by Alex Simmons
“What happened to Chinless Ed and the others?” Dooley demanded.
“Better you don’t know,” Wiggins replied, his voice almost lost among the exclamations from the crowd.
“Wotcher think ye’re doing, then?”
“That was a neat bit of driving, the two of you.”
“Have to be mad to try something like that.”
From his vantage point above the hubbub, Wiggins saw Buffalo Bill rein in the hansom cab, jump down from his perch, and head for the wagon. Wiggins also spotted several figures in blue making their way toward them.
“All right, then, what’s this all about?” The lead constable was a grizzled veteran with sergeant’s stripes.
Buffalo Bill stepped up to him. “My friend and I were chasing a bunch of bad characters who’d kidnapped these children.”
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed at the accent and at Buffalo Bill’s long hair. “American are you, then?”
“Colonel William F. Cody,” the Westerner introduced himself. “And my friend is Silent Eagle, whom I’m sure you’ve heard about.”
At the mention of Silent Eagle’s name, several of the constables began closing in. Buffalo Bill held up a hand. “Constable Turnbuckle’s real attacker got himself run over during the chase,” he said, “but not before he let off a couple of shots. More important, the young folks on the wagon were kidnapped because they discovered a smuggling ring. A sort of Underground Railway for criminals.”
“There’s a lot of them hiding out not too far away,” Wiggins chimed in. “They’re waiting for a ship at the old Quick warehouse.”
The sergeant frowned, thinking over this news.
Buffalo Bill stepped beside Silent Eagle as the Indian came down off the horse he’d been riding. “The two of us are at your disposal. But I strongly hope you’ll take a moment to check the warehouse before conducting us wherever we have to go.”
Wiggins watched the struggle on the sergeant’s face. Here he had a bird in hand. But the sergeant was a veteran, a man who knew his business. Now he showed he could recognize someone who knew his business as well. “We’ll take a look right now,” he said.
“You may want to telegraph the river police,” Wiggins added. “Those ginks are sure to have a boat.”
On the route back to the warehouse, the sergeant left one of his men to guard the remains of Chinless Ed Gorham, now covered with a horse blanket.
As for Zeke Black and Inspector Desmond, they found no sign. Black, however, must have returned to Quick’s with a warning. The police found the warehouse empty, but from the wharf outside, they saw a four-oar boat shoving off onto the river. The sergeant recognized one of the people aboard— the only one who was rowing efficiently. “Gentleman Jeremy Clive!” he burst out.
The fugitives didn’t get very far. A river police steam launch soon appeared. On hearing the sergeant’s report about who was aboard, the launch set off in speedy pursuit, intercepting the boat. Trapped on the river, Gentleman Jeremy and his fellow criminals had no choice but to surrender.
Word of Buffalo Bill’s involvement in the affair spread quickly. By the time the sergeant and his charges reached the local police station, reporters were already on hand, and very soon, several of Colonel Cody’s prominent friends from London society put in an appearance.
“Maybe we wouldn’t have had all this mess if they’d shown their faces a bit earlier,” Wiggins muttered.
“That’s just the way of society people,” Jennie replied. “If you’re in trouble, they don’t want to know you. When you’re in the chips, though, you have plenty of friends.” She paused for a second. “Come to think of it, that’s the way most respectable people act.”
“But not all of ’em.” Wiggins looked at her with a smile.
The police questioned Buffalo Bill and the members of the Raven League as well as the captured fugitives. An annoyed Gentleman Jeremy apparently talked very freely. Soon, a bulletin was going out for the apprehension of former Inspector Desmond, and Silent Eagle was walking out with Colonel Cody—free and clear.
“I’m sorry, Silent Eagle.” Dooley lowered his head as he approached the Indian.
“Why?”
“I—I said bad things,” Dooley stammered, “about you and your people—”
“You and your friends said you would help me.” The Indian dropped to one knee so his eyes were level with Dooley’s. “And you did. Those are the words I will remember.” He looked into the eyes of Wiggins, Jennie, and Owens. “Pahaska told me of your Raven tribe. It is a good thing to have so much trust.”
He smiled at the children, then up at Buffalo Bill. “It is a thing we should all remember.”
Chapter 17
“YOU YOUNG’UNS JUST HOLD TIGHT, AND YOU’LL enjoy your ride on the Deadwood Stage.” John Nelson, the stagecoach guard, smiled at them through his grizzled, chest-long beard. “My own little ones have ridden dozens of times—even on the roof.” He and his Indian wife had five children. Jennie had seen the younger ones playing among the tents in the Wild West encampment.
She tried not to look too dubious as Nelson slammed the door on the famous Deadwood Stage. Its paint had worn away in many places, and the wood of the bodywork was dinged and gouged. There were wide enough gaps between the boards in the door to put a finger through. Eighteen years ago, this stagecoach had brought passengers along dangerous roads to a famous Western town. Nowadays, it helped to provide a thrilling moment for Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. Jennie wondered whether or not the old relic shouldn’t have been retired years ago.
With a snap of the reins, the coach’s team leaped forward. The wheels rolled, and ancient springs groaned in protest, making the coach bounce wildly.
The members of the Raven League had received a special invitation to attend this performance. As the guests of honor, they got to participate in the climax.
“Chief Tall-Like-Oak said he would tell the Buffalo Soldiers about me,” Owens said as he struggled to stay in his seat. “One of them might send me a patch from his uniform. Maybe I’ll even see them one day.”
“You know, not too long ago, four kings rode in this coach, with the Prince of Wales up on the driver’s seat beside Buffalo Bill,” Wiggins said.
“You mean my behind might be bumping where some king was sitting?” Dooley asked.
“Well, if this thing didn’t shake apart then, it shouldn’t happen now,” Jennie quipped. “I daresay we’re a lot lighter.”
Still, she had to admit, Buffalo Bill’s visit might have done more good than he ever expected. She’d read newspaper stories about the British and American governments working to set up an international court that could settle future problems between them fairly and peacefully. If that came about, one reason would certainly be the good feelings caused by Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.
The stagecoach rattled into the arena. From one side, Jennie could see the painted backdrop of Western scenery. From the other, she saw the grandstand full of applauding audience members. They passed the royal box, where J. Montague Pryke sat clapping loud and hard. His head was swathed in so many bandages, at first glance he seemed to be wearing a turban.
Pryke had suddenly become a great friend of all things American after a flood of newspaper stories about the dockside rescue. Reporters happily cast Buffalo Bill as the hero, saving a group of kidnapped children and exposing the criminal-smuggling ring. As far as Jennie read, Colonel Cody had done everything but swim out to capture the boat full of fleeing criminals. Constable Turnbuckle recovered enough to tell his story about Zeke Black and Chinless Ed Gorham. Gorham now occupied an unmarked grave in the Tower Hamlets Cemetery. Black had been captured trying to board a ship for Canada, but Inspector Desmond had vanished. Had he made a successful getaway with the help of the shadowy higher-ups? Or had they simply disposed of him as a failed tool?
After the stagecoach circled once around the arena, the Indians made their appearance, streaming in from behind the painted scenery, yelling and firi
ng guns into the air.
Leaning out the window, Jennie looked at the riders, finally picking Silent Eagle out of the pack of pursuers. He had made his face almost unrecognizable with daubs of war paint.
After a few minutes of howling pursuit by the Indians, a throng of cowboys charged into the arena. Led by Buffalo Bill, they thundered to the rescue of the stage and its passengers. A great deal more gun-powder was burnt as cowboys and Indians exchanged volleys,firing off blank cartridges while the show’s cowboy band played the stirring song “Garryowen.” The crowd roared approval. Catching Jennie’s eye, Buffalo Bill doffed his Stetson hat.
But a sudden chilling thought made her grip the window frame harder as she turned to her friends. “It’s easy enough to know you’ve got an enemy when he paints his face,” she said. “But twice now, we’ve come up against people who do evil, but they do it in secret. We couldn’t even tell who the enemy was. He might be a fine gentleman, or an important official in the government”—Jennie took a deep breath—“or a policeman.”
Maybe it was the excitement of the moment. Or maybe, Jennie had to admit, it was justifiable pride that made Wiggins puff up his chest as he responded to her worries. "P’raps we blundered into the fight those times,” Wiggins admitted. “But we beat ’em anyway. And from now on, we’ll be ready for ’em, won’t we?”
Owens nodded. “Right!”
“That’s the Raven League,” Dooley crowed, bouncing in his seat, “ready for anything!”
