AT FIRST JIM SUPPOSED THAT HE WAS BEING MADE THE BUTT of a joke—or at least that Bartle was trying to trick him when he came running up claiming to have found beaver in London. Jim had been watching some skinny men with turbans feeding the elephants when Bartle jumped out of a buggy and came running across the park.
Naturally Jim was startled—it had been several years since he’d seen Bartle look so excited. For a moment he feared there might have been a killing. Everyone’s nerves were on edge, waiting for the Jubilee to start—it would not be surprising if a killing resulted. Calamity was in an erratic state, up one day and down the next; she might well have shot someone in a saloon.
So when Bartle came out with his news, Jim didn’t believe it.
“It’s true,” Bartle insisted. “They’ve got at least twenty beaver, maybe more.”
“In the middle of a city?” Jim said. “Have you been to the opium den, or are you just drunk?”
“No, they’re beaver from Canada, just like the ones you want to catch,” Bartle said. “They’ve got them in a big pond. There’s some muskrats, too.”
“Well, I don’t doubt the muskrats,” Jim said. “You’ll see muskrats anywhere.”
“I guess you’d sneer at Moses!” Bartle said, exasperated with Jim’s skepticism. “They call the place a zoo. It’s as if old Noah unloaded his ark right there—there’s every kind of creature you’ve ever heard of and plenty that you haven’t.”
No Ears was standing nearby; he found the information interesting.
“Where do the beaver live?” he asked.
“In a beaver house, just as if they were in the Tetons or anyplace,” Bartle said.
Jim didn’t really believe it, and No Ears had his doubts, but Bartle certainly believed it, and Bartle should know a beaver when he saw one. Jim decided he might as well see for himself. He asked No Ears to come with them. If they got lost, as was certainly possible in a confusing city such as London, three heads might be better than two, even if one of the heads was earless.
Jim felt dull, as he had for most of the trip. Certainly London was an unusual place, and he was being treated well—still, he felt dull. Bartle scampered about, seeing the city, but Jim mostly stayed with the show, reminiscing with the cowboys or some of the older Indians, particularly Two Hawks, a Brule Sioux almost as old as No Ears. Two Hawks knew more particulars about the Custer battle than anyone Jim had yet encountered. It was an odd thing to admit, but after nearly forty years of hiding from Indians or living in fear of Indians, Indians were turning out to be the only people left he could trust.
He didn’t really believe there were any beaver in London—it was just another of Bartle’s jokes. Bartle was drunk most of the time, and was incapable of the truth even when he was sober. It was so foggy when they got to the big park that at first Jim merely concentrated on keeping his bearings. They had scarcely stepped out of the bus when a man on a large bicycle nearly ran into them; he had a little horn on his bicycle that squawked rather like a goose, and he squawked it at them impatiently, as if they had no right to be there.
“Dern, this fog’s solid,” Bartle said. “I have never seen such a place for fog—one minute you can see where you’re going, and the next minute you can’t.”
The damp, cottony fog hovered near the ground. No Ears couldn’t see much, but he could smell a great deal, and what he smelled startled him. He had long since developed a kind of index of animal smells, keen enough to alert him in case he was approached by an unfriendly animal, such as a bear, on a dark night. What startled him was that the smells coming to him through the cottony fog were not contained in his index at all. Clearly there were animals around, but they were not animals he was familiar with.
No Ears felt rather alarmed—for one thing, he smelled large birds, and ever since the great cranes had come and lurked around him waiting to snatch his soul, he had not been comfortable around large birds. The fact that he could not see the birds made the matter more chancy.
Jim Ragg felt a little disgusted with himself for having let Bartle lead him astray so easily. As far as he was concerned, the fog explained everything. Everyone knew what an encouragement fog was to people with too much imagination. If you stared into a fog too long you would see whatever you wanted to see, or more commonly, whatever you didn’t want to see. Even experienced frontiersmen had been known to empty their guns into a fog, convinced that they saw Indians sneaking up. Once, on the Red River of the North, he and Bartle had seen a heavy river fog produce complete panic in a crew of keel-boaters, who, of all people, should have understood the distracting properties of fog. One keelboater looked into the fog too hard, thought he saw an Indian; soon every man in the boat was firing wildly. When the fog cleared, all that was there was the waving grass.
Bartle, no doubt drunk, had seen a muskrat slide into a ditch and had proceeded to conjure up beaver. But now they were there, trapped in the fog, and there was nothing for it but to try and find their way back to the encampment.
The three men inched along, taking care to stay together. For several minutes they saw nothing. No Ears felt particularly unhappy with the fog; it was so dense that his soul might well leave without his even noticing it. The mountain men, only a yard away, might not notice either.
Then they all heard a snuffle, a little to their left. Bartle put out his hand and felt a fence. The snuffle had sounded somewhat cowlike; on the other hand it had not sounded like a normal cow.
“Don’t worry, boys,” Bartle said. “There’s a fence between us and it.”
“It has a powerful smell,” No Ears said. “It smells worse than dead muskrats.”
“Well, it’s just that musk-ox,” Bartle said. “I seen it yesterday. They’ve got it in with another smelly creature.”
No Ears noticed that the fog was rising. He could see the mountain men’s legs—then, farther along the path, he could see several pairs of hurrying legs, belonging, he supposed, to English people who were so accustomed to the fog that they knew how to walk through it without harm. A stream of sunlight slanted down, making a white band in the smoky fog. He could vaguely see two beasts standing very close to them. The beast that stood closest and smelled the worst seemed to be composed almost entirely of hair. It had two thick, curving horns, but otherwise was entirely covered with thick, smelly hair—it did not even seem to have eyes. It merely lived inside its hair. Beside it stood a smaller beast, also very hairy. To No Ears’s astonishment, a boy appeared beside the two beasts; the boy began to pull hay out of a cart. He dumped the hay in front of the two beasts, who ignored it. The boy scratched the smaller beast’s back, but the beast paid no attention.
“Hey, what sort of buffalo are these?” Bartle asked the boy. “And which way to the beaver, may I ask?”
The boy was so surprised at the sight of them that he almost ran away. He had not expected to see two mountain men and an old Indian without ears staring at him while he did his work.
“This is our musk-ox and our yak,” he said nervously, once he had recovered from his surprise.
Jim Ragg studied the musk-ox closely. He thought it would be a task to kill it; both the horns and the hair looked capable of stopping a bullet. The other animal looked about as dumb as a buffalo, if more heavily padded.
“What about the beaver?” Bartle asked again. “My compañero here ain’t convinced you’ve got any beaver.”
“Oh, we’ve got ’em, but I wish we didn’t,” the boy said. “I don’t like to get near ’em, because of those big teeth. They bite right through wood—I don’t want one of them biting through me.”
Jim was startled. The boy knew what a beaver looked like, obviously. Maybe there were beaver in the park—but what an odd place to find them, with the streets of London just a few strides away.
No Ears had a scare. Across the path from where they stood, he saw a large pink bird standing on one leg. The bird was almost as large as the great cranes, but the great cranes were gray and this bird was pink. While he watched, the bird put down his other leg and walked into what remained of the fog. No Ears was glad the bird had chosen to leave; still, a large pink bird was a disquieting thing to encounter. He began to wish he had stayed in camp and watched the elephants.
“Keep going, them beaver are to the left, you kind of curve around once you pass the hippo,” the boy said.
Jim picked up the pace immediately—the fog was breaking and there was no longer much danger of getting lost. No Ears stopped dead when he saw the hippo. At first it looked like a beast made of mud—very ugly. The English seemed to have made an effort to collect ugly beasts—the musk-ox and the yak had been fairly ugly, though not as ugly as the muddy hippo, which he took to be a kind of mud pig.
Bartle enjoyed the hippo and stopped with No Ears to watch it for a bit. Jim Ragg hurried on. The path curved, as the boy said it would; even before he saw the beaver he heard a sound he had not heard in many years: the slap of a beaver’s tail on water. A little fog still drifted across the surface of the pond when he heard the beaver slap the water; it was a sound he had first heard on the Platte as a boy of sixteen; it was the sound that had called him on, deeper and deeper into the west, to the Missouri and then the Yellowstone, all the way to the dangerous Bitterroot; then it became a sound he heard less and less often as the beaver vanished from the Bitterroot and the Tongue, from the golden Madison valley, from Wyoming, from Colorado; the last time he had heard the beaver’s slap was high in the Medicine Bow forest more than ten years before. He had listened for it in vain ever since—but here it was, at last!
As he walked down to the pond a fat, shiny beaver, floating on its back, looked up at him, unafraid; through the lifting fog he saw a large beaver house as impressive as any on the Platte or any other stream.
“Beaver,” he said aloud, startling a woman who walked past under an umbrella.
When Bartle and No Ears tired of the hippopotamus and walked on along the path, they saw Jim Ragg sitting on the grass by the pool, watching the prime Canadian beaver swim around. Occasionally, just for the sport of it, one would slap the water with its tail.
Bartle stopped a discreet distance away—his old compañero would probably just feel embarrassed if they approached him at such a time. After all, a long search had ended—best just to leave the man alone.
No Ears was happy to leave him alone, and the beaver, too—he wanted to see what other ugly animals the English had put in their pasture.
“I guess we’ll know where to find old Jim for the next few days,” Bartle said, as they watched a small herd of striped goats climb on some rocks. “He’ll be a while getting enough of the beaver.”
“I wonder where that pink bird went,” No Ears said, but he had scarcely spoken before he looked around and received a worse shock still. A bird far larger than any he had seen in his life came trotting along the path they were on, pulling a small buggy with two children and a woman in it. Looking more closely, No Ears found that he could not be sure that the approaching creature was even a bird. Its legs were scaly like a bird’s, and longer than the legs of some horses; its body was the size of a small pig’s, and covered with feathers, yet the creature did not seem to have wings and showed no interest in flying. It trotted along as rapidly as a pony; it had a long neck and a bald head, and it looked at them angrily—yet it had consented to pull the buggy with two boys and a rather fat woman in it. The little boys wore neckties and caps. No Ears had seen many angry birds in his lifetime, including several very angry eagles and some bad roosters, but he had never seen a bird that looked as fierce and unfriendly as the large creature pulling the buggy. The same boy who had been feeding the musk-ox sat on the seat of the small buggy, guiding the huge bird by means of a little bridle.
Bartle and No Ears stepped aside and the creature passed without attempting to do them harm.
“They call that an ostrich,” Bartle volunteered. “They sell rides in that buggy—I took one yesterday. It’ll pull you all around the zoo.”
“If it is a bird I would like to see its egg,” No Ears said.
“It’s a bird,” Bartle assured him. “I don’t know if it’s a cock or a hen.”
“Do you think it could fly away with that buggy?” No Ears asked. It seemed to him that people were very foolish to risk themselves in a buggy pulled by such a bird. Of course, the bird did not seem to have wings, but then it was a very strange bird and might have some means of flight that didn’t involve wings. Its legs seemed very powerful; perhaps it could merely jump into the air and float for a while. He had often seen birds floating on the air, but this was not an ability people had. The little boys in their neat caps would undoubtedly fall out of the buggy and die if the bird suddenly leaped into the sky.
“It’s a heavy bird,” Bartle said. “I doubt it can fly. I’ve seen grouse so fat they couldn’t fly.”
No Ears felt that the issue of whether the great bird could fly was only one of many issues that he would need to consider before he could feel at ease in the English people’s collection of strange and ugly animals. Though he disliked Sitting Bull, he thought he might invite Sitting Bull and one or two of the more mature Indians to visit the park and observe the ugly animals. At least he would then have someone to confer with who understood animals. No whites that he had met really understood animals, though they could be quite skilled at killing them. He had only been in the zoo place a few minutes and already had seen more unfamiliar animals than he had encountered in a lifetime on the plains.
“I think we should go back to the camp,” he said to Bartle. “I don’t want to be pulled in a buggy by that large bird.”
What he needed was time in which to think about the animals he had already seen. None of them would take as much thought as the great whale fish, but that didn’t mean it would be wise to ignore them. That was the mistake all white people, and even some red people, made: ignoring animals. Animals had far too much power just to ignore.
No Ears didn’t want to see any more unusual creatures until he could collect his thoughts regarding the ones he had already seen—but he and Bartle were in the middle of the zoo place, and before they could make their way to the street he saw a number of sights that added considerably to all that he needed to think about. He passed a huge cage that contained what appeared to be a tribe of tiny, hairy men who jumped around and chattered in their own language and climbed trees. Bartle said the furry men were called monkeys.
Then they passed a very large furry man, sitting in a cage doing nothing, and several cages containing huge, sleeping cats, some striped and some with manes like buffaloes. No Ears was glad the large cats were asleep. He tried to hurry Bartle along and paid no attention when Bartle tried to tell him the names of the many creatures. He had too much to think about as it was without worrying himself immediately with the names of every beast. They were almost out of the park—he could hear the clatter of horses in the street—when they passed a little pen containing another creature so strange that it simply could not be ignored. This one walked slowly, like a porcupine, and had a long snout like a tube. No Ears thought it might be a tiny elephant of some kind, but Bartle told him it was an anteater. He claimed the beast used its long snout to reach down into anthills and suck up ants. It was a good-sized beast and would probably need to suck in a great many ants in order to keep itself fed. No Ears wondered if the boy whose job it was to give hay to the hair-beasts and to drive the buggy behind the great fierce bird also had to find ants in sufficient supply to sustain the large anteater. If so, he would have to do some hard looking because the ground in England seemed too wet to contain very many ants. If the boy did find them, how did he collect them and take them to the anteater without being badly stung? No place he had ever been raised as many questions as the English zoo place.
“I hope that pink bird left,” he remarked when he and Bartle were safely in one of the bus-buggies on their way back to the encampment.
“Oh, it just walked off, I guess,” Bartle said. “There’s a little lake or two that I didn’t show you. Jim was too eager to get on to the beavers.”
Soon they were back in the camp. Bartle went off to look for Calamity to see if she was in the mood for cards, or perhaps would rather pay a visit to the music halls. No Ears was glad to be left in peace. He settled down by one of the big baggage wagons to smoke and begin to sort through the problems posed by the existence of so many strange animals.
On the bank of a pond in the zoo, Jim sat happily all day watching the beavers slap their tails, and float, and dive, and rise. He stayed until darkness hid the pond, and even then sat for a while listening to the sound of beaver.
Darling Jane—
I done the seance, Janey. It was in a part of London where the houses are all black from coal, the children look like they’re starving and are all black as soot. The beggars are everywhere, London swarms with them. I didn’t care for the trip, I don’t like to see people that poor. They make the Shoshone look like millionaires.
The little woman who ran the seance was twisted, her back had been broken. Doc Ramses said she fell off a train, certainly she was unusual. She reminded me of the old Mexican woman in Miles City who tells fortunes. The Mexican woman had a goose, this one had a pig, it was a well-behaved pig I must say. The old woman fed it orange peels while we were waiting for the dead people to speak.
It was just me and Doc Ramses and No Ears who went. Jim won’t leave the beavers now, and Bartle was going to take Annie Oakley a bouquet or some present. He is still wooing her, it will do no good—Annie Oakley don’t care for Bartle. She is the best shot in the world, and Bartle is just an old mountain man with a nice beard. I am a little unfair to Bartle, he has been a good friend to me—there’s no doubt he’s vain about his beard though.
Doc Ramses keeps looking at me funny, he thinks he knows my secret—he don’t, Janey, nobody knows my secret. When you are older I will attempt to tell you, you will understand then that when I got the nickname Calamity in some ways it ain’t far wrong. Little Doc Ramses may be able to see the future but he can’t see my secret, Janey, no one can. If he expects to put me in a freak show he has chosen the wrong person and I will tell him so if he becomes too bold.
It was a dark little house, just lit with candles. I was nervous about the pig at first. There was another person there when we came in, I suspect he was a banker, he was very well dressed. He wanted to contact his wife who had drowned herself—he was telling her that he missed her, that the children cried all day—it is terrible that a mother of children would do that, Janey, drown herself, yet people do it, they get too sad and can imagine no other way out. This banker was a broken man, pleading with his wife to come back from heaven, of course she can’t, she’s gone.
I was awake all night, trying to think of what to say to your father if the seance worked—it only worked for No Ears, he soon began to talk in the old Sioux language. Later I asked him if he was talking to his wives or his children, he said no he was only talking to the old woman he saved the day the traders cut off his ears. He had not meant to speak to the old woman, he really wanted a few words with Black Kettle, the old chief Custer killed on the Washita. No Ears said Black Kettle was an old friend but instead of Black Kettle the old woman started talking, she said the spirit place was no happier than earth. Hearing that has made No Ears determined to stick it out another few years.
I didn’t try to contact your father, Janey, I got shy, I felt he might not want to be bothered—why would the dead want to be bothered, they’re at peace—at least they’re dead, it would be a strain for them to have to hold a conversation with someone they hadn’t thought of in years.
I thought though I would try to have a parlay with Wind River Bill, the curtains blew and I heard a sound like the wind coming, but I didn’t hear Wind River Bill, not a word. I told the old woman I wanted my money back, I gave her some English money. She got on a high horse and refused—she said the man I wanted to speak to wasn’t even dead, of course he didn’t answer. If it turns out she’s right and Wind River Bill ain’t dead he’s going to get a slap from me next time I see him. He hasn’t been around in ten years, what kind of friend is that? Of course he could be in Texas.
I let the old woman keep the money, she can buy oranges and peel them for her pig, having a twisted back must be very painful.
The Jubilee opens tomorrow Janey, there will be a grand parade and your mother will be in it. They say there will be a crowd such as never has been gathered on earth. Chiefs have come from everywhere, a few too many chiefs, maybe, war nearly broke out between our Indians and some that came over from Canada. Sitting Bull wanted to start the war, he lived in Canada for a while when he was on the run after the Greasy Grass. He claims the Canada Indians didn’t give him enough help, what that probably means is they didn’t give him enough presents, he is annoyed because the horse they gave him died. Sitting Bull expects too much, of course all horses die, this one just died immediately, I guess—that would be enough to make him hate the Canada Indians forever.
On Saturday we are going to do our show for the Queen. I am riding shotgun on the Deadwood stage, it shouldn’t be too hard, all I have to do is shoot off blanks when the Indians come up whooping and hollering to assault us. Texas Jack is going to drive the stage, and Bartle and Jim will be passengers—if you ask me that’s ridiculous, they were supposed to be Lewis and Clark and the Deadwood stage wasn’t running when Lewis and Clark passed through. I may be wrong about that Janey—I know little history but I think Lewis and Clark had to walk all the way to the ocean and back—of course they might have ridden in a boat part of the way.
A man named Buntline showed up, a writer, I met him once, years ago. He has bought me two meals already, he says he wants to write up my adventures when we get home. He says he has already written more than a dozen adventures about Billy Cody—they are big sellers, he says. Stanley was here also—I am confused about Stanley, I thought he was just a newspaper man but Bartle says he is a big explorer. He was telling Bartle stories about Africa, now Bartle wants to stop there on our way home.
I miss Dora so much Janey—I have had no news of Dakota at all, Montana either—sometimes my heart beats fast at night if I have a bad dream. I wake up thinking what if Dora’s dead when I get home, what would I do? Of course she was perfectly well when I left, I have no reason to be fearful, still I am Janey. Dora is not very strong, Blue is right not to subject her to the hard ranch life, she might not last.
Buntline and Doc Ramses don’t get along—Doc claims Bunt-line cheated Billy on some of the adventure books. He had better not cheat me, I will set him back on his heels if he does, or maybe flat on his back. Buntline is persistent he says he will make me richer than I have ever been. Ha, it would not take much to make me richer than I have ever been, Janey. I pointed out to him that I have never been exactly well-to-do, not in the class of Lillie Langtry or some other great actress, right now I only have two dollars and I borrowed those from Bartle. Annie Oakley is the one who is rich.
The big news is that Jim Ragg finally found beaver, they’re in a zoo. I have been there twice to see them, everyone has to go to please Jim. Everyone but Texas Jack that is, he says he has no desire ever to see another beaver. That annoyed Jim. It was not mannerly of Jack to say that, but then Jack has never stooped over very far to please anyone, he is like your father in that regard. Wild Bill would have said something in the same vein, he was never known to say excuse me or anything polite in his life. Sometimes I think Jack Omohundro is trying to imitate your father, Janey. He’s grown a mustache just like Bill Hickok’s. Jack claims they were friends but I never heard your father mention Jack Omohundro.
I hope Buntline does write up my adventures, at least I would have a little more money to contribute to your schooling, also I could help Dora—I could pay my rent for a change. When this Wild West show ends I will just be adrift again, Jim and Bartle too. We’re all getting old, Janey, Jim looks like an old man and Bartle is not much better, none of us are feeling well, we are not used to this English damp. The only one thriving is Billy Cody, I don’t know where Billy gets his pep, but he’s got plenty. He’s the toast of London, he goes out every night—they all want to hear how he scalped Yellow Hand. Jack don’t get invited nearly as much, naturally he is jealous. Billy even met Lillie Langtry. He brought her to camp one day, my, she was elegant—I got shy and didn’t meet her, I looked too rough. I hid behind a wagon but I got a good look at her as Billy was helping her into her buggy, she has servants to attend her just like the Queen.
Wish me luck in the show Janey, I don’t know why I ask, of course the show will long be over before you read this. Still it is comforting to think my daughter would wish me luck. I just hope the stage don’t turn over, I have always been nervous when riding in stagecoaches.
Your mother,
Martha Jane