New York, 1860

Theatrical tastes in the mid-Nineteenth Century had shifted from the ‘aristocracy’ back to the common man and with this shift came a rediscovery of a highly entertaining style of stage-play, the melodrama. Unlike their modern descendants, it was not unusual for directors to act in the plays they were directing and this show was no exception.

On-stage was a recent arrival from Europe, an English actor/director by the name of Edwin Cushman, who was renowned for his use, not only of elaborate stage sets and properties, but also for his uncanny ability to literally change his face onstage. It was a curious combination of make-up, visible under certain types of lights that enabled the performer to dazzle audiences with this evening's performance of a stage-play about a man cursed by witches. Elaborate stage effects, such as movable three-dimensional sets and hydraulic lifts combined to make the show a feast for the eyes. Live animals, specially trained, were also used. Most striking however, was Cushman's use of escape tricks during the course of the play.

According to the script, superstitious townsfolk, afraid that he might be a witch, hunt Cushman’s character. The scene required Cushman to undergo the excruciating water torture, where his character is being forced to confess his evils. Cushman had to endure this with his hands shackled. To the amazement of the audience, Cushman literally dislocated his own shoulder joints to perform the escape trick. The audience members, especially one young man, a visitor from the West, who was seated in the back rows of the audience, were stunned. They burst out in wild applause. This of course, was just the first act.

Cushman needed the intermission to dry himself off, redo his make-up, and of course, re-set his shoulder. The latter would obviously, be the most painful part of the preparation process. Cushman had done it before, however. He was an expert, a true one of a kind.  So passionate was he about his craft, this genius of the theater, that he would literally give his life if need, in order to perform.

Visiting Cushman backstage for his autograph was a near impossibility, since admirers swamped the man. He was a star. His hotel room was also well guarded, to protect him from the more enthusiastic female admirers. It was not an easy thing to sneak into his room for a personal visit with the great performer. Perhaps, that is why he consented to teach the young Westerner, the Texan, who somehow was able to sneak into his room, past the guards.

The young man had no desire to be an actor or a performer, but he clearly had the desire an intense desire to learn Cushman's tricks. The young man also was willing to pay the actor in silver for his trouble. Cushman, though highly successful and in demand, was still in debt, having squandered his vast earnings on gambling and especially, on women.  Besides that, however, his curiosity was piqued by the young Texan, who hid his true face behind dark, tinted glasses. The great actor, disguise expert, and escapist, Cushman, now had a pupil.

*****

In Cavendish's underground barracks of his ‘Fort Bartholemew’, his post physicians were tending to the injuries of his brawling soldiers, the men who were involved in the recent bar fight over a half-breed Indian girl with an unknown Mexican vaquero. Some of the other men on duty looked on as one man had his leg tended to, his knee shattered at the joint. The balding man described what had happened, speaking through the bandages that covered half of his face. "There musta been like twelve dozen Mexicans in that there bar!  It was like the whole blamed Cortina bandido gang was ridin' down on us . . . in that bar!  One of them greasers sucker punched me with the flat a' his machete, then the rest of 'em shot up the bar and took that there squaw we had!' 

"Damn, I like a good squaw! They scratch when ya hold 'em down!" Said one of the soldiers, the others laughing at that remark. 

A voice rang out from above. "Twelve Mexican bandidos, you dare say?" It was Cavendish, descending down the stairway entrance, accompanied by a huge bodyguard, as well as a Mexican woman, a beautiful young lady with sparkling eyes and long, brown hair. She was his personal ‘body servant’. He continued as he walked down the stairs towards his men, "The patrons at the bar said there was one man. One man!" He got into the balding man's face, the balding man trembling with fear for his life. 

With quiet rage, Cavendish said, "You allowed one man did this to you, over a woman!" Cavendish then stood up and turned to his bodyguard. "When you allow yourselves to be defeated, it reflects on me. Your little 'excursion' has reflected badly on our organization. Not only did you allow your glands to do your thinking for you, you had the audacity to lose." Cavendish then turned back towards the bald man, a gun in his hand. He pointed it at the bald man, who now looked on with his eyes wide open with terror. Cavendish continued, "I do not tolerate losers." Cavendish pulled the trigger.

The hammer of the pistol clicked and the gun was empty. The bald man was sweaty with terror, as well as surprised and relieved to be alive. Cavendish pulled the gun away.  "Now, I hope you understand the sincerity of my actions." The bald man knew that
though the pistol was blank, there was no doubt in his mind that Cavendish was not bluffing. Cavendish said, "There is no room for our organization for ordinary men.  Remember that." 

A voice was then heard, making all of them, Cavendish included, turn their attentions to the speaker. "Ees a god lesson to remember senor." Cavendish directed his guard to point his gun at the speaker, the Masked Man, in disguise as the vaquero. With lightning speed, the Masked Man tossed a small knife at the gun of the guard. It imbedded itself into the barrel. 

"That's him!" Shouted the bald man. 

"Indeed," said Cavendish, observing his guard looking over his own gun, the knife stuck in the barrel. They were all shocked by the ease and precision that the vaquero demonstrated with the knife. 

"Buenos dias, senor Cavendish." 

"How did you get in here, past my guard," asked Cavendish.  

"I have my ways, senor. Professional courtesy, ees that how you say eet?" The other soldiers had already drawn their guns. 

"Before you die what is it that you want?" Asked Cavendish. 

"A job," was the vaquero's reply. Cavendish again looked at the knife imbedded gun of his bodyguard.