by Cynthia Hand
Frank had never seen the scar on Bill’s chest up close before. It was deep, and it ran from his shoulder to his heart. Frank had always assumed Bill had gotten it during the war. “Then what happened?” he asked.
Bill sighed. “I continued hunting her. Came close a few times, but she always evaded me. It wasn’t until Salt Lake City that I finally caught up with her again. Normally, she’d hit a place once, rob or bite somebody, and then move on, but this time, she stuck around town. She had to know it was dangerous. I couldn’t figure out why she’d changed her pattern. I was working with the local sheriff, trying to nail down her location, but she always kept two steps ahead of me. Until this one day, at the sheriff’s office, when in walked a little girl.”
Frank’s breath caught. “What little girl?” But he suspected he already knew.
“She was a scrappy thing, maybe ten or eleven, still in pigtails, but she was wearing britches like a boy. She seemed dazed.” Bill stared across the bar, like he could still see her clearly. “She said there was a garou at her house. And the thing is, her house is pretty near the center of all the activity I’d been tracking, following this female garou. I thought, ‘This is it. I’ve got her.’ This time, I wasn’t about to hesitate. If I had the chance to bring her down, woman or not, I’d take it.
“I rode out to the house. I saw the garou through the window. I shot her right through the heart.”
Frank exhaled. “Okay. So you got the bad guy.”
But Bill shook his head. “Inside the house, I heard screaming. Kids. I went in and told them they were safe now, but they kept sobbing and shouting at me. That’s when I got a look at the garou I’d killed, who, in death had turned back into a human.” He cleared his throat, then ordered and drank another whiskey.
Frank waited.
“It wasn’t the woman I’d been hunting,” Bill said finally. “It was a man. I’d just killed these kids’ father.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” Frank said.
Bill stared into the empty glass. “I stayed in Salt Lake City long enough to make sure the children had places to go. I gave up the hunt for a spell. But I always wondered what happened to that little girl who told us about the garou, her father. She’d run off. She was all alone in the world. So I tracked her down. It took me a while, but I finally found her in Wyoming. She was teaching herself to be a scout. She dressed as a boy and took any odd job she could, but it was rough finding a living and staying safe at such a young age. So, eventually, after I went and got you from the Browns, I decided to take her in.”
“Jane,” Frank murmured.
Bill nodded.
Frank remembered when Jane had first joined them. She’d been skinny and dirty, her clothes not much more than rags. Frank had introduced himself and held out his hand, because the Browns had taught him manners, but she’d spit at his feet and walked away.
Later, Bill told him that Jane had a way with the bullwhip, and Frank had an idea. The next time they were outside, he took a piece of candy out of his pocket. “You ever had taffy before?” he asked her.
Jane didn’t answer, but she looked at the sweet longingly.
Frank put it on the top of a fence post. “First one to snap it with the whip gets to eat it,” he said.
Frank had never been any good with a bullwhip, so even though he tried to win (his father taught him to never throw a contest) it was Jane who ended up with the taffy.
She smiled and unwrapped the candy, took a bite, and then offered the rest to Frank.
“No, you won it fair and square,” Frank said.
She gobbled up the rest and then held out her hand. “I’m Calamity Jane.”
“How do you do, Calam?” he said.
Then they were friends, and after a few months, they felt like family.
“That’s when I gave up hunting full-time,” Bill said, pulling Frank back to the present.
“Does Jane know? That you killed her father?”
Bill nodded. “I told her. Apparently her pa was a drunk who couldn’t hold a job and couldn’t provide for his family. But that doesn’t mean I don’t regret it every day.”
“You’ve given Jane a better life,” Frank said softly.
“I don’t know about that,” Bill muttered.
But Frank felt like this still wasn’t the end of the story. “What happened to the other wolf? The female.”
Bill’s jaw tightened. “A while back, I’d heard she’d been captured and killed. But yesterday, I saw her with Jane at the Gem.”
“The wolf’s Al Swearengen,” Frank concluded.
“Yep.”
Frank was starting to understand why this was complicated. “How come you never told me any of this?”
“Because it’s Jane’s story to tell.”
Frank was a tad miffed that she’d never told him, then he remembered he’d never told her about being a garou.
“Jane had a rough time of it, and that leaves a wound,” Bill said. “A wound that maybe makes a person overlook some red flags when they find out their dead mother is actually alive. But that’s not something you can tell her. She’s got to figure it out for herself.”
Right then, the doors to the saloon opened and Annie rushed in. Frank’s heart boomed at the sight of her, but her eyes were wide with fear.
Frank sprang to his feet. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Jane.”
Not again. “What about Jane?”
“She’s a garou!”
Frank felt as though Annie had punched him. Jane was a garou, and that was wrong? Annie had been nothing but nice to him (that kiss, we’re just saying), so he’d hoped she was coming around to the whole garou situation.
“I mean,” Annie continued, “that Jane is a garou, and it’s all over the newspaper, and now there’s an angry mob, and it makes me so—so—angry!”
Frank’s stomach dropped. “Oh.”
“And the worst part is, they’re going to force her to take the cure!”
Outside, the street was swarming with people buzzing about the news.
“Calamity Jane is getting the cure!”
“She’s an abomination. The cure can’t come soon enough!”
and
“She’s finally getting what’s coming to her.”
Frank was surprised at how quickly people could turn on a person. How they could go from asking for an autograph to grabbing their pitchforks in the blink of an eye.
They started for the Gem, but there were too many bodies on the narrow street, and progress was difficult.
Annie, taking charge, as usual, tried to lead them and part the crowd by shouting, “Wild Bill Hickok needs to get through!” But no one could hear her over the ruckus.
So, being petite, she ducked and darted this way and that, narrowly avoiding hitting her head on the butt of someone’s gun. She made it to the door of the Gem and waved to Frank and Bill, who were a ways behind. Then she felt at her back for the strap that she used to carry her rifle. It was broken. Somewhere in the crowd, she’d lost her gun.
A sea of people were entering the Gem by the time Frank and Bill made it to Annie.
“We better get in there,” Bill said.
“But my rifle!” she cried.
“We’ve got this,” Frank said. “Go get your gun. We might need it.”
Then the press of the mob forced Bill and Frank forward, to where a line of guards stood outside the entrance to the theater.
“Hand over your weapons,” they yelled. “No firearms allowed.”
One of them recognized Bill. “Guns please, Mr. Hickok.”
Bill opened his coat to reveal the ivory-handled pistols. “These never leave my side.”
“Then you can’t go in,” the guard said.
Bill sighed, and he and Frank reluctantly turned over their guns. “What are we supposed to use to save Jane?” Frank hissed. “Harsh language?”
They entered into the back of the theater. Jane was already in
the cage.
“No,” Frank called out in despair. There was no way to reach her. There were too many people and too many guards. The audience was throwing stuff at her, everything from rotten food to rocks to shoes.
“C’mon,” a man by Frank shouted. “Wolf out!”
Jane crouched in the corner farthest from the crowd. She was shivering.
“This is outrageous,” Frank said.
“Well, if it isn’t the Wild Bill Hickok,” came a voice from behind them. Frank and Bill turned to see none other than Al Swearengen. She seemed to have been waiting for them. “I’m so happy you made it.”
“Let Jane go,” Bill said gruffly. “Your fight is with me.”
Swearengen touched her shoulder. “You know, I still have the bullet you struck me with. I thought about selling it to the highest bidder, but then I decided to keep it with me always.” She pulled out a necklace from inside her shirt. Hanging there was a silver bullet. “Here it is, right by the heart you missed, reminding me every day of your failure.”
“None of that matters.” Bill looked toward the cage. “That’s your daughter in there.”
“No, she’s your daughter. But pretty soon, I’ll have her back, and she’ll forget she ever knew you.” Al smiled wickedly. “Enjoy the show.”
THIRTY-THREE
Annie
“Has anyone seen my gun?”
Annie pushed through the crowd, searching for the familiar Kentucky long rifle, but it could have been anywhere by now. Dozens of people crowded the street, and it seemed entirely likely that someone had kicked the rifle into a pigpen, or even picked it up to claim it as their own. It was a nice rifle, although probably mostly nice to her, what with the sentimental value.
“Heeeere, gun, gun, gun,” she called, and then walked smack into her gun and the mustache bending to pick it up. (There was a man behind the mustache, but it took her an extra second to see him.)
“Excuse me!” said the mustache.
“Excuse yourself! That’s my gun.” Oh yes (oh yes) they both reached for the gun (the gun the gun).
Annie got it first, hugging the rifle to her chest like it was a lost puppy that didn’t make her sneeze.
“Are you all right, miss?” The man behind the mustache (it was as big as a push broom) looked to be in his late twenties, and though his face was mostly dominated by that mustache, she thought he had the look of a politician or a businessman. That was, he had cunning eyes and a quick smile, the kind that wanted everyone to trust him.
“Fine,” she said, even though it was a lie. “I’m busy. I have to stop the cure.”
“Why?”
“It’s not a cure. It’s—” Annie threw her free hand in the air. “Never mind. I have to go. Thanks for not stealing my gun, Mr. . . .”
“Bullock,” he said. “Seth Bullock. And if you ever need mining hardware, I have a tent—”
“You’re the man with the toilets.”
“You’ve heard of me!”
“I’ve heard of your toilets. Good luck with that.”
“Thanks, Miss—”
“Annie Oakley.” Then she was gone, her gun finally in hand. Of course, at the theater door, the guards demanded her gun, saying she couldn’t go in without disarming.
“Argh!” But she carefully handed her gun over, because the only other choice was not helping Jane at all. “I’ll be back for this,” she warned in her most withering tone. “And if it’s not here when I get back, I’m blaming you.”
The man, not withered at all, shrugged. “Enjoy the show.”
“You too!” Annie said automatically, and then died a little inside when she remembered that (a) he wasn’t going to see the show, and (b) she wasn’t there to enjoy anything.
Face burning with anger and humiliation, Annie pushed her way through the crowd of shouting, swearing, and smelly townsfolk. Somehow, over a hundred of them had crammed into the theater in a matter of minutes, and now they were all jeering at Jane on the stage, locked in the cage. Shoes, tomatoes, and rocks flew at her, most bouncing off the bars to be picked up and thrown again. But a few sailed between the bars and hit the girl inside.
Jane was trembling. Oh, she tried not to show it, but Annie could tell that fear and adrenaline were flooding through her friend. If Jane really was a garou, then it wouldn’t be long before she showed it.
Two other figures were standing on the stage. One Annie knew: Jack McCall, the man who’d been in Cincinnati with them, who’d always seemed to pop up at the worst time.
The other could only be Al Swearengen: tall with black hair, and the sort of smile that said she owned this place, this mob, this whole town. She even had a top hat, and we all know how Annie felt about people in top hats.
With a shiver, Annie hurried to Frank’s side. “I don’t even know what to say about all this.”
Frank’s jaw clenched. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“It’s just,” Annie went on, “Jane is suddenly a garou, which I only found out a little bit ago from the newspaper, and now she’s up there getting rocks thrown at her.”
Frank gave her a side-eye. “Sounds like you do know what to say.”
“Not really,” Annie said. “I’m babbling because I’m scared. What are they going to do to her?”
“Nothing good.” Frank’s expression didn’t soften. “She didn’t tell anyone she’d been bit. You weren’t the only one she was hiding from. But given how you’ve felt about garou, is it really a surprise she saved you for last?”
“I found out from the newspaper,” Annie reminded him.
“Right. So maybe she didn’t intend to tell you at all.”
That stung, but Annie figured she deserved it. She’d given Jane no reason to feel safe. “I’m sorry,” Annie whispered.
Frank didn’t respond.
“But what are we going to do?” Annie looked from Frank to Mr. Hickok. “How can we stop this?”
“We can’t,” Frank said. “Not without making it worse for her.”
Then, on the stage, even without Annie and Frank trying to help, the situation actively got worse: Swearengen produced a whip, like the one Jane used. Maybe it was Jane’s whip.
“Oh no,” Annie breathed.
Crack. The bullwhip lashed on the cage bars. “You all know Calamity Jane as the Heroine of the Plains,” Swearengen said. “And I’m certain you’ve all heard by now that she’s my own daughter.”
A collective gasp sucked all the air out of the theater. Lots of people had known, yes, but hearing it again—and seeing the two of them like this—was a shock. And for Annie, who hadn’t known because she’d been wandering around the Black Hills and reuniting the sisters, it was a punch to the gut.
“Swearengen is Jane’s mother?” She could barely get the words out.
Frank kindly didn’t remind her that Jane didn’t have to tell Annie everything that went on in her life, or even anything.
“Because Jane is my daughter,” Swearengen went on, “I need to set an example for everyone else. And I need to set an example for Jane, as well.”
The crowd roared, booing and cheering with equal fervor. Booing for Jane, cheering for what they knew was coming. Annie felt sick. How could a mother do this to her daughter? Never, not in a thousand years, not even with all the disagreements they’d had before Annie left, could Annie imagine her own mama betraying her in this way.
“I can cure her,” Swearengen said. “I want to cure her. Then she can go back to being a productive member of society.”
Horror crept into Annie as the whip cracked again, missed the bars, and hit Jane instead. She screamed and lurched to the other side of the cage, but there was nowhere to run. “Ma, please! Let me loose!” Jane cried.
No one listened.
“Day after day,” Swearengen said, “you’ve seen demonstrations of real garou being cured of the affliction from which they suffer. The affliction that terrorizes entire towns.”
The crowd threw more random
objects at the cage.
“And now we will cure Calamity Jane from this affliction. Wolf by wolf, we will cure the West of this plague.” Swearengen whipped the cage again, then strode toward Jane, danger in every step. “Do you want to be cured of this plague?” she asked.
For the first time, the audience grew quiet, waiting to hear what Jane would say.
Jane pulled herself up tall, clenched her jaw, and stared at Swearengen. “No.”
Everyone in the crowd gasped. Calamity Jane had admitted—in front of everyone—that she was a garou. And she wanted to stay that way.
“Well,” said Swearengen, “I’m afraid what you want doesn’t matter. You’re my daughter, and you don’t get to make your own decisions yet. You’re also a garou, and that means you’re a threat to society. You have no choice.”
The crowd cheered in agreement, and Annie swayed with wanting to be sick. How could anyone do this to another person? To someone who’d never hurt anyone? To her own daughter?
Swearengen turned to the audience, speaking in the way a lecturing teacher might. “The cure works best if the wolf understands that she’s dangerous and desires to be cured. I believe that Calamity Jane wants to be cured. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
Jane pressed herself against the back of the cage. “You don’t have to do this,” she cried.
“Wooo,” Frank said under his breath. “Remember your Wooo.”
“What was that?” Annie asked.
Frank looked over like he’d forgotten she was there. “What was what?”
“You said wooo.”
“Oh.” He glanced at Jane again. “It’s how I control the wolf—and how I tried to teach her to do it. Saying wooo helps calm the mind. Sometimes I imagine a setting sun, too, because it’s peaceful.”
Annie bit her lip and gazed at Jane. “Can she do it?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said. “This is so much pressure.”
The whip cracked again, closer to Jane.
Frank woooed some more, and then Annie joined in. “Woooooo.”
But Jane was shaking inside the cage, her whole body rocked with fear and sudden change. Her face elongated, her feet grew, her arms bulked and tore the sleeves of her white top. Brown fur erupted from her face and arms and legs.
