The Honorable Cody Read online

  The Honorable Cody: A novel

  © 2005 Richard S. Wheeler

  Electronic edition © 2014 Richard S. Wheeler

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Although most of the characters in this novel actually existed, their portrayals herein are fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Electronic conversion and layout by Get It Together Productions.

  Cover photo of William Cody is from the Library of Congress public domain archives.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  To my gifted Livingston neighbors:

  Diane Smith, Maryanne and Bill Campbell, Joe Camp III and Bridget Kelly, Bob Ebinger, Tim Cahill, Margot Kidder, Jamie Harrison, Janie Camp, Gatz Hjortsberg, Tom Goltz, Elwood Reid, Scott McMillion, Russell Chatham

  Contents

  The Honorable Cody

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  Titles by Richard S. Wheeler

  THE HONORABLE CODY

  Chapter 1

  Gene Fowler

  Harry Tammen’s right bower, a goon of massive proportion named Roscoe, loomed over my desk and announced that the great man wished to see me in the Red Room. A summons from the co-owner of the Denver Post could not be ignored nor even delayed a moment. I went at once, following Roscoe, an ex-pugilist who performed certain hatchet functions for the great man.

  The Red Room, as everyone in Denver knew, was not merely a scarlet chamber but was the arena of the town’s bloodletting. It was where politicians lost their privates, editors were guillotined, local merchants were threatened with extinction if they advertised in the rival Rocky Mountain News, and where saints and sinners were bought and sold.

  It was where mere reporters, such as myself, cocky young Gene Fowler, were either sent out on dubious assignments or else excommunicated. So I hastened up two flights and, clammy-handed, entered the chamber where the great Tammen waited impatientlyfor his underling, waving an unlit cheroot in his porky fingers. He was a chubby blond with bright blue shark eyes, which were now focused on the small carp before him.

  “The colonel’s going to croak. Start work on an obituary,” he said.

  “Colonel Cody?” I asked.

  “What other colonel merits any sort of obit?” he replied.

  I could think of none and shook my head.

  “Don’t damage the merchandise,” he said. “I have a lot invested in Cody and I want to get my money back with some decent usury.”

  “A long story?” I inquired.

  “The whole damned front page, back page, and sidebars in every section with a red headline. That’s why we’re starting now.”

  “How much time?”

  Tammen shrugged. “That’s between Cody and God. Between you and me, we’re going to be ready whether it’s ten minutes from now or ten days. And remember, don’t damage the merchandise. I figure quick or dead, Buffalo Bill’s worth another million to Denver.”

  That struck me as piquant, but what was a lowly reporter to think?

  “You are going to say, not once but twice, that Cody’s dying wish is to be buried right here in Denver, atop Lookout Mountain, where his great and noble spirit can gaze serenely over the High Plains, and any rumor to the contrary, such as that he wished to be planted in Wyoming, is to be treated for what it is, a cynical power grab by those who want to exploit his sacred remains. I want that high in the obituary, and repeated near the end of it.”

  I got the message. “Where is he?” I asked.

  “At his sister’s house, May Decker, Lafayette Street. The family’s gathered.”

  “How did you learn this?”

  “Fowler, I never reveal my secrets, but you can assume I have snitches on every bootblack stand in the state.”

  “A circus story, I suppose.”

  “Absolutely. Buffalo Bill Cody, star of the Sells-Floto Circus. And you know what I want. Great scout. Great showman. Great American, loved by kings, presidents and the common man. Great friend of Harry Tammen and the Post. And remember, we’re a family newspaper. Don’t mention the divorce. Now, send a draft up here in an hour and I’ll have a look.”

  “An hour?” I felt weak at the knees.

  “A half hour is better.”

  “But Mr. Tammen.”

  He leaned forward. “I have it that Cody could expire any moment, any second. There’s going to be a deathbed conversion if his wife has her way.”

  “Conversion?” Cody’s religion was money, fame and booze.

  “I got a tip from the cathedral ten minutes ago,” Tammen said. “I own a few altar boys.”

  “All right, I’ll start in,” I said.

  “Fowler, I chose you for a reason. You know the colonel better than anyone at the Post but me. But don’t tell what you know. Tell what you don’t know. Use your imagination. Write about the Buffalo Bill who loves children.”

  With that puzzling bit of illogic, Tammen’s right bower ushered me out of the Red Room. I had survived, at least for the moment.

  Tammen remembered my encounter with Buffalo Bill that had occurred a year or so earlier. I had encountered the frail old gent in the Union Station, and set upon him, looking for a story.

  “Colonel,” I said, after presenting my credentials, “what did that duke really say when he found you in the duchess’s bathroom?”

  The international legend had gawked at the impudent reporter, shook his long gray tresses, fixed me in his hoary gaze, and began spouting like a Yellowstone geyser. His answer was that he was now officially and unofficially an old man and therefore exempt from such impertinence. And with that he huffed away, still ramrod straight, still the handsomest god on Mount Olympus, still a presence that stopped traffic in Union Station.

  But the episode had not ended there. Shortly thereafter Harry Tammen summoned young reporter Gene Fowler to his red-painted lair.

  “Colonel Cody demands that I fire you,” Tammen said.

  I waited, expecting to pick up my notepad and decamp.

  “Were you always so impudent?”

  I nodded. “Always.”

  He rounded his desk, wrapped a porky arm over my shoulder, and said, “Keep it up, son. It’s something you can’t buy.”

  That’s why, this Saturday, the ninth day of January, 1917, he had assigned me to write the obituary. It was going to be the toughest assignment of my life but one I cherished. I would rather write about Buffalo Bill than anyone else on earth. Harry Tammen knew more about William F. Cody than Cody knew about himself, and that meant the editorial blue pencil would cut and slash, but I didn’t mind. I had the publisher’s confidence.

  I retreated to my shopworn desk, not knowing where to begin. Tammen considered Buffalo Bill Cody his private property and that would color everything I wrote. Actually, that was an asset. The Post’s morgue and files bulged with Cody material, much of it collected from Major Burke, Cody’s publicity man. Cody had written several autobiographies, each improving on the last. I didn’t doubt that any close study of these tomes would reveal the syntax of a few ghosts, such as Burke himself, or maybe Prentiss Ingraham, the great and gaudy dime novelist. The colonel had won no prizes for literary excellence.

  I headed for the morgue, asked for all these treasures, perused them un
til I supposed I could do justice to the fallen hero, and then set out to write a story of an unusual life.

  Where to begin? The frontier, of course. Cody was a rider with the Pony Express, or at least said he was. The dates didn’t add up. He said he rode in 1860 when he was but fourteen years of age. And he said he had made a legendary run, 200 miles, or 300, or 384, or whatever, when other riders were sick or dead and no man was on hand to take the mail through.

  Well, go with 384. Who’s to deny credit to a man on his deathbed?

  “No, no, no,” said Tammen.

  I turned to discover the Great Man peering over my shoulder, studying my copy as it erupted from my upright Woodstock.

  This was unheard of. Harry Tammen never descended to the newsroom. If he wished to talk to a reporter or editor, the victim was summoned to the Red Room along with a coffin. But there was Tammen, bulking over my shoulder.

  “Begin with the showman, Fowler. The international star, the man who played before the royalty of Europe, who invented the Wild West, who mesmerized thousands of people in two continents.”

  “Yes, Mr. Tammen.”

  “Have a copy boy bring me each take,” Tammen said. “You’ll do it just fine, Fowler. All you need is a little grasp of show business.”

  I began with the showman. With Buffalo Bill Cody, adorned in golden buckskins, his glossy brown locks flowing below his shoulders, his oversized sombrero framing a sculpted face that any Greek god would envy, the man who rode his white charger into the arena and evoked a great cheer, who shattered glass balls while shooting from over and under a horse at a walk or a gallop, with his rifle upside down.

  I banged away at the typing machine and watched the letters congregate in clumps. Other letters struck above or below the line of type, giving the copy a drunken appearance. Tammen was too cheap to service his typewriters or buy new ribbons, so the words accumulated in a faint blur that compositors sitting at their linotypes could barely fathom. But that was the Post. This would be a red headline. Unlike its rivals, this rag gauded its front pages with bright red heads whenever there was half an excuse. And Cody’s death would merit a headline set in 72 point capitals, commonly known to printers as war type.

  But no sooner had I finished a page than the publisher materialized once again, a bulky shadow exuding witch hazel, studying the copy.

  “That’s better, Fowler, but you didn’t mention Sells-Floto. I want Sells-Floto in the first graph.”

  I knew suddenly that this would be an ordeal.

  “Then you’ll have it,” I said, spooling another sheet of soft newsprint between the roller and platen. Tammen and Bonfils, his partner in crime, had purchased a dog and pony act and turned it into a circus, ringing in a two-bit partner named Sells so his dog-and-pony act would sound like the great Sells Brothers Circus, and adding the name of Otto Floto, the Post’s sports editor, just because Tammen was enchanted with the phonics. How could a circus named Sells-Floto lose a nickel?

  “See to it. Cody was the star of our circus and I don’t want our readers to forget it,” he said.

  I started in again, feeling the keys clap and shiver beneath my fingers.

  “The legendary star of the Sells-Floto Circus, Buffalo Bill Cody, died in Denver today. His dying wish, as his family gathered around his bedside, was that he be laid to eternal rest at the top of Lookout Mountain, where his mighty spirit could gaze forever upon the great plains that captured his heart. ‘This is my home,’ he whispered. ‘Not Nebraska, not Wyoming, but here. Bury me in my beloved Denver.’ Those were his last words.

  “Cody, whose talents were recently purchased by Post publisher Mr. Harry Tammen, joined the Sells-Floto Circus and made it the premiere road show in the American republic.”

  “Now you’re getting it right,” Tammen said, materializing over my shoulder once again. “Go to it, Fowler. I want to see the rest in ten minutes.”

  Chapter 2

  Jan. 10, 1917, Denver (AP)

  Col. William F. Cody, known to millions as Buffalo Bill, died just after noon from pneumonia at the home of his sister, Mrs. Louis Decker. He was 71. Present at his death was his wife, Louisa...

  Louisa Frederici Cody

  The Colorado Legislature invited me to let Will lie in state in the rotunda of the capitol for twenty-four hours and I agreed. What choice did I have? I understand that fully 25,000 people filed past the honor guard from Fort Logan to pay their respects, and that the line stretched for blocks. I did not attend. I am sure all 25,000 were Will’s women. No, that’s not fair. Only 1,000 were.

  I am told that a majordomo in silk top hat and cane hustled the line through the gauntlet, urging everyone to hurry up. Show business again. There is no dignity in it and I refused to set foot in the place.

  He received a fine funeral that Sunday afternoon with officials from Colorado, Wyoming and Nebraska attending. Will would have relished the attention even if he didn’t deserve it. The gentlemen at Olinger Mortuary understood Will and made a great show. Following the hearse was his last white steed, McKinley, saddled and bridled with Will’s boots reversed in the stirrups. I’m glad they didn’t parade everything else he rode all his life.

  Behind the mount came Governors Gunter of Colorado and Kendrick of Wyoming and Lieutenant Governor Howard of Nebraska. Will didn’t quite rate in Nebraska after decamping to Wyoming, so they sent a lesser man. A gaggle of legislators traipsed along too, but they don’t count. Ahead of the hearse marched the regimental band from Fort Logan, providing smart airs. Then, of course, came Civil War veterans, boy scouts, and fourteen women from the Women’s Relief Corps. No doubt Will would have considered them the Men’s Relief Corps. I should add that the Royal Arch Masons were marching, along with the National Order of Cowboy Rangers, and the Showman’s League of America. I believe the Knights Templar were on hand, and a few from the Mecca Temple of the Ancient Arabic Order of the Mystic Shrine of New York. Will would associate with almost anyone.

  We engaged the hall of the Denver Lodge of the Brotherhood of Protective Order of Elks, Lodge Number 17, for the service. The Elks claimed him, just as everyone else did. Will Cody had become public property. It was all unbearable and I had to suffer through it. They sang “Tenting Tonight on the Old Camp Ground,” which they alleged was Will’s favorite song though I never heard him sing it, at least not sober. There were eulogies from assorted black-garbed gents, and then an Episcopal service by the Reverend Charles Marshall. Will was getting up in the world. He started out as a Methodist, got buried by an Episcopalian, and ended up a Catholic.

  Now that surprises people, doesn’t it? Will, a Catholic? But that was my doing. On the ninth, as he lay fevered and dying, I summoned Father Christopher Walsh of the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. I’m not sure Will was sufficiently compos mentis to grasp it all but Father baptized Will and brought him into my church by osmosis, the rite filtering through his whiskey-soaked brain.

  We entered the small bedroom at May’s Lafayette Street home, where Will lay, gaunt and gray, his handsome face sagging, his eyes closed, his breathing a slow rasp in the shadowed light.

  “Will, this is Father Walsh. He’s here to baptize you and shrive you, and prepare you for the most blessed event of your life.”

  Will never opened his eyes. “Yes, Mama,” he said.

  “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” said Father Walsh, sprinkling Will.

  “Yes, good.”

  To everything that followed, Will said, “Yes,” which heartened me, so Will was confirmed about twenty-four hours before he left us forever, and I thanked Father Walsh for coming even if the rest of the family treated him coolly.

  There’s good in it. I saved him even if he didn't deserve it. Some day, a thousand years from now, God may let him in. I didn’t care whether the funeral service was Protestant or Hindu. I didn’t own him any more; his sisters May and Julia ran him and still do. Will did have a sort of vague religiosity about him, never offe
nding any churchman in public. He saved the giving of offense for his wife. Before we were married no curse had ever passed from my lips but Will taught me more than I should ever have learned.

  But I am too harsh and I don’t mean to be. My private thoughts aren’t meant for public consumption anyway. I grieve my Will. He was a sweet boy, at least above the neck. Unlike Will, I was faithful all my life. Of course I haven’t let him touch me for almost forty years, not after I caught him kissing actresses in the Green Room on the evening his Buffalo Bill Combination folded for the season. My heart went cold and I have carried a stone in my bosom ever since.

  I am not staying at May’s house. I don’t get along with Will’s sisters, but we reached a truce while Will lay dying. He had been failing for months, in fact ever since the Miller 101 show closed in early November. Doctor East told him to cut down on his smoking, but you know Will. Everything to excess. He tried the curative waters at Glenwood Springs but that effected no improvement so he came back to Denver to die, which he proceeded to do with his usual dispatch in spite of my objections.

  I am sorry he is gone. I loved him though he never knew it and didn’t care. I don’t know how we ever ended up married. It was a mistake but in my church you don’t have a second chance, so I tried to make the best of it. I have my ways. I have a tidy competence all in my name, while Will died broke. He never kept a dime in his pockets so the money he sent me when we settled near North Platte I invested in my own name, and that irritated him when he found out. But at least I got something out of the marriage.

  We have received condolences from all sorts of people, including President Wilson. Not that Woodrow Wilson would approve of Will, but he had to say something so he did in his own starchy way. Public figures are always compromising their integrity. Teddy Roosevelt send heartfelt condolences, but I always did think that he had bad judgment, running around the West like some demented adolescent. Teddy has weak eyes, unlike Will, who could sight a comely female at three hundred yards. But he and Will were two of a kind on all else. They never grew up.