The Congress of Rough Riders Page 4

  Bill couldn’t sleep on the night before he was due to approach Simpson to request a place in his trail. Although his life had not been entirely free of excitement or adventure, he believed there was a difference between the fear of combat and death and the terror which he felt, inside when he thought about approaching a man so fearsome and famous as Lew Simpson. Although he believed Yountam was right when he said that Bill was the best of the three boys to speak on their behalf, it was a commission he dreaded, and rightly so, for Simpson was known to give short shrift to children and mere adventurers.

  Nevertheless, he had committed himself to the task and the following afternoon, spurred on by a plain-speaking speech of encouragement from Yountam, and a less enthusiastic but still clearly desirous one from Rogers, he approached the saloon and, pausing only for a deep breath on the outside, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  It was a small, dusty room, no more than one hundred square feet in total, with a short bar stretched against its left-hand wall and a filthy mirror behind it. There were about twenty men gathered inside, all with small shot-glasses of murky whisky in front of them, some talking, some smoking, some playing cards. Barely anyone glanced at the boy as he walked through the gaps between the tables, looking from face to face to find his prey. He discovered him holding forth at a table at the rear end of the room, an ancient, grizzled warrior with long white hair and a beard of such snow-white hue that it contrasted visibly with the bulbous scarlet of the bullwhacker’s nose. Above the sprouting hairs of the beard, a series of red lines tracked their own trail towards the man’s eyes, the broken veins which testified to a lifetime of drinking and adventuring settling across his face. His voice carried deeply around the table and the three younger men who sat with him listened in admiration as he recounted the story of some long-vanished glory. Bill stood by his side nervously, his hands shaking so much that he was forced to put them in his pockets and wait until he was noticed by Simpson’s three-man audience before daring to give a slight cough, causing the monologue to end and the huge head of his potential employer to spin around and stare at him in surprise.

  ‘What is it, boy?’ he asked after taking a moment to look the lad up and down suspiciously. ‘What do you want? Come to buy me a drink, have you? Well I’ll drink your health with it if you have.’

  The three men roared with laughter and Bill stared at them before giving a brief smile and wondering why he had not prepared his speech before coming into the saloon in the first place. In his mind he could picture Yountam and Rogers sitting outside on a cross-fence, waiting to hear the result of this conversation, pleased that it was he and not they who had to endure it.

  ‘It’s about the trail,’ he said eventually in a quiet voice which, to his relief, nevertheless held steady and firm. ‘I wanted to ask about the trail.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Simpson quickly, his eyes squinting for a better look. ‘Speak up, boy. Got a mouth on you, ain’t you? What trail are you talking about then?’

  ‘The trail to supply General Johnston, sir,’ said Bill. ‘I heard such a trail was due to begin soon. To take over Salt Lake City. The … the Mormons, sir.’

  ‘Ha!’ roared Simpson, his hand belting down on the table ferociously, causing Bill to jump in sudden shock, although he maintained his position, his toes curling within his shoes as he planted his feet so firmly into the wooden floor beneath him that he feared he might push through at any moment and fall on to the ground below the boards. Where have you heard of this trail then, boy? Been listening at doors, have you?’

  ‘No sir,’ said Bill quickly. ‘Not at all. It’s all around the fort, that’s all. I heard some others speak of it.’ He had no idea whether it was indeed all around the camp or not but it seemed to appease the older man who looked satisfied that people were speaking of him and this potential exploit already.

  ‘Well what of it?’ he asked eventually. ‘What do you need to know of it?’

  ‘I wondered whether I could join it, sir,’ said Bill. ‘That is, there’s three of us, me and David Yountam and Albert Rogers. We’ve been working here for months now and wanted to hope that maybe we could be of some use to you in this trail.’

  Simpson stared at the boy and his face broke into a slow smile. He must have been in a good mood that day for at another time he might have swatted the boy about the ear and thrown him head first through the saloon doors and out into the dusty path beyond. ‘And what use would a lad like you be to me?’ he asked. ‘How old are you anyway? Eleven? Twelve?’

  ‘Thirteen sir,’ said Bill, immediately regretting that he had not exaggerated his age although his still slight frame and height might have given any such lie away. ‘And Yountam and Rogers are fourteen and fifteen apiece.’

  ‘I know that Yountam boy,’ said one of the men at the table then, a thin-lipped man in his early thirties, already bald of head but compensating for this with a bushy black beard and moustache that had long since seen a scissors. ‘Ain’t he the one-armed boy who got into the argument with the buffalo? About which one of their mothers was the ugliest, I reckon.’

  Bill opened his mouth and thought about it. A lie would be pointless; the truth would out sooner or later. He nodded. ‘That’s him,’ he said quietly and then, in a braver voice, ‘and while the buffalo might have won the fight, Yountam won the argument. The buffalo’s mother was the ugliest you ever saw.’ Simpson let out an enormous laugh and my great-grandfather took this as an encouragement to continue. ‘The thing about Yountam,’ he said, ‘is that he’s indispensable because a braver, more fearless lad never—’

  ‘Ha, you’re mad, boy!’ roared Simpson. ‘What need have I of a one-armed lad in a trail like this?’ Bill stared at him crestfallen and the man spoke again, more kindly this time. ‘I’ve no doubt he’s a brave lad,’ he admitted. ‘There’s many a one would run from a fight like that and many a one who pays a price for standing his ground, but this is a dangerous ambition ahead of us. I need men who can take care of themselves and not have to rely on others. What about you though? What have you done of any note?’

  ‘I killed an Indian,’ said Bill in a quiet voice, answering the question but feeling his mind dominated by a further question, the one of loyalty, the one concerning whether he should pursue his ambitions towards this trail on his own or return outside to his unwanted friend.

  ‘An Indian, is it?’ laughed Simpson, settling back into his chair and folding his arms across his chest, delighted that there might be a tale to be told here at last. ‘Well go on then, lad. We’ll ’ave that one. How did it come about then?’

  Bill sighed and told the story. How, on a journey past the South Platte River, resting overnight, he had looked up in his sleep towards the moon drifting slowly past overhead and had been surprised to make out the unmistakable figure of an errant Indian crouching stealthily through their camp. With neither fear nor a second thought he had grabbed hold of the Smith & Wesson gun which his father had given him and for the first time aimed the pistol at another human being and pulled the trigger as much in excitement as in terror. His first shot, a lucky one, had hit the man directly in the forehead, killing him instantly and although he perhaps had posed no threat to my great-grandfather’s party, the incident became the basis of an early episode of heroism for which the boy was duly celebrated. In telling the story to Simpson now, he grew more and more animated, exaggerating details, all memories of Yountam and Rogers out of his mind, until he reached the climax, the shooting of the gun, the fall of the brave, by which point the entire room was listening and holding their breaths. And there the story ended in a respectful silence.

  ‘And you killed him?’ asked Simpson eventually, his gravelly voice cutting through the atmosphere which Bill had created through his showmanship. He had a gift for holding an audience.

  ‘Stone dead.’

  ‘And your fellows were saved? Every one?’

  He blinked and hesitated for a moment; after all, he could never have been
sure whether they were in actual danger or not. ‘Every last one,’ he asserted.

  Simpson nodded and turned away from the boy and looked at the table, running his fingers along the top of it carefully, his eyes flitting back and forth as he thought about it. ‘All right then,’ he said eventually. ‘All right. Maybe I can take a chance on you after all. You’re young but you’re brave enough, by God. A man who can see to it that his partners don’t get scalped in their sleep is still a man, it seems to me, even if he is only half the size and ain’t shaved the beard from his cheeks yet. You want in, you’re in. What’s your name anyway?’

  ‘Cody, sir,’ replied my great-grandfather. ‘Bill Cody.’

  ‘Knew a Cody once in New York, tried for state assembly. Liked to keep company with donkeys and horses, if you know what I mean. You’re nothing to him are you?’ Bill shook his head quickly and Simpson nodded and gave him the job. ‘Well good luck to you then, Bill Cody. Welcome aboard.’ Some of the room cheered but Bill knew not which way to go. He considered his options, remembered who had persuaded him to enter this room in the first place and almost against his better judgement shook his head.

  ‘My partners,’ he said. ‘Yountam and Rogers. They’re braver than I, sir. We stick together, you see. And they’re—’

  ‘No one-armed—’ shouted Simpson again but this time Bill had the fortitude to interrupt him.

  ‘Surely his bravery in standing down the buffalo and surviving to tell the tale is equal to my killing an Indian in the dark,’ he said. ‘Please, sir, take them too. You won’t regret it. They work hard around here.’ He paused before adding: ‘And none of us takes up too much space either ’cos we’re all short, every one of us. And skinny on it too.’ Simpson roared with laughter and shook his head before reaching out and punching Bill in the ear, a gesture intended as a friendly note of acceptance but one which sent the boy reeling and one which made his ear sting for a day afterwards nonetheless.

  ‘All right then,’ he cried eventually. ‘Get on out of here anyway and gather your band of roughnecks together. Bullwhackers all, if that’s the only way you’ll have it. This trail starts in the morning. Early!’

  Bill’s face lit up and he held himself back from reaching up to stroke the already swelling ear. He made to move away, wanting to run outside to tell his friends the news, when Simpson called him back suddenly.

  ‘Come here,’ he said and the room went silent. Bill stepped closer, and closer again, until Simpson stopped urging him on. ‘Take your hands out of your pockets.’ He looked down to where he had put them before the interview began, so nervous had he been about their shaking. ‘Show me your hands,’ he said quietly.

  ‘My hands …?’ he replied, surprised by the request. ‘What do you—’

  ‘Show them to me!’ shouted Simpson and Bill lifted them quickly out of his pockets before holding them, flat, at eye level. He looked at them himself now, ready to observe how they shook in terror and bit his lip in embarrassment, wishing he could control his childish nervousness. And then his eyes opened wider at what he saw. To his surprise, his hands held steady and they weren’t shaking even slightly. He looked up from them in surprise and his gaze met that of Lew Simpson who nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Steady as a rock,’ he said in a cheerful voice, winking at his new charge with a smile. ‘You’ll do.’

  It was only the first of two punches to happen that week, but I wasn’t on the receiving end of the second one. My claims to having been descended from Buffalo Bill Cody, while given no credence whatsoever by my teacher Miss Grace, were virtually ignored by my classmates who, having never even heard of my great-grandfather, were in no position to call me a liar. Still, for the time being I drew a veil over the story and said no more about it. Miss Grace pretended that her outburst had never taken place and naturally I did not mention it to her again. When Isaac saw my swollen ear he assumed that I had been in a schoolyard fight and thought little more of it, stopping only to ask whether I had won or lost.

  ‘Lost,’ I said, knowing that this would hurt his pride a little, something I felt keen to do right then. For the first time in my life I began to wonder whether his stories were actually true or simply a figment of his imagination. I had never had cause to question them before but Miss Grace’s actions had made me unsure. Either way, I had felt humiliated in the classroom and blamed Isaac for this. When he came to my room over subsequent nights to tell me his ritual stories I feigned over-tiredness for a while, but he ignored that and continued to talk of scouts and prairies and wagon trails being captured and burned by bands of Indians until I had no longer any choice but to listen, which was when I began to do so in sullen silence, a long way from the enthusiastic adventure stories I had once enjoyed. Isaac told them well, but he was starting to lose his audience.

  My two friends made no further mention of the incident either. We had all been involved in scrapes of one sort or another with the diabolical Miss Grace and it would have been strange if I had not found myself the victim of her insane fury at one time or another. It was Justin, however, the quietest and most insecure of my friends, who would be the next victim of a random act of violence, only on this occasion it would come a little closer to home. Once again, however, it would be Isaac who I would blame for it, only now with a little more justification.

  It was rare that we were left in the house on our own. Isaac’s painting and decorating business did not take up too much of his time and he almost never worked past three o’clock in the afternoon. On this particular day, however, only a few afternoons after the incident in the classroom, he was late home and I was surprised to find the three of us – Adam, Justin and I – left on our own without my father making his presence felt in the next room. And I felt free.

  ‘Where’s your dad?’ asked Justin nervously, no doubt expecting him to appear out of the shadows at any point, so suspicious were they all of my ancient father and his mysterious ways. ‘Is he hiding somewhere?’

  ‘Why would he be hiding?’ I asked, a little exasperated by the question. ‘What sense would that make?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he’s usually here somewhere, isn’t he?’

  I shrugged and grunted a quiet acknowledgement. ‘He’s out,’ I said after a moment, without even having to leave the room to verify this. The house felt different when he was not in it. Somehow I managed to feel more relaxed and at the same time quite tense, for the only reason I could suspect for his absence was an early drinking session, and I didn’t like it when he came home drunk. I looked at my friends and could see them grow more at ease as well, their shoulders drooping a little as they became limber and less concerned about their manners. We wandered around for a while, had something to eat, played a little football in the garden until eventually, returning back indoors, we dropped into the armchairs in the living room, racking our brains for something to do.

  ‘Who owns the gun?’ asked Justin, looking up at the Smith & Wesson on the wall, Isaac’s prized possession.

  ‘Isaac,’ I said, barely looking up at it. ‘Me. Some day.’

  ‘Can I take it down?’ he asked but I shook my head.

  ‘No. I’m not allowed.’

  ‘I didn’t ask whether you could take it down or not. I asked could I.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘No,’ I insisted, knowing how firm Isaac was about being the only one to handle the gun. I no longer believed what he had told me when I was younger about it exploding in the hands of anyone other than him, but I still felt it was sacrosanct and was predisposed to be afraid of it. My two friends frowned, as having identified it as an object of some interest they naturally wanted to play with it. My refusal only made it all the more attractive.

  ‘Did it belong to that guy?’ asked Adam, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall the name.

  ‘What guy?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘That guy. The guy you said in class was your grandfather.’

  ‘Great-grandf
ather,’ I corrected him.

  ‘That’s it. Was it his?’

  I shrugged. ‘So I’m told,’ I conceded. ‘It has his father’s name on it anyway. Isaac Cody.’

  ‘That’s your father’s name,’ said Adam.

  ‘He was named for his great-grandfather,’ I explained. ‘I was named for mine. He was a “William” too. Apparently it’s some kind of tradition.’

  ‘What was it you called him?’ asked Justin, trying to recall what I had said in class earlier in the week. ‘That nickname you said.’

  I threw my eyes to heaven, not really wanting to get into it. ‘Buffalo Bill,’ I said finally. ‘He was some old cowboy.’ I could see they were only mildly impressed. They still didn’t have a clue who Buffalo Bill was supposed to be, but cowboys and guns are still interesting to nine-year-old boys and that in itself was worthy of note.