Louisa Cody fingered the .22 pistol in her reticule. Before the show she had ample time to lose herself in the past. How ironic that Bill Cody himself had taught her to shoot—purely for self-protection, of course. There never had been the slightest suggestion that she might come on the road with him. Perhaps if he had ever wanted her to come along . . . to be with him . . .
At eight fifteen in the evening the biggest show on earth unleashed excitement on Sedalia. From their little iron room atop the center of the grandstand, Heerman and Bailey focused their spotlights on the ends of the arena. A square hole opened in the middle of an immense canvas mural painted with waterfalls, pine trees, and craggy snowcapped mountains. Through it, Buffalo Bill’s buckskin-clad arm emerged waving his white sombrero. When his flowing white locks appeared, the stands went wild with cheering.
The twenty-seven musicians of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Cowboy Band stood in their wide-brimmed hats, chaps, boots, and steel-studded gun holsters to play Handel’s “See, the Conquering Hero Comes.”
When the band played a cornet fanfare to heighten the drama, Bailey scrolled his spotlight to the other end of the arena. Canvas flaps parted for the Grand Parade of the Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders of the World.
A uniformed color guard of veterans from the Spanish-American War marched into the arena. Dignified Indians followed on foot. Behind them Vincente Orapeza led vaqueros twirling riatas or leaping in and out of loops of rope.
The bandmaster, William Sweeney, launched his men into “The Star-Spangled Banner” as the canvas parted a second time. Buffalo Bill rode his snowy white horse, Isham, at an easy gallop to make a star’s entrance.
William F. Cody lived up to his publicity posters in every way. Resplendent in cream-colored buckskin with fringed seams, he pulled his jacket open to better display his crimson shirt. He looked every inch the bold hunter and gallant sportsman of the plains.
He stopped in the center of the grandstand directly in front of the governor’s box. Sombrero held high, he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to introduce to you the Rough Riders of the World.”
Ladies came first—a bevy of beautiful equestriennes—frontier girls waving to the crowd. South American gauchos twirled bolas overhead; Cossacks in fur hats carried whips in their teeth; Arabs in striped robes rode high-stepping horses with elegantly shaped heads. Syrian horsemen in black turbans sat erect on exotic saddles of red leather. Mexican vaqueros in sheepskin chaps and Texas cowboys in tooled leather whistled at imaginary cattle. Indians in full eagle-feather head-dresses whooped war cries as they perched on blankets atop paint ponies.
Then came Cody’s tribute to the Spanish-American War. With cannoneers hanging on like possums on a tree, six horses raced two cannon down the field at full gallop. At the far end of the arena cannoneers fired a deafening salvo. Gun smoke from the color guard joined cannon fumes. Together they puffed yellow clouds overhead to fill nose and mouth with acrid sulfur. A brown haze watered eyes as it settled over spectators and performers alike.
As Buffalo Bill led the Rough Riders in a thrilling lap of the arena with blanks blazing from more than one hundred guns, an Indian slumped over his horse. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Indians always rode proud and upright even when they had consumed excessive amounts of stump liquor.
Cody motioned to Johnny Baker to get the man off the field. The colonel distracted the crowd by waving his hat and circling the arena in another lap. He stopped to pose for photographers and shake hands with patrons sitting in the front row.
When the grand parade cleared the field, the colonel returned to the front of the governor’s box. He announced through a brass megaphone, “I am proud to present—” He paused to heighten the import of his words. “Miss Annie Oakley, adopted daughter of the legendary Sitting Bull. The chief called her Mochin Chilla Wytonys Cecilia, which means ‘little sure shot.’ She will amaze and delight you with her dexterity in the use of firearms. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Annie Oakley.”
With thunderous gunfire and more sulfurous smoke, the Butlers performed their show. As soon as they left the arena, Annie lay down in her tent to soothe her gunsmoke-irritated eyes with a cold compress.
Frank entered the cook tent on his usual mission of taking a cold drink to Annie. Not until he had picked up a tin dipper to ladle lemonade from the crock did he see a knot of show people standing around a trestle table.
He walked to the group and saw Marm Whittaker cradling the head of a man wrapped in a soldier’s gray wool blanket. She pressed a tin dipper to his lips and urged him to drink a sip of lemonade.
Frank shook his head. “Dead drunk is he? The colonel won’t like that. Cody’s the only one allowed to—”
Johnny Baker turned a scowl in his direction. “Not dead drunk, but pretty close to dead.”
Alarms went off inside Frank’s head. “But how?” He dropped in a squat to open the blanket.
Johnny pointed to a trickle of blood from the man’s chest. “Small caliber, probably a twenty-two. Most likely hit a rib.”
“How come he’s still here? The man needs a hospital.”
Johnny scowled. “Doctor’s on his way.”
“I sent for the staff Pinkertons, too. They should be here soon.”
The muscles in Frank’s belly tightened. He realized evil had come to the Wild West. He looked up at Johnny. “Did you see anything?”
Johnny shook his head. “The colonel pointed to him and motioned for me to get him out of the arena. We ’bout had to pry him off his horse.”
Marm Whittaker mopped dribble from the wounded man’s chin. “Aren’t they amazing? Indians, I mean. Staying on a horse bareback no matter what happens. I guess they’re trained from little kids to wrap their legs around a horse so tight they won’t fall off—not in sleep or even when they’ve been shot.”
Frank stood to face Johnny and took his arm to draw him away from the injured man. “Do you know where he rides in the parade?”
“Right behind the colonel.”
Frank fought to master the dread churning in his chest. “Right behind the colonel means he was right in front of Annie.”
“What exactly do you mean?”
Frank drew his lips taut with self-control. “The shooter was aiming at Annie.”
A puzzled expression flashed across Johnny’s face. “Why do you think the shot was meant for Annie? Why not the colonel, or even Little Elk himself? I mean, he is the one bleeding from a bullet.”
Frank confessed his fear in a husky whisper. “This week, someone tried to shoot Annie.”
“This is the first I heard of it.”
Telling Johnny eased Frank’s panic enough for his words to tumble out. “Someone shot at her yesterday. Hit the horse. Bullet lodged just under the skin.”
Johnny’s baby face reddened. He spoke loud enough to turn heads their way. “And you didn’t tell anybody?”
Frank pulled Johnny closer as he made a feeble attempt to explain. “The animal doctor didn’t remove the bullet until late this afternoon. Before then I wasn’t sure. Didn’t see the point—”
“No doubt your failure to see the point will be a great comfort to Little-Stepped-on-by-an-Elk’s wife and three children.”
Johnny’s sarcasm burst the dam of Frank’s pain. “Don’t get nasty with me. No one wants—needs—to find out who did this as much as I do.”
Johnny flinched as if Butler’s words had been body blows.
Frank’s mind began to function. I must take charge of myself. I must have self-discipline if I’m to protect Annie. Stay calm and rational. “I went to see Lillian Smith today. She denied being here last night, but she might have lied.”
“You think Lillian Smith shot Little Elk by mistake? Do you think she would shoot at Annie?”
Frank raised his eyebrows. “Could be.”
Johnny shook his head. “Lillian is incapable of shooting a person by mistake. I never knew her to aim at anything the size of a person and fail to hit it. She still makes a living shooting, doesn’t she?”
“She’s on the stage. Her show is pure vaudeville—boxes of nothing but blanks in her dressing room.”
Johnny clicked his tongue. “I still don’t think the bullets were necessarily meant for Annie, but tell me what I can do to help.”
Frank scowled in exasperation. “It’s plain as day—plainer even. The bullets were meant for Annie.”
“I have reason to think otherwise.”
When Johnny paused, Frank exploded in anger. “Now who’s the one keeping secrets?”
“I didn’t tell you because it has nothing to do with you or Annie.” He paused again.
Frank drew back a fist as if he were about to throw a punch. Johnny held up both hands as he took a step back. “In August, the Sunday after we played Hannibal, the colonel and I took Mrs. Cody sightseeing to Tom Sawyer’s Cave. You know, the one in Mark Twain’s book.
“The guide and the colonel went off somewhere. While they were gone, a bullet grazed Lulu’s arm. It wasn’t too bad, just enough to hurt like the dickens and to scar. Happened more than a month ago. I all but forgot it. Nothing bad has happened since—leastways nothing I knew about until now.”
“So just what are you saying?”
“Most likely the colonel is the target.”
Frank snorted. “Then the shooter is plum stupid. Anyone who knows the colonel would know he’d not shed many tears over Lulu’s final goodbye.”
Johnny’s eyes blazed. “I was standing right next to her. Maybe he was shooting at me and missed. Did you think of that?”
Frank put a hand to Johnny’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Maybe the target is the colonel, or the show. Maybe someone is out to close the show.”
“You’re not making a lick of sense.”
Frank bit his tongue to keep from saying something he’d regret.
Johnny patted Frank on the shoulder, “Don’t get your hat caught in your boot. We’ll scope it all out.”
Frank turned in a circle as he scanned the grounds. “Why aren’t the Pinkertons here yet? Maybe they’ve gone to get the Kansas City police.”
Johnny rubbed his forehead. “At least I won’t have to face Little Elk’s wife. I don’t envy the colonel that job.”
Frank massaged his chin thoughtfully. “You were near Little Elk. Where did the bullet come from? Could you find the bullet casing?”
“I could try, I guess. Look in the stands. Tomorrow when it’s light out. What can we do now? I mean once tonight’s show is over? Can’t see much in the dark.”
Frank took a furtive look behind him before he pulled Johnny farther away from the murmurs of the crowd around Little Elk. “Doesn’t look like anyone aimed to do him in. Twenty-two has to be at close range to kill. Inside a person’s skull a .twenty-two ricochets around and does more damage than a through-and-through forty-five. But Little Elk took the bullet in his chest.”
Johnny jerked his head up with a sour expression on his face. “I guess you’re saying if anyone was trying to kill him, the shooter had lousy aim.”
“Annie rides close to Little Elk—and on a smaller horse.”
“If I’m hearing you right, you’re thinking one of us in the show did it.”
“No. I don’t mean that. I don’t know what to think, except we have to find the shooter before someone else gets hit.” Frank picked at the headband inside his hat.
“Where you think we ought to start?”
“Poke around to see if anyone has live twenty-two ammunition who shouldn’t.”
Johnny nodded and spoke soothing words. “Maybe no one is after Annie. Maybe the shooter really was after Little Elk. You and I both know that nutty Indian told anybody who would listen he was with Crazy Horse at the Little Big Horn. Only a fool would believe him. He was too young to have been in a battle twenty-odd years ago. He’s genuine Oglala Sioux, though. That part’s true enough.
“Don’t let anyone know I said this, because it’s wrong to speak ill of a wounded man.” Johnny put a reassuring hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Think about it, though. The way he goes around bragging about the Indians scalping Custer. He talks high and mighty even when he’s cold-stone sober. Lots of folks don’t like such brass, especially from a red man.”
“Not many would put a bullet in a fellow’s chest just because they don’t like a man’s politics—not unless the man is the president, anyhow.”
“Someone famous is an easy target. That may be reason enough.” Johnny sighed. “I know how you feel. I’m just saying let’s not go off half-cocked. Don’t accuse Lillian Smith or anyone else without good reason.”
Frank turned to leave but wheeled back, “At the end of the show, be around front. Try to spot Lillian.” He added, “Or anyone else who might want something bad to happen to Annie, or Little Elk, or whomsoever.”
Johnny called after him, “Pawnee Bill is here; Mae, too—come to see their main rivals, I’d say. The colonel gave the Lillies passes. I saw them in the governor’s box.”
“Pretty hard to hide a shot from the governor’s box.” Frank doubted his own words the minute they escaped from his mouth. Galloping horses, shouting performers, noise, and smoke fill the field even when the audience is dead silent. A .22 pistol held between a couple might escape all notice. Little Elk was on the opposite side of the arena when he slumped over. Even famous sharpshooters might miss the mark from thirty yards away.
Even if Pawnee Bill and Mae would resort to murder to sabotage the Wild West, they couldn’t hope to succeed by killing Little Elk. Only through the loss of a star like Annie or the colonel himself could they hope to destroy the show.
Frank felt a pang of guilt for suspecting such nice people as Bill and Mae. The Lillies were successful enough and sensible people to boot. Pawnee Bill would never commit murder and risk hanging. Would he?