Buffalo Bill Wanted!

by Alex Simmons

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Also by Alex Simmons and Bill McCay

  The Raven League:

  Sherlock Holmes is Missing!

  The Raven League: Buffalo Bill Wanted!

  RAZORBILL/SLEUTH

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group

  345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road,

  Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre,

  Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads,

  Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank,

  Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright 2007 © Alex Simmons and William McCay

  All rights reserved

  Use of the Sherlock Holmes characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle courtesy of the Estate of Dame Jean Conan Doyle.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by aw. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any

  responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Chapter 1

  “CAN YOU MAKE THIS OUT, WIGGINS?” JEAN-BAPTISTE Owens asked.

  Archie Wiggins’s thin face twisted in concentration as he tried to sound out the first word on the poster. “ ‘B-Buf-Buffalo.’ ”

  The rest was easier. " ’Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.’ ”

  The bottom of the poster got harder again, but he plowed on. “ ‘America’s Na-National Enterenter—’ ”

  “Entertainment,” said Jennie James. “You’re getting on well with your reading.”

  Wiggins shot an annoyed glance at her. “It would come on better if you used a more exciting book to teach us.”

  “Yeah,” said William Doolan, known as Dooley. “All that happens in those stories is that children go to heaven.”

  “Right,” Owens chimed in, pointing at the poster. “Why can’t we have stories with cowboys and Indians?”

  “We’ll be seein’ them soon enough,” Wiggins said with a grin.

  “So you say.” Jennie shot a dubious look at the crowd around them. All spring, London and the British Empire had celebrated Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee. To mark the queen’s fifty years on the throne, Londoners had stood at solemn ceremonies and cheered at a grand parade. But they’d also turned out in force to cheer this show that came from America. A good thirty thousand people showed up for each performance of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, paying up to four shillings to get a ticket.

  For a boy or girl from the poor East End of the city, even one shilling was a tremendous amount of money. Working every job they could find, Wiggins and his friends had managed to scrape up the train fare to Earl’s Court, where the Wild West show appeared as part of the American Exposition. They didn’t have enough to pay for tickets, but Wiggins was sure he could get them in somehow. He’d managed to crash the gate at every music hall in the East End, sometimes in search of clues for the great detective Sherlock Holmes. Most times, however, he’d just wanted a free look at the show.

  “Follow me.” Wiggins started pushing his way through the crowd. They passed the front of the exhibition building, a huge, shed-like affair that reminded Wiggins of a big train station. The building stretched easily 120 feet, and it extended ten times deeper than that. Its plaster front was already getting a bit grimy, thanks to cinders from passing trains. An American eagle stood over the main entrance, while the Stars and Stripes flapped from a large flagpole. Inside were examples of American know-how—from the way they built steam engines to how their dentists dealt with bad teeth.

  Wiggins didn’t care about all that, and neither did most of the visitors—except that they had to buy their tickets in the building to get to the outdoor area where Buffalo Bill’s Wild West took place. But he knew there had to be entrances where people came in without tickets—performers, workmen, even animals.

  A quick glance around showed obstacles, however. The exhibition grounds had started out as wasteland, cut off from the rest of the city by railway lines. These tracks also offered a challenge for would-be gate-crashers. Three railway cuttings created a sort of moat around the Wild West performance area. The only access to the triangular plot of land came from several bridges set across the trenches.

  There was a bridge from the exhibition building, but that was for ticket holders. Wiggins settled on a bridge fronting on a roadway as their route in. “Let’s try over there,” he said.

  Jennie nodded toward a figure in blue waving the masses of people past the bridge and toward the ticket offices. “That police constable is sort of in the way.”

  “There’s only one of him,” Dooley pointed out.

  “All we have to do is wait for our chance,” Wiggins said.

  A heavy van came rattling up to the bridge. The driver reined in the team of horses, then he jumped off, arranging a set of heavy boards as a ramp. The canvas curtains at the back of the van parted, and a tall, rangy man in a leather vest backed his way down, tugging on a rope.

  Londoners dressed in their best—men in straw hats, ladies with parasols, children in sailor outfits— stopped to gawk as the weather-beaten man pulled the rope more sharply.

  “He looks like a cowboy,” Dooley said.

  “Right,” Wiggins scoffed. “I’m sure plenty of cowboys work as London—” He broke off when a horned head poked between the canvas panels, something he’d only seen in pictures from Western stories—a buffalo!

  The beast stood as large as a horse, maybe bigger, with tightly curled hair covering its humped back and huge head. The rope around its neck like a leash seemed awfully thin.

  Another man stepped out beside the buffalo. He also held a lead rope attached to the animal as he carefully stepped past it. This man had high cheekbones, a beak of a nose, and copper-bronze skin.

  “I bet he’s a Red Indian,” Dooley gasped. “A real live savage!”

  A final man came out of the van, taking up a station behind the buffalo with a third leash
rope. But he didn’t look like a Westerner. Wiggins thought he looked like a music-hall comedian. Maybe it was the large, bushy mustache that tried to make up for his sharply receding chin.

  Owens nudged Wiggins. “Looks like he left his chin behind in America,” he joked.

  As the front two men tugged on their ropes, the buffalo came down the ramp to the pavement. Then the creature must have noticed all the people around and stopped dead.

  This could be interesting , Wiggins thought. How do you get a beast that big to move if he doesn’t want to?

  The chinless man in the rear tried shoving the buffalo along—without much success.

  “He don’t know much about animals,” Wiggins commented.

  The chinless man doubled up the loose end of the rope he held and whacked it across the buffalo’s rump. The big beast gave a great jerk, its powerful frame nearly hauling the three handlers off their feet.

  Uh-oh, Wiggins thought. If an animal that size spooked and tried to run through the crowd, people were going to get hurt. He grabbed Dooley’s shoulder and began backing them away. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jennie retreating with Owens. Those around them shifted about, uncertain whether to continue watching or move away.

  The buffalo gave a great snort, twisting around as if looking for a way to escape. The police constable, obviously realizing the danger, pushed forward. “All right, now,” he told the onlookers. “Move along and let the men do their work.”

  The Indian dropped his rope and turned to push through the tightly clustered knot of spectators.

  “Silent Eagle,” the cowboy in the leather vest called. “Where are you going?”

  The Indian gave no reply, disappearing into the crowd. Wiggins saw Jennie on tiptoe, trying to see where the Indian went. She looked nervous. No wonder—two men couldn’t control such a big animal alone.

  The chinless man raised his rope as if to whip the buffalo again.

  “You blasted fool!” yelled the weather-beaten cowboy—too late. The gesture was enough to spook the animal. With a bellow, the buffalo began trying to shake loose from the ropes around its neck. The creature’s heavy shoulder hit the cowboy hard enough to send him stumbling.

  Perhaps that Indian had the right idea, running off, Wiggins thought as scared crowd members jostled him, struggling back from the buffalo.

  The police constable’s face went pale, but he stepped in front of the beast.

  “What’s he going to do?” Jennie gasped.

  Wiggins wasn’t sure. A blow from the constable’s truncheon wouldn’t even faze the buffalo, and the man certainly couldn’t hope to wrestle with the big brute.

  “He’s trying to get its attention,” Wiggins realized. “If it charges, it’ll come for him.” Wiggins had to give the copper grudging respect for bravery. It might be the only way to protect the people crowded around, but it would probably kill the man.

  Suddenly someone shoved past Wiggins, heading straight for the snorting, stomping beast. It was the Indian! He held his hands cupped together, opening them up as he came to the buffalo.

  The enormous animal thrust his nose at the Indian’s hands. A huge, pinkish tongue came out to swipe up some of the grain the man held out.

  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 gleamin
g 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.”