Scene One, the front porch of Bill’s ranch house, the Spring of 1878. Bill was relaxing on his porch during a break of his Buffalo Bill Wild West. He spotted the lone rider coming over a ridge to the north.

It’s that Olive fellow, he was sure. No one else in this territory sits on a saddle like that.
Print Olive rode directly to the hitching post near Bill’s feet. “Mr. Cody,” he said, “My name’s Print Olive. I’ve got a spread up north of you a ways. Mind if I visit a spell?”

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Olive. I figured we’d meet soon enough. C’mon up on the porch and I’ll fetch you something to drink.”

The next hour went quickly. Olive was an unabashed talker, and Bill a skilled listener. Olive spoke first of the days in Texas after the war, and of the lawlessness that inclined him and his family to drive their herds north to the free range of Nebraska.
Bill felt no need to share his life story and waited for the ask. Bill’s silence left Olive no option but to get to the point of his ride.

“Reason I stopped over, Mr. Cody, is this,” he got to the point. “The goddam government is intent on flooding this territory with dirt scratchers and the scruffiest bunch of immigrants, none of whom can even speak our language. They keep coming, building homesteads, building fences, planting gardens. They’re doing this on our land, on our free range. And I aim to stop them, right on the damn county line. You cross that line, you play by our rules. We’ve organized the Custer County Livestock Association. We set the rules. We enforce them. This is going to stay free range, and we’ve got all the guns we need to keep it that way.”

“I’d heard of something to that effect,” Cody nodded. “Word spreads easy in these parts.” His silence invited Olive’s response.

“Reason I’m here is to invite you to join us, Mr. Cody. You’re a prominent man in these parts, hell in all parts for that matter. Your name would lend a lot of authority to our organization.”
Cody’s reply came quickly, preceded by only a change of stance as Bill rose and leaned casually against one of the porch timbers.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Olive. See, if we’re going to develop this country into the fine land, I can imagine it can be, we are going to have to do it together. We need towns. We need farms. We need businesses. We need churches. We need a hard-working citizenry that can work this hard land. We need to build a sense of community. It’s words, deeds and the law that’ll get this place settled. Not six-guns.”

Olive started to rebut Bill but couldn’t get the first word out before Bill stopped him with a hand raised, halt-style. “Let me tell you a little bit about me now. My father was one of those immigrants, a man looking for a better life for his family. He played by the rules. He filed his claim on the most beautiful place in the Salt Creek Valley. He did it with a deed, words on a piece of paper. That’s how I settled this place, a patented deed. And that’s how this is all going to play, Print. You’re a smart man. You’ve already tried the six-gun approach. It couldn’t secure your place in Texas. And it won’t here.”

(This was a bit like what Amor Towles wrote in The Lincoln Highway: “For most people, Emmett figured, rules were a necessary evil. They were an inconvenience to be abided for having the privilege of living in an orderly world.”)

Bill walked over to the edge of his porch, motioning Olive to follow him. He pointed to a small gathering under a stand of aspen trees off to the west. A crowd of men had gathered around a small campfire. “Over there, that’s what’s left of the great Sioux nation. Sitting Bull, Gaul. What’s left of their Oyate. No braver group of men ever existed. There were thousands of them, hardier than any men I’ve ever come up against. But they couldn’t beat the numbers. Now they’re doing what’s left for them to do, riding in the Wild West Show and surviving with at least the pride of knowing that they did all they could. Lesson the be learned there, Mr. Olive.”
Olive’s quizzical look made it clear he wasn’t buying Bill’s argument.

“Point is, your approach can’t, won’t stop what coming. So, line up with it, not crossways to it. A fine future awaits you if you do. There’s plenty here for everybody.”

Olive shook his head. “We’ve lived different lives, Mr. Cody,” he countered. “My experience tells me I can trust this iron on my hip over any words on a piece of paper. Words are just tools for folks who don’t have the gumption or the strength to take what it is they want.”

“I’ll have to differ with you there, Print. Words are just the spearhead of the ideas behind them. This country’s going to be settled by building communities that have the staying power to hold onto and nurture a living out of this tough country. Sitting Bull’s people proved that they could do that over the centuries. I’m thinking we can do the same.”

“Well, I thank you for your time,” Olive said as he turned to go.

Bill stopped him. “No need to hurry off, neighbor. The cook is about to lay out a spread to feed this hungry lot. I’d be honored to have you join us. I may not see things your way, but that’s no reason we can’t be friends.”

That stopped Print Olive in his tracks. He was a black-and-white sort of guy. He didn’t think or act in grays. Still. “Dinner’d be very welcome,” he replied. “I have business in Kearney, and a full belly would make that ride a lot more pleasant.”
“Kearney?” Bill said. “You wouldn’t happen to have a little extra carrying capacity, would you? I’ve got a package for a Mr. Keens over there. He’s going to help me promote a show and I’m sending him a parcel of promotional posters. It’d save me a trip if you wouldn’t mind hauling them over for me.”

“What exactly are they?” Print wondered.

“They are original photographs of many of the leaders of the Sioux nation. Damnedest thing. They have this belief that if someone takes their photo, it somehow steals their spirit. That’s why these are so unique. This fellow from back east, name of David Barry, has a way with the Natives. Rolls up in a hide and sleeps alongside of them. They trust him with their spirit, so he has photos that don’t exist anywhere else. And now I have them. And if you’re willing to haul them for me, so will Mr. F. G. Keens.”

“Small price to pay for a hardy meal. I’ll put them in Mr. Keens hand personally.”

HERE ENDS IMAGINED SCENE ONE

IMAGINED SCENE TWO

This fellow from back east, name of David Barry, has a way with the Natives. Rolls up in a hide and sleeps alongside of them. They trust him with their spirit, so he has photos that don’t exist anywhere else. And now I have them. And if you’re willing to haul them for me, so will Mr. F. G. Keens.” “Small price to pay for a hardy meal. I’ll put them in Mr. Keens hand personally,” Print replied.

Scene Two occurred that evening. The drums were beating softly at Sitting Bull’s camp and the singing had a somber tone. Nothing joyous, just sad sounding. Bill hadn’t heard anything like it before and decided to walk over to see what his star players were up to. There were six men sitting in a circle, each drumming, heads down, eyes closed. Bill waited outside the circle until the ceremony had stopped. Gaul stood first, nodded to Bill, then turned and without a word, retreated into the darkness. In turn each of them rose quietly, acknowledged Bill, then followed Gaul into the night. Only Sitting Bull was left. He invited Bill into his fire.

“That sounded sad,” Bill tried to open the conversation.

Sitting Bull was a man of few words. “I’m leaving today. I cannot be part of your show, Mr. Cody. It makes my spirit sick. I’m going home, to Standing Rock.” For a man of few words, those covered a lot of ground.

That stopped Bill in his tracks. The firelight flickered across a mystified look on his face. He said nothing as he absorbed the message. He had been trying to convince Sitting Bull to join his show for several months. He’d finally persuaded him that by joining the Wild West Show, he could help the Wasichu better understand his people. Sitting Bull lasted four months.

In his mind Bill tried out every argument that he thought might influence the chief to reconsider. The haunting sound of the drums that led him to the fire countered every case Bill could make for staying. “Help me understand,” was all he could finally muster.

“I am a tried old man. My entire life has been spent protecting my people from the invasion of you Wasichu, you included, Mr. Cody. In a very few cases we had the numbers. We made a stand.”

Bill interrupted, “Custer?”

“Custer was a fool. We had the greatest gathering of our people that we have ever had. We had a vision of him falling into our camp. He came armed with his ego and a few hundred ill-trained and poorly motivated men, men who had no better alternative than Army wages. We were fighting for our way of life. We wiped them out, to the last man. He was no worthy adversary.”

“I served under him on one expedition. He didn’t seem to have much concern for his men. He traveled like a king.”

“Concern for his men should have been his main focus. Custer cared only for himself. It was a pleasure to silence him.”

“Now?” Bill prodded.

“You have the numbers. I have seen the crowded cities. There is no end to the Wasichu. They will keep coming. There is no point in further resisting. Now all I can do is end my days in a quiet spot, knowing that I did what I could.”

END OF IMAGINED SCENE TWO

IMAGINED SCENE THREE and THE CONCLUSION OF THE STORY

Scene Three is a conversation that has to be imagined. But first, this.

William F. Cody was primarily a visionary, in an age where the palette offered the artist a continent-sized opportunity for expression. He rose to fame as a teenager, his exploits woven into the struggles of the post-Civil War and the country’s westward expansion. He was opportunist enough to capitalize on that dime-novel-driven fame, and rode into our history as a heroic icon.

He was more than a showman. He could envision a thriving culture on the thinly populated West. And could more than imagine it. He knew the investments it would take to turn the desert into a livable environment. He invested his Wild-West-earned fortunes in town building, in Rose, Kansas; and Cody and Ralston, Wyoming. He knew water was the key and built irrigation systems.

But Bill Cody’s last years were marked by failures as great as any of his successes. The yellow journalism of that age dragged him down as swiftly as it boosted his fame. Lurid tales of his infidelities and scandalous divorce robbed him of his claim to continuing moral leadership. His shows had earned him enough to retire as a king. His business failures squandered his fortune on ill-managed ventures into gold mining and filmmaking.

In the end he was forced by circumstance into a partnership with Harry Tammen, a Denver-based businessman. When Cody was unable to repay a loan, Tammen absorbed Bill’s Wild West Show into his own Sells Floto Circus. Tammen strong-armed Bill into a two-year tour, advertised as Cody’s last ride. At the conclusion of each of these shows, the curtain would rise on a fixed scene, William F. Buffalo Bill Cody, sitting atop his trusty steed, waving weakly at the audience from a flag-draped set. The curtains were then drawn to the sounds of the clapping of an appreciative audience.

Shortly before his death in January, 1917, the curtain fell on Bill’s last show. As the clapping faded, Bill was assisted down from his horse. He was too sick and too weak to make it on his own. Johnny Baker, by then one of Bill’s last friends and his unofficial foster son, assisted him to a waiting chair. He brought a glass of cold water, settled him under a robe that Bill cherished, a gift from his friend Sitting Bull. Bill rested a while, gathering his strength.

“Will,” Johnny said, “I can’t watch this any longer. It has to stop. You are the greatest man of our times. You deserve better than this.

“Son, I am fine. I told Harry I would meet my commitment and meet it I will. “

“Why?” Johnny persisted. “Buffalo Bill deserves a better final act than this.”

“Johnny, it’s not a matter of deserves. My whole life I have done what I’ve had to do. Much of that time there was no choice. I had to protect my father from the slavers. I had to support my family after he died. I had to serve my country to help open up this glorious west. So, no pity for me. Just say, “Buffalo Bill, he did what he had to do.”

THIS IS THE END OF OUR STORY.

R.I.P TO OUR STORYTELLER STEVE BUTTRESS.