2

Othello growled from the door of her tent.

A string of profanity and the thuds of a fight jerked her from a deep sleep the next morning. The degree of light coming through the tent walls told her it was time to get up. The fighting reminded her that something in their show world was indeed wrong, or going wrong, because fisticuffs were rare on the lot. A body crashed into the tent wall, setting the tent poles to screeching.

“All right, you two, break it up before you get a broken head,” someone called.

“He said—”

“I don’t care who said what. Keep it up and Talbot will dock your pay or send you down the road. You both been here too long to let some stupid little argument bring you down.”

Cassie recognized the voice. Shorty Simmons, second in command, could easily take the two miscreants and knock their heads together had he so desired. But he rarely used his superior size when common sense would do, like today. As the sounds of the three faded, Cassie threw back the covers on her cot and, sitting up, swung her feet to the rug to find her slippers. Dressed in a matter of minutes, she made her bed and neatened the already pristine area. As she inhaled, she realized the cloud of grief had again passed and she was back to being herself. She whistled for Othello and caught herself whistling a tune on the way to the cook tent. Micah would have already fed and watered her animals, along with all the others. Sometimes she wondered if he ever slept.

A cut lip on one and a swelling eye on the other told her who had been fighting without her needing to ask.

“Sorry if we woke you.” The dirtier of the two turned to her in the chow line.

“You better get cleaned up before Jason sees you.” She picked up her tray. “You gone crazy or something? You know the rules.”

“I know.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You heard anything? The tension around here can be cut with a sword.”

The other members of the cast thought she had an inside track to Jason Talbot, but she didn’t, and no amount of explaining had changed their minds. “Any thoughts on it?” she asked.

“Nope. Nobody has.”

Cassie filled her tray with bacon, scrambled eggs, and two biscuits, and then added a dollop of applesauce. One of the cook’s helpers would be bringing the coffeepot around to the tables. She settled down at the end of one of the tables and bowed her head for the table grace she’d learned from her Norwegian mother.

Every once in a while, she allowed herself to dream of going to Norway, the land of her mother’s birth. But more often she dreamed of the valley her father had created for her in her mind. At first the valley was his dream, but through the years it had become hers as well. They would leave the world of the Wild West shows with enough money tucked away to build a ranch in that Black Hills valley he’d discovered and raise cattle and fine horses. His big stallion, Lobos, was to have been the stud. Then Lobos had to be put down because someone fed him too much grain and he foundered. Sometime after that, her father died.

Do not think of that today, she ordered herself as she spread butter and jam on her biscuits. “Yesterday is gone, tomorrow not yet here, so live today the best you can” had been one of her mother’s favorite sayings. And today was show day. She glanced around the tent, but Uncle Jason was not at his usual table. If she allowed herself to think about it, she had to admit he didn’t make it to breakfast much anymore. Rumor had it he was sleeping off the night before, but sometimes not knowing something for sure made acceptance easier.

Was it her place to confront him? She mopped up her eggs with the biscuit. Surely not.

The feeling was even stronger that afternoon, an almost palpable miasma. Something was wrong—but what? And where could she go for answers?

Wearing her red-fringed skirt and white shirt, Cassie Lockwood studied the performers of the Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show as they lined up for the opening parade around the wide open arena. The United States flag snapped in the breeze above the uniformed riders waiting for the big wooden gates to swing open. The snorts of horses, the jingle of harnesses, the laughter of performers, and the tuning of instruments were all normal sounds. She glanced down at the scruffy dog sitting placidly by Wind Dancer’s right knee. If Othello wasn’t picking up on it, then surely the feeling was only in her head. He scented trouble faster than he did birds.

Ignore it, her mind commanded. Concentrate on the parade and getting through this performance. She went through this ritual before every performance—butterflies vaulting in her middle, her mouth as dry as a desert. At least she’d progressed to the point that her hands no longer shook. Think about something else. Her father had said he always thought of his valley, and that calmed him down. But she’d never been there. All those years he promised they would go to the valley in the Black Hills of South Dakota. But he died before he was able to keep the promise. So she’d promised him she’d go there herself. Were deathbed promises breakable? How could she ever get there, wherever there was. The thought clenched her throat. Think on something else.

The drums crashed, the trumpets blared, the gates swung open, and the performers of the internationally known company burst into the sunny outdoor arena, led by horse-mounted flag bearers. Jason Talbot, decked out in cutaway frock coat and wide-brimmed white hat, welcomed the crowd that filled not only the wooden bleachers but overflowed to line the far fences. This final afternoon performance of their stay in Dickinson, North Dakota, was off to a sparkling start. The crisp fall breeze was finally breaking the heat spell that had nearly drowned the region in stifling humidity.

As the mounted Indians nudged their horses into a gallop, Wind Dancer waited for her signal to join the racing parade. Three chuck wagons were lined up behind them, their horses tugging at their bits. The excitement was as contagious to the animals as to the human performers.

The applause swelled when Cassie passed through the gates. Some called her the Darling of the West and others the greatest sharpshooter since Annie Oakley, but her official title was the Shooting Princess, since her mother had been a member of the Norwegian royal family. Whatever the name, people flocked to watch her perform. Between trick riding and sharpshooting, she always fulfilled their high expectations. She circled the arena, waved to the crowds, and then exited the gates to wait for the pioneer and Wild West scenes to be presented.

Knowing it would be about an hour before her turn in the ring, Cassie dismounted in front of her tent and tied her pinto to the hitching post. She leaned against his shoulder, waiting for her heart to return to normal. Giving him a good brushing would soothe both of them. She pulled off Wind Dancer’s saddle and breast collar, setting them on the other end of the rail, and went for a brush and currycomb.

Othello flopped down in the shade of the tent after scratching one ear with a long hind leg. He was not the most handsome dog around, but he more than made up for his looks in the brain department. He often knew what she was going to do next before she did. Between Wind Dancer and Othello, Cassie knew she had the most stalwart and faithful friends anyone could have. And George, of course. Wouldn’t that be a lark if she let him in the arena to follow her around like he did in the corral? The big bad bull buffalo. Her smile at the thought released some of the tension in her neck.

After a brushing, a wipe-down with a cloth, and a nuzzle from her horse, she checked her guns and ammunition. When she heard the applause after the attack on the settlers’ cabin, she replaced her tack and mounted to head back to the arena, her heart rate kicking up again, no matter how many deep breaths she sucked in to try to keep it from happening.

“You have everything?” Micah asked, picking up the leather satchels that contained her guns. Though Micah spent most of his time caring for the animals, he made it a point to recheck Cassie’s gear and make sure it was where it was supposed to be at showtime.

“Thanks, Micah. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

As a matter of habit, and to help her calm down, she let her gaze rove over the performers and back-lot hands as they went about their assigned duties. The performance was proceeding as normal, but something was wrong—she was sure of it. If only her father were there to talk this over with. After her mother died, her father often said he didn’t see how he could live without the wife he adored, so it wasn’t entirely unexpected when he had an attack of pneumonia while they were touring in England and soon died. Cassie had stayed with the Lockwood and Talbot Show because she knew no other life, and Uncle Jason had pleaded with her to stay and promised he would always watch out for her, just as he’d promised her father.

The exit gate swung open, and the performers poured out.

“Easy, boy.” Cassie tightened the reins as she and Wind Dancer waited for their signal to enter. Never sure who was more impatient, she or her mount, she swallowed again, counting the beats of the fife and drum so they’d enter at exactly the right moment. “Six, five, four, three, two, one. Go!”

Wind Dancer leaped forward and hit his stride as they breezed through their mounted shooting act. Wrapping the reins around the saddle horn, she drew her revolvers and nailed the targets as they galloped by. Then, coming around the far side of the arena, she swung down to the side and shot from under the pinto’s neck, setting a line of bells ringing. Horse and rider slid to a stop in the center of the ring, and slipping her pistols back into her holsters, she waved to the crowd, turned, and did the same again.

As the horse kept his hindquarters in one spot and spun around with his front legs, she pulled the rifle from the scabbard at her left knee and downed each of the clay pigeons that shot into the air, then nudged Wind Dancer into a lope and blew the heads off three puppets as they popped up from behind a wooden wall. Had her equine partner been off even a whisker, she’d have failed. Cassie hated failure worse than anything, fighting anger if she missed a shot and spending hours practicing so it wouldn’t happen again.

Cassie absolutely forbade any trickery in her act. No one was ringing the bells if she missed or breaking the glass balls if her shots were off. She had a reputation to uphold, much like her hero, Annie Oakley. Cassie started trick riding at the age of six on the back of her pony with her trick-riding father and mother as her coaches. The three of them had been billed as the Dashing Lockwoods after they introduced her into their act when she was seven. She’d been the darling of the Wild West Show ever since.

Growing up in a world-renowned show gave Cassie a different kind of education than most young people received. Her father insisted she learn reading and arithmetic, but touring the great shrines of Europe also gave her an up-close view of history, art, and geography.

Wind Dancer again slid to a stop in the center of the arena, and both of them bowed after she dismounted. She gave him a pat on the rump and waved him toward the exit, through which he galloped, applause following him. Cassie continued her act by shooting an apple off her dog’s head and the ashes off a cigarette smoked by her current assistant, Joe Bingham. After reloading her six-shooters, she split plates and performed a variety of other shooting feats before the black-and-white pinto tore back into the arena. She caught the saddle horn to swing aboard and executed several more riding tricks while galloping around the arena, waving her hat before once again bowing in the center. This time as her horse raced toward the exit gate, she stayed mounted and rode out to thunderous applause.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is our final act for today,” Jason Talbot shouted over the cheers.

Three chuck wagons suddenly burst into the arena.

“Pardon me, folks, but those cowboys insist on a chuck-wagon race, so hang on to your hats.”

Cassie barely heard Uncle Jason’s voice, but she well knew what he was saying. She dismounted by her tent and let Wind Dancer rub his forehead against her shoulder, all the while telling him what a good horse he was and inhaling deep breaths to calm herself.

“Great, as always.” Joe Bingham slapped his wide-brimmed felt hat against his thigh. “Working with you has made me a real believer in not smoking.”

“I saw you flinch. Not much but enough for me to notice.”

“Just can’t get used to a bullet flying that close to my nose. The urge to duck and run . . . it’s all I can do to stand there.”

“At least no one else would know that.” After unbuckling the chest collar, she uncinched her saddle and pulled it from the horse’s back. Joe took it and carried it into her tent to place it on the stand built especially for it. Cassie removed the silver-studded bridle and buckled a halter in place instead. Brushing Wind Dancer helped her relax after the high tension of her act.

Her father had always told her to take care of her own horse and equipment, to not give the job to someone whose life did not depend on top performance from everything associated with her act. Micah had stepped in to help her, as her backup. It never hurt to have a second pair of eyes and hands to make sure nothing was forgotten.

She’d never gone a day without thinking about her father, and after her act even more so. They used to replay their acts in their minds to see if there was any place that needed tightening or if there was something new that could be added. While she enjoyed the competition of shooting matches in both the States and in Europe, this kind of show took another type of preparation and practice. When she was shooting in a match, it was just her and her guns—and her competitors, of course. But a successful show involved all the other performers and support personnel around her.

“Father, if you could give me an inkling of what I’m sensing, I’d sure appreciate it.” She wasn’t sure if she was speaking to her dead pa or to her living heavenly Father, whom she’d met early on at her mother’s knee.

“You going to the meeting?” Joe asked.

“What meeting?”

“In the food tent. A sign was posted at breakfast.”

“What’s the meeting for?”

“I have no idea. Didn’t you read the sign?”

“Didn’t notice it. Who called the meeting?”

“Jason, I’m sure. Who else would?”

The little worm of concern popped up its head again. “Receipts were good, weren’t they?”

“A crowd like we had today should help make up for the last couple of shows.” People hadn’t come out as much in the rain like they had in Bismarck the week before. They should have put up the big tents, but the days had started out sunny. Performing in the open arenas made the show seem more realistic.

Why did the idea of a meeting bother her? Perhaps because so often Uncle Jason used a meeting as a place to announce bad news.

Prescient, her mother had often called her. On days like today, prescience was not a comfortable trait to have.

“You need some help, or should I go check on the others?”

She knew Joe had a sweet spot for April, one of the women who played a white settler during a staged Indian attack as well as a pioneer woman on the Oregon Trail. Joe played the part of the wagon master on the trail and was a Union soldier in the attack by Indians. Most of the actors played various parts. The more they played, the better their chances of staying on for more than one season. Headliners like Cassie were paid better wages for a week than most men could earn in a couple of months. Cassie happily gave Jason most of her earnings so that he could reinvest them in the show. He always promised her that when she needed her money, it would be there for her.

“You go on. I’m going to clean my guns before supper.” She didn’t add “and the meeting,” but it hung there between them. Joe was concerned too, but he tried not to show it.

“Okay.”

She watched him walk away, the slight limp he’d earned from being stomped on by a bucking bronco more obvious when he was tired or upset. As they’d added more rodeo-type events to the program, more of the men were bearing the scars of flying falls. Calf roping and steer dogging weren’t quite as dangerous.

After Micah had taken Wind Dancer back to the rope strung between several trees where the horses were tied and fed, she brought out her cleaning supplies and, using the top of her trunk for a table, set to cleaning her guns, starting with the pistols and finishing with the twenty-gauge shotgun. Her favorite was her Marlin lever-action rifle, with the etching of a valley on the silver-plated receiver on the stock. Her father’s valley of dreams had become her own. Someday she would find that valley and make his dream of breeding horses, particularly the Indian Appaloosas, and raising cattle come true.

Someday they would have a home.

When the gunpowder and lead residue were cleaned out and her guns lubricated, she wrapped them in soft cotton and laid them in the leather satchels, ready for the next performance. The ringing of the supper bell brought Othello to his feet. He stretched and glanced over his shoulder to make sure she got the point.

“I’m coming.” She set the satchels inside the tent and, after making sure nothing was out of place, set off for the dull gray mess tent that once had been white. As she walked, she glanced at the painted wagon her father and mother used to live in. Uncle Jason had appropriated it after the funeral, sending Cassie to live with an aging pair of performers, Mac and Miz Mac. The gilt was in need of polishing, and the paint could use some freshening up, but everyone still called it the Gypsy Wagon, as her father had christened it many years ago. The name, Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show, arching over a charging buffalo, still stood for quality and fair treatment for all members of the organization.

Lately, however, she’d heard some grumblings, especially from the show Indians, most of whom were hired on a seasonal basis. A few had become permanent members, like Chief, who drove the Gypsy Wagon in the opening parade.

Why did these thoughts keep plaguing her? “Come on, Othello, let’s get our food and go eat.” She broke into a dog trot and laughed when he gamboled beside her. “We need to go hunting one of these days. You think Micah would like to go along?”

“Go along where?” Joe asked, falling into a jog beside her.

“Hunting. Othello said he wanted to go hunting. For birds, of course.” Cassie had never shot anything larger and had no intention of ever doing so.

Joe rolled his eyes and shook his head. “How come no one understands that dog but you?”

“Friends are like that,” she said, slowing to a walk. “He doesn’t flinch when I shoot the apple off his head.”

“I told you—”

She raised a hand to stop him. “I was just teasing.”

“Oh.” Joe glanced down to see Othello staring up at him. “I didn’t yell at her, so don’t go glarin’ at me.” He muttered more under his breath but stopped when Othello bumped his leg with a sturdy nose.

“You know his hearing is far stronger than ours.”

“And his nose and—”

“What set you off?” A grin broke across her face. “April didn’t want any help—is that it?”

He stepped back and motioned for her to enter the tent before him.

She tossed a grin over her shoulder. “Sorry.”

“You are not.” He stepped back again when Othello paused and his tail stopped wagging. “All right.”

After the last person was served and before the early diners got up to leave, Jason Talbot stood up from the table off to the north corner that had become his. “Folks,” he called. When the din continued, he raised his voice and clapped his hands. “I have an announcement to make.” He paused and waited. Slowly the troupe quieted and stared at him, waiting.

“Much to my sorrow, I have to tell you that this has been the final performance of the Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show. Pick up your pay envelopes. We are just not making enough money to cover expenses, and there is nothing else I can do but close the doors.”

Cassie stared at him, her stomach wrapping around itself. Surely this couldn’t be.

Not like this.