Buffalo Bill Wanted! Read online

  By the time Wiggins regained his feet, Silent Eagle was long gone. Members of the angry mob were chasing him on foot, though they had no chance of catching him.

  Wiggins watched as several constables struggled to hold back a knot of cowboys and Indians. Some were cheering Silent Eagle’s escape, while others were yelling back at members of the thinning mob. Another detachment of constables rushed to subdue that bunch.

  Through all the chaos, Wiggins spotted Inspector Desmond shouting orders to some of the policemen. The Scotland Yard detective was covered in grime. His hair was mussed, and his tie had been half torn loose.

  Desmond’s expression was hard as he mopped his face with a handkerchief. He glanced with distaste at the stains on the linen and crumpled it into his pocket. Then he noticed Wiggins.

  “Were you part of this madness?” Desmond asked, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

  “Course not,” Wiggins protested. “I was trying to get away when that mob cut me off.”

  “Perhaps that’s true,” the inspector replied slowly. “But I find it strange how you are always around when something happens.”

  Wiggins was about to reply when he saw Jennie appear from the dispersing crowd and push past a constable. The police were gaining control of the mob. They had arrested some, but most of the people were being told to go home or simply leave the area.

  “Wiggins!” Jennie called out. “Are you all right?”

  Wiggins nodded. “Yes. Where are Owens and Dooley?”

  Jennie was about to answer him when she noticed Inspector Desmond glaring at them. “I don’t know,” she replied. “We all got jostled apart.”

  Desmond leaned forward. “Why are any of you here at all?”

  “We heard about the attack on Mr. Pryke and about the Indian quill they found,” Wiggins explained. “We thought we could help. Maybe find out who’s really doing all of this.”

  “We even talked to Colonel Cody about his missing gun,” Jennie added. “And he—”

  “Scotland Yard doesn’t need your assistance,” Desmond told them. His tone was hard and authoritative. “We have matters under control, and hardly need street Arabs to do our work for us.”

  Wiggins gazed off in the direction Silent Eagle had escaped. “Didn’t look that way a while ago,” he said.

  “That’s because some other citizens did not mind their own affairs,” the inspector replied harshly.

  “We had nothing to do with that mob,” Jennie insisted. “Or Silent Eagle’s escape.”

  Wiggins pressed his lips together. If she only knew, he told himself.

  “We’re just trying to help,” Jennie concluded.

  “Your participation in this matter ends here,” the inspector told them. He glanced toward the still-cheering Wild West performers, then back at the two children. “We’re hunting a brutal man, and anyone who aids him will find themselves in a cell right next to him.”

  Desmond stalked off to join the other policemen.

  Jennie stood fuming. “You’d think we were criminals, the way he treated us,” she said.

  “Well, maybe one of us is . . . kind of,” Wiggins said.

  “What do you mean?” Jennie asked.

  “I’ll explain while we look for Owens and Dooley,” Wiggins replied. “Come on.”

  Owens and Dooley stood staring at the collection of tents stretching ahead of them. They’d passed this way before but hadn’t noticed much. Their eyes had been on Buffalo Bill. Now they saw that the larger tents nearby seemed to be some sort of offices for the show. A friendly cowboy had pointed out the Indian tepees.

  “I never seen nothing like this in my whole life,” Dooley said. He was a quivering collection of awe and fear as he cautiously entered the Indians’ territory.

  “My dad used to sleep under tents—him being in the army and all.” Owens tried to sound as if there was nothing unusual about wandering through a tent community. “My mum told me stories about how she and some of her family used to sleep outside sometimes.”

  “In the streets?”

  “No.” Owens shook his head. “When she lived in the West Indies. Before she met my dad and came here.”

  “Well, I bet it wasn’t nothing like this,” Dooley replied. “Look at all these savages.”

  Owens bristled. “I wish you’d stop calling them that.”

  “Why?” Dooley asked in surprise.

  “I begin to think they’re sick of hearing it,” Owens said, “like folks calling me ‘golliwog.’ How do you feel when someone calls a lie ‘Irish testimony’?”

  Dooley stared at Owens openmouthed, then turned to look out at the scene before them. “You think Wiggins and Jennie are all right?” he asked, changing the subject. “Maybe we shouldn’t have left them when the mob showed up.”

  “They can take care of themselves,” Owens replied. “And it was our best chance to get round here. Now . . .” He looked around until he found the largest tepee on the grounds. “The cowboy we spoke to said that Chief Red Shirt was with Buffalo Bill?”

  “Yeah,” Dooley replied. “He said they’d gone off to meet with some important people.”

  “Probably trying to convince them that the Indians aren’t evil.” Owens smiled.

  “But”—Dooley pulled his cap down lower over his hair —“he did say we could talk to Chief Tall-Like -Oak, and that he’d be in—”

  “The tent with the target and stars,” Owens interrupted, pointing. “Well, there she is, although I think that’s supposed to be the moon, not a target.”

  Owens led Dooley over to the cone-shaped structure. The animal skin that served as a door was off to one side, and the boys could see a lone figure sitting on a blanket beside a small fire.

  “What’s this made out of—leather?” Dooley poked at the taut body of the tent, stretched over thin wooden poles.

  “Don’t know.” Owens hesitated at the entrance, feeling as if going into the tent would be entering another world, the world of the alien figure sitting inside. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “So . . . let’s go ask him.”

  Owens poked his head into the tent. “Excuse me,” he said politely. “Are you Chief Tall-Like-Oak? ”

  The Indian studied Owens before he replied with a nod. “The show does not start for another hour,” he told them.

  “We didn’t come to see the show,” Owens replied.

  “We?”

  Owens pulled Dooley along as he stepped into the tent. “My name’s Owens, and this here is my friend Dooley.”

  Dooley gave the chief a quick, nervous smile.

  Chief Tall-Like-Oak stared at Owens for a long moment, and then he motioned for both boys to sit down on blankets nearby. “I have seen your people before,” he told Owens.

  Owens’s eyes went wide. “My family?” he asked. “You’ve been to London before?”

  “No,” the chief replied. “I have seen your people in my land.”

  “He means people with your color,” Dooley exclaimed.

  Chief Tall-Like-Oak nodded. “Some work the land. Some wear blue coats and patrol our reservation. ”

  “You mean some of them are soldiers?” Owens asked eagerly. “My father was a soldier. He died in a war.”

  “My son died in a war.” Tall-Like-Oak smiled proudly. “He was a mighty warrior.”

  Dooley couldn’t understand the Indian’s broad smile. “Don’t you miss him?”

  Tall-Like-Oak’s expression became solemn. “Yes,” he replied in a deep voice. “But my people do not mourn the dead as you do. It is not a warrior’s way to show fear, or pain . . . or sadness.”

  Owens and Dooley glanced at each other, feeling confused. Every story they’d heard about Indians told of wild, angry men. Even what they’d seen at the Wild West show the day before had painted the same picture.

  Yet here the chief sat, legs crossed in front of him, hands resting on his knees, a man of quiet dignity.

  Dooley wondered if the Indian was up to some
thing. Would Tall-Like-Oak suddenly spring on them when they least expected it? Dooley eased toward the tent’s opening just in case.

  The chief seemed to sense the boy’s fear and smiled again.

  “Now you have met an Indian,” Tall-Like-Oak said. “Is that why you came?”

  “Er, no,” Owens said, shaking off some of his own nervousness. “We’re trying to help Buffalo Bill find out who attacked the copper, uh, I mean the police constable. The man in the blue uniform.”

  Chief Tall-Like-Oak’s eyes narrowed, and Dooley felt a renewed urge to dash out of the tent. “Silent Eagle did not attack the blue coat,” the chief said angrily. “He did not attack the other one either. I have never even heard of him.”

  “You mean Mr. Pryke?”

  Tall-Like-Oak nodded. He stood up and suddenly seemed far more powerful, despite his age.

  “We should be going now.” Dooley’s voice quavered as he turned toward the opening. “Come along, Owens.”

  Owens was tempted to rush from the tent too, but his desire for information wouldn’t let him. “How can you be sure?” he asked.

  “Why do you help Pahaska?”

  “Who?” Owens asked.

  “Pahaska,” Tall-Like-Oak replied. “That is the name we have given Cody.”

  “Oh,” Dooley replied. “Colonel Cody is famous, and he’s been nice to us. We want to help, and he said we could.”

  “Did Silent Eagle tell you he didn’t do it?” Owens asked.

  “Silent Eagle is proud and strong,” the chief replied. “He has been this way ever since he was a boy.”

  “He’s not very friendly,” Dooley said nervously.

  “When he was a boy,” Tall-Like-Oak explained, “he saw his home destroyed. He saw his family forced to move onto a reservation. There was sickness and hunger. He spoke out against these things and was beaten. He fought back and was locked up in a jail.”

  “Cor,” Dooley gasped. “We’ve always heard that you Indians attack—” Dooley stopped short as he met the Indian’s steady gaze.

  “There is more to our story than your people will ever know,” Tall-Like-Oak replied.

  “Please tell us more about Silent Eagle,” Owens said.

  “He has always listened to the wisest of our people to understand our ways. Now he travels with Pahaska to learn more of the world of the white men.”

  Tall-Like-Oak stepped outside the tent, and the two boys followed him. “Silent Eagle fights only when he has to,” the chief told them. “He sees much but speaks only when there is something he must say. That is how he was named. He is a Sioux warrior and would not attack an unarmed man.”

  “It sure doesn’t sound like he would,” Owens said. “But somebody took a gun to the constable and then scalped him. Do you have any idea who?”

  Tall-Like-Oak shook his head. “I have seen that blue-coat soldier guarding the way into the camp,” he told the boys. “He showed great bravery facing the buffalo with Silent Eagle.”

  Both Owens and Dooley froze as the importance of Tall-Like-Oak’s words became clear in their minds.

  “You mean the copper, I mean constable, who was attacked was the same one who helped stop the buffalo the other day?” Dooley asked the Indian chief.

  Tall-Like-Oak nodded.

  Owens knew that he and Dooley were thinking the same thing. Maybe the Indian was guilty after all. The constable was the same one who had teased the Indian the day the buffalo escaped. Everyone there had seen Silent Eagle’s anger at the bantering. This gave the police a motive for the attack.

  They’d have the one thing they needed to prove his guilt—and get him hanged.

  Chapter 9

  THEY HAD TO WAIT A LITTLE BIT TO GET INTO THE Wild West show site, but Wiggins and Jennie finally caught up with Owens and Dooley. Wiggins decided to spend some of the money Buffalo Bill gave them on train tickets back to Mile End Road. There was so much to talk about, he barely noticed the disapproving glances from the other passengers. Poor lads and lasses from the East End didn’t normally ride London’s Underground trains.

  The discussion continued in their familiar meeting place in the back room of the Raven Pub.

  “All right, what do we know?” Wiggins sighed, plopping down onto a stool. “The coppers can build a case against Silent Eagle. Constable Turnbuckle made a remark that Silent Eagle took the wrong way. So Silent Eagle beat him and scalped him. After J. Montague Pryke started making noise in Parliament and in the newspapers, Silent Eagle went after him too.”

  Dooley’s eyes were wide with dismay. Owens gave a stiff nod, but Jennie shook her head. “How did Silent Eagle learn that it was Pryke he should go after?”

  “Exactly,” Wiggins agreed. “I don’t imagine those Indians sitting down with the morning newspaper.”

  “Someone could have mentioned the story to them,” Owens pointed out.

  “Or read it to them,” Jennie added.

  “That’s true,” Dooley agreed.

  “Then there’s the big clue that led the police to Silent Eagle,” Wiggins continued. “The porcupine quill with purple beads. That came from his costume in the show. But I can’t imagine him wearing it while he attacked Pryke.”

  “No.” Jennie frowned. “You’re right. At first glance, things might hold together, but they really don’t make sense. If we can see the problems, a good lawyer could tear this case to pieces in a courtroom.”

  “And you can bet Buffalo Bill would hire a good lawyer,” Owens said.

  “So Silent Eagle would get off—even if everyone was all angry?” Dooley asked.

  “Someone certainly wanted people all stirred up,” Wiggins said. “Angry enough, maybe, to kill Silent Eagle before he even faced a judge and jury.”

  “They’re stirred up, all right,” Dooley said. “While we visited with him, the chief told us that people are now booing the Indians’ acts in the Wild West show.”

  “I heard someone turned up at the exposition grounds last night, throwing horse turds at the American eagle on the front of the building.” Owens laughed. “I wouldn’t want that job of cleaning that up. The coppers chased them off, or they’d have cut down the flag too.”

  “And you think someone’s paid for all of this?” Jennie asked Wiggins.

  “Why not?” Wiggins jumped up to pace around the room. “When we got involved in our first mystery, we stumbled on a group of posh folks aiming for high stakes. Maybe this is the same thing.”

  The door to the pub swung open, breaking his train of thought. Mr. Pilbeam, the owner of the Raven Pub, came in. It was a little hard to read his expression behind the impressive salt-and-pepper whiskers that curled from his sideburns to meet across his upper lip.

  “I thought I heard you come in,” the pub owner said. “Benny Flagg has been in here having a few pints and telling everyone about his adventures out in Earl’s Court.” He glanced over at Wiggins. “He talked a bit about your adventures too.”

  “We didn’t do anything wrong,” Dooley said anxiously.

  “I didn’t say you did,” Pilbeam replied. “We just got word that Benny’s horse turned up at his stable. Whoever stole the poor beast probably treated him better than Benny did. There was a poultice of grass and leaves over the sore spot on his shoulder.”

  Cries for more drinks came from the pub, and Pilbeam went back to the outer room. Wiggins and his friends looked at one another.

  Jennie asked the obvious question. “Where would Silent Eagle find grass and leaves around here?”

  Owens frowned. “Someone’s garden, maybe?”

  “Sure,” Wiggins said sarcastically. “Most people would never notice an Indian climbing over their garden wall to borrow a few fixings for a stolen horse.”

  “There’s Victoria Park,” Dooley suggested. “My da takes me there sometimes on a Sunday.”

  “That’s a good three-quarters of a mile away,” Jennie said. “And the place is awfully public.”

  “So, we need a place with green things
that’s close, not too public, where people wouldn’t notice someone digging.” Wiggins frowned, then looked up. “The Tower Hamlets Cemetery.”

  “A churchyard?” Jennie said in surprise.

  “It’s bigger than that,” Wiggins replied. “There’s a wall around the place so people can’t see in. The graveyard is also near the gasworks—not so many people round about there.”

  He got up and headed for the door. “Maybe we should go and take a look before the coppers hear about this and come searching.”

  Less than ten minutes of walking brought them within sight of the brick walls surrounding the cemetery. Wiggins began dragging his feet. “My little brother is buried here,” he said. “It’s where they put people who are too poor to pay for a funeral— thousands and thousands of them, I was told.”

  He shook his head, forcing the tears away. “There might be someone at the gates,” he said, his voice gruff.

  Jennie eyed the bricks. “I bet we could climb that wall.”

  They all did, although Dooley needed a boost. Wiggins looked around at the cramped rows of crosses and statues that rose all around him. This was the private part of the cemetery, where people could buy plots. There were even a few aboveground mausoleums. The tombs were older. Almost fifty years of weather and London’s smoky, cindery air had left all the stonework looking dingy.

  His heart sank. The place was a quarter-mile square. How could they hope to find Silent Eagle if he didn’t want to be found?

  Jennie stepped forward. “Excuse me, Mr. Silent Eagle,” she said, not shouting but in a very clear voice. “I’m hoping you may remember us. We’re friends of Colonel Cody—” She glanced back at her friends. “What did Chief Tall-Like-Oak call him?”

  “Pahaska,” Owens told her.

  “We’re friends of Pahaska,” she went on. “You saw us at his tent the other day. And we saw you today when the police came for you.”

  “I tried to help you,” Wiggins added, “with the keys.”

  “And we want to help you now,” Jennie added.

  Wiggins wasn’t sure where the man came from. One moment, all he saw was stonework; the next moment, Silent Eagle stood in front of them. Dooley took a half step back and behind Wiggins.