Perhaps not every ticket gives you the right to roam about the grounds?
She found herself facing an open space ringed with tiered seats. The sylph flitted by, caught her eye, and waved her to follow. A moment later she was glad she had; the sylph led her past the crowds that were jockeying for the seats nearest the entrance and to a tier of seats, still mostly empty, on the opposite side of the arena space. She climbed up the steps, glad of her divided skirt and feeling a great deal of pity for the townswomen in fashionable garb. Even those wearing humble dirndls were managing better than women encumbered by yards of skirt and tight corsets, much to the amusement of some naughty boys.
She sat where the sylph pointed: about halfway up the tier, with some children on the seats immediately below her, so her view was not going to be obstructed. Just as she settled in, a brass band at the head of the arena struck up a jaunty tune. She didn’t recognize it, but then, most tunes she wouldn’t anyway. Mother wasn’t much for music, and Joachim and Pieter mostly knew hymns and drinking songs.
The band continued to play as people found their seats. There were vendors of food scattered about the arena, but fortunately they were mostly hawking fruit, candy, and nuts. None of those things had any aroma to them, so Giselle was able to put her hunger out of her mind and concentrate on her surroundings. The grass in the arena had been trampled flat but not yet pounded into dust. There was a low wooden barrier between the stands and the arena. The band was very colorful, dressed in bright red uniforms with a great deal of gold braid. Next to them was an entrance closed off by red curtains that presumably cloaked an opening in the wall around the arena. This, Giselle guessed, was where the performers would come from. Finally, when it appeared that no one else was going to want in, the tent flaps closed, and the band finished with a flourish.
Then there was a fanfare, a lot of strange shouting, the red curtains parted, and a man on a white horse, dressed in a white suit with a great deal of brass buttons and fringe on it and a white hat of a sort she had never seen before, galloped into the center of the arena and made his horse rear up while taking off his hat to the crowd.
“Ladies! Gentlemen!” a man next to the brass band called through a cone-shaped object. “Welcome to Captain Cody’s Wild West!”
Captain Cody—since that was undoubtedly who this was—made his horse gallop at a furious pace around the ring, while the Captain was making whooping noises and firing his pistols in the air as the band played. He made one circuit of the arena seated—and then to Giselle’s wide-eyed astonishment, somehow got to his feet, and while standing on the saddle made a second circuit as perfectly erect just as if he was standing on unmoving ground and not a galloping horse, while taking off his hat to the crowd. As he came around the second time, Giselle got a good look at him, and he would probably have been quite ordinary looking if it had not been for his costume, his long, flowing hair and his bushy moustache.
The band concluded their tune as Captain Cody somehow dropped back into the saddle and rode out through the red curtains at the far end of the tent that she could now see were held open by a couple of men. But the audience was not given a chance to catch their collective breath, as the announcer called out, “And now, the Grand Parade March!”
Now, oh now, she got to see everything she had been longing to see!
The first riders through the curtains were going four abreast, at a canter. The two in the middle were wearing tan leather outfits with long fringes on the sleeves and the seams of the trousers. One wore a hat like Captain Cody’s, only brown, the other wore—oh! It was a hat made from an animal—a coonskin hat exactly like the one Old Shatterhand wore in the illustrations! The one on the right carried the flag of the United States. The one on the left carried the flag of the German Empire.
But then, bliss upon bliss, the two outermost riders were Indians! They, too, were clad in leather, with fringes and some sort of decorations, and had scarlet sashes about their waists and bandoliers of bullets across their chests. They wore feathers in their hair, and instead of flags, one carried a kind of curved pole with fur wrapped around it and feathers flying from it, and the other carried a wicked-looking lance with long cloth streamers tied to it just below the lance-head.
They rode straight down the middle of the arena then split at the end, with one pair going right, the other, left.
Then came what Giselle recognized from the illustrations in Karl May’s books as a covered wagon, the conveyance favored by settlers, pulled by a team of horses. It went right. Behind it was a small herd of the most extraordinary cattle Giselle had ever seen—their horns were enormous, stretched out to either side of their heads by two feet or more! They were kept in check by four men in checkered or tan shirts, vests, bluish trousers with leather leggings over them and round bowler hats, who herded them to the left, right past Giselle.
After that came another conveyance Giselle also recognized, a stagecoach. It was pulled by four horses, whose driver handled them expertly. That went to the right, so she didn’t get a closer look at it.
But then, in the next moment, she was fiercely glad of the pattern, because next to enter the arena were—a whole tribe of Indians! Men mostly, with three women and two little boys. The men were in a motley assortment of costumes: several were bare-chested, one wore a red cloth shirt with a vest, and one wore a blue uniform coat with leather leggings. Two of them had a sort of crest on their heads, like a Roman soldier’s helmet crest, made of some stiff red-dyed hair. All of them had feathers in their black hair, which had a peculiar sort of fat ridge along the tops of their heads, and all had leather leggings and soft leather moccasins. The women were not nearly as colorful; they all wore simple cloth tunics and skirts with brightly colored hems, sashes, and had shawls wrapped about themselves. The boys were dressed like their elders.
She feasted her eyes on them as they went past, their own gazes unwavering and straight ahead, as if they rode their own plains unobserved, not a dusty arena ogled by an avid audience.
Behind them came four bison, carefully led by halters manned by walking handlers. They split into two groups, so both sides of the arena could get a good look at them. Giselle gazed her fill at the odd creatures, which played so huge a part in Karl May’s tales. She could scarcely imagine how they kept their huge heads up, and they didn’t look dangerous at all. . . .
Well, a bull doesn’t look dangerous either, she reminded herself. Nor does a dancing bear. But either of them could tear you apart if they were minded to.
Then came more cowboys and frontiersmen, including some fellows in embroidered shirts and enormous hats, and lastly, when all of the performers were arrayed around the edge of the arena, in galloped Captain Cody again on his beautiful white steed, which he stopped in the middle of the area. He made it rear on its hind legs again then bow in four directions to the four quarters of the arena before galloping back out again, and the rest of the company rode back through the red curtains, leaving the arena empty once again.
And then the real show began.
Certainly everyone who (unlike Giselle) had bought their tickets must have felt they got their money’s worth, because by the time it was over, she realized that at least four hours had passed. There were trick-riders, of which Captain Cody was the chief. The antics he performed on what must have been the most patient horse in the world left the audience gasping. There was a cattle stampede, an Indian raid on the settlers, bandits ambushing the stagecoach, and Captain Cody did an exhibition of sharpshooting that won her unalloyed admiration, because he did his tricks without benefit of helpful sylphs. Texas Tom did things with a rope she half-thought were magic tricks. There was a “grand quadrille,” which was a dance done on horseback, with four couples in bright satin gowns and suits. Captain Cody’s “Wonder Horse, Lightning,” showed off a battery of tricks. And there was even more than that. By the time it was over even Giselle felt sated with all the sights and sou
nds.
At the end of the show, the announcer told the crowd that those with the same sort of ticket that she held were invited to leave through the entrance on the side of the tent where she was sitting—a much, much smaller entrance. There, he proclaimed, they would be allowed to see the stagecoach, the covered wagon, the bison, and the longhorn cattle all up close, and speak with the performers and tour the Cowboy Camp, the Army Camp, the Settler Camp and the Indian Village.
Well, how could she possibly resist that?
She left her seat and joined the other audience members who had the special tickets and were passing through the designated entrance. Only as she filed out with the rest did a second ticket-taker examine and take her ticket.
“He dropped one and didn’t notice. That was the one I stole!” said a silvery, laughing voice. Giselle looked up—trying not to look as if she was looking up—and saw the white-winged sylph hovering overhead.
Thank you, she thought, hard, knowing the sylph would hear and understand her, then she followed the crowd down a passage left for them to walk through.
By this time, the white-winged one had been joined by two more, all three of them chattering among themselves and looking back from time to time to make sure she was following.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” called the man who had been doing all the announcing. “I am conducting a tour of the camp! If you will please gather around me, yes, like that, the first object here for your pleasure and examination is the Wells Fargo Stagecoach!”
Well, the stagecoach did not hold a great deal of interest for Giselle, and anyway, the white-winged sylph was beckoning her onward, with her two companions fluttering on ahead. So she edged past the crowd and followed, and soon found herself wandering past wagons and tents that looked quite ordinary, like the farm-cart that Mother had used, except bigger, and people—mostly men—who were going to and fro and evidently had specific things they needed to do in a hurry. They ignored her quite as if they didn’t see her—which was a good thing, as she was trying very hard not to be seen. There was a smell of cooking food: stew, she thought, but some other things she didn’t quite recognize. And the bruised smell of trampled grass, a distant hint of a large animal that was not horse. The bison?
She came around a corner of a tent and found herself, suddenly, at the edge of the Indian Camp. You could tell it was the Indian Camp, since it was a circle of cone-shaped tents of painted canvas that must be teepees, arranged around a central fire. And standing not twenty feet away, just behind one of these tents, were Captain Cody himself, one of the Indians, and a fellow in a suit. They seemed to be discussing things, not urgently, but she could tell from their manner that whatever they were talking about was certainly important. She wished she could understand them. But at least she could try and remain unnoticed and get a much closer look at two of the show’s stars.
This close, Captain Cody actually looked a little bit handsomer, and he was shorter than she had thought. The Indian, by contrast, was quite tall. He didn’t speak much, only a word or two now and again, but whatever he said was listened to with great attention. Something about the way he held himself made her think he might be quite important—perhaps he was the chief? And there was something more about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on—
Just as she thought that, he happened to glance in her direction. And suddenly, his gaze sharpened and he stared hard at her. She shrank back a little—and then, as she watched his eyes flicker from her to what should have been empty air for him—she realized that he could see her sylphs!
Before she could move, or say anything, all three sylphs zoomed over to him, and as he turned, she could see that there was a bird, a small owl, perched on his shoulder. . . .
Except that it wasn’t a bird. Or rather, it wasn’t an ordinary bird. It shimmered with the same inherent power that her sylphs did, and she realized with a sense of shock that it was some sort of Air Elemental.
Her sylphs were talking to it—and it had its eyes fixed on the Indian’s. He interrupted the conversation that was still going on between Captain Cody and the other man, and said a few sharp, excited words. And pointed.
At her.
Before she could back away and run, all three of them were striding toward her with purpose in every step. They literally surrounded her so she couldn’t move, with Captain Cody and the man in the suit talking excitedly and gesturing at her.
Their German was . . . terrible.
She shook her head, trying to convey that she didn’t understand. All that accomplished was to make them repeat themselves, only louder this time, as if by volume alone they could make her understand. She looked from Cody’s face to the other man’s and back, only getting more bewildered and starting to feel more than a bit desperate.
Then the Indian interrupted them with an abrupt gesture and a single word. They fell silent, and waited, expectantly.
The Indian pointed at her, then mimed something. After a moment, she understood what it was—he was carefully aiming, and shooting, a rifle!
He pointed at her again. Was he asking if she could shoot? The way he spread his hands afterward seemed to indicate that was just what he was doing, so she nodded, and mimed shooting her rifle.
That got the two men even more excited, if that was possible. They started babbling at her until the Indian snorted in disgust, and that seemed to remind them that she couldn’t understand a single word they were saying. But Captain Cody seized her by the wrist and pulled gently. The Indian made shooing motions in the direction he was trying to take her.
“Go with them!” all three sylphs urged. “Go with them! They want to see what we can do!”
She might have been frightened, and indeed, perhaps she should have been frightened, except that it was clear to her, and more importantly, to her sylphs, that these men meant her no harm. If there was one thing that an Elemental Master came to trust, it was the instincts of her Elementals, for they saw deeper than any mere human could. Maybe if I had been paying more attention to them, I would have left before the Hauptmann found me. . . .
Captain Cody’s grip on her wrist was not so tight that she couldn’t have pulled away if she wanted to, but with her own Elementals telling her to do what these men wanted—well it would have been foolish not to do what they said. She didn’t know why the sylphs wanted her to shoot for them, but perhaps . . . perhaps she could get a meal out of it if she impressed them, and maybe a bed in one of the tents for the night. That was certainly worth a few shots at a target, given the shrinking of her finances. So she let Cody lead her to a part of the camp where a target range had been set up, with the other two men following behind. There was a backstop of logs, against which there was a row of paper targets. There were stationary targets, and also a crate of clay targets meant to be tossed in the air. Behind the backstop was the canvas wall; it occurred to her that these people must be very sure of their own aim to know that any misfires would go into the logs and not to either side, through the canvas and then . . . hitting who knew what!
She didn’t have her own rifle with her, but the Captain motioned for her to wait and went off to a nearby tent. He returned with a rifle, a carbine of some sort. It was somewhat more sophisticated than her own piece, and much newer, but after several moments of looking it over and miming to Cody he should demonstrate its action, she was satisfied she could handle it creditably once she got it sighted in on the stationary targets. She raised it to her shoulder for her first shot and glanced at the Indian.
He gave a slight tilt of his head in the direction of the three sylphs, and the sketchiest of nods. So, he intended that she “cheat?” Very well, then.
You may help me, she thought hard at them. The bullet must—
“We know!” crowed the white-winged one. “This will be tremendous fun!”
This gun was lighter than hers, so she braced herself for a bigger “kick.” Kic
kback on any gun was dependent on two things: the power of the ammunition and the weight of the frame of the gun itself, as Joachim had carefully explained to her. And the first shot she took did, indeed, kick the butt of the rifle back hard into her shoulder. But since she was prepared for it, the muzzle rose only a fraction, and she was sighting in on the target again.
Within moments, Giselle was completely in love with this rifle. Her first shot would have been in the second ring from the center, if the sylphs hadn’t interfered. She had it properly sighted in within five shots, and needed very little assistance on the stationary targets from the sylphs, perhaps a nudge on one shot in six or seven. Soon the center of the target had no more paper in it, and had taken on the dull sheen of lead as bullet after bullet flattened on each other. She lost track of everything except the gun in her hands, the target in front of her, and what the air around her was doing. Even the kick of the rifle into her shoulder no longer registered with her, at least not consciously.
She needed no assistance at all when Captain Cody began tossing clay plates into the air.
Plate after plate went up and shattered as she shot, pausing only long enough to reload. Her hands worked of themselves, she really didn’t think about them. She could hardly have been unaware of the men’s growing excitement, since the Captain whooped with joy every time she hit her mark, but she kept her concentration on her targets. If the sylphs thought she needed to impress these men, then impress them she would! She swung the muzzle of the carbine, tracking each plate and snapping off a shot as soon as she was sure everything was perfect, her brows creased slightly. She was vaguely aware she’d probably have a bit of a bruise on her shoulder when she was done, but that was offset by the fact that this lovely carbine was so much lighter than her own piece.
From a High Tower Page 9
