ircumstances the company would be glad to get rid of him.

That night he put his plan into execution by discharging his blank
cartridges so near the legs of the dead Indians on the stage that
the startled "supers" came to life with more realistic yells than had
accompanied their deaths. This was a bit of "business" not called for
in the play-book, and while the audience was vastly entertained, the
management withheld its approval.

Will was delegated to expostulate with the reckless Indian-slayer; but
Wild Bill remarked calmly that he "hadn't hurt the fellows any," and he
continued to indulge in his innocent pastime.

Severe measures were next resorted to. He was informed that he must stop
shooting the Indians after they were dead, or leave the company. This
was what Wild Bill had hoped for, and when the curtain went up on the
next performance he was to be seen in the audience, enjoying the play
for the first time since he had been mixed up with it.

Will sympathized with his former "support," but he had a duty to
perform, and faithfully endeavored to persuade the recreant actor to
return to the company. Persuasion went for nothing, so the contract was
annulled, and Wild Bill returned to his beloved plains.

The next season Will removed his family to Rochester, and organized a
theatrical company of his own. There was too much artificiality about
stage life to suit one that had been accustomed to stern reality, and he
sought to do away with this as much as possible by introducing into
his own company a band of real Indians. The season of 1875-76 opened
brilliantly; the company played to crowded houses, and Will made a large
financial success.

One night in April, when the season was nearing its close, a telegram
was handed to him, just as he was about to step upon the stage. It was
from his wife, and summoned him to Rochester, to the bedside of his only
son, Kit Carson Cody. He consulted with his manager, and it was arranged
that after the first act he should be excused, that he might catch the
train.

That first act was a miserable experience, though the audience did not
suspect that the actor's heart was almost stopped by fear and anxiety.
He caught his train, and the manager, John Burke, an actor of much
experience, played out the part.

It was, too, a miserable ride to Rochester, filled up with the gloomiest
of forebodings, heightened by memories of every incident in the precious
little life now in danger.