The woman’s voice became more animated. Jemmy could almost make sense of it. “What’s worse, the Bogardus family would have been useless to me because they dropped out of show business. While I tried to marry a Bogardus, two women stole my spot in the Wild West right out from under me.”
So, the woman thinks she can shoot. That must be important somehow . . . but how?
“One good thing happened. Annie Oakley got Lillian Smith fired without my turning a finger. One down—one to go.”
Something rang false in the woman’s story. Jemmy managed to spurt out a sensible sentence. “But Lillian hasn’t been with the show in years. Why did you wait so long to go after Annie?”
“Discouragement. Pure discouragement. I gave up. I’d probably still be hunting wolves for bounty in Colorado if God had not spoken. He sent me a railroad excursion flyer. Colonel Cody’s show at the Trans-Mississippi Exposition in Omaha, summer 1898. They even gave the big star his own day, Buffalo Bill Cody Day, the thirty-first of August. I knew it was a sign. How else would an excursion flyer come to me high up in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains?
“Don’t you see? I had no choice but to go. That paper gave me the fever all over again. I saw how worthless I’d become because I failed to follow my destiny. I swore to myself I’d find a way to get on the show bill by the thirty-first of August.”
Jemmy realized the woman must be touched in the head. “Why were you so sure you were born to be in Buffalo Bill’s show?”
“Fate sent me Scalager in Hannibal.” She launched an imaginary kiss in his direction. “By pure act of providence we joined up together. Cody brings in big crowds, lots of people to sell panaceas to. Scalager likes to hit town right before the Wild West.”
Despite the haze in her head, the name “Hannibal” struck a chord in Jemmy’s memory. “Mrs. Cody said someone shot at her in the cave near Hannibal. Did you do it?”
“The trip to the cave didn’t work out quite the way I wanted.”
She nodded toward the Frank Butler clothes Jemmy wore. “I see you like to dress in men’s clothes, too. I dressed like a man and pretended to guide the three of them, the Codys and Johnny Baker, through the cave.
“I sneaked off and hid—planned to shoot Johnny B. I figured the Wild West needed two marksmen—two markswomen would be even better. I thought replacing Baker might be easier than replacing Annie Oakley. Glad I didn’t put a bullet in Baker, though. He’s the only one can fill in for Cody for so much as a single night.”
Jemmy tried to keep her knees from buckling. “And the Indian—were you aiming to kill Colonel Cody when you shot Little Elk?”
“I don’t much care for your tone. I was not trying to kill anybody, certainly not the colonel. The show would fold without Buffalo Bill. I was trying to wound Annie Oakley. If she couldn’t shoot for a while, the colonel would need a substitute.”
“You say you planned to be in the show by August thirty-first. You missed your target. It’s late September.”
The woman shrugged her shoulders. “I told you my timetable. Fate’s calendar seems inclined to teach me patience.”
In desperation, Jemmy tried an insult. “Too bad Fate didn’t give you patience—not to mention a better timetable and much better aim.”
“Keep your opinions to yourself. My aim is good enough to end your sass right this minute.”
Knowing she’d hit a sore spot cleared the fog from Jemmy’s brain. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. But you just admitted you were shooting at Mr. Baker but hit Mrs. Cody. You were aiming for Annie Oakley when you shot Little Elk. Mrs. Butler was sure wrong about you.”
“What did Annie Oakley say about me?”
“When you put an extra dot on the “i” in Annie, she said you had to be a great shot, but you couldn’t scare her into missing a performance.”
“Fate guided my hand.”
“Do you think I believe you? You were aiming for Annie and missed.”
“How would you know what I was aiming at?”
“You talk big, but inside you know you’re not worthy of cleaning horse manure off Annie’s boots.”
“Shut your smart mouth right now.”
Jemmy felt more words gushing out and was powerless to stop them even if she’d wanted to. “Did you ever consider your talent, or lack of it, might be the cause of your many failures?”
The woman cocked her pistol with a loud clack and settled her voice to a low menace.
“I won’t be discouraged. Not again. I’ll be in the Wild West or kill trying. It’s my destiny.”
The woman had finished her story. The silence afterward sent a rush of panic up Jemmy’s throat when she could think of nothing to say. More talk. Keep her talking. Say something!
Much to her own surprise, Jemmy’s mouth obliged. “How amazing you are. No matter how impossible the goal, you won’t let yourself be disheartened. No wonder these men take orders from you.”
The woman cocked her head as if she didn’t quite follow the shift in conversation.
Jemmy rushed on. “You went to a great deal of trouble to sideline Johnny Baker and failed. You set your sights on Buffalo Bill Day in Omaha and failed. You shot at Annie in her tent today and missed. Then tonight you tried twice to shoot Dorothea dressed up as Annie Oakley. You not only failed to shoot her, you weren’t even shooting at the right person.”
“Why you little . . .”
“Not much of a shot are you?”
The woman gurgled in her throat and started to move toward Jemmy.
A man’s voice outside the wagon interrupted what promised to be a long tirade or a quick bullet. “Mr. Scalager, sir, I wonder if anything is wrong. I saw your light and thought I might be able to help.”
Scalager mouthed the name “Scott Joplin—the piano player at the Maple Leaf Club.” Aloud he said, “No, nothing is wrong, Perfessor. We’re trying to get an early start. Nothing more than that.”
The voice neared the front of the wagon. “Do you have sickness? I could fetch a doctor.”
Scalager clambered out over the front seat. “I’ll be right out, Perfessor Joplin.”
No sooner had he finished those words than a shot rang out—bam. Jemmy jumped. The lamp glass exploded and snuffed the flame. The wagon pitched into darkness.
I’ll not have a better moment to escape. If only I can . . . Jemmy took a deep breath and held it. She plunged forward with the vague hope of knocking away the woman’s gun.
Before she took a step, John shoved her against the side canvas. She tumbled over a trunk and banged her head on the side of the wagon bed.
Betrayed, bruised, and all but helpless, she pulled herself upright behind the trunk in hopes bullets coming her way would bury themselves in the wood and leather instead of her own tender flesh.
For some moments her mind couldn’t grasp the events which came next. She heard scuffling noises.
As she peered over the trunk, she saw a shape that must have been John Dollarhide lunge at the woman. The pair of them fell to the wagon bed with a whump.
Another shot came—this one from inside the wagon. John yelped. Not until then did Jemmy remember the pistol she had tucked in the inner pocket of Frank’s frock coat. What good does having a gun do? I can’t see which one is John and which one is the woman. I don’t even remember whether there’s a bullet ready to fire.
She pulled the gun from her pocket with a trembling hand. The warmth of the wooden grip comforted her but didn’t keep her hands from shaking.
As she edged closer, she could see a pair of black rolling shapes and thought she could make out the woman’s head. Suddenly, Jemmy knew what to do. She hoisted the Colt by the barrel and thwacked it down on what she hoped was the woman’s cranium. She missed her target. She didn’t hit John, but she didn’t hit the woman, either.
The blow smashed into a crate of Sagwa Elixir. The gun butt slammed through a half dozen bottles and left Jemmy’s hand stuck in the splintered orange wood box. Noxious fumes of whiskey, turpentine, and something like rotten turnips made Jemmy’s eyes water.
She backed away from the stench with the crate still stuck on her arm and her hand still firmly attached to the Colt. No way am I letting go of that gun barrel.
She tried to rid herself of the crate with a mighty shake of her arm. At last fortune smiled. The broken crate and unbroken elixir bottles flew off Jemmy’s hand and hit the woman’s head full force. She slumped motionless as glass shattered around her.
Jemmy crunched through broken medicine bottles to grab the woman’s limp arms. She untied the rope still dangling from her own wrist. It came in handy for binding the woman’s hands behind her. Scalager’s woman was not going to cause more trouble any time soon.
The back wagon gate dropped with a bang. A light appeared with a familiar face behind it—Dorothea Koock, still dressed as Annie Oakley. “Jemmy, Mr. Dwyer, are you all right?”
Jemmy sang out, “Never better.”
Hal made some sounds through his gag until Dorothea removed it. He offered a feeble, “I’ll be okay as soon as I stop shaking.”
Jemmy scooped up as much un-Sagwa-ed bedding as she could find. Dorothea bundled Hal in wool blankets and chafed his hands to bring back his circulation.
Jemmy remembered Dollarhide’s outcry and returned to the front of the wagon.
John pressed his blue bandana to his shoulder. He acted cheerful despite his wound. He called back to Dorothea, “Are you the one? Did you shoot out the lamp right through the canvas?”
Dorothea said, “Yes, I got off a lucky shot. Of course, Mr. Joplin deserves much credit as well. Without his help in getting Scalager out of the wagon so he and Obadiah could subdue him . . . Well, our chance of success would not have been half so good.”
Jemmy tied the bandana in a knot. “Did you follow us? We didn’t hear a thing, did we, John?”
“I knew they were behind us. I figured they were tagging along to keep you out of trouble.”
Dorothea piped in. “Naturally we couldn’t allow you to come to harm. We understood why you left with this gentleman. We saw you slip under the tent with him.”
Dorothea rubbed Hal’s hands to bring back circulation. “When we went back to find you, we figured out what must have happened. We followed from a distance because Mr. Koock said we mustn’t scare away the one man who could lead us to Mr. Dwyer.”
John gave a little grunt of pain before he said, “We thank you, all three of you—Mr. and Mrs. Koock and Mr. Joplin—don’t we Miss Jemima? You saved our lives.”
“John—if ‘John’ is your real name—I’m still not entirely sure you’re one of the good guys.”
“Chief Prentice can verify I’m a Pinkerton with the Kansas City Office. Would that and the word of the agency’s branch manager convince you?”
“I suppose.”
A lantern appeared over the front seat of the wagon. The face appeared as little more than two winking white marbles with deep brown centers, but the hand on the lamp gleamed the color of polished mahogany through elegantly slim fingers. Scott Joplin said, “Is everything all right in here?”
John answered. “If the offer to get a doctor still stands, I’d be much obliged.”
Jemmy added, “He’s been shot, but the bullet didn’t damage his mouth.”
“I’ll bring the doctor back directly—and the police, too.” The lantern winked away.
The appearance of Scalager at the back of the wagon startled Jemmy until she saw Obadiah bend the panacea peddler over the rear wagon gate and force the man’s face down on the wagon bed.
Hal applauded as loudly as his stiff hands would permit. “So you caught him, Mr. Koock. It would make me feel better if you’d let me tie him up the way he tied me up. My fingers are prickling, but I think I have enough use of them to tie a few knots.”
Obadiah waved him permission, “Be my guest.”
As Hal trussed Scalager, Obadiah beamed admiration at Dorothea. “You make a fine Annie Oakley. Put out the lantern light in one shot—and through canvas!”
Jemmy couldn’t resist a final gloat at Scalager’s woman’s expense. “The only job in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West that would-be shootist woman is fit for is mucking out stalls. Replace Annie Oakley or Johnny Baker? She must be a madwoman as well as a rotten shot.”