Annie liked winning.
She liked it a little too much, people might say, but as far as Annie was concerned, no one got anywhere without some kind of ambition. And see, this wasn’t the first contest Annie had gotten herself into. She had a very long history—for a girl of sixteen years—of entering contests and winning. The local turkey shoot had finally asked her not to come back, on account of all that winning; they simply gave her the turkey every year and held the contest for second place, with her first place assumed.
But this contest was different. One. Hundred. Dollars. That was a whole lot of money, and when she sent the winnings to her family, along with a letter saying that she’d gotten the job (obviously she planned to win and get the job), Mama and Grandpap Shaw wouldn’t be able to deny that she was worth more as a sharpshooter than a wife.
In the hotel Saturday morning, Annie dressed up special for the occasion: a pink gingham dress that fell just below her knees, her hair in a single braid down her back, the end tied off with a pink ribbon. She’d sewn the dress herself and was quite proud of the work. Some people might think it too girly, too ladylike for a sharpshooter, but Annie looked how she wanted to look.
When Mrs. Frost knocked on her door, Annie got her gun and followed the woman downstairs where Mr. Frost, Mr. Butler, and the rest of the Wild West company were getting ready to go to the fairgrounds.
“Good morning, George,” Annie said, bending to pet the poodle’s head. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”
George grinned, his tongue lolling out as he looked at Mr. Butler, and Mr. Butler sighed and shook his head. He looked as handsome today as he had before, in a fine wool coat, shiny black boots up to his calves, and even a bow tie.
“I don’t like my dog betting against me,” he said.
Annie greeted everyone else, and then the entire party took the hotel carriages to the fairgrounds, where they came upon a huge crowd of people in high spirits, bakers selling slices of pie, and balloons of all colors. Excitement rumbled through the audience as the contestants started toward the stage.
Calamity Jane slapped Frank on the shoulder. “Don’t get yourself beat by a girl now.” She gave Annie a crooked smile. “My money’s on you, miss. Good luck.”
She was a strange sort of person, that Calamity Jane, but Annie rather liked her.
“Are you ready to meet your match, Mr. Butler?” Annie asked as they reached the side of the stage. (It was really just a tall platform big enough for people to stand on, but Annie preferred to think of it as a stage, because these people were about to get the show of a lifetime.)
“I think I’m ready to win a hundred dollars.” Mr. Butler grinned, making butterflies swarm through Annie’s stomach. He really did have a nice smile.
Stop, she ordered herself. Stop noticing his nice smile.
“Welcome, welcome!” A man in a top hat was making his way across the stage, waving at the crowd. “We’ll get started once everyone settles down.”
The crowd settled down.
The man reached the center of the stage. “I’m George W. C. Johnston, the mayor, for those of you who don’t already know me. And now that we’re all friends, I hope you’ll remember to vote for me next November.”
Annie sighed. Next November was more than a year away. If he was spending this much time campaigning, when was he actually politician-ing?
But the crowd cheered.
“In the meantime, I’m happy to welcome you to this event. Thanks to Mr. Frost at the Bevis House, we have a high-stakes sharpshooting competition, and the winner will receive one hundred dollars!”
The crowd went wild.
Annie stared at the mayor intently as he began to introduce Mr. Butler. Sure, lots of people wore top hats, even during the summer, but ever since the factory, she hadn’t trusted that particular sort of headgear. Top hats, Annie was coming to believe, were the ultimate way to disguise bad behavior. After all, who suspected a man in a top hat?
But she was sure the mayor was a fine man. Hat notwithstanding.
“You all know this young man from Wild Bill’s Wild West, performing this week at the Coliseum Theater,” the mayor was saying. “Associate of Wild Bill Hickok—”
“And Calamity Jane!” called a voice that sounded suspiciously like Calamity Jane’s.
“And Calamity Jane!” The mayor tipped his hat. “Allow me to introduce the Pistol Prince, Frank Butler!”
More cheering. And in the front row, a group of young women fanned themselves and gazed up at Mr. Butler as he walked onto the stage, George the Poodle at his heel.
“And challenging, we have Miss”—the mayor checked his notes—“Phoebe Ann Mosey, from Darke County.”
A few people cheered, including the Frosts and a handful of folks who were clearly trying to be polite, but a large portion of the crowd stared at her like they’d never seen a girl with a gun.
Well, she’d show them.
“A coin toss, to see who goes first.” Mayor Johnston fished a silver dollar out of his pocket and nodded to Annie as he flipped. “Call.”
“Heads.”
He caught the coin and slapped it on the back of his other hand. “Tails. Mr. Butler goes first. Now, please take your places.”
Annie hated losing, even a coin toss.
Both contestants moved to opposite ends of the stage, and Annie stuffed down her nerves. In spite of all the contests she’d done, she’d never shot traps before, although she knew the basics: when she shouted pull, someone would fire a clay pigeon into the air, and she’d shoot it.
Mr. Butler wasted no time. He called, “Pull!” and shot the red clay pigeon that spiraled into the air.
Red clay dust scattered.
Everyone whooped and clapped, shouting Mr. Butler’s name.
Then all eyes went to Annie.
“Very good, Mr. Butler.” She grinned, knowing it would unsettle him. Then, with the unloaded rifle butt-down on the stage, she simply said, “Pull.”
Everyone gasped, but Annie knew she had this. See, Annie had seen Mr. Butler shoot at the theater, and then again in the saloon that night. She knew what he could do. But he had no idea what she could do.
As the clay pigeon flew into the air, Annie loaded.
It was a simple process: just carefully measure black powder, pour it into the muzzle, add the greased patch, add the lead shot, shove them deep into the barrel with the ramrod, prime the touch hole with yet more gunpowder, cover the flash pan with the steel-faced frazzle, and bam. A shootable weapon.
Annie had the load, cock, and fire down to under twenty seconds.
Just as the clay pigeon reached its peak of flight and was starting to descend, Annie lifted her rifle and fired.
Only red dust fell.
An immense roar filled the shooting grounds, all shock and disbelief.
On the far side of the stage, Mr. Butler stared at her as though suddenly seeing her for the first time, all warm and appraising and somewhat overwhelmed.
Something shifted inside Annie, too. There, below the stage, was that gaggle of young ladies all trying for Mr. Butler’s attention, but he was looking at her in a way he hadn’t looked at any of them. Every part of her felt tingly . . . and then she reminded herself (in a very stern thought-voice) about why she’d come here, and getting a man—even one as handsome as Mr. Butler—to look at her like that (internal swooning!) was not the reason.
She was here for a job.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy herself. She put on her sweetest smile. “Anything you can do, Mr. Butler,” she said, “I can do better.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
He grinned, and when the crowd quieted down for his turn, he performed the same trick.
She did it twice more, but she wouldn’t beat him with such simple stunts. She needed to escalate if she wanted to win. So for the next round, she turned her back to the audience and shot the target using only a mirror to sight.
But then so did Mr. Butler.
Then she shot without the mirror.
Mr. Butler did, too.
She escalated again, this time standing one-footed on a rail.
He did it, too.
She did a spin.
So did he.
Annie swore under her breath. “Well, drat.”
From that point, it was Mr. Butler doing the escalating. First, he shot while jumping over his dog. Annie shot while jumping over a child who’d crawled onto the stage.
He shot with one hand.
Annie considered shooting with no hands, but quickly realized that wouldn’t work without more preparation. So she shot with one hand.
They went back and forth, each round growing more and more ridiculous, until the twenty-fifth and final round. That was when Mr. Butler missed.
Stunned silence fell over the crowd.
Mr. Butler looked shocked, too. He stared at the sky where the clay pigeon had fallen without a piece of hot lead inside it. Then, he examined his gun like there must be something wrong.
Annie said, “Pull,” and shot the final target without any showmanship whatsoever. No need to humiliate the man further.
You could have heard a pin drop in the moments before the mayor said, “The winner is Miss Phoebe Ann Mosey!”
The crowd exploded with cheers and screams and people calling Annie’s name. A girl—a country girl—had beaten the famed Pistol Prince.
She went to the center of the stage. The mayor shook her hand, and Mr. Frost gave her the hundred-dollar bill. It was more money than she’d ever seen in her life.
“Thank you.” She pocketed her prize and turned to Mr. Butler. “You’re a fine shot, sir. It was an honor.”
“The honor is mine, Miss Mosey. I’m not afraid to admit that I underestimated you.” He smiled and shook her hand, holding on a tad too long. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
A thrill shot through Annie. She had to admit (only to you, dear reader) that she liked the way his hand felt around hers.
Mr. Butler glanced down at George, who was sitting between them. George gave Mr. Butler what some might call a meaningful look.
Annie, however, didn’t notice, because she was busy noticing the way Frank ran his fingers through his hair.
“I know, I know, you like her.” Mr. Butler looked up from George. “I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t say something now. And worse yet, George will never forgive me.”
“Oh?” Annie couldn’t stop the smile bubbling up. “Then you’d better say it.”
Mr. Butler pressed his hand against his heart. “Miss Mosey, will you marry me?”
Annie stood there in shock. Had he been talking to her mother?
Around the crowd, the cheers for Annie’s victory became cheers of encouragement. “Do it!” someone shouted. A few folks whistled.
Annie scoffed. Then she scoffed again for good measure. But there was a gleam in Mr. Butler’s eye, and a playful turn to his mouth. She decided to go along—at least for now. “Why, Mr. Butler. It takes more than a shiny gun and a cute dog to impress me.”
Mr. Butler’s charming smile widened. “I understand. A lady such as yourself must keep her standards high. I hope I get the opportunity to prove my worth.” With a flourish, he kissed her hand. Then he led her toward the back of the stage, where Mr. Hickok and Jane were climbing up the stairs. “We’ll see about the show. It’s not actually up to me.”
“Mr. Hickok had his chance, but he sent me to you,” Annie said. “Remember?”
Before Mr. Butler could respond—although Annie assumed he agreed—they reached Mr. Hickok and Calamity Jane.
Mr. Hickok stuck out a hand to shake hers. “That was some fine shooting.” He looked at her appraisingly. (Annie was, as we’d say today, freaking out a little inside.) “I didn’t think I’d see the day where someone outshot our Frank here.”
“Thank you,” Annie said, forcing confidence into her voice. “I’m glad you noticed, because I wanted to talk to all of you about becoming part of your posse.”
No one said a word, so she kept talking.
“I’ve more than proven myself. I know I can be an asset. I can shoot an apple off anyone’s head. I could probably shoot ten apples off ten people’s heads with one bullet.”
Mr. Hickok stroked his mustache. “Your talent is undeniable,” he said, “but you’re just a girl.”
Both Annie and Jane gasped in outrage.
“That doesn’t make sense at all,” Annie huffed.
“Yeah, that’s bull puckey!” cried Jane. “She shouldn’t be restricted by the restraints of her sex.”
Everyone looked at Jane, confused.
“I agree with Jane,” Annie said. “Plus, I already know your secret—”
“What?” Mr. Butler asked. “What secret?”
“Yeah,” Jane added. “We don’t have no secrets. None at all.”
Annie smiled warmly. “Oh, it’s all right! You don’t have to worry. I won’t tell anyone else that you still hunt garou.”
“Oh,” Jane said. “That.”
Annie nodded. “See? I already know. So now you don’t have to worry about me finding out the hard way. I also know you’re hunting someone called the Alpha, although I’m not quite sure what that means, but I’ll find out, and you won’t even have to tell me—unless you want to, of course, and I’d appreciate it, but I also want you to know that I can fend for myself.”
“Mercy,” said Mr. Hickok.
Jane stared at her. “Did you breathe in there at all?”
“No,” Annie said, but she wasn’t out of breath. She could speak the longest sentences of anyone in her whole family.
“And how did you come by this knowledge?” Mr. Hickok asked in a low voice.
“Through simple investigation.” She wasn’t quite willing to admit she’d followed them into the candle factory the other night. “I always thoroughly research a place of employment before I apply for a job. So I know that you still hunt garou,” she said firmly. “I can prove it.” (Reader, in no way could Annie prove it, but she’d learned something about bluffing at poker, and she figured this was a good time for a bluff.)
Mr. Hickok glanced around at Mr. Butler and Jane. “If you knew about hunting garou, you’d know that the hunt is no place for a girl.”
“Excuse me?” Jane said loudly.
Mr. Hickok waved her off. “You know what I mean.” He turned back to Annie. “We wouldn’t want you getting hurt, my dear.”
Annie’s jaw tightened. A series of unbidden memories flashed through her mind. A dark winter night, losing feeling in her toes and fingers as she watched smoke rise from the chimney of a ramshackle cabin.
The burning in her face, after her captors had slapped her.
The smell, almost like a dog but so much darker and deadlier; the thought of it made the hair on her arms prickle. (And her nose itch.)
In spite of the hot summer sun beating down on the shooting grounds, Annie shivered. “I can handle myself with garou, sir. It was me who— I have some experience with— Just give me a chance.”
Mr. Butler, who’d been listening quietly all this time, raised his hand. “We should vote on it.”
“I vote yes,” Annie said immediately.
“You don’t get a vote.”
Ouch.
“Well, I vote yes,” said Jane. “Because I don’t like nobody telling anybody what she can or can’t do on the basis of being a girl.”
“And I vote yes,” Mr. Butler said. “A woman who can shoot like Miss Mosey would be a huge draw to the show. People will come for miles to see her perform.”
“I vote no,” said Mr. Hickok gruffly.
“Two to one, then.” Mr. Butler’s eyes smiled at her. Not that Annie was spending all that much time noticing his eyes. (They were brown with lighter flecks, framed by long dark lashes, and had a sort of warmth to them that would make anyone’s heart squeeze.) “Looks like you’re in.”
“Wait a second,” Mr. Hickok said. “I voted no, so she’s not in. Because my vote is the only vote that really counts.”
“That’s not fair.” Mr. Butler stared at Mr. Hickok. “Besides, you put me in charge of the show, so that means my vote is the only vote that really counts.”
Mr. Hickok didn’t get to respond, though, because Jane had started shouting.
“The system is rigged!” She slammed her fist on the railing. “The system is unfair! One person one vote!”
Mr. Butler stepped toward Mr. Hickok. “Dad, come on. You either trust me to handle the show, or you don’t. And I think Miss Mosey is the right choice. For the show, obviously. We can see about the garou stuff.”
Mr. Hickok gave Mr. Butler a long, searching look, and then shrugged. “All right. She can join the show, but she’ll need training.”
“I’ll help her,” Mr. Butler said, maybe too quickly.
“Me too,” said Jane.
“How does ten dollars a week sound?”
“That sounds more than fair. Thank you, Mr. Hickok,” Annie said. “You won’t regret this decision.”
He glanced at Mr. Butler, and his expression softened. “When can you start?” he asked Annie.
Her heart soared. “How about now?”
“How about tomorrow?” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting.
Annie smiled. She loved winning. “That’d be just fine.”