08 - Chapter 8. Annie Oakley, Woman at Arms by Courtney Ryley Cooper.

08 - Chapter 8. Annie Oakley, Woman at Arms by Courtney Ryley Cooper.  
Annie Oakley was without a doubt the greatest markswomen who ever lived. She was christened Phoebe Ann Mosey but was called Annie from childhood. Oakley was the stage name that she assumed when she first started to perform with Frank Butler. From obscure and impoverished beginnings, she made herself into the best known woman of her time, propelled by an indomitable spirit and an uncanny shooting ability. We learn of her enduring marriage to Frank Butler and their first meeting — a shooting match in which the seemingly delicate young girl defeated the professional marksman; her association with Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show and its triumphal tour through Europe and America; the train crash that nearly took her life and her years as an actress and teacher. Yet with all her many successes she preserved her warmth, dedication and integrity. Her story remains to this day one of the grandest to have come out of the Old West.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:02):
Chapter eight of Annie Oakley, Woman at Arms by Courtney
Riley Cooper. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.
Read by Barry Eads. Chapter eight. When one depicts the
history of Annie Oakley, thereby necessity arises also the depiction
of the early history of that most American of institutions,

(00:25):
the Buffalo Bill Wild West. The two were so intermingled,
so interdependent, that one is not complete without the other.
The Wild West was not really wild without the addition
of the Ohio girl, who so easily was mistaken for
an important personage from the far away plains. And Annie
Oakley herself did not reach her pinnacle until she had

(00:48):
gained for a background the cowboys, the Indians, and Vocaros
who formed the exhibition captained by Buffalo Bill. The season
of eighteen eighty six began, according to the exciting plans
which had been made for it, a summer on Staten Island,
and after that an indoor exhibition for the first time
in its history at Madison Square Garden. Naturally, those engagements

(01:12):
were the subject of every conversation of every plan. Performers
saved when they might have spent that there would be
money for new costumes and accouterments. Buffalo Bill's show was
coming into its own at last. Not the least of
those who planned was Annie Oakley. Stanton Island was about
the biggest place in the world. Just then she sewed

(01:35):
on new costumes. She bought new trappings for her horse
Staten Island, and the big parade that would be given
in New York on the day of the opening. Those
things are vital to a performer. The show began its
season in Saint Louis, gradually working east that it might
arrive at its New York engagement at the height of
the summer. All went well until Washington. Then, as she

(01:59):
worked in the arena, Annie Oakley felt a queer sensation
in one ear, followed by a buzzing and scrambling. A
small bug had penetrated the orifice, and try as she
would between shots, she could not dislodge it. The act
was on and that was all that counted. For a time.
She forgot the pain, only to have it recur tenfold

(02:21):
once her shooting was over and she had gone to
her dressing tent. Someone about the show suggested sweet oil,
and it was applied, but to no purpose. Then a
visit was made to a physician. An examination convinced him
that the bug had departed, but it was still there.
A week of agony followed, in which the ear continued

(02:42):
to swell, accompanied by terrific headaches. The time came when
Annie Oakley could not even rest her head upon a pillow.
Sleep had vanished. She spent her resting hours upright in
a steamer chair with applications to her ear. But when
the time for her act arrived, she ran into the
arena as usual. The audience knew nothing but that health

(03:04):
and strength and easy rest were hers. Continually, the necessity
for a performance can arouse superhuman traits in an actor.
The old adage that the show must go on has
traveled through too many generations to be denied for anything
short of absolute incapacity. So it was with Annie Oakley.
She performed her feats of markmanship while the arena swam

(03:26):
about her, and when she actually staggered to her dressing
tent once the concentration of effort induced by the sight
of the audience had passed, it only resulted in more agony,
accompanied by constant administrations of warm water and castile soap.
Annie hadn't believed the doctor, and at last there came
confirmation of her opinion. The invader, very dead, came forth,

(03:50):
but he had left a souvenir of his visit. It
was an abscess which continued to increase in viciousness until
Annie Oakley at last performed her act while suffering from
a temperature which hovered at the danger stage. Doctors had
been evaded. Performers often do that, as they take the
fighting chance that they will survive a ballady and be

(04:11):
able to continue their act, whereas a doctor might order
them to bed and see that they went there. In
addition to being a true performer, Annie Oakley possessed more
grit than ordinary In vain did her husband, Buffalo Bill
and others argue with her everything would be all right
on the morrow, But when the morrow came, there was

(04:31):
only increased inflammation and suffering. At last came the day
when the troop assembled for its transferral upon a chartered
ferry boat to New York City for the parade, one incidentally,
which was to consume seventeen miles of horseback travel. It
was the thing for which Annie Oakley had hoped and dreamed,
and at seven point thirty that morning, the crack shot

(04:54):
had received her orders from a physician. There would be
no parade for her stead. With every attempt at rest,
she was to place leeches upon that ear. They were
considered an infallible remedy for inflammation in those days, and
remained quiet from her tent. Annie Oakley watched the parade
ride away down to the landing for the trip to

(05:16):
New York. Her husband, Buffalo Bill Nate Salisbury, all had gone. She,
of all the performers, was left alone upon the exhibition grounds,
the only remainder of the show save the few attendants,
working men and hostlers. The sound of hoof beats faded
while Annie Oakley sat and looked at a bottle containing

(05:37):
two leeches, glancing meanwhile at the costume bought for that parade,
the horse trappings with the name Oakley and gold letters
upon them, useless now because of an investigative bug. Minute
after minute, the suffering woman struggled against temptation and failed.
A hostler passed. She called him to the tent, bring

(05:57):
my horse here at once, she ordered, put these vocarros
on him. I'm going in that parade. The tent flap dropped,
and from behind it came the sounds of excited scurrying.
Annie Oakley was putting on that beloved costume. The horse arrived,
the tent flap opened. Annie Oakley leaped to her saddle headache, earache,
inflammation and awe, and galloped through the side of the

(06:20):
exhibition grounds on the trail of that parade. She caught
the boat just as the last of the paraphernalia was
being loaded, and then dismounting with the cheery announcement that
she had simply felt so much better that it would
have been a shame not to have accompanied the parade.
She rested until the New York side was reached, then

(06:40):
into the saddle again and to seventeen miles of smiles
and band music. But when the boat was reached again,
Frank Butler, with a cry of concern, ran hurriedly to
his wife. She had collapsed in the saddle. They called
the doctor again. When Staten Island was reached. In the
little tent, an operation was performed, which usually required the

(07:02):
services of a hospital and an operating room. That delicate
task of lancing beyond an ear drum. While vaguely through
the hays, for there had been no anesthetic, Annie Oakley
heard the surgeon announce that blood poisoning had developed and
that she had one chance out of twelve for recovery.
All right, she muttered against the pain, that'll be a

(07:23):
fighting chance. Swiftly the word traveled around the exhibition grounds
that Annie Oakley was fighting for her life. The show
opened to a packed house, many of whom were there
to see the widely known girls shot. A harassed management,
fighting for time, decided upon an announcement that the little
star had met with an accident, but that she would

(07:45):
be able to again appear in a week, planning at
the end of that time to announce another week's disability
and thus continue the postponements until the matter was settled
for life or for death. But in exactly four days,
a young woman, her eyes so swollen that she could
barely see her walk a mixture of dragging step and

(08:07):
directionless stagger, her head bandaged, moved into the arena, leaned
against the table which supported her guns, shot her complete act,
and moved Waney out again. Annie Oakley had won her
fight for life. It was the first and last time
that she missed a performance during her whole engagement with
the Buffalo Bill wild West of such are the difficulties

(08:30):
of one who lives because of that vague, uncertain thing
known as an audience. But then the life of a
performer with a buffalo bill show in its embryo days
was fairly certain of difficulties of one kind or another,
almost constantly. It was by difficulties that the show grew,
sometimes of a serious nature, such as the winter following

(08:53):
the Staten Island engagement, when the show entered Madison Square
Garden for its first engagement under shelter, when the ravages
of winter and pneumonia descended upon the buffalo, killing them
off until only one was left to the more ludicrous
events caused by attempts while still in the open to
give that wonder of wonders in those days a night show,

(09:15):
lamps and gas flares were devised and set about the
grounds so that the audience, what of it that came
following the first few performances, could at least gain a
shadowy glimpse of the actors as they came and went,
and the flights of the bucking horse riders, as yielding
now and then to the superiority of their mounts, they
careened through the air to the earthly cushion of the arena.

(09:38):
Red fire aided the Indians in their dancing and lent
an especially vivid atmosphere to the attack on the old
Deadwood stage coach. But the one thing upon which the
show thrived more than any other, had suffered severely. That
was the shooting. How's anybody going to enjoy this show,
asked Buffalo Bill. When they can't see the shooting, and

(09:59):
when the shooters can't see what they're shooting at. Some
of you fellows around here, rig up something. Annie and
myself can't see those clay pigeons five feet off in
this light. Let's get it fixed. Whereupon the every edison
of the company went into conference. A hundred schemes were devised,
none of which seemed practical. But at last one of

(10:20):
the members winked heavily, indicating a great idea, and disappeared
in the direction of town and purchases. That night, when
the first trap was released, a spurt of blue flame
traveled outward to die. With the pulling of the trigger
of the gun in the hands of Annie Oakley, Buffalo
Bill stroked his goatee. Looks like that's going to work fine,

(10:41):
he said, But a moment later he recanted. The idea
had taken the shape of wads of cotton soaked with
alcohol and glued to the clay pigeons. These wads were
lighted an instant before the release of the trap and
were destined to make a sailing circle of light through
the air at which to shoot. But when Buffalo Bill's
turn came, something was wrong. The watt of light dropped

(11:04):
about three feet from the trap, while a vague missile
went traveling on. The glue had failed to hold. As
it failed time after time, the great idea went into
the discard. If you can't get anything better than that,
better give it up, grunted Cody, the inventor beamed. Oh,
I'll have it by tomorrow night, he said, The idea

(11:24):
just came to me. The next night, Annie Oakley stepped
to her trap. Pull, she called, and a circle of
light shot forth. A quick aim, a steady pull of
the trigger, and the circle of light continued to travel. Missed,
called the announcer. Annie Oakley set herself for a second shot.
Pull she commanded. Misst came the cry from the scorer,

(11:45):
as another beaming circle of light traveled on untarnished pull
snapped Annie Oakley, with a bit of temper in her tone.
She aimed this time to annihilate the clay pigeon with
its beacon light, but the cry was again missed, so
it was on through the total of ten shots. Then
came Buffalo Bill, the Indian Slayer, he who, at many

(12:07):
a pace, had shot the horse from beneath Yellow Hand.
As the pair advanced to the great duel at the
Battle of the war Bonnet Cody, the dead shot old
never miss himself. Pull, he commanded, and the trap puller
pulled out. Shot the gleaming parabola. Missed, said the announcer,
with something of awe in his tone. About this time

(12:28):
a heavy titter began in the grand stand. Cody scowled
at a shot gun. Wonder what's wrong with this dang thing?
He asked, then pull missed. It was becoming very monotonous
by this time. Colonel William Frederick Cody reached for another gun.
Pull he bellowed, it was the same old thing. The
grand stand was roaring now again. Cody gave the command again.

(12:52):
The monotonous reply announced that he had failed to score
a target. Again and again and again and again. The
whole set of ten were gone through, all with the
same result. Bad eyed with chagrin, Buffalo Bill and Annie
Oakley made a pretense of bowing to the audience and
then happy in the arrival of other events. Let the

(13:13):
show go on. But something about those twenty consecutive misses
aroused their curiosity. Oh there ain't any doubt about us
missing 'em, said Buffalo Bill, as in the semi darkness
after the show, the pair went forth to the scene
of their terrific defeat and hunted about for the clay pigeons.
I could see him sailing off just as plain as day.

(13:33):
Ain't it funny? Now we didn't hit a one of em,
didn't we? Asked Annie Oakley as she picked up one
of the hateful targets, only to have it disintegrate in
her hands. Then why did this break so easily? And
what that was it? The thing which sent Buffalo Bill
in roaring search of a would be inventor, who would, however,
not invent again. Since the cotton had not stuck to

(13:55):
the clay pigeons by the mere application of mucilage, the
wild West medicine had determined upon more drastic means. He
therefore had hied himself to a drug store and there
purchased large amounts of sticking plaster, such as one glued
itself to the skins of unfortunates suffering from a crick
in the back. This he had cut into strips, and

(14:17):
in order that the cotton might be held in place,
so cris crossed the clay pigeons with the adhesive that
it had been next to impossible to shatter them. One
by one, the two surprised crack shots examined the targets
which cluttered the grounds, and every one of them were
tiny holes, indicating a puncture by shot, and which under

(14:37):
ordinary circumstances would have broken the pigeons. But the sticking
plaster had held true to its task and held also
those clay pigeons from breaking. A roaring Buffalo Bill sought
out the inventor and spoke his mind, which to those
who knew Buffalo Bill was of no uncertain quality when
things went amiss about the wild West. After that, helf

(15:00):
illuminated clay pigeons were deleted as a part of the performance.
Annie Oakley now was no longer the only white woman
with the Buffalo Bill troop. More women had been added,
some of them riders, others cracked shots who trailed in
the wake of the dark county expert, and still more
merely cowgirls and lassies of the plains, who did little

(15:21):
more than make their appearance in buckskin dresses and big
hats and lend variety to the scene. The show prospered
on Staten Island to an extent that had not been
believed possible, and, after its extremely successful season, closed for
a short time that it might make ready for its
appearance in Madison Square Garden. During the intermission, Annie Oakley

(15:44):
learned that fortitude must be hers, either in or out
of the arena. It had become the practice of Frank
Butler as her manager, to keep her before the public
as much as possible in a legitimate shooting atmosphere, to
say nothing of the money involved with this plan. Contests
were continually being arranged at which Annie Oakley shot against

(16:05):
some of the best male wing and trap experts of
the country, the Emaaliant often being a share of the
gate receipts received by the gun club where the contest
was held. This particular contest was to be against an
English champion, the winner to be the one scoring best
on fifty birds. It was rather an important shoot. In

(16:26):
the morning before the match, Annie Oakley decided to practice
on twenty five targets with a new gun, which she
had hoped to use in the contest. She made ready
and had proffered her gun to her husband for a
first shot, herself arranging the trap. As she slid in
the target and was withdrawing her hand, the spiral spring
which was then used to throw the birds, flew from

(16:49):
its fastenings and released the trap out sprang an angry
tongue of metal, striking between the first and second fingers
of Annie Oakley's left hand, cutting between the bones and
literally splitting the member for a depth of two and
a half inches. The woman paled, swung dizzily, then, with
the tremendous recuperative power which was a part of her nature, straightened.

(17:12):
I suppose we'd better give it up for to day, Frank,
she said, with as little concern as possible. Perhaps if
I'm going to use this hand tomorrow, I'd better see
a doctor. The guess was confirmed when the badly lacerated
hand was released from its bandages in the office of
the surgeon when his work was finished fourteen inches of
catgut had been necessary in deep agonizing stitches, which ran

(17:36):
almost directly through the woman's hand to hold the raw
edges of the wound together. This was followed by the
command that the injured hand should not be used for
at least two weeks. But that's impossible, doctor, said Annie Oakley.
I am booked to shoot a match tomorrow. Match or
no match. That hand must not be used. The slightest

(17:56):
effort will break those stitches. Then the wound may require
months to heal. Annie Oakley arose the next morning, obdurate
at least, She told her husband they would make their
appearance at the shooting grounds. This was done, whereupon Frank
Butler made an earnest effort to have the match postponed.
The rival shot and his manager went into conference. Through

(18:18):
an open window. Annie Oakley heard the following conversation. No,
I tell you we won't postpone it. The match is
won and the money is ours. She can't shoot with
that hand in a sling. We've won the match, have
they asked Annie Oakley, belligerently, rising over caution. Frank, you
just go ahead and make the arrangements. I'll shoot against him,

(18:39):
but you can't that hand. I'll shoot with one hand
before I'll submit to anything like that, answered the diminutive
crack shot. This, of course appended by the feminine the idea.
By this time attendants of the gun club were stretching
ropes to hold back a crowd which now threatened to
overflow the grounds. Frank Butler, yielding to the determination of

(19:02):
his wife, stepped forward, made an announcement concerning the accident
of the day previous, and added, Miss Oakley will attempt
to shoot with one hand against her competitor. If at
any time she decides to discontinue the match, she will
be glad to refund to the spectators the seventy five
percent of the gate receipts, which is to go to
her as her share. Or if any one at this

(19:24):
time cares to get their full admission price back, it
can be arranged by applying at the gate. No one
left the idea of watching a woman shoot with one
hand against a champion using both hands was worth watching.
The match began, and Miss Oakley, winning the toss, went
first to the traps. A bird rose and a bird fell.

(19:46):
Miss Oakley had grasped her first target and a cheer
greeted her one handed effort. Then the champion went to
the trap, and he too scored. Time after time they shot,
each holding even the champion working his hardest with both hand,
the woman raising her shotgun with her right sighting it
and pulling the trigger, while her left hand, sure support

(20:07):
of a shotgun, especially at the traps, remained inactive in
its bandages. To the eleventh bird, they traveled with the
score tied. Then from the trap came a streak of
lightning in the shape of a bird rising high on
the left quarter, so swiftly, in fact, that Annie Oaly
could not raise her gun in time to send the
full charge of shot. The tail feathers flew from the

(20:29):
quarry with the striking of the load, but the bird
went on heading swiftly for the back boundary. The gun
was too heavy to be sighted swiftly for another shot.
It was a case of risking that injured hand or
losing a bird, and Annie Oakley thought more of her
score than of pain. A swift pull, and she had
jerked her lacerated hand from its sling and thrown it

(20:50):
into position to support her gun. A swifter sighting, a
quick pull of the trigger, and then with a little groan,
Annie Oakley stood impotent, vainly attempting to hide the sight
of sporting blood from the spectators. The swift movement to
the gun barrel, accompanied by the impact of explosion, had
torn more than half the stitches from their fastenings. An

(21:10):
injury had been made even worse now, but that was
not the reason why Annie Oakley had growanned. Her effort
had been for naught. The bird had dropped dead only
six inches out of bounds. Meanwhile, Frank Butler had leaped
to the table upon which the referee had been scoring
and called off the match. The champion stepped forward for
his eleventh shot and missed with both barrels, thus making

(21:33):
the score so far at least a draw. When the
crowd had melted away and the pair prepared to seek
anew the services of a surgeon, Frank Butler said concernedly,
I just knew you'd hurt your hand again. Annie. Oh, well,
she answered with a quick smile. We didn't disappoint the
audience anyway. Nobody asked for their money back. The audience

(21:54):
always the audience. Despite the second accident, Annie Oakley two
weeks later entered a three heat riding race at affair
at which she had been booked, and which she felt
would be unfair to cancel, to say nothing of giving
an exhibition of shooting from horseback. Incidentally, she won the race.
After that, however, she used more discretion. Time was drawing

(22:16):
near for the opening of the Buffalo Bill show in
Madison Square Garden, and when that time came, rest and
care had made a shooting hand whole again. A blatant
winter season followed the beginning of many that were to
be played by Buffalo Bill and his Congress of rough
riders in the historic old building of Madison Square Garden. Then,

(22:37):
at the close of the season, Annie Oakley hurried back
to Ohio for an important visit. Two of her sisters
had died, victims of that scourge which seemed particularly deadly
in the Mosey family, tuberculosis. Joseph Shaw, the third husband,
had suffered from the hand of misfortune which had struck
two others before him. Now he was blind and destined

(23:00):
soon to die. Annie Oakley told him farewell. She knew
that she would not see him again, for little Missy
was going into far lands upon the quest of great adventure.
End of Chapter eight,