There was but one man in New York to whom he felt he could turn in his dilemma, and that was Ned Buntline. One who could invent plots for stories, and extricate his characters from all sorts of embarrassing situations, should be able to invent a method of escape from so comparatively simple a perplexity as a tavern bill. Will's confidence in the wits of his friend was not unfounded. His first great financial panic was safely weathered, but how it was done I do not know to this day.
One of Will's main reasons for visiting the East was to look up our only living relatives on mother's side—Colonel Henry R. Guss and family, of Westchester, Pennsylvania. Mother's sister, who had married this gentleman, was not living, and we had never met him or any of his family. Ned Buntline accompanied Will on his trip to Westchester.
To those who have passed through the experience of waiting in a strange drawing-room for the coming of relatives one has never seen, and of whose personality one has but the vaguest idea, there is the uncertainty of the reception. Will it be frank and hearty, or reserved and doubtful? During the few minutes succeeding the giving of his and Buntline's cards to the servant, Will rather wished that the elegant reception-room might be metamorphosed into the Western prairie. But presently the entrance to the parlor was brightened by the loveliest girl he had ever looked upon, and following her walked a courtly, elegant gentleman. These were Cousin Lizzie and Uncle Henry. There was no doubt of the quality of the welcome; it was most cordial, and Will enjoyed a delightful visit with his relatives. For his cousin he conceived an instant affection. The love he had held for his mother—the purest and strongest of his affections—became the heritage of this beautiful girl.
CHAPTER XXII. — THEATRICAL EXPERIENCES.
THE Fifth Cavalry at Fort McPherson had been ordered to Arizona, and was replaced by the Third Cavalry under command of General Reynolds. Upon Will's return to McPherson he was at once obliged to take the field to look for Indians that had raided the station during his absence and carried off a considerable number of horses. Captain Meinhold and Lieutenant Lawson commanded the company dispatched to recover the stolen property. Will acted as guide, and had as an assistant T. B. Omohundro, better known by his frontier name of "Texas Jack."
Will was not long in finding Indian tracks, and accompanied by six men, he went forward to locate the redskin camp. They had proceeded but a short distance when they sighted a small party of Indians, with horses grazing. There were just thirteen Indians—an unlucky number—and Will feared that they might discover the scouting party should it attempt to return to the main command. He had but to question his companions to find them ready to follow wheresoever he might lead, and they moved cautiously toward the Indian camp.
At the proper moment the seven rushed upon the unsuspecting warriors, who sprang for their horses and gave battle. But the rattle of the rifles brought Captain Meinhold to the scene, and when the Indians saw the reinforcements coming up they turned and fled. Six of their number were dead on the plain, and nearly all of the stolen horses were recovered. One soldier was killed, and this was one of the few occasions when Will received a wound.
And now once more was the versatile plainsman called upon to enact a new role. Returning from a long scout in the fall of 1872, he found that his friends had made him a candidate for the Nebraska legislature from the twenty-sixth district. He had never thought seriously of politics, and had a well-defined doubt of his fitness as a law-maker. He made no campaign, but was elected by a flattering majority. He was now privileged to prefix the title "Honorable" to his name, and later this was supplanted by "Colonel"—a title won in the Nebraska National Guard, and which he claims is much better suited to his attainments.
Will, unlike his father, had no taste for politics or for political honors. I recall one answer—so characteristic of the man—to some friends who were urging him to enter the political arena. "No," said he, "politics are by far too deep for me. I think I can hold my own in any fair and no foul fight; but politics seem to me all foul and no fair. I thank you, my friends, but I must decline to set out on this trail, which I know has more cactus burs to the square inch than any I ever followed on the plains."