Buffalo Bill Wanted! (2 page)

The police constable laughed. “Clever! You went and got the beastie some food. And here I thought you'd run off like a yellow dog.” He winked. “Or rather, a
red
dog!”

His comment brought an angry look from the Indian, who backed away, still holding out the grain. The buffalo followed him, almost dragging the other two handlers along with him, while the constable and the crowd looked on and laughed.

Now,
Wiggins decided.
While they're all watching the buffalo.
“Come on,” he whispered. He jerked his head toward the bridge.

As they dashed across the bridge, Wiggins heard the policeman still joking with the Indian. “With you folk, I figured you'd rather eat 'im instead of feeding him.”

“He don't have to keep mockin' him,” Owens said.

“Who?” Dooley asked.

“That copper keeps poking fun at the Indian.”

“He didn't really say anything that bad,” Jennie commented.

Owens glanced from the constable to his friends, frowning but saying nothing.

They were across now, past the tall fences that blocked the view from the street. Another fence stretched off to their right. Judging from the sounds coming from beyond it, Wiggins figured that was the corral where cattle and buffalo roamed. Straight ahead, an enormous mound of dirt and rocks rose in three irregular peaks, the largest about thirty feet high. Wiggins couldn't imagine what it was doing there. Maybe it had been left over after workmen leveled the area for the Wild West show.

Curving away from the artificial hill were large canvas walls mounted on wooden frames. “What are those?” Jennie asked.

“It's the back of painted scenery,” Wiggins said. “I seen it in theaters, but these things are enormous! ”

“Won't give us anyplace to blend in and disappear, ” Owens pointed out. Through openings in the canvas, they could see the vast open space of an arena with grandstands of seats in the distance.

“So where do we go?” Dooley asked nervously.

“I'm not sure,” Wiggins admitted. Wiggins's eyes went wide as he shifted from looking for a hiding place to actually taking in what was before him. People in colorful costumes were brushing horses or mounting them.

“Wow,” Wiggins exclaimed. “These must be the folk who put on the show!”

“Who are those fancy lads?” Owens pointed toward dark-skinned men in silk and embroidered velvet. “I saw them on the posters.”

“They're Mexicans,” Jennie replied. “I read about them in the newspapers.”

“I'm sure you did, Little Miss Bookworm,” Wiggins muttered under his breath. Jennie's schoolmarm airs still irritated him—even though her ability to read had helped them solve their first case.

Wiggins shook off the feeling, focusing on their surroundings. He saw cowboys in really fancy clothes. They wore broad-brimmed hats with brightly colored sashes around their middles. Cowgirls in brightly colored jackets and hats swung up onto gleaming saddles. Then there were the Indians, showing much bronzed skin in tattoos and paint, with large, feathered warbonnets.

“Step lively,” Wiggins hissed. “Look like you know where you're going. And don't gawk, Dooley!”

They set off. As Wiggins had hoped, the various riders were more absorbed in their own preparations than in any passing children. Wiggins had just seen what a spooked animal could do, so he avoided walking under any horse's nose.

“Hoy! What are you brats doing here?” a voice behind them blared out.

Wiggins glanced over his shoulder to see the man Dooley had called a cowboy. From the look on the fellow's lined, tan face, they could count themselves lucky that he didn't have one of those six-shooter revolvers. Wiggins broke into a run, pulling his friends along.

If we get up on the artificial hill,
he thought,
maybe it will be too much trouble for him to come up after us.

It was their only hope. “Climb!” Wiggins ordered.

He leaped atop a jutting rock and began scrambling higher. Jennie was right behind him.
The show must be starting soon. If we can get high enough and hide, this gink will have other jobs to do. He'll have to give up.

Wiggins's hopes were dashed when he heard a cry from below. He looked down to see that the man had managed to grab one of Dooley's ankles. The boy clung to a scraggly bush above him, but it was obvious he couldn't maintain that hold very long.

“Got you,” the man said in grim satisfaction. “The rest of you had better get down here, or I'll snap his leg like a twig.”

Wiggins, Jennie, and Owens made their unwilling way downward even as Dooley tried to wriggle free.

“Zeke!” A voice rang out from ground level. Dooley's captor almost lost his grip on the boy when he glanced back over his shoulder. A figure in gleaming white buckskin with a long decorative fringe stepped up to the hill.

Wiggins stared as the man came closer, taking in his long auburn hair, his neat imperial chin whiskers and mustache, the broad-brimmed Stetson hat he wore. It was the same face he'd seen pictured on the posters for the Wild West show.

The legendary Buffalo Bill Cody himself!

Chapter 2

“I DON'T SEE ANY NEED TO FRIGHTEN KIDS, ZEKE.” Cody's voice was calm, yet commanding. “Do you?”

The roustabout glanced from his prisoner to Cody's steely gaze. “Guess not,” he mumbled, releasing Dooley. Without giving the children a second look, Zeke turned and walked away.

Cody smiled. “I expect you should run on back to your folks.”

Wiggins started to reply, but Dooley spoke first. “Oh, we didn't come with our folks,” he announced. “My da is working the docks, and me mum is dead.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Cody replied. “But who—”

He didn't get a chance to finish as Dooley slid back to the ground and thrust out his hand. “I'm Dooley, and this here is Wiggins, Owens, and Jennie.” Dooley glanced sheepishly at the colonel. “I should have introduced her first 'cause she's a girl. But she's all right.”

“Well, thanks,” Jennie muttered.

“Glad to meet you all,” Cody told them. “I take it you got in here a little bit less than the proper way.”

Wiggins stepped in. “We weren't trying to rob nobody or do any mischief,” he explained. “It's just we . . . we . . .”

“We've never seen anything like this, ever,” Jennie finished.

“And it took everything we earned for days just to get here,” Dooley said.

Cody frowned. “Are all of you without parents?”

“No,” Owens replied. “Jennie, Wiggins, and me have mothers. But it's all they can manage to make ends meet. They don't have time to be seeing shows and such.”

“We should be working too,” Wiggins said. “But all London is talking about your show, and we just had to see it.”

Cody smiled. “Well, then, you should be getting a look.”

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.