Page 44 - Sorrow of the Earth: Buffalo Bill, Sitting Bull and the Tragedy of Show Business

THERE WAS YET ANOTHER WAY in which Buffalo Bill had turned his stay in
Nebraska to advantage. Before resuming his famous show, he’d been on a
pilgrimage to the place where Sitting Bull was murdered. He’d met the family
of the old Indian chief and he’d told them how much affection and respect he

had for him. It was quite sincere. Perhaps he felt the grandeur of something
that he had sensed before, when he was a humble scout, in the reality of his
own life. But this must have seemed very distant now. It must have appeared
strange, after seeing so many people cluster on the bleachers like grains of
corn shaken out by an invisible hand! So, in exchange for a few dollars, and
perhaps also out of affection, the Indians had handed over the cabin where
Sitting Bull lived, and he’d had it dismantled and transported by train to his

ship. And then he’d also haggled for the last horse belonging to the Indian
chief. Finally, passing by Wounded Knee again, he’d gathered up the last
remnants of the Lakota tribe who were lingering nervously in the vicinity of
the massacre, and he’d signed them up. No doubt it was a way of saving their
lives.
The return voyage must have been long. First there was thick fog, followed

by heavy, deep blue clouds, whose dark blue grew ever deeper. Then lightning
tore the horizon, and this lasted a day and a night. In the morning, while he
was alone on deck, he noticed a sandy island in the distance. The wind
whipped his face. Behind a strand of mist, the sun began to dazzle him. He
shaded his eyes awkwardly with his hand, staring ahead at the great empty
expanse and the tall, wild waves. Gusts of wind slashed his throat, and he
continued to stare. The wind tipped the ship to one side, and the waves

smashed against its steel flanks. Their crests shone white. Suddenly, Buffalo
Bill thought he saw something, a tiny shiver on the surface of the world. It
was whales. For several hours they followed the boat at a distance, apparently
indifferent, then disappeared from sight. The weather was fine, the ship glided
imperturbably over the water; they were the masters of life. Buffalo Bill stood

in the prow and the air filled his cheeks as if he were about to blow into a
flute, like the boy in Manet’s painting, with his circus jacket and his puffy
trousers.
Several times a day, he would go down into the hull and see to the old
Indian chief ’s horse himself. He rubbed its back with a wisp of straw and