THE ADVENTURE OF THE WHITE CITY
Bill Crider is the author of more than fifty published novels and numerous short stories. He won the Anthony Award for best first mystery novel in 1987 for Too Late to Die and was nominated for the Shamus Award for best first private-eye novel for Dead on the Island. He won the Golden Duck Award for best juvenile science fiction novel for Mike Gonzo and the UFO Terror. He and his wife, Judy, won the best short story Anthony in 2002 for their story “Chocolate Moose.” His latest novel is Murder in Four Parts. Check out his Web site at www.billcrider.com.
I have written little about Sherlock Holmes’s adventures in the United States, not least because Sherlock Holmes himself requested that I refrain from any attempt to tell how he occupied himself there. Both he and I agreed that it was best for me to confine myself to setting down what he did in his native England, if I had to set down anything at all. His inclination always was to believe that I exaggerated somewhat when reporting the events of his career.
Now, however, because Holmes has left London again and lives in pleasant anonymity, enjoying his view of the Channel and his bees, I believe that he would not take it amiss if I were to set on paper at least one of his adventures in the New World. He said as much at one time. The story that comes to mind happened the year after the strange events at Wisteria Lodge, and Holmes and I had special reason to remember it, as we discussed one evening as we sat in our rooms at 221B Baker Street.
I remember the night well. The moon was full, and its light shone through the windows overlooking the street. The windows were closed, and a brisk wind swept down the street, occasionally rattling a somewhat loose pane. Holmes, whose powers of concentration far exceed my own, showed no sign that the faint noise bothered him, or that he heard it at all. He sat reading the day’s news, and I said to him, “It must bother you a great deal, Holmes.”
He lowered the newspaper, looked at me over the top edge of it, and said, “Whatever do you mean by that, Watson?”
“The fact that you share a name with one of the most shockingly brutal and cruel murderers of this century.”
“You surprise me, Watson,” said Holmes, lowering the newspaper into his lap.
“Furthermore,” I said, “it must disturb you greatly that you were in the same city with him and knew nothing of his frightful depredations.”
“You are positively brilliant this morning, Watson,” said Holmes. “For those are my thoughts exactly. How, pray tell, did you come to fathom them?”
“I know your methods, Holmes,” said I, perhaps a bit too smugly. All too often in the past, Holmes had amazed me by seeming to read my mind, when in reality he had merely been observing me. Being able to turn the tables on him was a pleasant diversion.
Holmes put the newspaper aside and went to the chimneypiece to fetch the Turkish slipper in which he kept his tobacco. Having done so, he reached into the pocket of his robe and brought out a briar pipe.
When Holmes had filled it with tobacco and lit it, he looked at me and said, “You, of course, saw the newspaper earlier and read about the trial of the notorious ‘Torture Doctor,’ known as H. H. Holmes, and surmised the rest.” He paused and puffed on the pipe to make sure the tobacco was burning to his satisfaction. “I do not believe we have mentioned the similarity of the names before, but you are quite correct, Watson. It does bother me a bit that Mudgett should have chosen for himself my own patronym, but that is not his only alias. He has had many others.”
“And he will soon meet his well-deserved end under the original name of Mudgett,” said I. “Was the other point I mentioned also correct?”
“That I am bothered by having been in some proximity to Mudgett without knowledge of his crimes? Yes, Watson. I wish that I had known something of them at the time. With that knowledge I might have been able to put a stop to him before he had killed so many.”
“How many? Is the number even known?”
“No,” said Holmes. “Some surmise he may have done away with more than a hundred victims, but I suspect the number twenty-seven is much more likely.”
He resumed his seat in the chair and took up the newspaper once more.
“I remember your desire to visit the Columbian Exposition in Chicago,” I said. “And to see Buffalo Bill’s Wild West once again.”
Holmes had become quite a student of the history of Buffalo Bill Cody and the American West after his first meeting with the man. He put aside the newspaper again and glanced at the patriotic V. R. formed by bullet holes in the wall.
“Yes, indeed, Watson. Meeting Colonel Cody at the time of the Golden Jubilee was quite interesting. He and I have something in common, I believe.”
I merely nodded at that. I did not have to ask Holmes what he meant. More than once he had expressed his opinion that the wild tales of Buffalo Bill, as related by Mr. Buntline and Mr. Ingraham, contained no more excesses than those I myself composed about him.
“While you did not hear about Mudgett while we were visiting the White City,” I said, “you did find opportunity to exercise your skills in the service of good.”
Holmes smiled a thin smile. “Ah, Watson. While you know my methods, I know yours. You are ever on the alert for something with which to fill your notebooks, some item you can later spin into a tale of adventure for your readers.”
I laughed. “You have caught me out, Holmes, for that was indeed the very thought that crossed my mind. We are even, then, for I have read your thoughts, and you have read mine. I should very much like to tell of our American adventure some day.”
“I do not believe the events of the story will be of interest to your readers, as they occurred so far away.”
“Even in America there are many who know of you,” I replied.
“Very well,” said Holmes. “Perhaps in later years you will find occasion to tell the story.”
And so at last I have.
After the bizarre affair at Wisteria Lodge, the idea of a trip to the White City to see “the highest and best achievements of modern civilization” had a great appeal to Holmes and me. We were certain that the sight of the Exposition’s grounds would be one to inspire even the dullest of souls.
Surprisingly enough, Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show was not a part of the fairgrounds. Colonel Cody had, I believe, wanted to be a part of the Exposition, but he was denied the privilege. He was too much of a showman, however, to let that stop him. He simply set up his tents just outside the grounds, taking up several blocks with his campgrounds and arena. His extravagant advertisements promised to introduce his “Congress of Rough Riders,” with more than 450 horses, ridden by vaqueros, Cossacks, gauchos, Indians, cowboys, and more.
“Buffalo Bill’s Wild West will be a show on a grand scale,” Holmes remarked as we prepared to leave our hotel on the morning after our arrival in Chicago. “Even grander than the one presented before the queen.”
“Perhaps we shall see the battle of the Little Big Horn enacted once again,” said I, recalling a particularly exciting moment.
Just then there came a knock upon the door. Holmes’s eyes widened, and I confess that I was startled. I had not heard the sound of anyone approaching, and I was certain that the same was true of Holmes, who rose and went to the door.
He stopped with his hand on the knob and said, “Colonel Cody, I presume.”
Then Holmes opened the door to reveal the great showman standing there. He wore a wide-brimmed grey felt hat, black coat and britches, and western boots. His hair, moustache, and goatee were shot through with grey, and his piercing gaze lighted on Holmes’s face.
“Mr. Holmes,” Cody said, sweeping off his hat, “it is a pleasure to see you again. But how did you know who I was before you even opened the door?”
“Who else in this city but the great scout of the plains could move so silently through the corridors of the hotel that no one could hear him?”
Cody had turned his right ear slightly toward Holmes to hear the answer, and Holmes touched his nose surreptitiously so that only I could see. I ascertained his meaning, as I smelled the faintest odor of livestock, a clue that I felt we need not mention to Cody.
“I guess that’s so,” Cody said with a smile.
Holmes gestured him inside. “You remember Dr. Watson, I am sure.”
Cody said that he did, and shook hands with me in his frank American way. After the re-introduction, Holmes offered him a chair. Cody sat down, both feet planted on the floor, his hands clasping his knees as he leaned slightly forward. He was about to speak, but Holmes raised a hand to stop him.
“Before you tell us why you have come to visit,” Holmes said, “I would like to know how you learned we were in Chicago.”
“Easy enough,” Cody said. “I saw it in the newspaper.” I suppressed the urge to tell Holmes that the article proved I was right about his being known in North America.
“Ah,” Holmes said, with a glance in my direction as if to say he knew my thoughts. “I suppose some reporter or other noted our arrival at the railway station.”
“Must have,” Cody said, “and then he jotted it down in time for the late edition. As soon as I saw it, I decided to track you down.”
Holmes walked across the room and rested his shoulder against the chimneypiece. “Not as difficult as tracking on the plains, I imagine,” said he. “But you did not come here to talk about tracking.”
“No,” Cody said. “I came to ask for help.”
Holmes took his pipe and the Persian slipper, brought all the way from England on our journey, from the chimneypiece. He filled his pipe with tobacco from the slipper, and when he had made sure the pipe was lighted to his satisfaction, he said, “I am not surprised to hear it. A man with your duties and responsibilities at this moment would not come merely for a visit. What is the nature of the problem?”
Cody leaned further forward as if to express his earnestness. “It’s not real easy to explain. Have you heard that one of the exhibits here at the Exposition is Sitting Bull’s cabin?”
Holmes looked in my direction. Taking my cue, I said, “We have read of it, but have not yet strolled the Midway. I believe there will be a daily ‘war dance’ performed at the site. It is, if you will permit me to say so, not unlike something from your own show.”
“It sure is,” said Cody. “Some folks might even see it as some kind of conflict, but that’s not the problem.”
“The problem has to do with the cabin, however,” said Holmes.
“It does. I believe somebody wants to destroy it.”
“But why?” said I. “And how?”
“How? Well, the plan is to burn it. Why? That’s hard to say. Some people never have forgiven Sitting Bull for his part in the Custer massacre, and even his death at the hands of the Lakota police didn’t end their desire for revenge. To destroy his cabin would be one way of striking at him even though he’s dead.” Cody sighed. “There’s more to it than that, though. If the cabin’s destroyed, at least some of the blame will fall on me and people in my show. Sitting Bull was with me for a little while, and even now I have some Indian performers that the government and a lot of the rest of the country would prefer to have living on the reservations. Destroying the cabin would be an act of revenge, and it would make me and my performers look bad.”
“Have you informed the police?” I asked.
“Certainly,” Cody said, “but I have a feeling they’re not up to the job.”
Holmes nodded his assent and added, “Their forces are spread too thin with the Exposition and all its visitors. It would be difficult for them to mount a twenty-four-hour guard on an exhibit on the basis of a rumor.”
“It’s no rumor,” Cody said. “I’m sure of that.”
“Then how did you come to hear of it?” asked Holmes.
“From Annie Oakley and Frank Butler. They overheard two men talking. One of them said, ‘Burn Sitting Bull’s cabin.’ Butler says he heard him distinctly, and he heard the other agree. The voices came from behind a row of tents. Naturally, Butler ran down to the end of the row, but by the time he got there, the men had disappeared, lost in the crowd of people who work on the show. There are hundreds of them.”
“And no one else overheard the conversation?” said Holmes.
“No one. The nearby tents were deserted, and it’s a wonder that Butler happened to hear, considering the noise of the camp. Can you help me, Mr. Holmes, or do I need to go to somebody else?”
“Butler overheard nothing more?”
“Only nonsense. He could tell you himself if you’d come for a visit to my campgrounds.”
“Very well,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, let us see what we can do to assist our American friend.”
Colonel Cody expressed his thanks and settled his hat on his head. Holmes and I readied ourselves and went with him to the site of the great Columbian Exposition.
We went first to the Indian village on the Midway, as it was nearer the hotel. The site was across the way from the Lapland village, which had a board building covered with sod as well as a tent. Next to it stood the International Dress and Costume exhibit, which promised “Forty Ladies from Forty Nations, a World’s Congress of Beauties.” I was quite eager to have a look inside the building, but Holmes, of course was not interested.
“We did not come here to gawk, Watson,” he said.
Further down the Midway was the immense Ferris wheel, towering 250 feet above the ground. I was thoroughly interested in that, as well, but Holmes had eyes only for the Indian village.
First, he inspected the sign that announced the war dancing. He said, “Make a note of the time, Watson.” I did, and we entered the area and found the cabin easily. The outside walls were pocked with bullet holes and what I took to be splashes of blood, possibly a result of Sitting Bull’s final moments.
An Indian stood near the entrance. He was clothed in full buckskin regalia and wore long braids and a feather in his hair. Cody spoke to him, the man moved aside, and we entered. As we did, another went quickly out the back door. He wore a loose shirt with crimson bands at the cuffs, elbows, and shoulders. A wide crimson “V” adorned the neck. Cody came in behind us and did not see him, but Holmes stood silently for a moment, looking toward the doorway.
The moment passed, and Holmes, as was his custom, examined the entire edifice with great care. I had no idea what he might have been looking for, as, knowing nothing of such a cabin, I saw nothing out of place. The place smelled of the smoke of many winter fires. The odor had infused the very wood of the walls, along with the smell of tobacco.
When Holmes had finished his inspection, he pronounced himself ready to speak to Butler, and Cody led us down the Midway, past innumerable wonders, though none was so grand as the Ferris wheel. We had a walk of several blocks beside the tracks of the Illinois Central Rail Line before reaching a crossing street, and then another long walk past the tents of Cody’s show and livestock before reaching the campgrounds, which were located between the Illinois Central and the Exposition itself. Farther to the east was the vast inland sea called Lake Michigan, and a breeze from the lake cooled the air.
The campgrounds swarmed with men and women striding about in the colorful garb of all the nations represented by the Congress of Rough Riders, and of course American Indians and cowboys of all stripes. They seemed to have no purpose in mind, but Cody assured us that all had definite assignments. The air was thick with the smell of livestock.
“We had best talk to Mr. Butler as soon as possible,” Holmes said.
“Before I left to find you, I asked him to stay in his tent,” Cody said, and he led us through the crowds.
As we walked, I heard a veritable babble of languages spoken around us. I wondered if Butler had detected a distinct accent, and I was certain that would be among the first things Holmes questioned him about.
The tent to which we were led was somewhat larger and grander than most, if grand is a term that may be applied to tents. The flap was pulled back, and we went inside.
What I saw was quite different from the interior of Sitting Bull’s cabin. The tent was furnished as well as the hotel room Holmes and I had engaged. Standing near a sofa was a tall man wearing a black coat. He had black hair and a black moustache, and he greeted Cody with a smile.
“Are these the gents you told me about?” he said, appraising us frankly.
“The very ones,” Cody said, and performed the introductions. When those were done, Butler and Holmes sat on the sofa, while Cody and I took chairs nearby. I had hoped to see Little Sure Shot, but she was not in evidence.
“Annie’s in the main tent,” Butler said with a smile, as if he sensed my disappointment. “She’s always practicing.”
As usual, Holmes did not care for unnecessary information. He said, “Please tell us of the conversation you overheard, Mr. Butler. Word for word, if that is possible.”
Butler explained that he’d been in his tent and heard the men talking outside. He couldn’t hear the words distinctly, and, as Cody had said, the men were gone by the time he’d reached the spot where they had been.
“I heard one of ’em say they’d burn Sitting Bull’s cabin,” Butler told us, “but nothing else very clear. I can’t give you a word-for-word reckoning.”
“You heard nothing else?” Holmes said.
“I did hear a thing or two, but nothing that made any sense.”
“Tell me, nevertheless,” Holmes said.
“There was noise outside the front of the tent, and the wall’s not as thin as it looks. At first, I heard something about a blustering wind and waving air. I wasn’t really listening, and I don’t hear too well, anyway, thanks to too many years of firing rifles off next to my ear. What they said didn’t make a bit of sense, so I must’ve misunderstood. I perked up, though, when I heard the part about burning Sitting Bull’s cabin.”
Holmes looked thoughtful, though what he might have made of the weather report as delivered by Butler, I had no idea.
“Outside we saw people from all around the globe,” Holmes said. “Many of them must speak only limited English. Did the men you heard speak it as if it were their native tongue?”
Butler considered it a moment before he spoke. “They spoke English, but they didn’t speak it as good as you and me.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow but made no comment. I, too, kept my peace.
“We have too many people to consider,” Cody said, “and no way to winnow them down. It seems like too big a job.”
“You don’t know of anybody who has it in for you?” Butler said. “Somebody in the show, I mean.”
“No,” Cody said, with the assurance of a man who believes he is beloved by all. “There’s nobody like that, which is why I don’t understand this even a little bit. Why would anyone who works for me want to harm the show? It’s like a family.”
I had been associated with Holmes long enough to know that there was always someone who wished harm on others even in the coziest of circles, but I did not see fit to mention that at the moment.
Holmes said, “Nevertheless, a problem exists, and I believe it to be more serious than I had first thought. Colonel Cody, do you have a list of your employees for payroll purposes?”
“Yes, but it’s so long that you could never go over it all, not in time to stop anybody who plans to do something anytime soon.”
“Still, I would like to see the list.”
“All right, then,” Cody said. “Come with me.”
We thanked Butler for his help and followed Cody to another tent where a bookkeeper bent over his desk. Cody explained what Holmes wanted, and the bookkeeper provided the list. Holmes scanned it rapidly, as if he knew what he was looking for, as no doubt he did, though I had no idea.
“As I thought,” Holmes said, handing the list back to the bookkeeper. He turned to Cody. “Kicking Bear and Short Bull are in your employ.”
“They sure are,” Cody said, surprised that Holmes knew the names. “They’re two of the ones a lot of people would like to see confined to the reservation. I don’t think they’d be the cause of any trouble, since they know what would happen if they were caught.”
“There is another name,” Holmes said. “Jack Wilson.”
“I don’t know him,” Cody said after a pause. “I have so many cowboys that I can’t learn all their names.”
“Jack Wilson is the English name taken by Wovoka,” said Holmes.
“Good Lord!” said Cody.
“Wovoka?” I cried in surprise. “The Indian messiah who started the Ghost Dance?”
Holmes had told me about it once: In a vision, Wovoka, who now called himself Jack Wilson, had come to believe the dance would lead to a new earth, covered with fresh soil that buried the white men. Meanwhile, the Indians would hang suspended in the air until green grass and trees grew upon the soil; and when the rivers ran afresh, and the buffalo again roamed the plains, they would be returned to the land along with the ghosts of their ancestors. It may have been an appealing dream, but while many Indians had adopted the new religion and danced the dance, it was to no avail. The Exposition was ample testimony to the triumph of the white man’s way of life.
“Yes,” said Holmes, “and Kicking Bear and Short Bull were with Sitting Bull when he was killed as a result of his involvement with the Ghost Dancers.”
“Sitting Bull was my friend,” Cody said. “He wasn’t really involved in the Ghost Dance movement. His death when the soldiers came to arrest him was a sad mistake, no more than an accident.”
“That may be, but it seems more than a coincidence to find Kicking Bear and Short Bull in your employ, and Wovoka on the grounds as well.”
“It could be a coincidence,” protested Cody. “Even if not, what does this have to do with the Ghost Dance?”
“You are connected by having taken the first scalp for Custer.”
“The killing of Yellow Hand . . . ” Cody murmured.
I began to understand. The killing of Yellow Hand was well known to all who had seen Cody’s Wild West show, and it had been of particular interest to Holmes. I had always felt that the reenactment was what stimulated Holmes to read so much about the American West. The event had been a highlight of Cody’s career, and supposedly the turning of the tide against the Indians in the conquest of the American frontier.
“Custer,” said Holmes. “Not bluster. Butler misheard. And you waved Yellow Hair’s scalp in the air.”
“So the conversation Butler recalled had not been about the weather after all,” I said.
“Of course not,” said Holmes. “I realized as much at once.” He turned to Cody. “You still reenact Yellow Hand’s death in your show, do you not?”
Cody acknowledged that he did.
“And the time of the ‘war dance’?” Holmes asked me.
When I told him, he nodded. “That would be about the time the scalping scene would be performed in the Wild West Show. I am sure that is when they plan to burn the cabin.”
“But why?” I asked Holmes.
“Not as revenge for Custer’s death, but for Sitting Bull’s,” said Holmes. “They must see the chain of events beginning with Yellow Hand’s death as leading inevitably to the failure of the Ghost Dance and the death of Sitting Bull.”
“Do you suppose that they will perform the Ghost Dance at the cabin?”
“I do,” said Holmes. “Do you remember the man who left the cabin as we entered, Watson?”
“Yes,” I said.
“He wore a Ghost Shirt,” Holmes said, “which is supposed to make one impervious to bullets. I suspect he will be involved in the dance today.”
“Good Lord,” Cody said. “We must stop them! They will discredit me and all the Indians who work for me if we do not.”
“Watson and I will do our best,” said Holmes.
I hoped that he had some plan to do so, as I could see no way the two of us could prevent the destruction. I feared a panic that would panic fair-goers and cause a stampede like that of the buffalo the Indians wanted to recall.
“You’ll need help,” Cody said.
“You must carry on with your show so that they suspect nothing,” Holmes told him.
“This is Wovoka’s work!” said Cody. “If the others are party to it, it’s because of him.”
“They may not be involved,” said Holmes, “but we must waste no more time. Come, Watson, let us take up our station.”
I did not know what or where our station was, yet I followed Holmes as always. As we hurried along and passed the big show tent, I found myself wishing I had brought my pistol, but I had left it behind in Baker Street. We were, I thought ruefully, a long way from home. I should have borrowed one of Cody’s sidearms, but it was too late for that now. Holmes set a rapid pace, and I was hard pressed to keep up with him.
Between breaths, I asked Holmes what the Ghost Dancers expected to achieve, and how we might stop them.
“I believe they seek revenge on Cody for his imagined part in the events leading to Sitting Bull’s death and the later slaughter at Wounded Knee.”
Holmes’s knowledge of the West’s history far surpassed mine. I knew little of the latter event other than that after Sitting Bull was killed, a number of their tribesmen, including women and children, had been killed in a fight with the U.S. Cavalry at Wounded Knee, in the Dakotas three years ago.
“They may also hope to call attention to their plight,” Holmes continued. “Most of them remain on reservation land no white man wants or could live on.” He paused. “Or Wovoka might merely crave attention. Since the Ghost Dance’s failure, he has lost influence and prestige.”
Holmes was no believer in visions, and thought little of those who held to them, especially when others were likely to suffer because of them.
“We should arrive in ample time to prevent the burning of the cabin,” Holmes continued, though he did not slacken his pace. “Did you not see the Fire and Guard building earlier?”
As always, Holmes’s powers of observation outstripped my own. I confessed I had not. “You were no doubt looking at the Ferris wheel,” he said. “The station is quite near the Indian village, and there are hundreds of guards. Perhaps a thousand or more, though of course not all in one place.”
“You did not mention them to Cody.”
“I was not entirely sure of their competence or presence, though having walked along the Midway, I am now more certain of their numbers. Did you not notice them?”
Once again I had to confess that I had not, though now that he mentioned it, I did recall a number of men in uniform.
“They were recruited especially to make the Exposition safe,” Holmes said. “In spite of my earlier misgivings, I believe we can count on them for help.”
I hoped he was correct. We reached the Midway, which bustled with a multitude of men, women, and children. The crowd at the Ferris wheel was especially impressive. We made our way through them, apologizing as we went, and soon came to the Fire and Guard building. Holmes went up to the door and asked a capped and uniformed young man there for someone in authority.
“I am in authority,” the man said, his scanty moustache fairly bristling. “You can tell me what you need.”
Holmes was not one to truckle, but this was an emergency. Instead, he said, “I believe someone plans to burn Sitting Bull’s cabin in the Indian village. We must prevent it.”
The young man did not hesitate. Fishing a whistle from a pocket, he blew a piercing note, and men ran to us from all sides as well as from within the building. The young man crammed his whistle back into his pocket and began shouting orders.
It was one of the few times that I ever saw Holmes appear dumbfounded. In fact, I cannot remember another. He had not expected such a reaction, but it seemed that the Guard had been waiting for an opportunity to show its value, apart from the usual petty annoyances of asking people for their admittance cards and harassing them for minor violations.
Unfortunately, the men were merely hired with the idea that their numbers and manner would prevent problems. Confronted with a true crisis, they dashed off in all directions, shouting at the crowds and each other, shoving people aside, and generally wreaking havoc along the Midway. Men and women clutched their children to them, while those whose offspring had wandered off looked wildly about and cried out for them.
“My word, Holmes!” I exclaimed as the mob surged around us. “What have we done?”
Holmes, though some would not expect it from him, was not without humour. He smiled a thin smile and said, “It seems my uneasiness about the Guard was justified, after all. However, if this massive disorder does not disrupt the plans for the fire, nothing will.”
“But what of those who planned it? Will they not escape in the confusion?”
“It will be our job to stop them.”
“How will we know them?”
“The Ghost Shirts,” said Holmes. “We must look for the Ghost Shirts.”
I recalled the man we had seen in the cabin earlier. I had, at least, observed that much. We forced our way through the throng and were pushed about in return. When we reached the Chinese theater with its tall towers trimmed in red and blue, Holmes tugged at my sleeve.
“There, Watson!” he said, and pointed.
I saw, over the heads of many people, a man dressed in a long black coat, his head covered by a black hat that almost concealed his face.
“That is Wovoka,” said Holmes.
No Ghost Shirt could be seen. “He has taken to wearing the clothing of civilization so as to be unrecognized,” Holmes insisted. “After him, Watson!”
We hastened in the man’s direction, but Wovoka saw us coming. He must have known we pursued him, for he took to his heels. Thanks to the crowd, however, he could move no faster than we at first, but the multitude thinned quickly, as most were drawn to the cabin where the Guard had gone. Wovoka ran faster, as did we.
By the time Wovoka reached the Ferris wheel, we had narrowed the distance. Ahead of us, the gargantuan wheel rotated slowly on the mighty axle, its heavy cars rocking gently as it turned. To my surprise, we saw Wovoka leap up the stairs to the loading platform, thrusting aside those in line, and throwing several of them to the ground and impeding us.
Perhaps he hoped we would be afraid of the machine, or perhaps he thought that he could escape into the sky from its upper heights, and hang suspended while the Ghost Dance changed the world. First, though, he had to board it, but the operators made no attempt to stop the wheel, and the cars were secured by screened windows and locked doors.
Wovoka did not intend to be captured. He leapt from the platform and grabbed hold of the roof of a passing car. Within seconds he had pulled himself atop it. The passengers in the car stood from their chairs and watched in amazement.
“He has trapped himself,” said Holmes as the car moved upward. “In the great circle, he can only come back around to us here on the platform.”
For the barest fraction of a second, I thought of the Reichenbach Falls and of a figure dropping down, down. “Holmes,” said I, “what if he chooses not to return atop the car?”
“Then he does not, but I believe he will, Watson. The Ghost Dance is a circle, and he circles now. He will return to close the circle.”
When Wovoka reached the apex of the wheel’s turn, we watched him rise to stand atop the car, look toward the sky, and spread his upraised arms. It was an amazing sight: the man of the plains rode atop the engine of civilization, stretching out his arms for something he sought, something beyond the power of man or machine to deliver. I do not know what answer he might have sought in the blue and the clouds, but I do not think he found it. He remained firmly fixed atop the car.
The wheel continued in its round, and as his car began its descent, Wovoka sat down cross-legged, his shoulders slumped. When the car reached the platform again, he jumped off, right into the waiting arms of Sherlock Holmes.
I believe he had hoped to be taken up into the sky, until the earth covered us over—me, Holmes, Buffalo Bill, the Exposition itself. Now, however, his eyes were empty of any hope whatsoever.
We sat in Cody’s tent, one even more lavishly furnished than Frank Butler’s. The show was over, and Cody was there. Wovoka was with us, as were Kicking Bear and Short Bull, whom Holmes had retrieved from the Guard while I detained Wovoka at the base of the Ferris wheel. Neither of us had said much then, and Wovoka said little now. Cody did most of the talking.
“You have shamed me,” he told the Indians. “But thanks to Sherlock Holmes, you have been prevented from doing any serious damage. It’s lucky for you he was able to stop the Guard from injuring you, or anyone else.”
Indeed. It was lucky for all of us that no one had been injured in the panic on the Midway.
“If I turned you over to the authorities and pressed charges against you,” Cody continued, “Kicking Bear and Short Bull would be returned to the reservation. Wovoka would go to prison.”
We had learned that Wovoka was, as Cody had suspected, the leader. He had talked the other two into one last attempt to bring back the old days and the old ways.
“I don’t want to see any of you on the reservation or in prison,” Cody said. I could not be sure, but I thought the Indians relaxed a fraction at those words.
“Kicking Bear and Short Bull can stay with me here, where I can keep an eye on them. Wovoka will leave us and swear never to return.”
“Where will I go?” the Indian said.
Cody had no answer for that. He looked at Holmes, who had been sitting silent, as immobile as the Indians. His profile, indeed, resembled theirs as much or more than it did any of his own countrymen.
“Go wherever you please,” Holmes said. “You must know now that the days you long for can never return.”
Wovoka nodded, whether in agreement with the first statement or the last, or both, I never knew. He picked up his hat, which had rested on his knee, and settled it on his head. He nodded to Holmes again, and walked out of the tent without a glance at anyone else, and we never heard of him again.
That evening, Holmes and I rode the great Ferris wheel. We sat in the car with others, perhaps as many as fifty people, and all of us looked eastward. The fairground was bright with electric lights, and the people who streamed down the great street were tiny figures far below. We could see the outlines of imposing buildings stretching away to the dark inland sea beyond.
“I was wrong, Watson,” said Holmes at last. I had to strain to hear him. He gestured to the vista before us. “Revenge was not Wovoka’s motive. This is what he feared. This is what he wished to destroy with his final Ghost Dance.”
“But Holmes,” said I, “this sight is awe-inspiring. This is the future. Surely Wovoka must have realized that as he stood upon the car today.”
The car dipped downward. If Holmes answered, I did not hear, and we never spoke of it again.