Buffalo Bill Wanted! Page 2

  Wiggins could barely contain his excitement as Buffalo Bill gave him and his friends a tour. They strolled among the bustling performers, then along twisting paths weaving among a confusing array of tents. Colonel Cody pointed to a man carefully checking the saddle on his horse. “That’s Marve Beardsley. He shows how the Pony Express riders used to change horses and switch mailbags on the run, just as he did back when.” Cody glanced over at Wiggins. “That was one of my first jobs. I wasn’t much older than you.”

  “I wish I could have adventures like that.” Wiggins sighed.

  “You do!” Owens said. He turned to Buffalo Bill. “Wiggins works for Sherlock Holmes.”

  Cody looked surprised. “The famous detective?”

  “In fact, we all do—sometimes,” Jennie said.

  “Yeah, the four of us helped him with a big case.” Dooley nearly stumbled over a tent rope, he was so distracted talking to Buffalo Bill.

  The tour ended at a large white canvas tent near one end of the grandstand. “This one’s mine,” Cody said.

  A canvas partition created two rooms. The main area contained some folding chairs, a desk filled with papers, and kerosene lamps with frosted glass globes. Dark green fabric above them kept things cool and shady, and animal hides lay spread across the ground as rugs.

  Wiggins got a glimpse of a washstand, a clothing rack filled with costumes, and the corner of a cot in the other room.

  He turned to see Owens poke a careful toe at the clawed paw still attached to a grizzly bear hide. Jennie stared at the animal’s head and teeth.

  “Now,” Cody said as he motioned his guests to sit down. “I have to go on in a few minutes, so why don’t you all make yourselves comfortable while I get ready?” He went into the second room. Wiggins heard water pouring into a basin.

  “How come you’re being so nice to us?” Dooley asked.

  Cody came back out, mopping his face with a towel. “I had a son of my own.” He glanced at Dooley. “He was a bit younger than you—” He suddenly broke off.

  “Oh,” Jennie said in a small voice.

  “I was away doing a show when he got sick.” Cody’s eyes became haunted. “By the time I got home, he was almost gone. I held him all night, but I couldn’t keep him with us.”

  Dooley ran to Colonel Cody and took his hand. “I lost someone too. It was bad—very bad.”

  “Your mother?” Cody asked gently.

  “That was when I was real young. But we lost my brother, Tim, a couple of months ago. He and Wiggins both worked for Mr. Holmes. They followed some suspicious folks and got trapped in an opium den. Tim—didn’t make it out.”

  Cody glanced at Wiggins with new respect. “Did Mr. Holmes catch the killer?”

  We did,” Dooley replied proudly. “We worked with Mr. Holmes.”

  Cody’s eyes were still on Wiggins, who bit his lip. “It doesn’t change things,” he said in a low voice. “Tim’s still . . .”

  Cody stepped over to put a hand on Wiggins’s shoulder. “Son, you didn’t set out to put him in harm’s way.”

  “No, but he wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for me,” Wiggins told the frontiersman.

  “So you blame yourself.” Cody nodded. “Does Dooley blame you?”

  “I did at first,” Dooley admitted. “That was before we all joined together in the Raven League, caught the killer, and rescued Mr. Holmes. We even—”

  “Dooley!” Owens said sharply. “You know better.”

  Cody glanced at the foursome. “Something wrong?”

  “We’re not supposed to talk about it,” Wiggins explained. “Sorry.”

  “Let’s just say,” Jennie offered, “that Mr. Holmes was able to catch the criminals he was after.”

  “Thanks to us—the Raven League,” Dooley put in.

  Wiggins couldn’t tell if the frontiersman believed them or not. Before anyone could say any more, a short, dark-haired man with a carefully trimmed full beard appeared in front of the tent.

  “Colonel, you’re on in three minutes!”

  “Sorry, Nate,” Cody apologized, “I got caught up jawing with my visitors. Kids, this is Nate Salsbury. He’s my partner in the show.”

  The children all greeted the man, who gave them a distracted nod while still looking at Cody. “Get your coat on and let’s go! Don’t you wear your six-gun?”

  Colonel Cody glanced at the gun belt hanging from a hook on one of the tent poles. “Here it—” He stopped. The holster was empty. “Now, where the devil is that Colt?”

  Nate joined him in a quick search, but the pistol wasn’t anywhere in the tent.

  “A six-gun!” Jenny said. “That sounds dangerous.”

  Cody shook his head. “It’s only loaded with blanks. Still . . .” He frowned.

  “Maybe one of the boys took it for a cleaning,” Nate suggested. “You said the action was a little sluggish.”

  “Maybe,” Cody said cautiously. “But I’d think they would have said something.”

  Salsbury glanced at his watch. “You’re supposed to be mounted up by now. Just grab a gun on the way.”

  An Indian brave walked into the tent. He wore leggings with brightly embroidered borders, a long blue shirt that almost reached his knees, and a rawhide vest decorated with quills and purple beads. A colorful painted design covered his face, and he wore a feathered headdress. Wiggins almost didn’t recognize him, but the man’s dark, brooding eyes were unmistakable. “That’s the same Indian who stopped the buffalo from running wild,” he whispered to his friends.

  “I’ve come to get Pahaska,” the Indian explained. “The riders are waiting.”

  “We know that, Silent Eagle,” Nate replied with annoyance. “Who made you stage manager?”

  The Indian’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond.

  “Now, boys,” Colonel Cody said as he slipped on his gun belt. “There’s no time for this. We’ve got a show to do.” He pointed at the pistol tucked in Silent Eagle’s belt. “Can I borrow that?”

  Without a word, Silent Eagle passed over the gun, turned, and walked out of the tent.

  “What about them?” Nate glanced at the kids.

  “Why, these members of the Raven League are my guests,” Cody informed him. “You find them someplace to watch the show while I go mount up.”

  Nate Salsbury led Wiggins, Owens, Jennie, and Dooley up a narrow aisle at the far side of the grandstand. This was a huge roofed structure forming a crescent halfway around the performance arena.

  Staring around at the standing-room-only crowd, Wiggins wondered if half of London had come to see the show. He turned to the arena, which reminded him of a racetrack—a large dirt oval with grass in the center. Beyond rose the other side of the artificial hill with additional landscaping—trees and bushes—flanked by painted scenery showing Western mountains and a big sky.

  A man climbed onto a rostrum at the side of the track. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” The man must have had lungs of leather to be heard over the crowd noise, even with a megaphone in his hand. “Buffalo Bill and Nate Salsbury proudly present America’s National Entertainment, the one and only, genuine and authentic, unique and original . . . Wild West!”

  The audience cheered politely at first, then with more enthusiasm as Indians, Mexican riders, and American cowboys rode past in a grand procession. Colonel Cody came riding out on a large white stallion. The performers wheeled into a line, suddenly surging toward the grandstand at a full gallop.

  Hundreds of hooves pounded the earth. War whoops and yells filled the air —and in the lead rode Buffalo Bill!

  Wiggins held his breath as the stampede rumbled right for him. At the last possible second, the colorful line of riders came to a perfect halt, kicking up clouds of dust. Wiggins and everyone else went wild. Dooley couldn’t contain himself, leaping about as he cheered.

  For the next hour, Wiggins found himself transported to a different world of wild sights and rugged pastimes. He and his friends chattered excitedly
as they saw exhibitions of trick shooting, roping, and riding.

  Other times, Wiggins completely forgot anyone was with him as he became lost in dramatic scenes. Indians attacked a wagon train, a stagecoach full of special guests, and a settler’s cabin—but every time, Buffalo Bill Cody and the cowboys came riding to the rescue.

  The Indians showed off their special skills, riding races against one another, demonstrating a war dance. They also showed grimmer talents, seizing captives by the hair, slashing with a glittering knife, and holding up a reddened scalp!

  Shocked, Wiggins glanced at the other members of the Raven League. Jennie turned away while Dooley hid his eyes. “That wasn’t real!” Owens insisted in a hoarse voice.

  It wasn’t—the prisoners soon reappeared in other scenes, safe and sound, though Wiggins found it hard to keep track of them as the arena swirled with wild scenes, thundering hooves, echoing gunshots, and deafening applause. By the time the show ended, Wiggins’s hands hurt as he and his friends filed out with the crowd.

  The members of the Raven League faced a long walk back to Mile End Road in London’s East End. But reliving the amazing action they’d seen made the trek seem easier.

  “We’ve got to come back tomorrow!” Owens enthusiastically cried.

  “How?” Jennie raised the practical question. “We’ve no money left at all. And we were lucky today, sneaking in as we did. If Colonel Cody hadn’t come along, that fellow would have tossed us out on our backsides.”

  Wiggins laughed, but he had to agree with her. It would take a while to raise some money to come back—train fare, at least. For the rest, well, they’d snuck in once. Could they do it again?

  “You have to admit,” he said to Jennie, “that was a bit of all right, wasn’t it?”

  “A bit?” Jennie’s face beamed. “It was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen. I plan to write everything down so I’ll remember.” She held up her special treasure, the little notebook and pencil Dr. Watson had given her. Her smile dimmed a bit. “But I won’t be writing about how the Indians took that man’s hair off. Scalping, they called it.”

  “Not just them,” Wiggins told her. “Even Buffalo Bill lifted a scalp back when he was fighting the Indians, or so I hear.”

  “My mother’s cousin wrote a story about that when the Wild West show first came to London,” Owens said.

  The others nodded. They knew Owens’s relative worked for a small West Indian newspaper in the city.

  “It was after the Indians had wiped out a detachment of cavalry,” Owens began.

  “Custer’s Last Stand,” Dooley eagerly put in.

  Owens nodded. “I wouldn’t want those savages coming after me. A bad lot, they are.”

  “Those red devils wouldn’t last long in London,” Dooley insisted.

  “They’re brave, though,” Jennie said. “We saw how dangerous one buffalo could be. Imagine riding into a herd of them—hundreds. That’s what Indians do when they hunt the creatures.”

  “Well.” Wiggins chuckled. “If they’re such a wonder to you, maybe we’ll let ’em scalp you tomorrow.”

  The others laughed—even Jennie, after clouting the boys once or twice each.

  They finally reached the crowded tenements of London’s poorest section. Despite the grim surroundings, the day’s colorful events filled Wiggins’s mind as he went home.

  The visions stayed with him when he woke up the next morning. After a quick breakfast—a stale bread roll dunked in sweet tea—Wiggins set off on errands for some local merchants. Jennie was right. A day off had been a grand thing, but now each of them had to earn money.

  At the end of the day he was hot and tired as he trudged along Whitechapel Road, heading back to his neighborhood. Should he see if his friends were about or just go home and rest? As he came to Mile End Road, he heard a newsboy calling out the headline of the day. Wiggins suddenly froze, listening.

  “Extree! Extree!” the lad shouted. “Savage attack in Earl’s Court! Horrible crime at American Exhibition! Constable attacked . . . shot and scalped! Shot and scalped!”

  Chapter 3

  DIGGING IN HIS POCKET, WIGGINS CAME UP WITH A penny to buy the newspaper. One look at the crowded columns of type and he shook his head, grumbling. “I can’t read this.” Folding up the paper, he headed for the Raven Pub.

  Mr. Pilbeam, the pub owner, allowed Wiggins, Owens, Jenny, and Dooley to use the Raven’s back room as a clubhouse of sorts. Faced with deadly peril while trying to solve the mysterious disappearance of Sherlock Holmes, Wiggins and his friends had pledged to help one another, forming the Raven League. Some people thought the name came from the ravens that lived at the Tower of London. Legend had it that if these birds ever left, the British Empire would fall. In truth, though, the group named itself after the place where the four had made their pact.

  He was in luck. Everyone had stopped by today.

  “Have you heard what the newsboys have been crying up?” Wiggins waved the newspaper.

  “I was hoping they were saying things that weren’t actually in the story,” Jennie replied.

  “Read it, then,” Wiggins said, holding out the paper. “It’s too much for me.”

  Jennie frowned as she scanned the page. “ ‘Shocking attack at Earl’s Court,’ ” she read the first headline. “ ‘Police constable near death. Barbaric act of cruelty.’ ” Her face grew grimmer as she read on.

  “Well?” Owens pressed. “We’re waiting.”

  “Do they talk about Indians?” Dooley asked.

  “It says an off-duty police constable was shot at the Earl’s Court exhibition grounds.”

  “Plenty of posh folk around there,” Wiggins said. “That would draw the local villains.”

  Jennie shook her head. “The policeman was found in the stables of the Wild West show.”

  “What was the copper doing there?” Owens asked.

  “No one knows,” Jennie replied. “He was unconscious when he was found.” She hesitated, then read from the paper. “ ‘A heavily engraved revolver was found near the stricken policeman. It was identified as a weapon that had been presented to Colonel William F. Cody, an American more commonly known as Buffalo Bill.’ ”

  “They’re trying to make it out that Buffalo Bill did it?” Owens said in surprise.

  “There’s more.” From Jennie’s expression, Wiggins knew it wasn’t good. “While the constable lay helpless, he was . . . abused.”

  “Abused?” Wiggins echoed. “How?”

  “His attacker used a knife to remove the constable’s hair—his scalp.”

  Dooley’s eyes went big. “He was scalped? Maybe there was an Indian involved. Who else would do something like that?”

  Jennie looked troubled. “When we were coming home from the show, Owens mentioned Buffalo Bill scalping someone,” she said.

  “That was during a war!” Dooley exclaimed. “After Custer’s Last Stand.”

  “It happened during the last great wars with the Indians,” Owens said. “Buffalo Bill was serving as a scout with another part of the army, trying to keep more tribes from joining the uprising.”

  He screwed up his face, trying to remember all the details. “Buffalo Bill and the leader of the war party fought each other. The Indian’s shot missed. Buffalo Bill’s didn’t. Then he noticed that the dead Indian was wearing a long blond scalp that had come from a woman. Cody got so angry, he scalped the chief, holding it up to the troopers riding past and shouting, ‘First scalp for Custer!’ ”

  Wiggins let out a long breath. “I’d heard some of that, but not all of it.”

  Dooley leaned forward, all excited. “I saw a picture of it in a magazine once.” He frowned. “But I didn’t know what it was about, and it didn’t show any blood.”

  Wiggins gave him a look. “They wouldn’t, in a proper magazine.” He glanced at Jennie. “It ain’t respectable.”

  She folded the paper. “Respectable or not, maybe other people have seen that picture. Or someon
e might reprint the story, especially since Colonel Cody’s gun was found beside the policeman. What do you imagine those people will think?”

  Dooley’s face went nearly as red as his hair. “Buffalo Bill wouldn’t do nothing like what you said!” Wiggins could see the hero worship in the boy’s eyes as he spoke.

  “I don’t think so either,” Wiggins said slowly, but doubt crept into his voice. Working for Sherlock Holmes, he had learned that people could do all sorts of things—especially rich, famous people.

  “You don’t sound so sure,” Owens challenged. It was clear that Colonel Cody had impressed him too.

  Wiggins shrugged.

  “Why would Buffalo Bill lift the scalp from a copper, of all people?” Owens pressed.

  “I’m not saying he did,” Wiggins replied. “It’s just that I remember something Mr. Holmes told Dr. Watson. He said, ‘Only the clues should lead one to the culprit—nothing else.’ What that means is, none of us should assume Buffalo Bill is guilty or innocent. We should look at the clues.”

  “I don’t know if the scalping was a clue,” Jennie said. “But the newspaper made a big thing about the gun found beside the policeman belonging to Colonel Cody.”

  “I don’t care if they found him standing over the copper with a bloody knife,” Dooley said hotly. “Buffalo Bill helped us and was nice to us. I’ll tell anyone—”

  “Wait a tick,” Wiggins interrupted. “The gun belonged to Buffalo Bill. That doesn’t mean he used it. He didn’t even have it when he was supposed to go on for the show. Remember?”

  “You’re right!” Owens said excitedly. Dooley nodded vigorously.

  Even Jennie had to agree. “That could be a clue,” she said. “Shouldn’t we make sure the police know it as well?”

  It was a long walk from Mile End Road in the East End to Charing Cross in the middle of London. With every step, a little more of Wiggins’s confidence leaked away. The police didn’t like the poor folk of the East End, and the feeling was mutual. Out in the street, Wiggins and his mates had made some coppers’ lives difficult. And by working for Sherlock Holmes, he’d often helped to make the police look foolish. They couldn’t expect a warm welcome at Scotland Yard.