In 1893 the horizon of my brother's interests enlarged. In July of that
year I was married to Mr. Hugh A. Wetmore, editor of the Duluth _Press_.
My steps now turned to the North, and the enterprising young city on
the shore of Lake Superior became my home. During the long years of my
widowhood my brother always bore toward me the attitude of guardian
and protector; I could rely upon his support in any venture I deemed a
promising one, and his considerate thoughtfulness did not fail when
I remarried. He wished to see me well established in my new home; he
desired to insure my happiness and prosperity, and with this end in view
he purchased the Duluth _Press_ plant, erected a fine brick building to
serve as headquarters for the newspaper venture, and we became business
partners in the untried field of press work.

My brother had not yet seen the Zenith City. So in January of 1894 he
arranged to make a short visit to Duluth. We issued invitations for
a general reception, and the response was of the genuine Western
kind--eighteen hundred guests assembling in the new Duluth _Press_
Building to bid welcome and do honor to the world-famed Buffalo Bill.

His name is a household word, and there is a growing demand for
anecdotes concerning him. As he does not like to talk about himself,
chroniclers have been compelled to interview his associates, or are
left to their own resources. Like many of the stories told about Abraham
Lincoln, some of the current yarns about Buffalo Bill are of doubtful
authority. Nevertheless, a collection of those that are authentic would
fill a volume. Almost every plainsman or soldier who met my brother
during the Indian campaigns can tell some interesting tale about him
that has never been printed. During the youthful season of redundant
hope and happiness many of his ebullitions of wit were lost, but he
was always beloved for his good humor, which no amount of carnage could
suppress. He was not averse to church-going, though he was liable even
in church to be carried away by the rollicking spirit that was in him.
Instance his visit to the little temple which he had helped to build at
North Platte.

His wife and sister were in the congregation, and this ought not only to
have kept him awake, but it should have insured perfect decorum on his
part. The opening hymn commenced with the words, "Oh, for a thousand
tongues to sing," etc. The organist, who played "by ear," started the
tune in too high a key