Epilogue
Denver
One year later

“Look, Mama!” said a girl on the street as Jane passed by. “Isn’t that Calamity Jane?”

“I think so, sweetie,” said her ma.

“She’s a hero, isn’t she?” said the girl.

“She sure is,” said the mother.

Hero-eene, Jane wanted to clarify, but instead she tipped her hat to the pair and continued on down the road. It was odd now when people recognized her. They all smiled at her, for one thing, and said things like, “Wowee! There goes the Calamity Jane!” and they talked like she was some kind of inspirational figure. Times were definitely changing.

She walked over to a post and smoothed a flyer over it. It was a new flyer, and front and center on the paper was a drawing of Annie with her rifle and the words Little Miss Sure Shot under her feet, then a smaller picture of Frank and those good teeth of his, and Jane with her bullwhip.

Jane lifted her hammer, but before she could nail the flyer to the post, a breath of wind came up and stole it from her hand. “Oh, rocks,” she said, and chased the paper down the street, almost catching it a few times before it stopped and fluttered against a pair of shiny black boots.

The owner of the boots bent and picked up the flyer. Jane squinted at her—a young woman wearing a white dress with lace at the throat and a pair of black spectacles. The sun made a halo out of her pale hair.

Jane still thought she was the prettiest thing she’d ever seen. “Thanks,” Jane murmured.

Winnie straightened and read the flyer out loud. “‘Come One, Come All, to the New and Improved Wild West Show!’ Oh my goodness,” she said, smiling impishly. “You’re Calamity Jane, now aren’t you?”

“That’s me,” Jane said, grinning right back at her. “And you are . . . ?”

Winnie held out her gloved hand, and Jane shook it.

“Katie Brown,” Winnie said, because Katie Brown was the new name she’d decided on for when she wanted to dress as a woman. She’d also chosen a different name for when she was a man, seeing as how she’d sold the name Edward Wheeler (and the notoriety that went with it) to Ned Buntline before the group left Deadwood. She wanted a completely fresh start, she’d said, and Jane couldn’t blame her. Winnie still wanted to be a spectacular writer, mind you, but she was done penning stories about Calamity Jane. So Edward Wheeler had become Edward Burke, and Edwina Harris—who had been known as the traveling companion of Mr. Wheeler—had become Katie Brown, although Jane would never be able to think of her as anything but Winnie.

Jane grabbed the flyer to read it herself. (Annie had been teaching Jane to read for the past several months, and Jane had finally learned her letters past G.) “‘Exhibitions of Peerless Sharpshooting by Annie Oakley. Trick Shots by Frank Butler, the Pistol Prince! Mar—marvel—’”

“Marvelous,” prompted Winnie.

Jane nodded. “‘Marvelous Feats with the Bullwhip, Performed by Calamity Jane! Hear Tales of the Terrific Three’s Thrilling Adventures in the Black Hills!’” She lowered the paper. “I still say that ‘the Magnificent Three’ has a better ring to it.” This had been her suggestion when the group was trying to come up with a new name. The others had said it most definitely did not have a ring, and Annie had thrown out something like “the Sharpshooting Trio,” which lacked sparkle, Jane argued, and Frank had come up with “the Terrific Three,” to which Annie had shaken her head and said, “Terrific? We’re not trying to scare them, are we?” (Reader, hey, it’s us, one last—or is it the last?—time. It turns out that terrific didn’t always mean “excellent.” Terrific was more on par with “terrible” and “terror.” Basically, it was a bad thing, hence Annie’s worry that “Terrific Three” would send customers running for the hills.)

But then Winnie had wisely chimed in with, “Language is a living thing, you know. It changes all the time. If we want terrific to mean something good, we just have to persuade everyone we ever meet.”

“That sounds like a tall order,” said Annie. “But I like a challenge.” So the group went with Terrific Three, and Winnie turned out to be right: people did accept their new meaning of the word.

Now Jane and Winnie walked back to the post, and Winnie held the flyer down while Jane nailed it on. “Are you nervous?” Winnie asked.

Jane pshawed her. “I’m never nervous about the show.”

“No, I mean, this is the last town before we head to Salt Lake City,” Winnie said. “You’re so close to home.”

“Haven’t you figured out by now that my home is with you all?” But Jane’s heart did start to beat faster at the mere mention of Salt Lake City and the notion that she’d finally get to see her brother and sisters again. “But yeah, I’m a little nervous, I guess. What if they’ve forgotten all about me?”

“Nobody could forget you, Jane Canary,” said Winnie, and took Jane’s arm, and together they strolled around the city posting up flyers, until it was time to head back to get ready for the show.

In the dressing room, Annie finished putting on her show dress. She’d sewn it herself—of course—and matched it with her favorite stockings (so she never accidentally showed leg). She liked to pin the medals she’d won in various shooting competitions in the past year to the bodice, even though Frank sometimes said she’d blind the audience with the shine of all of them. And to top it off, she put on her hat, the one with the star on the underside of the brim.

“You’re lovely,” Frank said as he walked in. “As always.”

Annie blushed and finished pinning her hat. “You look very dashing as well.”

Frank grinned. “That’s what your mother called me.”

“Can we not talk about my mother?” Annie asked with a groan, but it was mostly in jest.

As Annie had, ahem, demanded, after the events in Deadwood, the two of them had gone back to Ohio to meet Annie’s family. Annie had been pretty nervous, considering how she’d left things with her mama and everyone else. Mama had all but forbidden her to return if she didn’t return with a man, and here Annie was—returning with a fiancé.

“All my dreams have come true!” Mama cried. “You’ve got a man! And a handsome one!”

It would have been embarrassing if Annie wasn’t so happy that Frank had agreed to marry her.

Sarah Ellen, Huldy, and John had all loved Frank immediately, partly because he had a nice dog and their requirements for a good-for-Annie husband were pretty limited: must have a nice dog. Mama had been thrilled, of course, but Grandpap Shaw had gotten right to the interrogation.

“So, young man.” Grandpap Shaw stroked his beard. “Annie will be an assistant in your show?”

“No, sir.” Frank glanced around the doorstep where they’d been since Annie had knocked. (Yep, knocked on her own door. That’s how strained things were.) “Do you think we can come in now?”

Mama looked at Annie. “If you’re not the assistant, what do you do?”

“She probably manages the books,” said Grandpap Shaw.

“Annie is the talent,” said Frank. “The star of the show. The headliner. People love her.”

Grandpap Shaw’s mouth pulled down into a frown. “Show business is no business for a young lady like Annie.”

But Annie’s mama had different thoughts. She lowered her voice—although not so much that everyone three farms down didn’t hear the exchange—and asked, “Aren’t you worried about outshining him with your talent? You should probably miss a few shots if you want to keep him around.”

“Mama!” This was worse than Annie could have predicted.

“Why should I be jealous of Annie?” Frank had mused. “I knew I wanted to marry her the moment she beat me in a competition. If anyone’s an assistant, I should be hers.”

“Wait,” Mama had said. “Tell us how you met?”

“Only if you let us inside.”

And so Annie had finally been allowed back in her house, where she and Frank told the whole family about the competition, that first proposal, and all the things Annie had included in her first letter—the one they’d returned unopened.

Before Annie and Frank left a few days later, Mama had agreed to take some of the money Annie had earned. They’d be able to pay off the farm, and no one would go hungry without Annie there to shoot game for them. And when Annie and Frank presented the trinkets—paints, a pendant, and a small book for the children called Goodnight Garou—everyone had descended on the gifts like vultures.

That had been several months ago now, and Annie wrote to her family regularly. (And, even better, they wrote back to her. No more returned mail.) Postage was still terrifically expensive, but the show made them enough money now.

“Are you ready for your closeup, Miss Oakley?” Frank asked, holding the tent open.

“You know it.”

The show, as always, was an overwhelming success.

It began with Calamity Jane making a tin can walk across the main floor, striking it with her whip just so. The crowd loved it, cheering every time the can did a spin before flipping over. Little did they know, the real show had hardly begun. Because after she walked the can across the floor, Jane shifted into her wolf form and performed the same trick.

The first few times she’d done this, people had screamed and there’d almost been a stampede out of the theater, but when Agnes Thatcher Lake—the show’s ringmaster—called for order (and everyone obeyed because no one dared disobey Agnes), the audience took their seats again and watched wolf-Jane whip the can back across the floor, the same as she’d done as a human.

After that first show, when the audience had realized they weren’t about to get eaten up by a garou, ticket sales went through the proverbial roof.

Once wolf-Jane left the stage—to wild applause, we should add—Annie and Frank took their places. Annie with her gun. Frank with the targets.

This is what really happened, and to be perfectly honest, it kind of freaks out your narrators here. But Frank’s job was to hold cards in his hands and Annie would shoot out the hearts. He’d also toss dimes into the air—which Annie would shoot—and every so often he’d balance glass balls on top of his head . . . and, you guessed it, Annie would shoot them, too. It all seems extremely dangerous to us, but the crowds loved it. (Although Annie never had silver bullets in her gun, so it wasn’t quite as dangerous for Frank. . . .) They cheered and called out for more, so at that point, Annie got up on Charlie’s horse and stood on his back like she had during the stagecoach chase. Instead of axles, this time she shot more glass balls, apples, and anything else the audience tossed up into the air.

When she was finished, Frank offered a hand and helped her down off Charlie’s horse (not that she needed help; it was all part of the show). Then, he gave her a quick kiss—and like every time, Annie’s foot popped back—and the audience cheered and whooped.

“How do you do it, Annie?” yelled a reporter from the front row. “How’d you get so successful so quick?”

“Aim at the high mark and you will hit it,” Annie replied. “No, not the first time, not the second time, and maybe not the third. But keep on aiming and keep on shooting, for only practice will make you perfect. Finally you’ll hit the bull’s-eye of success.”

He hurried to write that down.

At the end of the show, Annie, Frank, and Jane (who was human once again) stood in the middle of the floor and took one another’s hands. Agnes encouraged more and more cheering as everyone in the audience stood, clapping and clapping.

When the audience was gone, the stagehand helped disassemble the set, and by stagehand, we mean Wild Bill, who was now calling himself Ted.

“A fine show, my dear,” he said as Agnes approached him. “How did we do?”

“Charlie has the final numbers,” she said, “but we sold out here, and we’ve sold out all our shows for the next three months.”

Frank and Jane whooped.

“In fact,” Agnes went on, “a few cities have been building stadiums so we can get even larger crowds.”

“Amazing.” Annie could hardly comprehend all of this. It was just such a huge thing for a farm girl from Darke County, Ohio.

“Annie?” Charlie approached with an elderly man in tow. “You have a visitor. He says you’ve met before.”

The man in question was tall and quite hairy, and a good decade older than the last time Annie had seen him, but she knew him immediately. He was the gentleman from the train, the one who’d listened to her story and given her sweets and bought her ticket home.

“Mr. Oakley!” Annie cried. “How did you find me?”

“Well, you’ve been using my name. But I’m glad to see you again. You’ve done well for yourself.” He motioned around the show floor. “And after what happened to you, I never thought I’d see you working so closely with garou.”

Annie blushed. “It wasn’t easy, but some very smart friends helped me understand that I can’t judge all garou based on that one experience, even if it was really bad.”

“I’m proud of you, Miss Annie. You’re doing good work.”

Annie and Mr. Oakley talked for a while longer, as the set went into trunks around them, and finally it was time to say goodbye. “I’ll write to you,” she promised, and only as they parted did Annie catch the way his eyes reflected the light.

The stagecoaches packed and sent off ahead of them, there was only one thing left to do: mount up and ride, seven horses for seven heroes: Frank and Annie in the lead, Jane and Winnie riding close together, Bill/Ted and Agnes, and Charlie bringing up the rear. Jane’s heartbeat quickened again at the thought that in a short few weeks, they’d reach Salt Lake City and she would come full circle. But this time she had a bunch of money saved up, more and more with every show, and could afford to buy her siblings some shoes. Someday soon, she thought, she’d have enough to quit show business for good, as it had never really given her the thrill it gave to Frank and Annie, and settle down somewhere. Montana Territory, maybe, as she’d heard it was beautiful up that way.

But first, she had a show to do in Salt Lake City.

“Let’s go,” she said.

And with that, the Magnificent Seven (we had to point that out) rode off into the sunset, not because it was a cliché of Westerns, but because it was late afternoon, and they were heading west.

“Well, drat. It sure is bright,” Annie observed.

“My eyes are burning,” cried Jane. “Gah!”

Frank put a hand to his forehead and squinted. “It really is the worst spot, where it’s not blocked by our hat brims, but it’s not low enough for the mountains on the horizon.”

Bill/Ted groaned. “You’d think I raised a bunch of daisies,” he said.

“I have to pee,” said Jane.

“I told you to go before we left,” said Charlie.

“I did!”

And so it went on for hours. Every ride was like that.

But none of them could have imagined a happier ending.