He’d heard rumors about what Bill was doing now. Movies were immortality, so Bill started a film company. With specificity no one else could achieve, Buffalo Bill re-created on film the entire Battle of Wounded Knee. He insisted it be shown in real time, meaning that an hour was devoted to watching soldiers reload and fire at flailing bodies that dropped like bruised fruit into the snow. “This is the best way to preserve not just the idea of the West, but the actual West,” Bill said, incorrectly, and Duncan could hear him.

“Broke,” Duncan Cody tried to whisper, for Bill was indeed bankrupt now. The methods whereby nickels and dimes collected from theaters accumulated and were then distributed to many people were a mystery to him. It was the end of the hunt. It hadn’t been Comanches or wolves or a raging spring river that did him in; it had been the film business.

Wait, Duncan thought with the grief of a man who has caught on too late, do you mean none of us gets out of this alive? And there Duncan’s vision began to tear free into nonsense and delusion, and Buffalo Bill vanished. After a priest administered the last rites, a nurse came to hold his hand.

At her touch, he stirred. It was a primal tunneling into his brain, some reptilian part that recognized the pleasant smell of a young woman. He looked into her face. He could not make out her features, his eyesight had faded that much, but, with some small remaining hint of caddishness, he managed a wink. She patted his hand in return.

“Can you help me write a letter?”

“Certainly,” she said.

“I love your accent, miss. Where are you from?”

“London.”

“Where is London?” He fell asleep. Then, with a start, his eyes opened. “I should write a letter,” he said.

“I can help you,” she said.

“‘Dear Emily,’” he said. But no. She had resisted him, and she might still. “‘Dear Emily,’” he insisted. He knew she no longer loathed him, but felt nothing for him, which was worse. “This is for my son,” he explained. “‘Dear,’” he said. His mouth stayed open long enough that the nurse moved to take his pulse. Emily had written the name down. He remembered reading it. He remembered remembering it. Then he whispered, “Actually, fill that in later.