Telegraph Days (18 page)

When Deputy Jackson Courtright woke up from his snooze, the first thing that he discovered was that he was engaged. To my relief he seemed pleased by the discovery.

“It's about time I got to be the one engaged,” he said. “You must have been engaged fifty times—that's not my way of doing things.”

“You do like Mandy, don't you?” I asked, a little nervously, once I got Jackson alone for a few minutes. Mandy Williams had gone back up those stairs as sprightly as if she were walking on air. From having nothing but the task of deflating a lot of stiffies in Rita Blanca, she now was engaged to a scion of the Courtrights.

“Mandy, why, she's the sweetest!” Jackson said. “I've been wanting to marry her from the minute I saw her, but I didn't figure she'd have me.”

“She'll have you—and it's not because you're a big hero,” I told him. “She'll have you because she likes you, and because you're mostly nice.”

“Leo Oliphant will just have to find himself another whore,” Jackson said—the practical side of things was always quick to assert itself with Jackson.

I walked back to my telegraph office whistling merrily. On the whole I'd managed a nice little plot very well. I'd soon gain a sister-in-law to help me out with my unsteady brother.

I had hardly got back to the office when the line got active and the message read thus:

PLAN TO VISIT RITA BLANCA AFTERNOON THURSDAY NEXT STOP SEEKING ATTRACTION FOR WORLD RENOWNED WILD WEST PAGEANT STOP EAGER TO MEET DEPUTY COURTRIGHT POSSIBLE EMPLOYMENT STOP WILL REQUIRE NOURISHMENT FOR HORSE AND SELF STOP WILLIAM FREDERICK CODY BUFFALO BILL

The first thing I thought of was how happy the McClendon sisters would be—their idol was coming to town.

To me, Buffalo Bill sounded like somebody who might need to be taken down a peg, but I soon passed on the news to the McClendon girls, at which Bertha fainted dead away and Melba got the heart flutters and had to fan herself briskly until she got her emotions under control.

It irked me, for some reason. Buffalo Bill Cody wasn't even there, and already he was causing trouble.

B
OOK
III
 
Wild West Days

A
MONG THE
C
OURTRIGHTS
I've always been noted for my ability to dislike certain people on sight, before I've even bothered to ascertain whether they smell bad or have false teeth that don't fit or dribble tobacco juice on their shirts or reek of bad hair tonic. Some men possess all those failings and more, but even one will usually cause me to mark a fellow off my list.

I had pretty well convinced myself that this Buffalo Bill Cody was probably somebody who needed to be put in his place. The very fact that Bertha McClendon had fainted at the mention of his name suggested vanity to me. The man might well have an irksome personality. When Thursday came I got ready to be icy and stiff, but then up Bill Cody trotted, on a fine gray horse, beautifully dressed, handsome as a god, friendly as a collie, and all my tough resolves turned into toffee.

Bill Cody was so appealing that I suspect he could have persuaded Eve to hold off on the apple, at least until he had managed to outflank Adam. The whole town turned out to greet him, and he behaved as graciously to everyone as if he'd been a natural prince. Both the McClendon sisters pressed him to sign their autograph books, which he did, with a bold flourish to his script.

Bill was friendly and polite to everybody and yet, now and then, he would look at me and let his eyes rest on mine, as if to suggest that he had come to Rita Blanca mainly to meet me, the telegraph lady, perhaps with romance in mind—but the first words this paragon of men actually said to me were anything but romantic.

“Are you organized, Miss Courtright?” he asked, once the crowd thinned and he had an opportunity to stroll over to the telegraph office.

It was not what I had expected to hear: for a moment I just stared at him.

“You look organized,” he concluded, “and on top of that you're far too pretty a female to be left to wither away out here in the sandburs and the wind. I think I better just hire you—we can figure out the details later.”

I felt a hot blush coloring my cheeks. “Hire me to do what?” I managed to ask.

“Help me get my Wild West pageant going,” he said. “Is your brother that shot up the Yazees hiding somewhere? Sharpshooters are mighty popular now—I'm going to need several once I get my pageant running. Right now your brother's got a high reputation.”

“He can't shoot,” I said. I thought I might as well spare Jackson the embarrassment of a tryout which would reveal the sad fact to the famous man himself.

Cody looked amused but not surprised.

“So it was beginner's luck, was it?” he asked. I nodded.

“Come out here and stand up straight so I can look at you,” he said.

I blushed again—no gentleman had ever summoned me like that.

“My, but you're a beauty,” he said, once he'd looked. “I'm not a bachelor by law, but I have the bachelor attitude. Let's enjoy a kiss.”

We did enjoy a kiss, a better kiss than I was used to receiving from total strangers.

“I hope we can enjoy more kissing later, in a more private spot,” he told me.

“I don't oppose the notion,” I admitted.

Then Bill got a thoughtful look—I don't believe our kissing touched him much, deep down. With Bill Cody, as I soon learned, kissing was just the thing that came naturally to mind when he was kissing a pretty girl. Once he'd kissed awhile his mind would soon drift on to other things, as it did that day.

“If your brother can't shoot, then we better leave him in peace,” Cody said. “You knew that fool George Custer in earlier days, didn't you?”

“Yes, he was my suitor,” I told Cody. “You might be a little more respectful of his memory.”

Bill Cody had a way of just looking blandly around as if someone made a remark that lacked interest for him. He ignored any comment that he'd rather not have heard.

“Weren't you sweet on Billy Hickok too?” he asked. “Seems like Billy was always talking about a Miss Courtright and how lovely she was—you lived down in Virginia then, I believe.”

“Waynesboro,” I said. “And I was sweet on Mr. Hickok, not that that's any of your business.”

I suppose being a famous scout gave Bill Cody the opportunity to meet most of the famous people in the West.

“Bill Hickok couldn't see ten feet,” Cody remarked. “When we were onstage in our silly little plays Billy couldn't manage to say a single word, but he fired off his pistol once in a while, whenever the spirit moved him. It was loaded with blanks but he shot so close to the legs of the bare-legged actors who were supposed to be Indians that they got powder burns—it didn't sit well with the actors, I can tell you!

“Billy was a fine fellow, though—I miss him,” Cody said quietly. I thought I saw a tear in his eye.

I cried a little myself—I missed Billy Hickok too, even if he was more interested in clothes than he was in women. He wasn't a kisser like Bill Cody, but they both had gentle eyes.

B
ILL
C
ODY PERSUADED
me to close the telegraph office for a while and take a stroll with him down the main street of Rita Blanca. From where we stood, at my office, we could see right through the town, but Billy wanted to make a closer inspection. He held my hand as we walked—I guess holding a woman's hand was as natural to Bill Cody as breathing.

Most people recoil with horror when they're brought face-to-face with the ugliness of Rita Blanca for the first time—I had recoiled in horror myself—but Bill Cody wasn't most people. His eyes actually lit up when he saw our sorry shacks and dusty streets.

“My God,” he said. “This place would be perfect for my Wild West setup, once I get it going.”

“What are you talking about, sir?” I asked. “All this place is perfect for is getting drunk or getting killed.”

“No, I see a blacksmith—you could get your horse shod,” Bill said. “And there's a livery stable where the villains in the story could hide until it's time for the big shoot-out.”

I saw the man was serious—he actually saw Rita Blanca as the perfect Western town.

“You've got a general store, a big two-story jail, a barbershop, two or three gambling establishments—and there's probably a whore around somewhere.”

“No whore,” I informed him. “She got engaged to Deputy Court-right yesterday.”

“Well, they're easily come by,” Cody said.

“Now, Mr. Cody, just slow down,” I urged him. “I consider myself as quick-minded as the next girl, but what's this Wild West setup you keep talking about, that you think Rita Blanca's so perfect for?”

Cody looked around, and then gave me a gentle hug.

“I need to wet my whistle before I get into the details,” Cody said. “I see a bunch of saloons—which one would you recommend?”

“I have no experience to go on—ladies aren't allowed in saloons, as you should know,” I reminded him.

Cody just smiled.

“Wait for me,” he said. “I'll just go see if I can purchase a bottle of rye.”

We were standing in front of the jail when he said it—I recalled that Sheriff Ted Bunsen was fond of rye. Rather than let Bill Cody wander into a saloon and be gone for hours, I grabbed his arm and walked him toward the jail.

“If it's rye you enjoy I'm sure the sheriff can spare some,” I said. “I happen to know that rye's his drink.”

Bill Cody was a fresh capture—I had no intention of letting him loose in a saloon, where he would probably be drawn into drunkenness or card games.

Ted Bunsen was half drunk himself when Cody and I paid him our surprise visit, but he graciously managed to find a glass that had only one or two dead flies in it—he soon removed the flies and poured Bill Cody a brimming glass of rye whiskey. It didn't brim for long—Cody drank it off as if it was sarsaparilla, a feat that surprised Ted Bunsen considerably.

“That was quick,” he said—coming from Sheriff Ted it counted as witty repartee.

“I am not a mincing drinker,” Cody said, holding out the glass. Sheriff Bunsen refilled it and Cody drank it straight off.

“Much obliged, Sheriff,” he said.

The jail was rather low-ceilinged—Bill had to stoop a little as he went out the door. Once we were outside in the dusty breeze Cody lit a thin cigar and offered me one.

“No, thanks,” I told him. “There are several things you need to learn about me, Mr. Cody.”

“Name two,” he challenged.

“I don't go into saloons and I don't smoke cigars,” I said.

Bill Cody smiled and nodded. “Not smoking cigars is why your kisses are so sweet,” he commented—sometimes his tone made me
blush. The fact that he said my kisses were sweet left me with the impression that he had made extensive comparisons.

“I suppose it would cost too much to buy this town and move it,” he mused, as we were strolling up the street. Whenever we passed a citizen, they'd wave. Just having Bill Cody come to town seemed to have lifted everyone's spirits—including my spirits. His easy good humor was a pleasure to experience.

But the notion that he might buy Rita Blanca was a notion little short of lunacy.

“Buy it?” I said, making no attempt to hide my astonishment. “What would you do with it if you bought it?”

“Sell tickets to it,” he said. “If I had it on Staten Island I can guarantee you that that ferry over from New York would be filled with people who would pay cash money to see what a town in the Old West looked like.”

Lots of people live in the past, but Bill Cody seemed to be one of the rare few who lived in the future. Here he was in the town of Rita Blanca, a place every one of its inhabitants knew was ugly, and Bill Cody was thinking ahead to a time when people like Georgie Custer and Billy Hickok and maybe the Yazee brothers would be candidates for the museum.

The Rita Blanca I was standing in, getting grit in my teeth, wasn't the Old West to me—it was the only West available. But Bill Cody was sincere, and calm as a banker. He was looking ahead to the day when our ordinary day-to-day lives on the prairie would be—what's the word?—picturesque, like the knights and ladies in King Arthur, or the novels of Walter Scott.

As we were idling around the office Cody suddenly snapped his fingers, as if he just dropped one idea in favor of a better one—the way he did it reminded me of Father.

“Do you suppose there's a reliable photographer in this town?” he asked.

“Hungry Billy Wheless is a fair photographer—he took the pictures of the Yazees,” I told him. “What do you need to have photographed, Mr. Cody?”

“Why, Rita Blanca—every stick and stone of it,” Bill said. “I'll hire young Mr. Wheless, if I can—he can start at the south end of town and come straight up the street, photographing every single building, back, front, and sideways.”