But somehow Cory never did.
Even his birthdate was in doubt. His studios and his wife claimed he was born in 1880. The monument near Florence, Arizona (where he died doing 80 mph on a dirt road), says 1880. But there was contrary evidence that it was 1870. Whether he was sixty or seventy, though, he looked like a young fifty. He always kept himself in great shape.
Also, a friend who saw him off on his fatal trip said he was driving a yellow Ford convertible. His wife said it was white. So much for eyewitnesses. The studio publicity departments claimed he was born and raised in Texas. I found out myself that that was a lie. He was born near Mix Run, Pennsylvania, and he left there when he was eighteen to enter the Army.
Just as I was about to write to the War Department to get a copy of his military record-and find out for myself just what he had done in the Army-a novel by Darryl Ponicsan came out. I was stymied again; again, too late. Though the book was semifictional, its author had done the job of research that I’d been planning to do.
So-my hero wasn’t the grandson of a Cherokee chief. Nor was he born in El Paso, Texas. And, though he was in the Army, he hadn’t been severely wounded at San Juan Hill nor wounded in the Philippines.
Actually, he’d enlisted the day after the Spanish-American War started. I’m sure-as was Ponicsan-that he hoped to get into action. There is no doubt that he had great courage and that he desired to be where the bullets were the thickest.
Instead, he was kept at the fort, then honorably discharged. He thereupon reenlisted. But still, no action. So he deserted in 1902.
He did not go to South Africa, as the studios claimed. Instead, he married a young schoolteacher and went with her to the Oklahoma Territory. Either her father got the marriage annulled or she just left him and a divorce was never filed. Nobody’s sure.
While working as a bartender, shortly before he went to work for the 101 Ranch in Oklahoma, he married another woman. This didn’t work out, and he apparently failed to divorce her, too.
Most of what the studio publicity departments-and Rider himself-claimed was false. These tales were made up to glamorize a man who did not need it. Rider went along with these tales, maybe made up some himself for the studios. After a while he got to believing them himself. I mean, really believing them. I should know. I’ve heard him relate almost all of the prevarications, and it’s evident that by now the fiction is as genuine as the reality to him.
This blurring of distinction between reality and fantasy in no way interfered with his competency in real life, of course.
He did, however, reject Fox’s wish to advertise him as the illegitimate son of Buffalo Bill. That might have started inquiries which would have exposed the whole truth.
And he never says a word about having been a great movie star. He does tell stories about his film experiences, but in these he’s always an extra.
Why is he using a pseudonym? I don’t know.
His third wife described him as tall, slender, and dark. I suppose that in the early 1900’s he would have been considered a tall man, though he’s shorter than I am. His slim body does contain steelwire muscles. Farrington is shorter than he but very muscular. He’s always after Tom to Indian wrestle him, especially when he (Farrington) has been drinking. Tom obliges. They put an elbow on the table, lock raised hands, and then try to force each other’s hand down to the table. It’s a long struggle, but Tom usually wins. Farrington laughs, but I think he’s really chagrined.
I’ve wrestled with both of them, coming out about fifty percent winner (or loser). I can beat both of them in the dashes and the long jump. But when it comes to boxing or stick fighting, I usually get licked. I don’t have their “killer instinct.” Besides, this macho thing never was important to me. Though that may be because I suppressed it from some unconscious fear of competition.