I remained undecided as to what I ought to do. The officers at the fort as well as my family and friends to whom I had mentioned the matter, laughed at the idea of my ever becoming an actor. That I, an old scout who had never seen more than twenty or thirty theatrical performances in my life, should think of going upon the stage, was ridiculous in the extreme—so they all said.
A few days after my election to the legislature a happy event occurred in my family circle, in the birth of a daughter whom we named Ora; about the same time I received another letter from Buntline, in which he requested me to appear on the stage for a few months as an experiment; and he said that if I made a failure or did not like the business, I could easily return to my old life.
My two sisters who had been living with us had married—Nellie, to A. C. Jester, a cattle man, and May, to Ed Bradford, a railroad engineer—and consequently left us; and my wife had been wishing for a long time to visit her parents in St. Louis. Taking these and other things into consideration I finally resolved to resign my seat in the legislature and try my luck behind the footlights. I informed General Reynolds of my determination, telling him at the same time that at the end of the month, November, I would resign my position under him. The General regretted to hear this, and advised me not to take the step, for I was leaving a comfortable little home, where I was sure of making a good living for my family; while, on the other hand, I was embarking upon a sea of uncertainty. Having once made up my mind, however, nothing could change it.
While I was selling my horses and other effects, preparatory to leaving the fort, one of my brother scouts, Texas Jack, said that he would like to accompany me. Now as Jack had also appeared as the hero in one of Ned Buntline’s stories, I thought that he would make as good a “star” as myself, and it was accordingly arranged that Jack should go with me. On our way East we stopped in Omaha a day or two to visit General Augur and other officers, and also the gentlemen who were out on the Judge Dundy hunt. Judge Dundy and his friends gave a dinner party in my honor at the leading restaurant and entertained me very handsomely during my stay in the city.
At Omaha I parted with my family, who went to St. Louis, while Jack and myself proceeded to Chicago. Ned Buntline and Mr. Milligan, having been apprised of our coming by a telegram, met us at the depot. Mr. Milligan accompanied us to the Sherman House, where he had made arrangements for us to be his guests while we remained in the city. I didn’t see much of Buntline that evening, as he hurried off to deliver a temperance lecture in one of the public halls. The next day we met him by appointment, and the first thing he said, was:
“Boys, are you ready for business?”
“I can’t answer that,” replied I, “for we don’t know what we are going to do.”
“It’s all arranged,” said he, “and you’ll have no trouble whatever. Come with me. We’ll go and see Nixon, manager of the Amphitheatre. That’s the place where we are to play. We’ll open there next Monday night.” Jack and myself accordingly accompanied him to manager Nixon’s office without saying a word, as we didn’t know what to say.
“Here we are, Mr. Nixon,” said Buntline; “here are the stars for you. Here are the boys; and they are a fine pair to draw too. Now, Nixon, I am prepared for business.”
Nixon and Buntline had evidently had a talk about the terms of our engagement. Buntline, it seems, was to furnish the company, the drama, and the pictorial printing, and was to receive sixty percent of the gross receipts for his share; while Nixon was to furnish the theater, the attachés, the orchestra, and the local printing; and receive forty percent of the gross receipts.
“I am ready for you, Buntline. Have you got your company yet?” asked Nixon.
“No, sir; but there are plenty of idle theatrical people in town, and I can raise a company in two hours,” was his reply.
“You haven’t much time to spare, if you open on Monday night,” said Nixon. “If you will allow me to look at your drama, to see what kind of people you want, I’ll assist you in organizing your company.”
“I have not yet written the drama,” said Buntline.
“What the deuce do you mean? This is Wednesday, and you propose to open on next Monday night. The idea is ridiculous. Here you are at this late hour without a company and without a drama. This will never do, Buntline. I shall have to break my contract with you, for you can’t possibly write a drama, cast it, and rehearse it properly for Monday night. Furthermore, you have no pictorial printing as yet. These two gentlemen, whom you have with you, have never been on the stage, and they certainly must have time to study their parts. It is preposterous to think of opening on Monday night, and I’ll cancel the engagement.”
This little speech was delivered in rather an excited manner by Mr. Nixon. Buntline said that he would write the drama that day and also select his company and have them at the theater for rehearsal next morning. Nixon laughed at him, and said that there was no use of trying to undertake anything of the kind in so short a time—it was utterly impossible to do it. Buntline, whose ire was rising, said to Nixon:
“What rent will you ask for your theater for next week?”
“Six hundred dollars,” was the reply.
“Well, sir, I’ll take your theater for next week at that price, and here is half of the amount
