“I simply adore a man with a dog,” the blonde girl gushed.
Frank had heard the same girl say the same thing earlier, when they’d been riding into town. But he didn’t mind the repetition in the least.
“Do you?” He smiled, and three out of the four beautiful women gathered outside the theater pretended to swoon.
“Oh yes. Dogs are so cute,” the blonde said. “And clever. I so admire cleverness. You’re probably clever too, aren’t you, Mr. Butler? Or should I call you Frank?”
He didn’t get a chance to answer, because another girl said, “Oh, Mr. Butler, how do you shoot so well?”
“Lots of practice—”
But the third girl moved in.
“Is it Mr. Butler, or do you prefer Pistol Prince?”
“I—”
“Oh, Mr. Butler, your poodle is so adorable.”
To which George replied with a growl, and all the young ladies backed off a step.
“I’m so sorry,” Frank said. “George is afeared of the ladies.”
I am not scared of ladies, thought George indignantly. I’m a brave dog.
See here, reader, Frank could hear the thoughts of animals—dogs, mostly, but sometimes wolves, wild cats, and the occasional angry badger. It was a skill he didn’t advertise, for reasons we’ll explain later.
Frank patted George’s head. “I think you’re a brave boy, George. The bravest.” It wasn’t so much that George was scared of women, it was more that he just didn’t like them, plain and simple . . . and utterly mysteriously, because Frank adored them.
“Awww!” cooed all four ladies in unison. “Poor George.”
George sniffed with disdain.
Overhead, the sun crawled toward noon, so Frank put his hands out, palms down in a calming manner, and said, “Thank you for your much-appreciated attention, ladies, but I have to prepare for the show.”
“We’ll be there,” said the brunette.
“And we welcome your attendance,” Frank said.
George growled, as if to say he would welcome anything but their attendance, and Frank nudged him with his knee.
“Toodleloo,” sighed the blonde.
“Same to you,” Frank replied.
The crowd of women reluctantly dispersed, and Frank ducked into the theater.
Why do you talk to them every time? George looked up at Frank, his dark eyes curious.
“Well, it’s part of my job.” Frank scratched the back of George’s head. “I like talking to the ladies. I like ladies.”
More than me?
“Of course not.”
George huffed as if he weren’t sure he believed Frank and trotted over to a crate filled with props. But you don’t like like them, George thought. Not any of those ladies.
“I like them fine.” Frank followed George to the crate and used a crowbar to pry off the lid. “But town after town, they all start to blend together.” He carefully removed the paper-wrapped mirrors (for trick shots) and glass balls (for shooting). “It would help if you weren’t so mean to them,” he added.
I growl because they’re not the right mate for you.
Frank coughed and almost dropped one of the glass balls. “Excuse-a-what?”
“Hey there, partner.” Bill came in, walking stiffly. “Need some help?”
“Sure.” Frank gave one last eyebrow raise to George, and then he and Bill set up the targets and other props. It all had to be placed just so, because in a sharp-shooting show where bullets were flying, attention to detail was crucial. Frank handed George an empty whiskey bottle, and the pooch took it and placed it on a pedestal on the opposite side of the stage.
Is this right? George asked.
Frank nodded. The bottle was for Jane’s bullwhip act. She was so good with a bullwhip, she could . . . well, your narrators don’t want to spoil it for you. You’ll have to wait for the show.
Frank paused in the center of the stage, the familiar buzz of preshow anticipation filling him. And for that one small moment, he let himself imagine that show business was all he did.
The heat of the lights on him.
His gun in his hand, the bang of each perfect shot.
The audience gasping and cheering and calling his name.
“Frank Butler!” they’d cry. “Hooray for the Pistol Prince! Frank! Frank! Frank!”
He drew in a deep breath. Even the smell of the theater was something special, like velvet and sawdust and dreams.
“Frank!” Bill stepped in front of him. “Son, are you listening to me?”
Frank blinked a few times. “Sorry, I was lost in thought, I guess.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“The show,” Frank admitted. “Do you think that someday—after we catch the Alpha, of course—the show really could be our job, not just a cover?”
Bill shook his head. “I’m tuckered out, kid. After we catch the Alpha I’m going to retire. For real this time. From garou hunting and from show business, too.”
“Oh.” Frank felt a pang in his heart. “Maybe we could take a vacation,” he suggested. “Rest up, then find a permanent place somewhere to do the show. A theater. Heck, maybe even this one.”
“Nah,” said Bill. “I’m done. You know it’s not only me I’m thinking about. I’ve got Agnes waiting for me.”
Oh yeah. Bill was married now. It was hard to remember sometimes.
A few months back they’d been doing a show in Cheyenne when Bill had run into an old flame named Agnes Lake. Agnes was in show business, herself. She owned a circus. She also walked the tight rope and trained the fiercest lions, tigers, and bears. (Oh my!) Bill was instantly smitten with her all over again, and in an impromptu move no one (or certainly not Frank) saw coming, Bill asked Agnes to marry him, right then and there, and she’d said yes. The honeymoon hadn’t been long, since the gang still had shows to do and the Alpha to hunt, but ever since they’d left Cheyenne—and Agnes—Bill had been talking of settling down. Even so, today was the first time Bill had ever said the word retire like he actually meant it.
Bill patted Frank’s shoulder. “I’ve had my time in the sun. But just because I’m done doesn’t mean you are. The show must . . .”
“Go on,” pressed Frank.
“Right. The show must go on. Without me.”
“Yeah, well, then I’ve got some pretty big shoes to fill,” Frank said glumly. It was hard to imagine Wild Bill’s Wild West without Wild Bill. How could the show really go on without the world’s greatest showman?
Bill chuckled and lifted a boot to go alongside Frank’s. “Not so big as all that, see? You’ll be a natural at it, son. I know you will. In fact, why don’t you take over the show from now on, manage things, get a feel for it?”
Frank’s breath caught. “What about Charlie?”
Bill pshawed. “He’s a Pinkerton. Not a showman. I’m sure he’d rather focus on the Alpha. You think you can handle it?”
“I can do it,” said Frank.
“Good. Can you finish setting up on your own?” Bill asked.
“Of course,” Frank said.
“I’m gonna head back to the hotel and get us squared away on that end.”
Frank watched him go. George sat at his feet.
It’s good to think about the future, George thought.
“Maybe,” Frank said. “But what if, when Bill leaves . . .”
The show falls apart? George supplied.
“Thank you for your confidence. I was going to say suffer, but sure.” Frank scratched George’s ears.
George’s tail thumped.
Frank sighed and turned back to the set, which was almost finished. He missed the days when it was just him and Bill, going from town to town, living hand to mouth. Well, more like gun to bull’s-eye.
From the beginning, life was always an adventure with his dad. Bill’s family farm had served as a stop on the Underground Railroad, and then Bill made a name for himself by joining the antislavery Free State Army of Jayhawkers, where he served as a bodyguard for General James H. Lane.
He fought in the Civil War and left Frank in the care of a family in Ohio. Those years were the longest of Frank’s life, the longest he’d spent without his dad.
When Bill returned from the war, he vowed to never leave Frank for more than a couple weeks at a time. The two went on the road again, and Frank noticed that people along the way started to recognize his father. His gunfighting abilities had granted him even more fame.
But it was Bill’s encounter with a bear where his legendary status really rose. The bear surprised him on the road, and Hickok shot it. The bear didn’t die, and the two wrestled until Bill used a knife to slit the bear’s throat.
Frank was with him at the time, hiding behind a tree, watching his dad in amazement.
As Bill’s star began to rise, so did the threats against him. The man who killed the Wild Bill Hickok would stand to gain fame and possibly fortune.
Bill spent the next few years teaching Frank the ins and outs of a nomadic life, all the while dodging bounty hunters and opportunistic thrill seekers who wouldn’t mind seeing Wild Bill dead by their hand.
Then, a few years back, Bill left for a scouting trip, and when he returned, he had a little girl in tow. Jane, her name was.
Jane took to their lifestyle like a fly takes to sugar. When Charlie joined up a couple years later, their gang felt complete. They had a good thing going, here. And now it seemed like they were all about to go their separate ways.
“I don’t know if I can carry it alone,” Frank murmured to the rows of empty seats.
George lay on the floor and put his chin against the wood. Don’t worry. I’ve been living this nomadic life for a while now, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s— George’s ears pricked up. Mail wagon!
Frank could barely hear the hoofbeats outside. George barked enthusiastically for a few minutes, and then settled down again.
“You’re a good watchdog,” Frank said.
I know, George replied. The mailman is dangerous, but I’ll protect you.
“Thanks. So what’s the one thing you’ve learned?”
What one thing?
“The one thing you’ve learned after your nomadic life?”
I don’t remember.
“Frank!” came a shout from the theater entrance. “Fraaaaaank!”
It was Jane. She ran down the aisle, spitting as she went.
“Try not to spit on the paid seats,” Frank called.
“I have news.” Jane put a hand up and leaned over, gasping for air.
George whined and cocked his head, and Frank walked to the edge of the stage so she didn’t have to yell.
“Jane, what is it?”
“You gotta come right now to Bill’s . . .” She lowered her head again, still struggling to catch her breath.
“Room?” Frank guessed.
Jane nodded.
“But, the show—”
Jane shook her head. “It’s a garou emergency!”
Once Jane, Frank, and George got to Bill’s room, Frank realized Jane’s definition of the word emergency was a bit looser than his own. His was more like, a burning building or garou attacking children.
What he found was Bill, standing next to a man who looked vaguely familiar.
Frank glanced at Bill to get a sense of his old man’s feelings about the stranger, and found the holsters of those beautiful ivory-handled pistols clipped. Bill didn’t believe they were in danger here, or the clips would have been off; it made for a faster draw. Not that Bill shot as much these days—his eyesight wasn’t the greatest anymore—but the clips worked as a secret code between father and son.
“Frank, this is Jack McCall,” Bill said. “He claims he is a garou hunter.”
“Woof hunter,” Jack McCall said.
Woof hunter was a term lone vigilantes often used. Frank had a hard time taking them seriously.
“I was gonna hunt ’em by myself,” Jack McCall boasted, “but then I heard y’all were comin’ into town.”
“Going to take who on?” Frank asked.
McCall ignored him. “Is your whole gang here?”
“Everyone but Charlie, but we can fill him in later. He’s in charge of this outfit.”
“But, I thought . . .” Jack pointed at Bill. “I thought you was in charge.”
Jane took off her hat. “Bill’s what you might call the face of the operation. Charlie’s the head.”
Frank nudged her. “Isn’t the face part of the head?”
Jane shoved him back. “I think you’ve been sniffin’ too much perfume, pretty boy.”
“Are you two . . .” Jack McCall let his words trail off and grinned.
“Ew, no,” Jane said, lurching away from Frank.
“You don’t have to be so dramatic about it,” Frank said. “Sorry, Mr. McCall. Please tell us about the”—he sighed—“woof.”
“Well, I came into some information that the foreman at the old P and G factory is a super bad woof,” said Jack McCall.
“That’s interesting news,” said Bill. “But I’m afraid I’m retired from garou hunting.”
McCall gazed thoughtfully at Bill. “A woof hunter ain’t never retired, is he?”
Bill didn’t answer.
“Besides, this isn’t some insignificant woof,” added McCall. “This here’s the Alpha.”
The group went still. The general public was not aware of the existence of the Alpha. People were terrified enough by the thought of a regular werewolf, without adding a werewolf supervillain to the mix.
Jack McCall puffed out his chest. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m in the know about the Alpha.”
“How do you know that this man—this foreman at the P and G factory—is the Alpha?” Bill asked slowly.
McCall scratched at the back of his neck. “Well, I don’t know know, exactly. I heard—through my various woof-hunter sources—that he’s a leader in the Pack. A big boss. Like top tier. So I reckon he’s probably the Alpha. And then I reckoned that if I’m gonna go up against the Alpha, maybe I need to bring along the best garou hunter in the world. That being you, Mr. Hickok, sir.”
“I see. What’s the man’s name?” Bill asked.
“Mr. Badd. He’s super bad.”
“His name is Super Bad?” Frank asked. “What were his parents thinking?”
Jane snorted.
Jack McCall looked confused. “No, I’m just telling you how bad he is, but also, his name happens to be Badd, but spelled with two d’s.” His face broke into a smile again.
Frank realized where he’d seen Jack McCall before—playing poker, in one of their previous towns. Possibly St. Louis? He didn’t remember the place for sure, but he definitely remembered that smile, the constant show of teeth, and how he hadn’t been able to tell whether Jack McCall was bluffing.
“Hmm,” Bill mused. “I read something in the paper this morning about a series of strange disappearances at a factory. If it’s the P and G, they could be missing because they’ve been turned.”
Frank scoffed. “Who would turn a bunch of people in the same place? It would draw too much attention. The Alpha would know better than that.”
Bill narrowed his eyes. “You’d think.”
“We should go check it out,” Jack McCall said.
Frank’s pulse sped up. “But what about the show?”
“The show will go on as scheduled,” Bill said. “We still have a few hours. Keep an eye out the window for Charlie. When he gets back, we’ll investigate the factory.”
While Bill continued asking Jack McCall questions—mostly about how he came by all this information—Frank leaned on the window frame and gazed outside. If this Mr. Badd fellow did turn out to be the Alpha, and they caught him tonight, that’d be it. Bill would retire. Frank would inherit the show.
Everything would change.
He spotted a blond girl down on the street in front of the general store, looking at her reflection in the glass. She was one of the girls from earlier—the one who adored a man with a dog—all prim and proper and pretty. She was pinching her cheeks when a stagecoach came by, splashing mud onto her fancy dress. She shrieked like she was mortally wounded, so loudly the shopkeeper rushed out to see what was the matter. The girl sobbed and gestured to her soiled dress. The shopkeeper put his arm around her and ushered her into the store.
Frank sighed. Maybe George had a point. None of these girls were right for him. But what girl would be? She’d have to be the type who didn’t mind life on the road, and who didn’t mind guns, and who got along with George. That seemed like a tall order.
He caught sight of Charlie coming up the front steps. “Dad,” Frank said, interrupting whatever his father had been saying to Jack McCall. “Charlie’s back.”
“Good,” Bill growled. “Get your things. We’re going Alpha hunting.”