by Bill Crider
Holmes looked thoughtful, though what he might have made of the weather report as delivered by Butler, I had no idea.
“Outside we saw people from all around the globe,” Holmes said. “Many of them must speak only limited English. Did the men you heard speak it as if it were their native tongue?”
Butler considered it a moment before he spoke. “They spoke English, but they didn’t speak it as good as you and me.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow but made no comment. I, too, kept my peace.
“We have too many people to consider,” Cody said, “and no way to winnow them down. It seems hopeless.”
“You don’t know of anybody who has it in for you?” Butler said. “Somebody in the show, I mean.”
“No,” Cody said, with the assurance of a man who believes he is beloved by all. “There could be no one, which is why I don’t understand this at all. Why would anyone who works for me wish to harm the show. It’s like a family.”
I had been associated with Holmes long enough to know that there was always someone who wished harm on others even in the cosiest of circles.
Holmes said, “Nevertheless, a problem exists, and I believe it to be more serious than I had first thought. Colonel Cody, do you have a list of your employees for payroll purposes?”
“Of course, but it’s so long that you could never go over it all, not in time to stop anyone who plans something for the immediate future.”
“Still, I would like to see the list.”
“Very well,” Cody said. “Come with me.”
We thanked Butler for his help and followed Cody to another tent where a bookkeeper bent over his desk. Cody explained what Holmes wanted, and the bookkeeper provided the list. Holmes scanned it rapidly, as if he knew what he was looking for, as no doubt he did, though I had no idea.
“It is as I thought,” Holmes said, handing the list back to the bookkeeper. He turned to Cody. “Kicking Bear and Short Bull are in your employ.”
“Indeed they are,” Cody said, surprised that Holmes knew the names. “And they are two whom many would like to see confined to the reservation. I don’t believe they would be the cause of trouble, not if they knew what might be the result if they were caught.”
“There is another name,” Holmes said. “Jack Wilson.”
“I don’t know him,” Cody said after a pause. “I have so many cowboys that I can’t learn all their names.”
“Jack Wilson is the English name taken by Wovoka,” said Holmes.
“Good lord!” said Cody. “He’s the man who had the vision of the return of the buffalo. He was the inspiration for the Ghost Dancers, who hoped to destroy the white man and return the world to the Indians.”
“Yes,” said Holmes, “and Kicking Bear and Short Bull were with Sitting Bull when he was killed as a result of his involvement with the Ghost Dancers. Now they are in your Wild West Show.”
“True, but what connection does all this have to the Ghost Dance?”
“You are connected in that you took the first scalp for Custer.”
“The killing of Yellow Hand,” Cody said.
I was beginning to understand. The killing of Yellow Hand was a story well known to anyone who had seen Cody’s Wild West Show. The actual event was a highlight of Cody’s career and supposedly the turning of the tide against the Indians in the conquest of the American frontier.
“Custer,” said Holmes. “Butler misheard. And you waved the scalp in the air.”
So the conversation Butler recalled had not been about the weather after all, as Holmes must have realized almost at once.
“You still enact the scene of Yellow Hand’s death in your show, do you not?” said Holmes, and Cody acknowledged that he did.
“And the time of the ‘war dance’?” Holmes asked me.
When I told him, he nodded. “That would be about the time the scalping scene would be performed. I am sure that is when they plan to burn the cabin.”
I said to Holmes, “But why?”
“Not as revenge for Custer’s death but as revenge for Sitting Bull’s death,” said Holmes. “They must see the chain of events beginning with the death of Yellow Hand as leading inevitably to the failure of the Ghost Dance and the death of Sitting Bull.”
“Do you suppose that they will perform the Ghost Dance at the cabin?”
“I do,” said Holmes. “Do you remember the man who left the cabin as we entered?”
“Yes,” I said.
“He wore a Ghost Shirt,” Holmes said. “I suspect that he will be involved in the dance today.”
“We must stop them,” Cody said. “They will discredit me and all the Indians who work for me if we do not.”
“Watson and I will stop them,” said Holmes. “You must carry on with your show so that they suspect nothing.”
“This is Wovoka’s work,” said Cody. “The others I know well, and they would not enter into this if not for him.”
“They may not be involved,” said Holmes, “though it is logical to assume that they are. Come, Watson. Let us take up our station.”
I did not know where our station was, yet I followed Holmes as always. As we strode along beside the tents and passed the big show tent, I found myself wishing I had brought along my pistol, but I had left it behind in our quarters on Baker Street. We were, I thought, a long way from home.
I asked Holmes what the Ghost Dancers expected to achieve and how we might stop them.
“As to their expectations, I believe we can safely conclude that they seek revenge on Cody for his imagined part in the events leading to the death of Sitting Bull and the later slaughter at Wounded Knee.”
I knew little of the latter event. As I have stated, Holmes’s interest in the history of the West far surpassed mine, perhaps because of its violent nature.
“They might also hope to call attention to their plight,” Holmes continued. “Most of them remain on reservation land that no white man wants or could live on.” He paused. “On the other hand, Wovoka might merely crave attention. Since the Ghost Dance failure and the discrediting of his ‘vision,’ he has lost all influence and prestige.”
Holmes was no believer in visions, and he thought little of those who held to them, especially when so many were likely to suffer because of them.
“We should arrive in ample time to prevent the burning of the cabin,” Holmes said. “Did you not see the Fire and Guard building?”
As always, Holmes’s powers of observation outstripped my own. I confessed that I had not.
“You were no doubt looking at the Ferris Wheel,” he said. “The station is quite nearby, and there are hundreds of guards. Perhaps a thousand or more.”
“You did not mention them to Cody in our rooms.”
“I was not entirely sure of their competence or presence, though I am now more certain of their numbers. Did you not notice them as we passed along the Midway?”
Once again I had to confess that I had not, though now that he mentioned it, I did recall a number of men in uniform.
“They were recruited especially to make the Exposition safe,” Holmes said. “In spite of my earlier misgivings, I believe we can count on them for help.”
I hoped he was correct. We reached the Midway, which bustled with a multitude of men, women, and children. The crowd at the Ferris Wheel was especially impressive. We made our way through them, and soon came to the Fire and Guard building. Holmes went right up to the door and asked a capped and uniformed young man there for someone in authority.
“I am in authority,” the man said, his scanty moustache fairly bristling. “You can tell me what you need.”
Holmes was not one to truckle, but this was an emergency. He said, “I believe someone is about to burn the Sitting Bull cabin in the Indian village. We must put a stop to it.”
To the young man’s credit, he did not hesitate. Fishing a whistle from a pocket within his braided jacket, he blew a piercing note. Men ran to us from all sides as well as from
within the building. The young man crammed his whistle back into his pocket and began shouting orders.
It was one of the few times that I ever saw Holmes appear dumbfounded. In fact, I cannot remember another. He had not expected such a reaction, but it seemed that the Guard had been waiting for an opportunity to show its value, apart from the usual petty annoyances of asking people for their cards and harassing them for minor violations.
Unfortunately, the men had not been trained. They were merely hired with the idea that their numbers and manner would prevent problems. Confronted with a true crisis, they failed to perform as expected, dashing off in all directions, shouting at the crowds and each other, shoving people aside, and generally wreaking havoc along the Midway. Men and women clutched their children to them, while those whose offspring had wandered off looked wildly about and cried out for them.
“My word, Holmes,” said I as the mob surged around us. “What have we done?”
Holmes, though some would not expect it from him, was not without humor. He smiled a thin smile and said, “It seems my uneasiness about the Guard was justified, after all. However, if this massive disorder does not prevent the fire, nothing will.”
“But what of those who planned it? Will they not escape in the confusion?”
“It will be our job to stop them.”
“How will we know them.”
“The Ghost Shirts,” said Holmes. “We must look for the Ghost Shirts.”
We forced our way through the throng, and were pushed about in return. When we reached the Chinese theater with its tall towers trimmed in red an blue, Holmes tugged at my sleeve.
“There, Watson,” he said, and pointed.
I saw, over the heads of many people, a man dressed in a long black coat, his head covered by a black hat that almost concealed his face.
“That is Wovoka,” said Holmes.
No Ghost Shirt could be seen, but Holmes said, “He has taken to wearing the clothing of civilization so as to be unrecognized. Come, Watson.”
Holmes jostled across the Midway, and I followed as best I could. Wovoka must have known we pursued him, but because of the crowd he could move no faster than we. The multitude thinned quickly, as most were being drawn toward the cabin where the Guard had gone. By the time Wovoka reached the Ferris Wheel, we were at his heels. The gargantuan wheel rotated slowly on the mighty axle, its heavy cars rocking gently as it turned.
Wovoka climbed the stairs to one of the loading platforms, thrusting aside those who had remained in line. Holmes and I were right behind him.
Perhaps he had hoped that we would be afraid of the machine, or perhaps he thought that he could escape into the sky from its upper heights. First, however, he had to get on board, and there was no way that he could. The operators made no attempt to stop the wheel, and the cars themselves were secured by screened windows and locked doors.
Wovoka did not intend to be captured. He leapt from the platform and grabbed hold of the roof of a passing car. Within seconds he had pulled himself atop it. The passengers in the car stood from their chairs and watched in amazement.
“He has trapped himself,” said Holmes as the chair moved upward. “In the great circle, he can only come back around to us here on the platform.”
For the barest fraction of a second, I thought of the Reichenbach Falls and of a figure dropping down, down.
“Holmes,” said I, “what if he chooses not to return atop the car?”
“Then he does not, but I believe he will. The Ghost Dance is a circle, and he circles now. He will return to close the circle.”
When Wovoka reached the apex of the wheel’s turn, he stood atop the car, looked toward the sky, and spread his upraised arms. I do not know what answer he might have sought in the blue and the clouds, but I do not think he found it. The wheel continued in its round, and Wovoka sat down cross-legged on the car, his shoulders slumped. When the car reached the platform again, he jumped off, right into the waiting arms of Sherlock Holmes.
We sat in the tent of Buffalo Bill Cody, a tent even more lavishly furnished then Frank Butler’s. The show was over, and Cody was there. Wovoka was with us, as were Kicking Bear and Short Bull, whom Holmes had retrieved from the Guard while I kept company with Wovoka at the base of the Ferris Wheel. Neither of us had said much then, and Wovoka said little now. Cody did most of the talking.
“You have shamed me,” he told the Indians, “but thanks to Sherlock Holmes, you have been prevented from doing any serious damage. It is lucky for you that he was able to stop the Guard from injuring you, or anyone else.”
Indeed. It was lucky for all of us that no one had been injured in the panic on the Midway.
“If I turn you over to the authorities and press charges against you,” Cody continued, “Kicking Bear and Short Bull would be returned to the reservation. Wovoka would doubtless be imprisoned.”
We had, at least learned that Wovoka was, as Cody had said, the leader. He had talked the other two into joining him in one last attempt to bring back the old days and the old ways.
“I will not see that happen,” Cody said.
I could not be sure, but I thought the Indians relaxed a fraction at those words.
“Kicking Bear and Short Bull will stay with me here, where I can keep an eye on them. Wovoka will leave us and swear never to return.”
“Where will I go?” the Indian said.
“Wherever it pleases you,” Cody said.
Wovoka picked up his hat, which had rested on his knee, and settled it on his head. He nodded to Cody and walked straight out of the tent without a glance at anyone else, and we never heard of him again.
That evening, Holmes and I rode in one of the cars of the great Ferris Wheel. We sat in the car with many others, perhaps as many as fifty people, and all of us looked eastward. The fairground was bight with electric lights, and the people who streamed down the great street were tiny figures far below. We could see the outlines of imposing buildings stretching away to the dark inland sea beyond.
“I was wrong, Watson,” said Holmes. I had to strain to hear him over the chatter of the other occupants of the car. He pointed to the vista before us. “Revenge was not Wovoka’s motive. This is what he feared. This is what he wished to destroy with his final Ghost Dance.”
“But Holmes,” said I, “this sight is awe-inspiring. This is the future. Surely Wovoka must have realized that as he stood upon the car today.”
The car dipped downward. If Holmes answered, I did not hear him, and we never spoke of it again.
The Adventure of the Christmas Ghosts
It was the morning of the twenty-second day of December, a Sunday according to my notes, that Sherlock Holmes and I received one of the strangest visitors who had hitherto arrived at our lodgings at 221B Baker Street. I heard the man coming down the hall, and even before he had brushed past Billy, our page boy, and entered into our sitting room, I used the methods I had begun to learn from Holmes to reach a conclusion about our caller.
I deduced that he was not coming to give the greetings of the season to Holmes. I arrived at this conclusion because, although this was early in our association, I already knew Holmes to be the least sentimental and the least superstitious man I had ever known. Our halls were not decked with holly but with retorts and vials; there was not within our rooms the steamy scent of plum pudding but of the tobacco from our pipes mixed with the faint chemical odor of one of Holmes’s experiments; the music Holmes occasionally played on his violin was of his own composing and was not remotely related to any known carol; and for Holmes, the idea of cattle bowing down in their stalls at midnight on the eve of Christmas was nothing more than the sheerest fantasy, laughable on its face. Logic was what Holmes believed in, rare as he considered logic to be in the world in which we lived.
Our visitor, as I have said, brushed past Billy and entered our room. He was a man of middle age, somewhat above medium height, well dressed in a dark suit and clean linen, with his hat firmly mou
nted on his head. His face was smooth-shaven and strongly scored with lines that ran beside his mouth and down his chin as if he might have spent his life frowning perpetually. His face was ruddy, either from the intense cold outside or from his exertions, and his breath came in short gasps, as if he had run all the way to our rooms from his own.
“This gentleman—“ Billy began, but Holmes waved to him to be silent, and Billy backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“Which of you is Sherlock Holmes?” our visitor asked, his voice rough with either emotion or the effects of the cold.
“I am,” Holmes replied. “What brings you to us in such a rush and flurry of nervous agitation, having missed a deal of sleep into the bargain?”
“How did you know—ah, I see.” Our visitor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I have been almost running, and it has taken my breath, so you know that I was in a rush to see you.”
“That you are short of breath is true,” Holmes acknowledged, and I was gratified to realize that I too had noted as much. “And your shoes are wet, with a rind of ice beginning to form on your pants cuffs,” continued Holmes, “indicating that you stepped onto a crusted-over puddle rather than taking the time to pass around it. You shaved so hurriedly this morning that you missed a spot just below your right ear and another just below your nose. You have also nicked yourself at least twice, and there is a dot of blood on your right shirt cuff, no doubt from one of the nicks; you would surely have changed the cuff had you noticed it.”
Our visitor looked down at his cuff. “I had heard of your methods, and you do not disappoint me. Yes, I would have changed cuffs had I noticed.”
Holmes looked over at me. “Always look at a man’s hands first, Watson, and then his shoes and then the knees of his trousers. You will invariably learn something of interest.”
“Quite so, Holmes,” said I.
“As to your sleeplessness,” Holmes went on, “I am sure that Watson has noted the way in which the pallor of your skin makes the black circles beneath your eyes stand out, a sure sign of sleepless nights.”
