As it worked its way East over the Overland route its old luck held steadily.  Again were driver and passengers massacred; again it was abandoned.  At last, when it was “hoodooed” all over the West and no independent driver or company would have anything to do with it I discovered it, bought it, and used it for my show.

One of the incidents of my program, as all who have seen it will remember, was an Indian attack on this coach.  The royal visitors wanted a real taste of Western life—­insisted on it, in fact, and the Kings of Denmark, Greece, Saxony, and the Crown Prince of Austria climbed to the box with me.

I had secretly instructed the Indians to throw a little real energy into their pursuit of the coach, and they followed my instructions rather more completely than I expected.  The coach was surrounded by a demoniac band of shooting and shouting Indians.  Blank cartridges were discharged at perilously close proximity to the rulers of four great nations.  Looking around to quiet my followers, I saw that the guests of the occasion were a trifle pale, but they were all of them game, and came out of the affair far less scared than were the absolutely terrified members of the royal suites, who sat in their boxes and wrung their hands in wild alarm.

In recognition of this performance the Prince of Wales sent me a souvenir consisting of a feathered crest, outlined in diamonds, with the words “Ich dien” worked in jewels underneath.  A note in the Prince’s own hand expressed the pleasure of his guests in the entertainment I had provided for them.

After a tour of the principal cities we returned to America, proud of our success, and well rewarded in purse for our effort.

The welcome to America was almost as elaborate as that from England.  I quote from the description of it printed in the New York World: 

The harbor probably has never witnessed a more picturesque scene than that of yesterday, when the Persian Monarch steamed up from Quarantine.  Buffalo Bill stood on the captain’s bridge, his tall and striking figure clearly outlined, and his long hair waving in the wind; the gaily painted and blanketed Indians leaned over the ship’s rail; the flags of all nations fluttered from the masts and connecting cables.  The cowboy band played “Yankee Doodle” with a vim and enthusiasm which faintly indicated the joy felt by everybody connected with the “Wild West” over the sight of home.

Shortly after my arrival I was much pleased by the receipt of the following letter: 

    FIFTH AVENUE HOTEL, NEW YORK. 
    COLONEL WM. F. CODY: