“Milligan, here’s what you’ve been wanting for some time,” said I, “for yonder is a war party of Indians and no mistake; and they’ll come for us, you bet.”
“I don’t believe this is one of my fighting days,” replied Milligan, “and it occurs to me that I have urgent business at the camp.”
Our camp was five or six miles distant on the Dismal River, and our escort consisted of a company of cavalry commanded by Captain Russell. The soldiers were in camp, and Milligan thought that Captain Russell ought to be at once notified of the appearance of these Indians. Knowing that we could reach the camp in safety, for we were well mounted, I continued to have considerable amusement at Milligan’s expense, who finally said:
“Cody, what’s making my hat raise up so. I can hardly keep it on my head.”
Sample, who was as cool as a cucumber, said to Milligan: “There must be something wrong with your hair. It must be trying to get on end.”
“It’s all very fine for you fellows to stand here and talk,” replied Milligan, “but I am not doing justice to my family by remaining. Sample, I think we are a couple of old fools to have come out here, and I never would have done so if it had not been for you.”
By this time the Indians had discovered us and were holding a consultation, and Milligan turned his horse in the direction of the camp. I never believed that he was half as scared as he seemed to be, but that he was merely pretending so that we could enjoy our joke. However, we did not wait any longer but rode into camp and notified Captain Russell, who immediately started with his company to pursue the band.
While we were riding along with the company Milligan said to Sample: “Now, Alick, let them come on. We may yet go back to Chicago covered with glory.”
We struck the trail going north, but as we had not come out on a scout for Indians, we concluded not to follow them; although Milligan was now very anxious to proceed and clean them out.
The hunt came to an end in a day or two, and we escorted the visiting hunters to North Platte, where they took the train for Chicago. Before their departure they extended to me a very cordial invitation to come to their city on a visit, promising that I should be well taken care of.
Soon after this I had the pleasure of guiding a party of gentlemen from Omaha on a buffalo hunt. Among the number were Judge Dundy, Colonel Watson B. Smith, and U.S. District Attorney Neville. We left Fort McPherson in good trim. I was greatly amused at the “style” of Mr. Neville, who wore a stovepipe hat and a swallowtail coat, which made up a very comical rig for a buffalo hunter. As we galloped over the prairie, he jammed his hat down over his ears to keep it from being shaken off his head, and in order to stick to his horse, he clung to the pommel of his saddle. He was not much of a rider, and he went bouncing up and down, with his swallowtails flopping in the air. The sight I shall never forget, for it was enough to make a “horse laugh,” and I actually believe old Buckskin Joe did laugh.
However, we had a splendid hunt, and on the second day I lariated, or roped, a big buffalo bull and tied him to a tree—a feat which I had often performed, and which the gentlemen requested me to do on this occasion for their benefit, as they had heard of my skill with the lariat. I captured several other buffaloes in the same way. The gentlemen returned to Omaha well pleased with their hunt.
In the fall of the year, 1872, a convention was held at Grand Island, when some of my friends made me their candidate to represent the Twenty-sixth District in the legislature of Nebraska; but as I had always been a Democrat and the State was largely Republican, I had no idea of being elected. In fact I cared very little about it, and therefore made no effort whatever to secure an election. However, I was elected and that is the way in which I acquired my title of Honorable.
XXVIII
An Actor
During the summer and fall of 1872, I received numerous letters from Ned Buntline, urging me to come East and go upon the stage to represent my own character. “There’s money in it,” he wrote, “and you will prove a big card, as your character is a novelty on the stage.”
At times I almost determined to make the venture; but the recollection of that night when I stood on the stage of the Bowery Theatre and was unable to utter a word above a whisper, would cause me to stop and think and become irresolute. I feared that I would be a total failure, and wrote Buntline to that effect. But he insisted that I would soon get over all that embarrassment, and become accustomed to the stage, so that I would think no more of appearing before five thousand people than I would before half a dozen. He proposed to organize a good company, and wished me to meet him in Chicago, where the opening
