by Cynthia Hand
“Maybe the garou in the Gem didn’t need the thrall to follow Swearengen. Maybe they only wanted the power. Speaking of Swearengen, where is she?” Frank said.
The two of them exchanged looks and then took off after the mob back toward the Gem. As the brothel came into sight, Frank saw a stagecoach at the ready, the door open, and Swearengen climbing on top, McCall clamoring inside.
“They’re getting away!” Jane yelled.
Without a thought for the crowd of people spread through the street or even her own garou minions who were in front of the carriage, Al Swearengen whipped the horses. “Yah!”
The stagecoach trampled a few people, and Jane threw Frank to the side just in the nick of time.
Right then, Annie jumped into the middle of the street.
“Where did you come from?” Frank looked toward the sky as if she had fallen right from the clouds.
Annie didn’t answer. She knelt on the road, took aim with her rifle, and fired.
But there was too much dust flying about the escaping stagecoach. It was barely visible.
Al Swearengen and Jack McCall were in the wind.
FORTY-TWO
Annie
“Well, drat,” Annie muttered, lowering her gun. She’d hit some part of the stagecoach—she never missed—but it seemed unlikely she’d hit a vital part, because Al Swearengen and Jack McCall were long gone. “Drat, drat, drat.” (Annie was really upset by this, if you couldn’t tell.)
Frank coughed at the dust that still floated through the air.
“Are you all right?” Annie asked. “I’m really starting to worry about your pulmonary system. Are you allergic to anything? Being allergic to dogs, I can sympathize.”
“My pul—what?” Frank’s face went red, but that might have been because of the lack of oxygen.
“She means your breathing, you dope.” Jane shook her head. “And she has a good point. You’ve been struggling. Are you okay?”
Frank crossed his arms. “We don’t have time to talk about my running-induced asthma. The bad guys are getting away!”
“We’ll never make it if we go after them on foot.” Annie tilted her head. “Well, I might. But Frank would keel over just outside of town.”
Jane nodded solemnly. “Frank can’t run for plop.”
“Can we continue mocking me after we catch Swearengen and Jack McCall?” Frank asked.
Annie turned about-face and pointed. “To the livery!”
“To the livery,” Jane echoed, and they were off, with Frank trailing behind them.
Mr. Utter was already there, murmuring soothingly to his horse. “Yes, you are a good boy. I missed you very much.”
Annie gasped. How dare he?! Well, technically Charlie’s horse was Charlie’s horse, but still! The gall. Her hands clenched into fists, but softened again when Jane patted her on the shoulder.
“Calm down there, spitfire.”
At the sound of voices, Mr. Utter turned. “Oh, good! I’ve been looking for you three everywhere. I need to tell you about—”
“We don’t have time!” Jane started grabbing saddles and tack. “Something big is happening, and we need these here horses.”
“Maybe Annie could take this one,” Mr. Utter said, stepping aside to reveal an angry-looking Silver, Bill’s donkey.
“Hee-haw,” said Silver.
“Oh, no.” Annie grabbed her saddle blankets. “I would never leave my favorite boy out of this.”
Frank made a sad noise, but there was no time for Annie to console him, because now Jane was telling Mr. Utter about the plan to expose Al Swearengen and how it had all gone horribly awry.
“And just as we got away from the angry wolves, we ran smack into the angry mob.” Jane hefted her saddle onto Bullseye’s back and tugged the cinch. “But thank goodness the angry mob wasn’t after us this time. They ran at the wolves, and we ran along behind them.” She gave the cinch one more pull and clipped it.
“So now you’re going after Swearengen and Jack McCall?” Mr. Utter said with a frown. “Just the three of you?”
“The angry mob is busy at the moment,” Annie said as she finished putting the bit into Charlie’s horse’s mouth. She hauled herself up onto the horse’s back. “Sorry, there’s no time to talk more. I can’t wait to hear what it was that you wanted to tell us when we get back!”
Frank and Jane mounted Mr. Ed and Bullseye respectively. “And we’re off!” Jane cried. “Ride like the wind, Bullseye!”
The three of them burst from the stables, this time leaving Mr. Utter coughing in the dust. Annie bent low over Charlie’s horse’s neck, letting him get as much speed as possible as they raced through the streets and straight out of Deadwood. Within minutes, they were galloping over ruts and tufts of scrub, urging the horses faster and faster.
Now, you may be thinking this was really dangerous, seeing as how it was dark out, and you’d be right, especially considering this was unknown territory for our heroes and horses, but back then, the stars shone brighter because there weren’t electric lights all over the place. As strange as it sounds, the horses and their riders cast shadows along the ground as they darted across the countryside, half flying after the stagecoach.
Soon, they caught sight of lanterns swinging in the distance, then the back of the stagecoach, and then the curtained window in the rear.
As our heroes started to close the distance, the stagecoach driver urged the team faster until the horses jolted into a run, making the stagecoach bounce along behind them
“They’re trying to outpace us!” Frank cried.
“They’re just a whip crack away!” Jane kicked her horse faster, ducking as a hot piece of metal zinged past. Someone had shot at them!
“Guns!” Frank called. “They have guns!” Sure enough, through the back window of the stagecoach, the muzzle of a rifle was visible. Then it retreated inside—probably to reload.
“Maximum effort!” Jane yelled.
“We have to do something!” Frank cried.
“I know! That’s why I said maximum effort! We should flank them. Frank, you and me split up, one on each side. Annie, you stay back here, out of the way. Those bullets could actually hurt you.”
Annie would have scoffed, but she didn’t have time. Instead, she stood up on the back of Charlie’s horse, one foot on the front and back of her saddle. The thrum of hooves beating the ground rolled through her, but she didn’t lose her balance.
“What the blazes are you doing?” Jane shouted. “Didn’t I just say—”
“Everyone knows there’s a weakness to a stagecoach.” Annie lifted her gun, steadying herself as Charlie’s horse raced away beneath her. “It’s a small part called the axle. The shaft leads directly to the wheel. A precise hit will start a chain reaction, which should destroy the stagecoach.”
“What?” Frank was staring at her.
“The wheel will fall off,” Annie explained. Then she took aim. And she fired.
In the midst of all this running and shouting and standing up on galloping horses, let’s slow down a bit to really explain how incredible Annie’s shot was.
Not only was Annie standing up on a moving horse, balancing herself, her gun, and her aim, but the stagecoach ahead of them was bouncing and weaving back and forth, and there was a light breeze coming from the northwest. Furthermore, even with all those stars shining above, it was still pretty dark.
So Annie squeezed the trigger and her bullet zipped out, and in spite of the running and darkness and pleasant breeze, the bullet struck exactly where she intended: right in that oh-so-delicate axle.
At once, the wheel flew off the stagecoach, making it drag along the ground as the team of horses tried very hard to keep going.
“What was that?” Jane exclaimed.
“That was amazing,” Frank shouted.
“I know!” Annie called. “But weren’t you going to flank them?”
Annie reloaded her rifle as quickly as possible, which was pretty darn q
uickly, because this is Annie Oakley we’re talking about.
Meanwhile, Frank and Jane pulled away from her, kicking their horses into an even faster gallop. The stagecoach was limping, but Al Swearengen and Jack McCall weren’t giving up. In spite of everything, the rifle appeared in the back window again, aimed straight at Annie.
Fortunately, Annie was really good at these things, as she was with most things, so when she heard the shot fire, she dropped into her saddle and ducked low as the bullet whizzed safely above her. Miraculously, Charlie’s horse didn’t shy once during all this. Maybe he was used to being shot at while running at high speeds.
Annie leaned off the side of Charlie’s horse, aimed down the barrel of her rifle, and fired, this time on the front axle.
The stagecoach jolted as another wheel spun away. A bang sounded as a stray shot went off inside the compartment. Annie glanced at Frank and Jane to make sure neither had been hit, but they were each closing in on either side, and that was quite enough for the team of horses drawing the stagecoach. First the shooting, then the dragging, and now a pair of humans that smelled like wolves and growled like wolves and closed in on them like wolves. It was Quite Enough.
When Frank lifted his rifle and shot the yoke connecting the horses to the stagecoach, splitting it just enough for the horses to yank free, the team neighed and ran away as quickly as they could, leaving the stagecoach rolling to a stop behind them.
Annie had never been so attracted to Frank in her life.
“Great shot!” she called.
“Thanks!” he called back.
She sat down in her saddle again, allowing Charlie’s horse to slow to a trot, then a walk. The poor creature was breathing hard, sweat gleaming on his neck, but she patted him and scratched his ear. “Good boy. And that’s why you’re my favorite.”
Charlie’s horse nickered.
Ahead, Jane and Frank swung off their horses and stalked toward the fallen stagecoach. “Come out with your hands up,” Frank shouted. Then he turned to Jane. “I always wanted to say that.”
Jane grinned and called, “Do you feel lucky, punk?”
Frank looked at her, confused. “Punk?”
Jane, as you might have noticed, was ahead of her time.
Annie was halfway to them when—out of nowhere—a wolf leapt from the stagecoach and tackled Jane.
Annie would know that wolf anywhere. It was the one from the candle factory. The one who’d bit Jane. Jack McCall, which she’d learned while the group had been typesetting Winnie’s article.
“Jane!” Annie kicked Charlie’s horse into a run, but the exhausted creature wanted none of it. He neighed and reared, and Annie held on for dear life as her gun slipped from her hands.
When Charlie’s horse was on all fours again, Annie swung herself off and scooped up her gun, but she was too late: Swearengen had stepped out of the stagecoach, and her rifle was aimed straight at Frank, while Jack McCall had shifted back into a human and found his own gun, which was aimed at Jane.
Annie meeped and gripped her rifle more tightly, searching for something to shoot that would allow her friends to go free. Maybe she could make the bullet ricochet, or . . . No, she’d seen Jack McCall shoot the mayor, and she had to assume Swearengen was just as fast. When Annie pulled her trigger, both would fire their own weapons.
“Don’t do it!” she warned. Like she had a plan. Any plan at all. But she was down to the biggest lesson she’d learned from poker: bluff your way through a nothing hand.
“Don’t make me,” said Jack McCall.
“I hope you have a silver bullet in there,” Jane said, eyeing Jack McCall’s gun, and sounding really, really brave, all things considered. “You’ll need silver to kill me. It’s the only way to be sure.”
“I always have silver bullets in all my guns,” Swearengen said coolly.
“Um, oops?” Jack McCall looked at Swearengen, guilt written all over his face. “Mine just has regular bullets.”
Swearengen sighed. “Fine. Swap me.” Then, muttering, she said, “It’s so hard to find good help these days.”
The two swapped where they were aiming so that Jack McCall had his gun pointed at Frank, while Swearengen had hers aimed at Jane.
“Now you see that I’m serious,” Swearengen said to Jane. “Of course, if Jack had shot you, you would live, but it would take you days to recover. You wouldn’t like the experience.”
Annie looked from Jane to Frank, who was cringing. Neither Swearengen nor Jack McCall knew he was a garou. Jane had effectively just saved Frank’s life, if things went south. And they were looking pretty south at the moment.
“You, girl.” Swearengen looked at Annie. “Put down that gun.”
“No,” Annie said. “I won’t.”
“If you don’t,” Swearengen said, “I’ll shoot Jane.”
“Are you serious?” Jane stared up at Swearengen.
“I already said I’m serious.” Swearengen shook her head. “You need to pay better attention, dear. And really, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”
“You won’t shoot her,” Annie said, sounding braver than she felt. Swearengen had hurt so many people already, Jane included, and there was no reason to believe she’d stop now.
“I’ll do it. And Jack’ll shoot your boy here. Do you really want two dead friends?”
Jack’s bullet wouldn’t kill Frank, but it would hurt. A lot. And he’d come back to find that his best friend, his sister, was dead.
It wasn’t fair, and Annie couldn’t see any way that she could save both of them. She didn’t have a choice.
Annie put down her gun.
FORTY-THREE
Jane
“Any ideas on how to get us out of this?” Jane struggled against the chains that bound her against Frank and Annie, the three of them back to back on the floor of the broken stagecoach. “Should we wolf out and see what happens?”
“No. We absolutely cannot wolf out right now,” answered Frank sternly.
Jane examined the length of chain wrapped tightly around her wrists. There wasn’t much wiggle room there. “Yeah, I guess that could make our hands pop off or something. Good call, Frank.”
“The chains are around Annie, too,” Frank explained. “If either of us became garou-sized, we’d crush her.”
From behind them Annie made a muffled sound. (A few minutes ago Annie had insulted Jack McCall about a certain lack of hygiene she noticed as he was chaining them up, so he’d stuffed a filthy handkerchief into her mouth to stop her yapping.) Jane reckoned that Annie was probably trying to say something like, “Yes, I agree, no wolfing out, I’m quite fond of my ribs, thank you,” or “Well, drat,” which she’d been saying a lot lately. Right then the door of the stagecoach opened, and Al Swearengen leaned in.
“I hope you’re comfortable,” she said.
“Go to hell,” Frank growled. His shoulders seemed a little bigger. Jane nudged him.
“Remember your wooo,” she whispered. “No woof, right?”
Swearengen put a hand to her chest as though she were deeply offended by Frank’s sass. “Now, now, we mustn’t be uncivil. You’re still angry at me over the death of Wild Bill, and I suppose I understand. It’s a terrible thing when a man murders someone you love, isn’t it? But the manner in which he died, well—Jack McCall lacked finesse, I admit, but the way I see it, your father got exactly what he deserved.”
Frank glared at Swearengen. “Pretty soon the entire country will know you’re a monster, a murderer, and a fraud. You won’t be able to show your face anywhere. It’s only a matter of time before you’re caught.”
Swearengen tsked her tongue. (This is a Western, remember. The villain always has to have a moment to twirl his mustache—and if Swearengen had still been sporting a mustache, she would literally have twirled it at this point.) “If there’s one thing I’m good at in this world, it’s reinventing myself,” she said cheerfully. “I may be down, but I’m not out. But, all right, dear,
go ahead, underestimate me. Your father did, too, and you see where that got him.”
Annie made another muffled noise, which sounded vaguely like, “You won’t get away with this.”
Swearengen smiled. “I already have gotten away with it. You have cost me my stagecoach, which is a delay, I’ll admit, a minor annoyance. But soon we’ll be on our merry way again. On that note . . .” She turned to Jane. “This is your last chance to be sensible, my darling. Cease your foolish association with these show business people.” Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “Come with me. Accept your place by my side, with your family.”
Jane held her gaze. Then she drew herself up as far as the chains would allow and said, “These people are my people. They’re my family. My place is with them.”
“Then you’re no daughter of mine,” Al Swearengen said coldly.
“If that’s how it is.” Jane nodded. “I don’t really want to be your daughter no more.”
Al looked sad, so much so that Jane almost regretted saying such harsh words. Then the older woman lifted a gloved hand to stroke Jane’s cheek.
“You always were a stubborn, stupid girl,” she sighed. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, but I’m afraid I must bid you a fond farewell. And, as I can’t have you thwarting my plans again, I’ll leave you with a parting gift. Goodbye, my dear.” She stepped back, and Jack McCall came into view. The man grinned and placed a crude bomb made of dynamite and an old-fashioned alarm clock down on the floor of the stagecoach. He made a production of setting it for five minutes.
“Oh, but before I go, would you mind signing this for me?” Jack McCall pulled out a small leather-bound book and flipped through the pages until he found a blank one. He tried to hand it to Jane. “It’s not every day you get a chance to get the signature of Calamity Jane, now, is it? And the Pistol Prince, too. And, what was your name again, miss?”
Annie squeaked and made a sound that could have been a muffled “Annie Oakley.”
McCall shoved a pen into Jane’s hand. She spit in his face. She only had something like four minutes and fifty-five seconds left to live, and she was determined to make it count. “Go to thunder, Jack McCall.”
