“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
4
LORD WINDHOUVEREN, ATTENDED BY SEVERAL GUN-handlers, several journalists, his footman, his valet, and six boys from the kitchen—the boys were to set up a splendid picnic lunch for himself, the Prince of Wales, and anyone noble who might show up—waited in perfect confidence for the arrival of the American team, if a single girl and a few rough attendants could be called a team. There was a rather stiff breeze from the south, but Lord Windhouveren—generally acknowledged to be the best shot in England—expected no difficulty. Let the Oakley girl worry about the breeze.
A shooting match was scheduled, each gun to shoot at one thousand thrown targets. At his club the night before, there had been some discussion of the number. Several experienced guns were there, men who had hunted in every corner of the Empire, and all doubted that the number would ever be reached. Seldenham, himself a notable shot, felt sure the young lady would have enough before they had even thrown two hundred pigeons. All the gentlemen were perfectly polite and none had any wish to insult Miss Oakley; she had comported herself far better than the other Americans who came with the Wild West show—possibly excepting Buffalo Bill himself. He was clearly a presentable fellow, though the lamentable horse race at Ascot in which the English jockey was disgraced had lodged resentments in many breasts.
Lord Windhouveren felt a modest pride in having been chosen to avenge the silly horse race—he had always felt that horse-flesh was unpredictable, nothing the nation should place its confidence in. Once a horse had stepped hard on his foot; three of his toenails eventually had to be removed, and the aggravation had caused him to look askance at horses ever since. Guns were another matter. Point a gun correctly and it would do its work; of no horse, so far as he knew, could the same be said.
Now, as he watched the American party approach in several buggies, followed by their own team of pressmen, he had no doubt whatever that his marksmanship would prevail, and he felt a distinct impatience to get on with the event. He did hope the Prince of Wales would arrive promptly, but he had known Prince Edward for many years and knew that, while he might hope for a prompt arrival, it would be foolish to expect it. Prince Edward was known throughout the world for his princely unpunctuality.
Annie Oakley had forbidden old Bartle to speak to her on the way to the match; Jack Omohundro was also warned to let her be, and Billy Cody had been consigned to another carriage, since there was no hope of keeping him quiet. Annie detested chatter before a match, and didn’t welcome it after. Men might fall in love with her as much as they liked; she had no objection to bouquets and sweets and would even accept a muff or a pretty fan now and then, but she always made sure it was clearly understood that they all had to stand back and stow their sweetheart talk when she was preparing to shoot. She was, after all, a married woman, and happily married, too. She didn’t want silly words pouring in her ears—she wanted to concentrate. When she concentrated she saw sharp mental pictures of herself making perfect shots. There would be the sky, then a target would fly across it, a gun barrel would quickly catch up with the flying target, and the target would break to bits. Her mental pictures were soundless, and her shooting was as soundless as she could make it by fitting cotton plugs of her own devising into her ears. Once her eyes found the target the gun would swing precisely and the target would explode.
Bartle thought Annie Oakley was as pretty a woman as a man could want—of course there was Lillie Langtry, but Lillie Langtry might as well be an angel for all the chance he had with her. Annie was not in heaven, she was right there in the buggy, pretty and pert, if rather steely in her demeanor. Of course, she had her match to think of, whereas he could take a more relaxed approach and mostly think of her.
By the time they had the guns unpacked, the ammunition laid out, and small barrels of water to cool the gun barrels rolled into place, quite a crowd had gathered. Stanley was there, and Buntline, and Russel of the Times. Stanley shadowed Bill Cody—his interest was, in the main, stars—but Russell of the Times preferred to interrogate the mountain men. He was an unkempt fellow in a shabby brown coat, himself not much different in appearance from a mountain man. Texas Jack regarded him with distaste and walked off upwind so as not to be required to smell him.
“Men, do you think Miss Oakley has a chance?” Russell asked.
Bartle considered the question impertinent. “What sort of gent are you?” he asked.
Jim Ragg was loading Annie’s gun. He ignored the palaver.
“I am no gent, I’m a reporter,” Russell replied. “If Lord Windhouveren loses, he will have to leave the country—the disgrace will finish him. Is Miss Oakley up to it?”
Annie herself was pulling on her shooting gloves. She had nodded politely to Lord Windhouveren and then stepped away from the crowd. She wanted to keep her mental pictures sharp. She put the cotton plugs in her ears, arranging them carefully so they wouldn’t give her an earache. Texas Jack had positioned himself near the trap containing the clay pigeons. By focusing just to his left she would see the targets the moment they left the trap. She didn’t need to hear anyone say “Pull!” She only needed to see the targets promptly. Texas Jack wore a black shirt, which would contrast well with the white clay targets. Annie felt quite relaxed, as she always did when it came time to shoot. The mountain men might look old and dirty, but they knew guns. They knew when to cool a barrel. All she had to do was take the guns and break the targets.
Bartle felt that Russell of the Times must be exaggerating with his talk of the English gent having to leave home if he lost—though it was true that the crowd at Ascot had jeered the poor jockey brutally when he lost the race. He was just a poor jockey, though, not a great gent like Lord Windhouveren.
“Annie’s up to it,” Bartle said. “I hope the gentleman has got a nice place picked out to move to, if he’s that set on moving.”
“Lord Windhouveren once killed nine hundred grouse in a day,” Russell remarked.
“Oh, well, Billy Cody killed six hundred buffalo in less time than that,” Bartle said, exaggerating considerably out of national pride. “And Annie Oakley can outshoot Billy Cody blindfolded, or folded any other way you want to fold her.”
“I can outshoot Billy Cody,” Jim Ragg said, annoyed by Bartle’s tendency to always brag on Billy. “And I’m just a tolerable shot.”
Fifty birds had been thrown when Prince Edward and his retinue drove up. Prince Edward felt sleepy and a little dyspeptic; still, he was determined to witness Windhouveren’s triumph. The man had often had him to Scotland to shoot, and the arrangements had been excellent. Miss Oakley, of course, was not unappealing; at moments the Prince found her quite appealing, but that was another matter. She could hardly expect to triumph over Windhouveren, a man who had brought down nine hundred grouse in a day. It gave the Prince a bit of a start to have it whispered to him that at fifty pigeons Windhouveren had missed three times, while Miss Oakley had yet to m
iss.
“Perhaps he had a late night,” Prince Edward said to his companion, Daisy, Countess of Warwick. “I’m sure he’ll brace up presently.”
Lord Windhouveren did brace up. He broke forty-eight targets in a row before missing twice more. Unfortunately, Miss Oakley had yet to miss. She did miss the hundredth shot, but that still left him four behind.
“She handles her gun admirably,” he said to his handlers. “I expect I’ll catch her this hundred.”
Still, he didn’t feel quite right. His Purdeys refused to swing quite as smoothly as they always had. Changing guns seemed to make no difference. There was something about the small figure of Annie Oakley that he had begun to find vastly irritating. She never looked at him—she never looked at anyone. She seemed oblivious to the fact that the Prince of Wales had arrived with the Countess of Warwick. She seemed to have no sense of the importance of the occasion, or to have taken into consideration that he was the best shot in the nation, perhaps the best shot in the Empire. Her lowbred practicality was beginning to annoy him—to annoy him quite considerably. She said nothing, never smiled, never looked around, had not even bowed to the Prince; she just took her gun and broke target after target.
They had agreed to a short rest after each two hundred and fifty targets. When the count was reached, Lord Windhouveren had missed ten targets; Annie Oakley had only missed three.
Out of deference to his sovereign, Lord Windhouveren walked over to the Prince’s tent and accepted a glass of champagne. The Prince looked stiff and displeased. The usually ebullient Countess, chief flirt of her age, showed no signs of ebullience. She was thinking how difficult it would be to get Eddie in a good mood again if Windhouveren, a pompous braggart, actually allowed himself to be beaten by a snippet from America.