was a whoop, and then an Indian tumbled over the bank — stone dead."

There on the porch, listening to the quiet recital, I felt a shiver run through me. I had always been romantic, dreaming of adventures and of weird happenings — just like many another convent-bred girl — but I never had imagined that I ever would meet a man who had killed an Indian. I think my teeth must have chattered a bit, because I remember Will moving closer and saying to me:

"Am I scaring you?"

"No — not at all," I hastened to answer, "it's — ■ just a little chilly."

"Shall we go in the house?

"No — let's stay out here. And tell me some more. What happened next?"

"Well, nothing much happened right then. The rest of the men came back and I immediately got brave and told them how easily I had done the trick. And whether I was scared or not — it wasn't such very bad work, was it?"

I admitted that it wasn't, and asked for more. For I had found some one who was infinitely 23 more interesting than the Family Fireside. That was only so much paper. Here was a young man who had lived more adventures than the paper ever had printed. So he went on with his story:

"I guess that must have initiated me, because things moved pretty fast after that. The Indian must have been a lone scout, as we made our way to Fort Kearney safely, got the troops, started after the Indians, and went with them. But all we found was the place where the camp had been and the three bodies of the men who had been killed. The cattle were gone — as well as the Indians. So we buried our dead and went back to Leavenworth.

"After that, I got a job as an extra hand with the wagon trains that were going across the plains for Russell, Majors and Waddell — they'd taken in a new partner and had about six thousand wagons and seventy-five thousand oxen. Some of the men abused me, and one tried to beat me one night, when a plainsman named 'Wild Bill' Hickok stepped in and helped me. He was about twenty years old then and had already killed three or four men, and when the rest of the trainmen saw he'd taken me for a friend, they were 24 afraid to abuse me any more. 'Wild Bill' and I are still friends. You'll meet him some day," he added with a queer inflection.