The powwow broke up as reporters drifted off to write their stories. A man in a straw boater hat with a plaid hatband winked at Jemmy. He joked, “I’ll bet a silver dollar, Wild Bill is on the bandwagon—that would be on the wagon with the Jack Daniels Silver Cornet Band.” When Dorothea sent a scathing glare in his direction, the tops of his ears turned red and he ceased laughing. He tipped his hat as he made a wide berth around the ladies.
Jemmy wondered whether the jokester would have received a dagger-look if Dorothea had been bold enough to aim it at Jemmy. She picked at a grass stain on her skirt as she apologized to her companion. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am to upset you with my careless actions. I thought I saw the robber from the train. I ran after him to ask about Hal. Once again I was wrong.”
Dorothea answered with a sad small burp. “I suppose my digestion will have to become accustomed to your proclivities.”
Jemmy’s own stomach sank as she realized she had joined the rest of the uncaring mob who populated Dorothea’s world. The poor woman had to accustom herself to the proclivities and peculiarities of four unruly children and one uninterested husband. Would Dorothea ever be daring enough to claim an eccentricity or two of her own?
Shame reddened Jemmy’s cheeks. “What can I say, except to apologize again? I have no right to disorder your digestion. Auntie Dee says the only thing better for a person’s health than goodly digestion is a goodly sum in Boatmen’s Bank.”
Dorothea offered a half-smile at the feeble jest, then changed the subject. “I inquired of Mr. Baker where we might find Miss Oakley. He said Mrs. Butler might be in the cook tent.”
“You embarrass me with your sweetness.” Jemmy brushed away a rueful tear. “You return my bad behavior with new favors.”
Dorothea patted her shoulder. “Don’t give it a thought. Friends are happy to do what they can for one another.”
Jemmy sniffed, then blew her nose. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.” The pair walked arm in arm to the huge cook tent.
The bedlam inside as the staff pulled red tablecloths off blue tables took Jemmy by surprise. Mother hen and woman-in-chief Marm Whittaker bustled about serving up advice to new workers and sharp words to laggards as she urged all to greater speed and efficiency.
Jemmy chuckled when her attention fell on the fat rump of a fellow scouring one of four gigantic kettles. His torso completely disappeared as his tan-trousered behind gyrated and jiggled like the backside of dock-tailed English bulldog dancing a polka.
Dorothea waved a hand toward the kitchen end of the tent. “Would you look at the size of the gas stove. A half-dozen horse troughs would take less space. I’ve never seen anything remotely like it. Sixty men work in this tent alone. You can write that down. Mr. Baker gave the number when you were gone.”
She ticked off other gems about Cody’s vast organization. “The Wild West has its own barber, laundry, costume tent, blacksmiths, ticket sellers, ten publicity men—even glassblowers to make target balls for the sharpshooters.”
The pair arrived too late to see Annie Oakley presiding over lunch with orphans. An Asian scullery boy throwing out dishwater pointed them toward a row of smaller tents. “Easy find Missy Butter. Have frowers in front.”
At Annie’s tent, Jemmy admired a gleaming bicycle and yellow primroses in a terra cotta pot. The brass plate on the front center pole announced to all this was the star’s personal tent. The flaps had been pulled back to reveal the comforts of home—Axminster carpets, trunks and pictures everywhere, cougar skin rug, couch with satin pillows, and too many guns to count.
Annie Oakley sat in a rocking chair threading a big needle with black yarn.
Jemmy knocked on the center post. “Miss Oakley, I hate to bother you. I’m Jemima McBustle, a reporter for the St. Louis Illuminator.”
She waved an arm in Dorothea’s direction. “This is my friend, Mrs. Obadiah Koock, from Sedalia. I’m hoping you can spare a few minutes for an interview.”
Annie laid her darning apple in her lap. “Please, do come in. Bring your sewing if you have it with you. I’ve never found anything to compare with needlework for giving me peace of mind.”
She motioned toward the couch for the pair to seat themselves. “I’m always glad for a bit of female companionship. Ladies are much outnumbered in the Wild West.”
Jemmy opened her notebook. “It’s most kind of you to speak with me.”
“I’m glad to do what I can for the ladies of the press, few as they are. I will tell you though, you really should make an appointment beforehand. Arrange a time with the show’s publicity man. Didn’t your editor explain proper protocol?”
Jemmy ducked her head in embarrassment. “My editor wouldn’t tell me if my hat was on fire.”
Annie shook her head. “How sad so few men appreciate the abilities of the ladies in their employ. I am fortunate to work for a man who not only knows my worth, but rewards all ladies of the Wild West in proportion to their value to the show. The colonel believes in giving women equal pay for equal work.”
Annie put down her thimble and rose from her rocking chair. She removed the napkin covering a pitcher of lemonade on an ornate table inlaid with ivory. She poured three tumblers and handed two of them to her guests. “The colonel is generous in many ways. He keeps lemonade on hand around the clock. Free to all who work here. In the heat of summer, I live on practically nothing else.”
She took a sip. “Now then, miss . . .”
“Jemima McBustle. My friends call me Jemmy.” Jemmy’s intuition to drop her “Ann O’Nimity” moniker turned out wiser than she could have imagined.
Annie beamed. “Jimmy? How delightful. I often call my husband ‘Jimmy.’ Of course, his name is Frank. But once when I was sick, he performed the silliest antics to make me forget my ailments. Since then, I’ve called him ‘Jimmy the squirrel’ when he’s clever.”
Her face clouded with sudden alarm. “You’re not going to print that, are you? It might be taken as undignified.”
“I won’t print it if you wish me not to.”
“Well, then, my second Jimmy, ask your questions.”
“How did you come to join the Wild West?”
“My husband and I had been on shooting challenge tours and worked for a time at Four-Paw and Sells Brothers Circus—which we quit because they took little notice of safety.
“This show’s manager, Nate Salisbury, saw us in Louisville and hired us on the spot. The show needed a replacement for Captain Bogardus in—let me think—eighteen eighty-five. We’ve been with the Wild West ever since, except for a brief period while the colonel took leave of his senses. When he regained them and proved he preferred me above Lillian Smith and all others who wished to take my place, we returned.”
Jemmy tapped her pencil on her tablet. “I’m hoping for something a bit different from the usual. I know about your struggle to help your family after your father died. You paid the mortgage on your mother’s house with money you made shooting game for restaurants. How old were you then?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen. So young for so much hardship and tragedy. Two of your sisters died from tuberculosis. How sad.”
Annie opened her locket and leaned forward so Jemmy could see tiny braids of dark hair. “I wear this to remember them.” She turned the locket in Dorothea’s direction. “And, yes, I donate to sanatoriums in hopes one day we’ll find a cure for consumption.”
“I hear you even melt down your shooting medals for charity.”
“A fine use for the medals. I hope you don’t think me immodest when I tell you I have so many I can’t imagine where to put them all. I can’t abide to see anything or anyone lying idle which may be put to better use.”
Annie gave Jemmy a nod of approval. “I see you’re not idle. Clearly, you’ve done your homework.”
Jemmy grinned at the compliment. It gave her courage to press Annie to reveal her inner thoughts. “You’re well known for your generosity. And your belief shepherding one’s possessions is essential to living a good life.”
Annie sat straight and edged forward in her chair. “I trust you do not mean to call me a cheapskate, Miss McBustle.”
Jemmy’s head bounced back in surprise. She had not expected to upset Annie. She rushed to explain. “No, no indeed. I can scarcely express how much I admire your integrity as well as your talent. Please believe I have nothing but the deepest respect for both.”
Annie sat back in her chair, apparently satisfied with the answer.
Jemmy tried to pick up where she had left off. “I know the famous stories—shooting a cigarette out of Kaiser Wilhelm’s mouth. I hoped for something uncommon.”
Annie pursed her lips in thought. “Perhaps this is the kind of story you want. A bank clerk refused to cash a money order for me. He bragged about how often he had seen Annie Oakley shoot. Hot air—nothing but hot air.”
She rocked her shoulders in imitation of the clerk’s swagger. “ ‘Annie Oakley, Little Miss Sure Shot, is much smaller than you. Why, you’re a great ox in comparison.’ I told him I could prove I’m Annie Oakley. I fetched a pistol from my carpetbag and said, ‘Hold the envelope up and I’ll put a bullet through the stamp.’ He cashed the order without troubling himself to find out whether I could really shoot a hole through the stamp.”
Dorothea tittered behind her hanky. “A delightful story.”
Annie rewarded both guests with a dazzling smile.
Jemmy took a deep breath. Now the ice had been broken, she felt bold enough to ask for more. “Mrs. Butler, I wonder whether you have suggestions for other ladies who would like to follow in your footsteps to become markswomen. Or indeed, have you advice for any and all women who aspire to succeed in a man’s world?”
“I’m not political, Miss McBustle. I do not campaign for woman suffrage. I fear for this country should bad women and bloomer-wearers be given the vote, but I applaud any woman who is a true professional.
“I also believe all people—including women—should be proficient in firearms. Every school should have a shooting range and should teach safe use.
“I know many condemn shooting as unladylike. I defy anyone to find my actions less than ladylike at any time. Why, when I shoot standing on my head, I tie my skirts to my legs so as not to be immodest.”
Silence fell as Jemmy bent over her notes. Annie sipped her lemonade, then stood and made a surprising offer. “I give shooting lessons to ladies whenever the opportunity arises. I am working on a booklet. I hope to publish it next year. I mean to give it out free, though I think I shall need to charge for postage. I’d be happy to give the pair of you a few pointers, if you would like.”
“Would you, Mrs. Butler? We’d be most grateful. You know, Dorothea, Mrs. Koock is quite a good shot already. I’m afraid I am less than a novice.”
“Well, Miss Jimmy, novice at firearms, come with me.” Annie picked up a box of cartridges and three small-bore rifles as the trio walked to the front of the tent.
Dorothea’s voice was hushed. “I’ve never seen so many shooting pieces. They must have cost a fortune.”
Annie crinkled her nose. “People, even strangers, give them to me. I refuse a great many, but still . . .” She waved at the display in the tent. “These are only a few. You should see my arsenal at home.”
Dorothea’s eyes sparkled with admiration.
Annie demonstrated the safe way to load and carry a rifle, then told her students what not to do.
“Here are the rules I plan to list in the book. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell me if you find them easy to understand and to the point.
“The first rule is ‘Do not shoot until you know your target beyond any possibility of doubt.’You must wait until your mind clears. Confusion always comes in the seconds right after you sight a moving object. You must master your breathing and calm your heartbeat.” She raised her brows as if to ask whether the pair understood. Both nodded to show they did.
“My second rule is, ‘Don’t shoot at a noise.’ The third is ‘Don’t shoot at a moving bush.’ The last is ‘Don’t—under any circumstances—allow your gun muzzle to point for one moment at any living thing you do not mean to kill.’ ”
She waited for the rules to register. “I know all four are no more than different words for saying the same thing. A person holding a gun must be absolutely sure not to mistake a horse or, heaven forbid, a child . . .” Her words trailed off, but the meaning was clear.
Jemmy agreed wholeheartedly. “I believe you’re entirely correct in repeating an important message until it sinks into the hardest head.”
“I am considering adding one more rule, ‘Don’t shoot at small game such as rabbits, grouse, or squirrel with big ammunition.’ I’ve seen so-called hunters blast little creatures into pieces only buzzards could find. What a waste.”
Dorothea added, “Yes, do include it. Even small shot can make game hazardous to eat. More than once biting down on bits of lead has caused Mr. Koock great pain in his molars.”
Not until then did Annie tell them what to do. She taught them how to stand and how to seek inner calm. She demonstrated a wide stance with her right foot in front and leaned forward. “Mind, nerve, and will must all be in harmony. Don’t look at your gun. Think of it as the point of your finger.” She raised Jemmy’s arm so she could sight down her knuckles.
“The secret of the true marksman or markswoman is to see with the rifle, not just through the sights—to see with the rifle itself. With both eyes open, I look straight at the object. The moment the butt of the gun touches my shoulder, I fire. If I hesitate for an instant, I miss. I’ve learned I must take it for granted I am going to hit. I fire away before I have time to doubt, to think I might fail.”
Annie pointed to an elm tree twenty yards away. She put the .22 to her shoulder and squeezed the trigger. A twig fluttered down with a few leaves attached.
Dorothea hugged her .22 between head and chest so she could applaud.
Jimmy’s mouth fell open in awe. “Is that how you prune trees at your house?”
When both Dorothea and Annie laughed, Jemmy’s thoughts bubbled out in a disconnected rush. “You make it look so easy. It isn’t. I know it isn’t. How do you do it? When I was aiming at crows, I nearly hit the dog.”
Annie grew serious. “While shooting I scarce realize I have a gun in my hands. But getting to the place where a marksperson becomes one with a firearm takes practice. No one should expect to succeed at shooting or anything else without being willing to devote the long hours it takes to achieve perfection.”
She faced her pupils. “Of course, I am used to hard work. I lift a thousand pounds every day. I put a seven-pound shotgun to my shoulder a hundred and fifty times daily. You can see why I never have trouble falling asleep at night.”
She pulled back Jemmy’s shoulders and widened her stance. “Your turn to prune the elm tree. On the right side—as near to mine as you can.”
Jemmy tried to remember all the steps. Stance, posture, inner calm, both eyes open, fire the minute the gun butt hits the shoulder. The crack split the air but nothing else. “What happened?”
Dorothea giggled. “You came close to shooting the tail off a squirrel on the ground.”
Annie pushed the gun butt into Jemmy’s shoulder and held it. “Keep the gun tip level with your eye.”
Jemmy tried again. No leaves tumbled to the ground.
“I fear you lack strength, Jimmy. You must practice lifting and holding the piece steady. I hope you won’t think me overproud if I tell you this. At Dresden, German officers tried to play a trick on me. They asked me to test the sights on a gun made from solid iron. It was heavy, but I raised it to firing position. The officers stomped and clapped, then told me the gun weighed thirty-five pounds. When you can lift a third of your body weight to your shoulder, Jimmy, you will find shooting much easier.”
Jemmy tried a few more shots without showing a single whit of improvement. As her feeble muscles stiffened, she gladly exchanged places with Dorothea and traded the .22 for her notebook.
With every shot Dorothea clipped twigs from the elm. Annie nodded in approval as she pointed to a pin oak ten yards past the elm. Dorothea clipped off more twigs. Annie smiled as she pointed to a willow tree still farther away. Jemmy couldn’t see anything fall, but something must have.
Annie placed a hand on Dorothea’s shoulder. “If you’re as good with moving targets as you are with stationary ones, I may have a new rival.”
Jemmy jumped in, “Can she hit moving targets? You should see her whack crows.”
Dorothea lowered her head in modesty. “Good eyesight has given me whatever ability I have in shooting. But I would never have the confidence to enter a competition or face an audience.”
Dorothea raised her eyes to meet Annie’s. Something beyond Jemmy’s understanding passed between the two women.
Annie turned to her less-apt pupil. “Jimmy, aim at a high mark and you’ll hit it. Not the first time, nor the second time—maybe not the third. But keep on aiming and keep on shooting. Only practice will make you perfect. Finally, you’ll hit the bull’s eye.”
“What a splendid quotation, Mrs. Butler.” Jemmy wrote so fast her pencil lead broke. Dorothea was quick to lend her own gilded silver mechanical pencil. “I’m sure my readers want to know which firearms and ammunition you use.”
“Nitro powders for ammunition—perfectly safe if properly used. As for firearms—none but the best—made by the J. B. Stevens Arms and Tool Company of Chicopee Falls, Massachusetts, my sponsor.”
She leaned forward to murmur an aside. “I am expected to mention them whenever I speak to the press.”
In a louder voice, she proclaimed, “I not only endorse them fully, I believe nobody with sense would risk life and limb standing behind a cheap gun. Never trust a gun costing less than a hundred dollars.”
Annie peered over Jemmy’s shoulder. “ ‘Chicopee’ is spelled with a ‘c,’ not a ‘k.’ ”
At that instant, a rifle crack split the air. A sharp ping from the brass plate on the center post sent Annie and Dorothea ducking down as they scurried inside the tent. Jemmy had no idea what was going on until Annie hollered. “Fall to the earth. Jemmy, you’re making yourself a big target. Fall to the earth.”
The enormity of what happened hit Jemmy. That must have been a shot—a shot fired at us. Nothing else would send Annie and Dorothea diving for cover. Stark terror froze her limbs as she lay prone on the ground. She needed all her will to keep from whimpering while she shivered in front of the tent.
Annie and Dorothea crawled onto the rug behind the center post. They lay flat to peer out the front. In seconds Jemmy’s body shifted from shivers to sweat. Fear-heated blood charged through her muscles and let her move again. She managed to crawl inside the tent. Hidden behind canvas, she stopped to think.
From her jangled emotions, she seized on one—loneliness. She cowered alone against one side of the tent. Fifteen feet of spongy grass separated her from Annie and Dorothea. A frenzy of self-pity drove her forward. She hit on the idea of hiding behind the tent flap and pulling it along with her. Canvas in hand, she began snailing on knees and elbows toward the pair behind the center pole.
All of a sudden, both Annie and Dorothea rose up on their knees as if they believed the danger had passed. Annie pulled a pair of field glasses from a nail on the center post. She used the binoculars to scan the trees leading off toward a watering pond.
Presently she stood and turned around to answer unspoken questions. “Someone ran off toward the tracks. I couldn’t see anything but the backside of someone wearing trousers.”
Dorothea pulled Annie down to a kneeling position. “Do you think more than one might be out there?”
Annie scanned the area then handed the field glasses to Dorothea.
Annie took the brass nameplate from its nail then searched the ground in front of the tent until she found the spent bullet. She studied the name plate and handed it to Jemmy. Above the “i” in “Annie Oakley” was a neat round indentation—a second dotting of the “i.” Jemmy felt the dent with her thumb.
Dorothea stayed behind the center pole while she asked Annie, “What does the dent mean?”
“The person who fired was either a very good shot or a very bad one. Very good if he meant to dot the ‘i’—very bad if he meant to hit me.”
Jemmy was dumbfounded. “I can’t believe anyone would try to shoot you, Mrs. Butler.”
Annie said gently, “You’re a novice in more ways than one.”
A breathless Frank Butler ran up to the trio. He pulled shut the open flap as he breezed into the tent and took off his hat. “Excuse me, ladies. I hate to be rude, but I must speak to my wife now. I’m sure you understand. If you’d be so kind?” He held the flap open to let them leave.
Dorothea brushed a blade of grass from her skirt as she hustled Jemmy from the tent. “Of course, Mr. Butler. We quite comprehend.”
Jemmy stood near the opening, just far enough away from the gap to avoid being seen. Dorothea hissed. “Jemmy, what are you doing? You mustn’t eavesdrop.”
Jemmy motioned Dorothea to be quiet as she trained her good ear on the conversation. Dorothea tried again. “Jemmy, I can’t believe you’re doing something so rude. Come away from there.”
Dorothea tried pulling Jemmy away. “What would Aunt Tilly say?”
Jemmy pried her friend’s fingers off her wrist. “And what if the shooter comes back? Why don’t you keep a lookout?”
When Dorothea reached forth once more to grab the same wrist, Jemmy batted the hand back. Defeated, Dorothea walked off a dozen yards. Standing with arms akimbo, she tapped her foot.
Jemmy listened harder to the male voice inside. It rose and fell in volume as if he were pacing the tent. “. . . to shoot at you just now? And with those two women here.”
Annie murmured in a voice so low Jemmy could barely hear. “I don’t know what to make of it. Little Elk near death. Tiffin wounded, and now a shot fired at my own tent.”
“There’s more. After all I went through to get the colonel to hire extra Pinkertons—after he promised me—he didn’t hire anyone. Not a single one.”
“How did you find out?”
“Not by his telling me, that’s for sure. He wouldn’t answer my telegram. I finally wired Pinkertons in Kansas City direct. None extra hired. Blast it all!” His voice dropped from angry and ranting to sad and solicitous. “But I’m running off at the mouth when I should be seeing if you’re all right.”
“I was never in danger because he didn’t mean to hit me. He or she—it could have been a woman in men’s clothes.”
“So you still suspect Lillian Smith?”
“I do. Even a mediocre shot would be able to hit something as large as a person. I make a much easier target than this piece of brass. It would take someone like Lillian to put a second dot over the ‘i’ on my nameplate.”
“And maybe he or she was aiming at you and is a bad shot.” He adopted a commanding tone. “Either way, I won’t chance it. You’re not going on tonight.”
“Mr. Butler, you can’t be suggesting we cut the main attractions from the show. The colonel isn’t here. If I don’t perform, people will demand their money back.”
“I can’t help it. I will not have you risking your life to put money in the colonel’s pocket.”
“The show puts money in our pockets, too. And the pockets of a thousand other people as well. If I don’t perform and the show’s reputation is damaged—if people stop coming because we’re unreliable—how could we ever look our friends in the eye?”
Frank sputtered, “What do I have to do to keep you here? Tie you up?”
“I’m going on. How many days have I ever failed to perform?”
Petulance gave the lie to Frank’s “I don’t remember.”
“Of course you remember Staten Island. How many shows did I miss?”
“Five.”
“Five shows in twelve years. Four of them on Staten Island. Now tell me why I missed those four shows.”
“I don’t remember.” Frank said this louder, but the words sounded more defensive than true.
“You do remember. Why did I fail to perform?”
“Blood poisoning.”
“Right. Infection from a bug in my ear. I had such fever I could barely sit a horse, but even then I rode in the parade.”
“You are a stubborn female, but this time I won’t give in to you.”
Annie’s voice had an air of finality. “I am fit. I am unafraid, and I am going to perform.”
“I was only joshing about tying you up, but if you don’t promise not to go on tonight, I may have to do it.”
Jemmy pulled back the tent flap and walked inside. The Butlers stopped arguing as they stared at this interloper.
“Please forgive me for interrupting.” With heart beating like hooves in a buffalo stampede, Jemmy took a deep breath. Hands shaking and voice trembling, she held up her head. Into the unnatural hush she said softly and firmly, “I believe I know how to solve your problem.”