Page 50 - Sorrow of the Earth: Buffalo Bill, Sitting Bull and the Tragedy of Show Business

A few Indians ride around the rangers, yelling the way Buffalo Bill taught

them to. They slap the palms of their hands over their mouths, Woo! Woo!
Woo! And it makes a sort of wild, inhuman whoop. But this war cry was
never heard on the Great Plains, nor in Canada, nor anywhere else—it’s sheer
invention on the part of Buffalo Bill. And what they don’t yet know is that
they will have to produce this war cry, this wonderful circus-act invention, on
every stage and on every film set where they are hired as extras in depictions
of their own misfortune. Yes, they’re still unaware of the destiny that awaits

the circus trick devised by Buffalo Bill, they cannot conceive that all children
in the Western world will forever afterwards dance round the fire, flapping
their palms over their mouths to produce “Indian war cries”; they can’t
imagine the prodigious future that awaits this monstrous thing, the fabulous
power to combust the senses by means of spectacle. And yet, they must

secretly have felt the full horror of it.

John Burke is bawling on the sidelines, his moustache drooping with spittle.

He vociferates, and strides up and down, the way that nowadays overweight
coaches wave their arms and yell at athletes to outdo themselves, demanding
feats that they, as coaches, would be quite incapable of pulling off. His smart
suit is caked in dust. His hair is plastered with sweat. The sleeves of his jacket
are all sticky. He barks at the Indians to retreat. He angrily jabs his finger
towards the far end of the arena. So, obeying instructions, the Indians
withdraw, and some of them even launch into a desperate flight. But a few

continue to resist. The soldiers valiantly withstand their attacks. The sun
screams down. Everything goes dark. Eyes mist over, fists grip the bars of a
chair. John Burke drops his cigarette. Hey! Ginger, watch out! An Indian
jumps off his horse and fires at the soldier. He’s a young fellow with red hair,
an innocent, and he collapses in a stunt where his entire body seems to

disappear. There’s shouting. The earth turns red. There’s been a catastrophe,
the soldiers move off and huddle in a corner of the arena. The smell of
gunpowder is suffocating. Vision blurs. But suddenly, Buffalo Bill erupts
from backstage. Although his hair is now white, he displays a savage energy.
He doesn’t look the least constrained by the suit he’s wearing, and in fact he
stands out from his surroundings in a kind of vibration. His body doesn’t
belong in the arena, he’s away on the Great Plains, elusive and resplendent.

In a whirlwind of dust he storms across the hundred metres separating him
from the group of Indians who are about to get the better of the cavalry, and in