One day, while the show was at Paris, we saw a distinguished looking man pressing against the rope stretched around Colonel Cody’s tent. When he found opportunity he said, in excellent English:
“We hurried away.”
“Pardon me, Colonel Cody, but I should like to speak to you. I have many friends in your great country—a country for which I have a sincere admiration.”
“I am very glad to see you,” the colonel replied wearily; he had heard this same speech so often. “May I ask your name?”
“My name is Bartholdi,” modestly replied the sculptor whose magnificent statue, “Liberty Enlightening the World,” has endeared him to Americans. From the moment he made himself known to Cody he “owned the show.”
Indians generally manifest extreme suspicion of white men, but while I was Colonel Cody’s guest I made friends of some of the chiefs and braves, especially Red Shirt and Flat Iron. The former, a famous scout and warrior, has been called “The Red Napoleon” for his knowledge of military tactics, his commanding dignity and reserve. He has a fine physique, and a noble head, while his bearing is absolutely regal. He has always been friendly to the whites, and was a valuable ally of Buffalo Bill in many raids against his unruly brethren.
I knew Red Shirt was fond of me, but no one else would have imagined it from his manner toward me, for your Indian friend does not slap you on the back or buttonhole you with a joke, after the manner of white men. Later I learned of the earnestness of his regard through a story told me by Bronco Bill, the Wild West Company’s interpreter. It seems that, after Red Shirt had left the company for a few months and returned to his reservation, he found an old illustrated paper in which was a portrait he thought was mine. He could not verify it, for he was unable to read. Although the winter had set in and snow was deep on the ground he rode twenty miles to the home of Bronco Bill to ask if the face was mine. Being assured that it really was a picture of his friend, he took it back home and fastened it to the wall of his cabin—an unusual proceeding, for an Indian regards it beneath his dignity to indicate emotion, even among his own people.
When the Wild West was last at Madison Square Garden, I again met Red Shirt and Flat Iron. The former was very glad to see me, so the interpreter told me, and I had reason to believe it, but no bystander would have imagined it from his reserved manner and impassive face. Flat Iron, who is an exception to almost all Indians in having a twinkling eye and vivacious manner, rapidly asked me many questions: was I stronger?—had I a squaw?—etc. The fact that I was unmarried had worried him so greatly in the earlier days of our friendship that he offered to select me a charming squaw from among his own grandchildren.
