[Gatofeo]

In 1995 I met a man who knew Buffalo Bill Cody, and knew him well.

I had the privilege of knowing Ted, whose last name I can't recall, when he lived two doors down from me in an apartment complex in Clarkston, Washington.
When I met him, he was 90 years old but still possessed a fine mind and got along well by himself in a modest apartment.

Ted was born in 1905 in Cody, Wyoming.
He had started as a cowboy but, early on, saw that the hard life of a cowboy was not for him. He got an education, learned accounting, and made some wise investments. He was able to retire comfortably, and his sons (whom I never met) ran his business.

Ted's father had been the stock manager for Buffalo Bill's ranch outside of Cody.
I met Ted through my cat, whom he enjoyed petting and talking to. Ted was a very kind man and took a particular liking to my cat.

I have absolutely no doubt that he knew Cody, because Buffalo Bill died in 1917 when Ted was 12 years old.
On Ted's wall was a framed letter and envelope, written in 1905 in Bill Cody's own hand. It was postmarked from France and bore the return address of "Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show" or something like that.
Within the letter, as Ted pointed out to me, were the words to Ted's father, "Well, I expect that by the time this reaches you, you will have another one in the household," or something to that effect.
That reference is to Ted's birth.

When I met Ted, I worked on the Lewiston (Idaho) Tribune newspaper and tried desperately to get an interview with Ted. He staunchly refused. I tried again and again and Ted politely refused.
When Ted died, about 1998, God knows what memories of Bill Cody went with him. He just wouldn't say much about Cody believing, like many old-timers, his stories were uninteresting and no one would care.
I tried my best to convince him otherwise but, at the same time, I didn't want to be insistent and alienate him.
I trod a fine line; I valued his company greater I did his potential for great stories.

I valued my little chats with Ted, usually outside his apartment as he walked out to get mail or get in his Cadillac to drive for lunch at a local eatery. Often, my cat was rubbing around his legs as we spoke, prompting Ted to grin and reach down to give him a rubbing.

Ted often mockingly chided me with, "You take good care of that cat! He's a good animal!"
He knew that my cat was spoiled but I guess it was his way of ensuring that the treatment of his furry friend continued as it had.

Even at 90-plus Ted was still driving. He usually ate lunch with his friend, Helen, an elderly retired lady who lived next door to him. She had owned a woman's clothing store in the area, I believe.

Ted never offered much on Buffalo Bill, despite my gentle urging.
But he did recall that as a youngster he received a new .22 rifle from his father. He, his father and Bill Cody walked over to a nearby trash pit to try it out.
Ted said he shot okay with it, as did his father.
But even in his advanced age Buffalo Bill Cody never missed a bottle or can with it.

"I knew and spoke to a man who knew and spoke to Buffalo Bill Cody," is a phrase I think of every so often. I'm still amazed by the privilege.

Ted died about 1998. Helen, his long time lunch partner and friend, had died shortly before he did.
My cat that Ted liked so much died in 2002 of old age.
I hope the three of them have reunited in the Afterlife; Ted and Helen having lunch again like old times, my cat getting a good rubbing from Ted -- and Buffalo Bill Cody sitting back, grinning at the sight of the young boy he knew who grew to be an exceptionally fine, old man.