As the saying goes, the show must go on. And it did. On and on and on—steamrolling Jemmy’s hopes into flat despair. Her belief in “the plan” crashed a thousand times or more.
Look what I’ve done. I’ve set hundreds of people off on a snipe hunt. When this is over and no assassin is in jail, Annie and Frank—all the show people—will tell me things are all right. Sweet words to my face, but behind my back they’ll call me anything but nice. They’ll kick themselves for listening to a silly girl and vow never to be taken in again by any would-be newspaperwoman.
And what have I done to the Koocks? Sent Burnie away with a false promise. He was bleeding—maybe dying—from a bullet meant for me. And Dorothea. I gave her the impossible job of pretending to be Annie Oakley.
What else did I go and do? I went out of my way not to tell her Burnie had been shot—Burnie, her stepson. Why did I do such a heartless thing? To be kind? To spare her feelings? No, I did it because my plan would fail without her. What kind of a villainess am I?
Jemmy bemoaned her bad deeds as she waited for the assassin to appear. Her anxiety grew as the show acts performed one by one. She ticked them off on her program—Pony Express ride, bucking horses, burro races, war dances, steer lassoing, Rough Riders from around the world. Before the buffalo chase and stagecoach rescue, Johnny Baker took the colonel’s place as Custer at the Battle of the Little Bighorn.
Jemmy prayed to hear the all-clear signal. Whoever caught the assassin would wave a bandana to a roustabout on the arena floor. That man would relay the signal to Mr. Bailey in the lighting room atop the grandstand. Bailey would shift his spotlight to the band.
When the light hit the bandleader, Sweeney would strike up a chorus of “Hot Time in the Old Town” on his cornet. The song would signal everyone to relax—problem solved. She had not heard those longed-for horn toots.
At length, no more acts preened in the ready tent. Jemmy and Dorothea were alone except for Marm Whittaker, camp nurse and mother hen. Marm’s well-intentioned mothering missed the mark. Events addled the poor woman’s wits. She didn’t understand that Dorothea planned to shoot in Annie’s stead.
Marm patted Dorothea’s hand, “Don’t worry. Annie Oakley can shoot a fly a mile off.”
Guilty conscience made Jemmy envy Marm’s innocence. She felt small and insignificant as the day she walked through the heavy oak doors of prestigious Mary Institute. She was once again the poor girl whose mother ran a boardinghouse—enrolled only through the largesse of a rich aunt.
Somehow she had managed to find backbone enough to compete with the richest, snobbiest girls in St. Louis.
And here she was again. These portals were canvas and the choice had been her own, but the dread felt exactly the same. With a knot around her stomach and a vague premonition of evil, she sat up straight in the pony cart as the arena flaps parted. The moment of truth had arrived.
Dorothea blew her a kiss for luck, then skipped into the arena amidst a raucous stomping and cheering. Jemmy’s spirits rose. With a deep breath, she smacked the reins on the pony’s rump.
She pushed panic aside with a positive thought. Miss Jemima McBustle had worked hard and done well at “Mary I”—exceedingly well for a boardinghouse daughter sponging off the charity of her rich aunt and uncle. Jemmy had performed brilliantly, or at least passably, in finery borrowed from Auntie Dee.
She simply had to do it again with “finery” provided from Frank Butler.
Assailed by the smells of oiled leather and horse urine, Jemmy drove the prop cart to its proper spot and managed to stop—mostly because the pony knew what to do. She set the brake, then hopped out. She took the wooden crate filled with glass balls to her mark while Dorothea waved and blew kisses toward the grandstand.
In the blinding spotlights, the crowd became a vast dark mass of noise spewing disembodied shouts. But somewhere in that faceless clump of humanity lurked evil.
Jemmy quashed the thought. I must have all my concentration focused on the here and now.
Their routine started with easy tricks. She threw up a single glass ball that gleamed iridescent green in the white light until Dorothea blew it out of existence. Dorothea imitated the Oakley back-kick of triumph. Applause from the audience lacked enthusiasm. Jemmy threw up two balls and Dorothea popped both into smithereens—to more polite applause.
Jemmy was about to sail three more balls into the air, but her hand stopped as if clamped in an unseen vise. A new person skipped into the arena. Jemmy stood riveted to the ground staring squarely at a second Annie Oakley.
Jemmy felt relief at the quick rescue, but at the same time wondered why Annie should be coming out so soon. Dorothea had hit every target. The crowd had not turned against the pretenders, at least not yet. Sweeney’s band had not played the all-clear tune. The assassin had not been caught. Why was Annie taking over?
Then she looked more closely. The girl wasn’t Annie. In fact, the girl wasn’t even a girl. A realization struck her mute with surprise. Dorothea wasn’t the only person pretending to be Annie Oakley. The skinny train robber was acting the selfsame charade.
The costume looked real enough. Had the skinny bank robber raided Annie’s wardrobe? If he did, he must not have examined himself in a mirror. On a fellow more than a foot taller than Annie, the clothes produced odd results. The shirt front was at least three inches too scant to tuck into the skirt.
Embroidered leggings didn’t come up far enough over Boy-Annie’s knobby knees to meet the leather skirt. His astonishing and scandalous amount of skinny white thigh drew catcalls. The crowd gasped at the effrontery—nudity in a family show? What was the world coming to?
Then a storm of unlikely events collided around Jemmy. In an eyeblink, a matronly woman in lavender appeared from who-knows-where. She commenced poking at the naked thighs of Boy-Annie with a hat pin.
As if Dorothea-Annie and Boy-Annie weren’t Annies enough, a third Annie materialized from out of nowhere. Annie number three, a pudgy Annie, pointed a pistol straight at Dorothea’s head.
Jemmy regained control and came to point like an Irish setter after a duck. She lunged toward her hostess to knock Dorothea to the ground. At the same instant a shot rang out. In the hush that followed, Jemmy could hear a thud as Pudgy-Annie dropped her pistol. The woman turned on her heel and ran. Yet another Annie chased after the Annie who shot at Dorothea.
Annie number four emerged from behind the settler’s cabin in the middle of the arena. She was none other than the real Annie Oakley—the genuine article sprinting at top speed.
Pandemonium erupted. Hundreds of Rough Riders raced after the Annies. The exit of the thundering horde left the arena devoid of action except for just two people—Jemmy and Dorothea.
Dorothea pulled her rescuer to her feet with a hug. She smudged the dust on Jemmy’s cheek with a kiss. “Jemmy, you’re a heroine.”
“The tackle was a little trick I learned from Burnie.”
“I’ll never forget you saved my life.”
“Don’t mention it. Burnie saved my life. I saved yours. I’d say we’re even.”
Dorothea looked puzzled. “All the same, the bullet meant for me could have hit you.”
As the pair of pretend-Butlers stumbled off the field, Johnny Baker galloped into the arena with a big grin on his face. He stopped in front of the governor’s box and waved his hat while his horse bowed low as if the previous excitement had been staged for the pleasure of the audience. The crowd exploded in noise. Johnny was a real trouper and used to improvising.
In the newspaper articles she wrote later, Jemmy sorted out events in this fashion. When Boy-Annie—scantily dressed—set foot inside the arena, Lulu Cody sailed down the steps of the governor’s box. She marched majestically toward Dorothea-Annie and Boy-Annie, the skinny train robber with exposed thighs. An escort formed by Lillian Smith and the magician from Lillian’s vaudeville show trailed in her wake.
Next came a third Annie Oakley impostor, Pudgy-Annie. At least this one was female. But her plumpness and swarthy skin—so unlike slim, fair-complexioned Annie—betrayed her. After a long stare, Jemmy recognized the Indian maiden. This was the woman from the fakir’s wagon—the same woman who’d spoken with Deputy Futcher in the Pettis County Jail. And she was aiming a pistol dead-center at the back of Dorothea’s head.
The unexpected appearance of a magician, two well-dressed ladies in lavender, and four Annie Oakleys on the arena grass startled the Wild West troupe into action. They left their watching posts in the stands and threw themselves on the field. Soon hundreds of people were running toward the commotion near the main tent flaps. They needn’t have bothered.
Lulu and her entourage met the challenge. Jemmy helped a little. She used the flying tackle so recently learned from Burnie to bring Dorothea to ground and out of harm’s way.
Lillian Smith grabbed Dorothea-Annie’s rifle from the ground and neatly blew the pistol out of the hands of Pudgy-Annie before the woman could fire. Lillian proved her skill, a very good thing indeed. Pudgy-Annie produced a second pistol and leveled it at Dorothea for another try.
Dorothea and Jemmy were still scrambling on the ground when Lillian Smith blasted the second gun out of the impostor’s hand as neatly as she had the first.
Bested at every turn, Pudgy-Annie lit out toward the exit. The real Annie Oakley, who could run a hundred yards in thirteen seconds, blazed out of hiding and crossed the arena in hot pursuit.
Meanwhile, Lulu demanded obedience from the Boy-Annie of the indecent skirt with her hatpin. His yowlps added to the general confusion.
Who would think more surprise could be possible after all these singular events? But there it was. The magician had another trick to pull out of his hat—a Pinkerton badge. As the Wild West troupe closed in on the melee, he peeled off his mustache and held his badge aloft.
When the Wild West staff Pinkertons recognized a fellow Pinkerton, they escorted Boy-Annie out of the arena and into the cook tent. Dorothea and Jemmy—still in borrowed clothes—tagged along.
Speedy as Annie Oakley was, she couldn’t outrace a horse. Pudgy-Annie had one waiting. It was just as well. Real-Annie and Frank had a shooting act to do, but not before they vouched for Dorothea and Jemmy to Police Chief Prentice. At last, the law had arrived to demand answers.
The chief said, “Attempted robbery of the Katy office, Annie Oakleys pointing guns and shooting at each other. I’ve never seen the like.” He turned to the Pinkertons. “What’s going on here?”
The Pinkerton-magician suggested, “Perhaps Mrs. Cody should start by explaining why she’s here tonight.”
Lulu said, “I have lived in a state of alarm for more than a month. I feared someone was trying to bring ruin to the Wild West.” She dropped her head, “At first, I thought someone was trying to kill me. My husband and I, along with Mr. Baker, were exploring a cave near Hannibal. You know, the one Mark Twain wrote about in Tom Sawyer. While we were inside the cave, a gunshot wounded me.”
She pushed up her sleeve to show a bright pink scar. “As you can see, the wound is not bad, but enough to give considerable fright. I must admit, I even entertained the possibility Mr. Cody himself might want me out of the way.”
Police Chief Prentice sounded appalled to hear the great hero Buffalo Bill might do such a deed. “Surely you are not implying your husband would do you harm.”
Lulu held up her hands and brushed them back and forth to erase the picture from the air. “I no longer think so, Chief Prentice. However, I went to the Pinkertons for that very reason.
“I changed my mind when I received two Pinkerton telegrams. Agency reports made me understand other evils plague the Wild West,” Lulu said quietly. “I want my husband to live, Chief Prentice. I may wish he would stay home with greater fidelity, but whatever threatens him, threatens me.”
She raised her head, “Unfortunately, the Pinkertons were unable to do much because the recent attacks seemed random. It occurred to me that someone might be targeting the show itself. I came down here to see personally—after persuading Mr. Cody not to perform on this particular Friday.”
Chief Prentice did not sound entirely convinced. “Now we know why you and the Pinkerton came. Miss Smith, why did you come to Sedalia?”
“Mr. Butler caused quite a stir at my theater. When I had an unexpected day off, I came to see the Wild West. I treasure my reputation with people in the theatrical world. I wanted to clear my good name with the Rough Riders—my friends—people I’ve admired and respected for more than a decade.
“I discovered the magician was a Pinkerton pretending to be a fellow actor in my company. I thought Butler sent him to spy on me. I confronted him. He said we might be able to help each other. He was right.”
She nodded toward Dorothea. “I saved her life twice. Before you ask, I knew she was too tall and shapely to be Annie. And yes, I would have also saved Annie Oakley.”
“Now we come to the pair of you.” Chief Prentice’s head turned to Dorothea and Jemmy. “If this whole affair had not involved gunplay, I’d laugh hard enough to bust my galluses at the sight of you.”
He yanked off Jemmy’s mustache and examined it. “A slip of a girl with rolled-up trousers and a horsetail mustache pretending to be Frank Butler? What’s that black thing on your head?”
Jemmy unpinned the black cloth. Loosened from the turban, Jemmy’s auburn tresses tumbled down and stuck in clumps to the spirit gum left on her lip. She tried to pull the hair off, but only a strand at a time would come loose. People snickered—the ones who didn’t laugh out loud. Jemmy’s nose itched so unmercifully she wished one of the Annies had shot it off. But she was not about to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her scratch.
Jemmy was still trying to extricate her lip from her hair as Chief Prentice turned to Dorothea with a sad shake of his head. “Mrs. Koock, respected member of the community and organizer of last week’s ice cream social at the First Methodist Church, I never expected to see you like this—showing your legs—shooting on exhibition like a common entertainer—pretending to be Annie Oakley.”
He shook his finger at her. “Does your husband know what you’re up to?”
From the back of the tent boomed a familiar voice. “Mrs. Koock has my full permission and encouragement to undertake anything she believes she can accomplish.” Obadiah Koock strode toward the front of the tent.
Bright red rivulets of blood oozed down his forehead and spread in garish tentacles down his right cheek. Marm Whittaker hustled off for the first aid box. Dorothea paled and put her hands to her face.
She ran to her husband and insisted he sit on a bench. Obadiah said, “A bit of trouble at the rail yards. You needn’t worry. Scalp wounds look more damaging than they are because they bleed more.” He smiled when he said it, though, and took her hand. “I wish I could have been here to see you shoot. I heard you hit every target.”
Shyly, Dorothea nodded to affirm her prowess.
The tent flaps opened again to the noise and chatter of the Rough Riders returning from their night’s performance.
Chief Prentice was not happy to see them. “Get those people out of here. I’m conducting a police investigation. Leave before I stick every single one of you in jail for obstructing justice.”
Johnny Baker refused to let anyone enter except the Butlers. He raised his hands and yelled to the noisy mob of performers. “You know what the colonel would have us do. Go to your own tents or the ready tent.”
A voice protested, “Ain’t no sandwiches and lemonade at the ready tent.”
Marm Whittaker helped shoo them out. “Ain’t no sandwiches here, either. We ain’t been able to make none. Reckon you’ll have to do without this one time.”
After the crowd cleared, Police Chief Prentice sounded even more impatient. “If you please, Mrs. Koock. Why are you and this other female pretending to be the Butlers?”
With her hair almost under control, Jemmy piped up, “It was my idea. After someone shot at the true Annie Oakley this afternoon, I convinced the Butlers to let Dorothea and me take their place while they searched for the shootist. But surely you know as much already. We sent word.”
“I received no word. I would never have countenanced such a hare-brained scheme. I’m shocked the Butlers and Mr. Baker took it seriously.”
Jemmy picked spirit gum off her lip and snapped back at him. “A convenient absence, to be sure. Nary a one of your men tried to stop the attempted robbery of the ticket wagons.”
“I’d spend my time better by arresting you than I would by answering your impertinence. However, I have nothing to hide from anyone. Let me make the facts perfectly clear. I always station men at big events to keep the wagons from tangling up and blocking the streets, but only before and after the performance. I had no idea anything was amiss during the show.”
“But surely Deputy Futcher warned . . .” She didn’t get the whole sentence finished before two other pairs of boots came striding into the tent. The boots carried familiar faces. Deputy Futcher shoved before him a pouting boy, a stout boy with a bad case of acne.
The deputy said, “I caught this Koock boy trying to rob the ticket wagon.” He pointed to the skinny boy with the bare thighs, one of the Annie Oakley impersonators. “That there is his partner. I’ve come to take them off your hands.”
Chief Prentice bristled at the interruption. “Hold on, Deputy. I have a few questions for the young—I started to say ‘man,’ in the skirt.” He smirked. “ ‘Man’ doesn’t seem the right word, and it’s for sure his skirt doesn’t quite cover the subject.”
Chief Prentice looked around for a laugh or a chuckle. When none came, he sent a sour stare in the direction of Boy-Annie. “Where did you find such a ridiculous get-up?”
The boy stared at Futcher long enough to make Futcher impatient. The deputy boomed out, “Well, go on. Tell the chief. And I want you to tell him the truth, hear?”
Boy-Annie of the scandalous thighs said, “I pinched the clothes from Annie Oakley’s tent.”
Chief Prentice asked, “Why on earth did you go into the arena dressed like the star of the show? Surely you didn’t expect to fool anyone into believing you to be Annie Oakley.”
Boy-Annie looked at Futcher. The young man’s chin sagged to his chest. “I was supposed to cause a ruckus. Make noise and upset things so nobody would pay attention to the goings-on outside.”
Chief Prentice said, “It’s a good thing to confess right up front, young man. The court will take your cooperation into account. The only other thing I need from you is the names of the people who were in on the robbery with you.”
Futcher burst in with, “That’s easy, Chief.” He turned to the boy. “You were in cahoots with the Koock boy. He was the ringleader. Go on, tell the chief.”
Chief Prentice lost his temper at the deputy’s interference. “I asked the boy, not you. Let him answer for himself.”
The boy nodded toward the deputy. “It’s what he said. Duke told me what to do and I done it best I could.”
Futcher moved to grab Boy-Annie. “You come with me and no monkey business or I’ll give you what for.”
The whole incident struck a false note with Jemmy, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on the reason. Still, she had to do something. As often happened when she needed it most, a good lie sprang to her lips. “Chief Prentice, Deputy Futcher was the one who promised to inform you about our plan. I’d be interested in knowing why he didn’t tell you.”
“No one told me to tell Chief Prentice nothing.” Futcher edged Duke and Boy-Annie backward toward the tent entrance.
Jemmy managed to think of a genuine flaw in the deputy’s story. “Ask Mr. Futcher why the Annie who got away, the one who shot at Dorothea, was in his jail cell yesterday—and the door wasn’t even locked.”
Futcher dropped his hold on both boys and took off running with the Pinkerton-magician hard after. Duke froze like a treed possum. Mr. Koock nabbed him with ease. As for Boy-Annie, Lillian Smith twisted his arm behind him while Lulu warned him with a scowl and a raised hatpin.
Chief Prentice motioned for Lulu to back away. To Boy-Annie he said, “I’m through mollycoddling you. I will get real answers, true answers to my questions or I’ll turn Mrs. Cody loose with her hatpin.”
He pulled Boy-Annie away from Lillian Smith and shoved him down on a bench. The chief stuck his face up to the boy’s nose. The skinny robber cowered until his back pressed against the table edge. Prentice hissed, “Now talk.”
Boy-Annie’s words came out in a flood. “Futcher got up a gang of boy robbers because he said we’d think robbing folks was a lark—said we’d be famous like Cole Younger and his brothers or the James boys. I didn’t think it was much fun after we got thrown off the train on Tuesday. But once Futcher gets hold of a fellow, he won’t let go.
“I figured I’d run away, but I needed money. I said I’d help rob the ticket wagons. I was gonna use my share to get as far away from Futcher as the railroad system would take me.” He nodded in Jemmy’s direction. “I would have done it, too, but that girl with the red hair keeps getting in the way.”
Lulu had questions, too. “How were you planning to make money from shooting Little Elk?”
The boy looked blank. “I don’t know nothing ’bout shooting no elk.”
She waved her hatpin at him.
He protested, “It’s true. We never shot at nobody in the Wild West Show—not ever. I don’t know nothing about no shooting.”
Frank asked, “Where were you Tuesday night when Little Elk was wounded?”
“Here in town at Doctor Overstreet’s office. We were some beat up, I can tell you.” His voice cracked. “Why don’t you get yourself throwed off a train? Then you’d know what a real beating feels like.”
Chief Prentice backed away so Boy-Annie could sit up. “Easy enough to check his alibi. Dr. Overstreet is the mayor of Sedalia.”
He turned to Duke. “What do you have to say for yourself, young man?”
Duke said nothing until Mr. Koock boxed his ears. “Tuesday night we were all at the doctor’s office on Ohio Street.”
Chief Prentice stroked his chin. “Let me get straight who was at Overstreet’s—Young Marmaduke Koock, Deputy Futcher, this fake Annie Oakley with the short skirt here, and who else?”
“Two other boys.”
“Nobody else?”
“No.”
Lulu shook her head. “So we haven’t caught the person who has been terrorizing the Wild West.”
Chief Prentice said, “Apparently we haven’t, but you may be sure we’ll apprehend Futcher and the other two boys. I have pointed questions for them and for Sheriff Williams, too, as a matter of fact.”
To Obadiah, Chief Prentice said, “We’ll have to take your boy, Mr. Koock. Needless to say, I’m sorry it’s necessary.”
“I understand, Chief Prentice. You must do what you must do.”
Chief Prentice collected Duke and the Boy-Annie skinny robber. As he shoved them toward the tent opening, Jemmy hit her forehead with the heel of her hand.
She spun Boy-Annie around and fairly screamed at him. “What have you done with Hal?”
He jerked his head back to look over his shoulder. Not until he spied Lulu returning her hatpin to her hat a comfortable distance away did he answer. “I haven’t done nothing with nobody named Hal—never met him.”
Jemmy stomped the ground, narrowly missing Boy-Annie’s toe. She whirled to Duke, grabbed the shoulder of his jacket, and shrieked in his ear. “I know you did something with Hal. He found out what you’ve been up to so you took him off somewhere.” Duke’s expression was blank as a plaster wall.
Mr. Koock said, “If you know the whereabouts of Miss McBustle’s photographer, you must confess it. Your cooperation will give me some small reason to permit you what aid I can. I trust you would appreciate my help in settling the difficulties you’ve made for yourself.”
Duke said, “I haven’t seen Dwyer since the night he dragged me out of the Maple Leaf Club.”
“Your actions have given your stepmother and me nothing but pain and disappointment. I blame myself for not seeing the truth sooner. You had every possible advantage any parents could give. It simply never occurred to me that a child of mine would become a criminal.” Obadiah looked squarely at his eldest son. “On pain of disownment if I should discover you know anything at all about Mr. Dwyer, do you swear to the truth of your statement?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
The mass of people left Jemmy standing dejectedly as they filed out of the tent. Even the Koocks seemed too distracted—Obadiah by Duke’s predicament and Dorothea by Obadiah’s bleeding scalp—to notice they were leaving Jemmy behind and alone. She couldn’t have explained why she didn’t trail after them, what unfinished business held her back.
In the deafening silence, she looked down at Frank Butler’s boots. She vented her frustration with a kick to a clump of grass and watched as dust settled to turn the black toes brown.
A new presence in the tent sent a shudder through her shoulders. Whether fear or anticipation, she could not tell.
From the back of the tent came a voice Jemmy had heard before. “I know where Hal is.”