by Gary Church
Charlie pointed. “And maybe you’ll learn from this and start payin’ talented and able hands what they’re worth.”
“That’s right.” Red nodded emphatically.
Jack drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Would it do any good to tell these two that he sure as blazes wasn’t getting rich off ticket sales? Certainly not at his employees’ expense. True enough, they were performing before packed houses every night. But practically everything he personally earned was going right back into running the show. Meanwhile, he paid his people everything he could, plus room and board.
He cocked his head. “By any chance has Stu Portman been bending your ears?”
“What if he has?” Charlie said.
“For eighteen months now, things have been harmonious, I’d say. Traveling together, drawing bigger and bigger audiences, adding new acts. Far as I know, everybody getting along just fine. Then we hit St. Louis. Within mere days, Portman quits over money. Then, Diego Camacho and Beto Vega come to me and quit—although I’ve gotta say, they weren’t all horns and rattles like you two. Two more days, and here you come. What’s stirred all this up?”
Red gave Jack a cold stare. “Let’s just say yours ain’t the only show in town.”
Charlie turned for the tent opening and said over his shoulder, “We’ll ride for you tonight, Wheatley, and that’ll be that.”
Before Red let Charlie lead the way out, Jack said, “No need. Stop by Mr. Birch’s tent and tell him I said you can draw full pay for St. Louis. I don’t need performers who don’t have their heart in it.”
Charlie scowled at Jack, and the two stunt riders exited.
Jack shook his head. What was going on?
He pulled his watch from his vest pocket. Sweet Jezebel! Half past three already. He had a parade to ride in at four o’clock and a show at six. While he dared not put off getting to the bottom of all these unexpected resignations, he certainly didn’t have time before the parade to dig into the matter in earnest. He didn’t even have time now to clean his revolvers as he’d planned to do. And given his line of work, he wasn’t simply obsessing over a little extra unburned gunpowder.
In three brisk strides, he was at the tent flap to check the afternoon air. The notion of sweating in a heavy buckskin jacket didn’t sit well with him. He had a lighter-weight jacket, but he preferred to save it for performances. At least there was a nice breeze today.
Just as he was about to tie the flap shut and change into his showman’s attire, he caught sight of the darling of the show, the lovely Miss Adelia Flynn, “The Pride of the Prairie.” She was marching directly for his tent, and judging from her expression, she plainly wasn’t happy.
His heart gave a peculiar thump. Tell me she’s not coming to resign, too.
Chapter 2
A delia glowered. “When were you gonna tell me?”
Jack deliberately remained close to the tent opening. The lithe blond sharpshooter never would let him know just how old she truly was, but he guessed no older than eighteen—if that. He, being over thirty already, thought of himself as a much older brother figure to her. And he didn’t want ugly rumors regarding the two of them floating about.
But, land o’ Goshen, was she pretty! Already dressed for the parade in a fringed sapphire-blue riding skirt and blouse, her golden hair was fastened below the back of her Stetson with an oversized matching blue bow.
“Tell you what?” Jack tilted his head.
“About this sudden spate of resignations—the bunch of ingrates!”
“So . . . you’re not planning on resigning too?”
“Don’t be foolish, Jack. ’Course not.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “Of course not. Anyway, it’s not a ‘spate.’” He looked her in the eye. “Five performers, that’s all.”
Arms folded, she said, “Five who’ve quit and a whole trainload of grumblers over in the big show tent.”
Jack trusted she was exaggerating. He found it hard to believe that, overnight, any considerable number of his cast and crew had suddenly become truly disgruntled. Not like Charlie and Red. The season had gone well—no, exceptionally well. Most likely, it was just one lone malcontent over there in the big tent, sowing seeds of dissatisfaction.
“Listen,” he said, “we’ll sort this out after tonight’s performance.” He tugged at the lapel of his vest. “Look at me, I’m not even dressed for the parade yet.”
Adelia unfolded her arms and trooped over to his wardrobe chest. “Leave the jacket behind today,” she said. “I know how you detest being overly warm.”
“I can’t ride in the parade without a jacket. People expect a scout of the Western frontier to wear a beaded and fringed buckskin jacket.”
“You were never a scout.” Adelia shuffled through his clothes.
“They don’t know that.”
“Some do, and they love you just the same. Here.” She turned around holding up a bib-front, fringed shirt of lighter buckskin with fancy stitching on the chest and cuffs. “This is perfect.”
Having bigger things to worry about, Jack said, “Well, go on and pick out a tie for me then. Something colorful.”
“A bandanna,” she said. “A tie’s too formal.”
“Not for Custer.”
“Custer’s dead.” She dug deeper into the trunk.
“But isn’t that a big part of what the show’s about? Keeping all the heroes of the West, like Custer, alive in the hearts and minds of the people?”
She sighed aloud. “You win—this time.” Buckskin shirt and scarlet, cravat-style tie in hand she traipsed up to him. “I’ve got to fetch my gun belt. See you at the remuda.” She pressed the clothes into his hands.
Jack tied the tent flap behind Adelia and made quick work of changing into his parade costume.
Minutes later, he emerged from his tent and made his way through the staging area behind the main performance pavilion. A huge, colorfully painted canvas banner with the words Cimarron Jack Wheatley’s Real Wild West Extravaganza covered a large portion of the side of the venue. In a big golden oval at one end of the banner was a fairly accurate likeness of him: shoulder-length auburn-brown hair, straight nose, and a long, well-manicured mustache. In the image, the front left quarter of his sand-colored Stetson’s brim was curled up a bit. In dashing fashion, as Adelia often said. Most days, admiring that banner on his way over to the corral filled his chest with a healthy dose of optimism, and some days, a gratifying measure of satisfaction with the show’s success. Today, it left a knot in his stomach. Was this enterprise beginning to unravel just as it was getting started?
“Nothing to be done about it at the moment,” he murmured.
Putting on a showman’s smile as he passed a large red-wheeled cage, he waved at Hitch Porter and Ty Simmons. “Priscilla all fed and happy?” he asked.
Ty waved back. “Happy as a housecat.”
Jack caught a quick glimpse of the beautiful, tawny-coated mountain lioness the two men were tending.
As he approached the wranglers and horses, he spied his seal-brown paint mustang, Fuego, already saddled and ready for him.
Lefty Braddock, wearing his signature Montana peaked hat, handed over Fuego’s reins. “There you go, boss,” he said.
“Much obliged, Lefty.”
Jack had one foot in the stirrup when Adelia came a-running. She wore the fancy gun leather and six-gun she had gone to fetch. Customarily she carried her trademark Colt Lightning rifle in the parade too, but she didn’t have it with her.
“Where’s your Lightning?” he asked.
She stopped and put a hand to her forehead. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”
Before she could turn away, he told her to saddle up, and he sent Lefty back for her long iron. Once she was situated astride her horse, he asked, “You’ll be all right for tonight, huh?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
Lapses like this weren’t typical of Adelia. A peculiar feeling flitted through Jack’s innards,
and he had to tell himself—more emphatically this time—that a few performers quitting on him didn’t necessarily augur full-fledged disaster for the whole show, nor even for its most popular act.
Lefty returned in no time with Adelia’s rifle, and before long, the cavalcade was on its way—colorful cowpokes driving a dozen particularly handsome longhorns, then a bold yellow stagecoach pulled by a team of bay geldings. The massive trio of buffalo that followed was always popular with the crowds. Then came the Indians with their painted ponies and feathered war bonnets, and the Cowhand Brass Band right behind them kept things lively.
Jack waved to the eager crowds lining the street. Now, he was in his element. The enthusiastic response along the parade route lifted his heart and boded well for a full house at tonight’s performance. Gaze still on the crowd, he said to Adelia, “I’m glad we’ve ended the tour in St. Louis. Nice town. I’ve enjoyed it.”
“Me too,” she said.
When he glanced her way, he found her smile genuine. And when she waved, the onlookers responded with animated applause.
Sun out, a fresh breeze blowing, Jack at last began to let go of the annoyance he’d felt since this afternoon’s meeting with the discontented trick riders.
Then he spotted a pair of smiles in the crowd, the owners of which he’d prefer never to see again.
Chapter 3
J ack said nothing to anyone—not to Adelia, nor to his business manager, Albert Birch, not even to his closest amigo, Billy Douglass—about having spied James and Loftus Stilton in the crowd along the parade route that afternoon. Last he’d read about them in the newspapers, the rival Stilton Brothers’ Wild West Show was performing somewhere back East—Baltimore, he thought. He’d have to look into the brothers’ unexpected presence in St. Louis, but not until after tonight’s performance.
Despite having lost five troupe members, the final show of the season was going along swimmingly for Cimarron Jack Wheatley’s Real Wild West Extravaganza. With oohs and ahhs and fervent applause at all the right moments, the audience seemed to be as thrilled and delighted as any during the course of the tour. The fancy-roping and stunt-riding acts had been well received. The dramatic reenacted stagecoach robbery had gone flawlessly. Folks seemed to love the Indian dancers in their feathered headdresses.
Comanche Joe Tucker, whose mother had in fact been an Indian princess until she married Joe’s Kentucky-born father, was just finishing up his highly popular tomahawk-throwing act.
On cue, Jack touched spur to his prized pinto and trotted into the center of the pavilion. “How about another big round of applause for Comanche Joe Tucker, ladies and gents?”
The crowd’s response brought a broad smile to his face.
Next came bronco riding, bull riding, and the running of the show’s half-dozen buffalo. Brief moments within each dangerous act had the crowd holding its collective breath. Then, following a more lighthearted segment of the extravaganza, when cowhands and Indians engaged in horseraces across and around the arena, Jack resumed his role as the show’s host and announcer.
“And now, one and all,” he intoned, “from the untamed land of the Apache, may I present to you a noble warrior whose skill with the bow and arrow remains unequaled in any quarter of our great nation. Archers from around the world have challenged our brave hero and have walked away with heads hung low, unable to match the incomparable talents of this legendary Apache bowman. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Junipero!” He doffed his hat with a flourish.
As Junipero appeared at the far end of the arena, mounted on a boldly painted Indian pony, the audience erupted with cheers and clapping.
With a war cry that pierced even the animated applause, the Apache goaded his mount into a full gallop. While Junipero made a lap around the perimeter of the arena, a crew of cast members hastily set up a series of bright-colored vertical hoops on stands. The hoops were arranged in a line down the center of the arena. The largest ring was placed at one end, and each successive hoop was smaller, until the final one, which was hardly the breadth of a grown man’s hand. Beyond the final ring was a wooden target board.
After completing his circuit of the pavilion, Junipero rode at full speed to the middle of the arena, skidded his pony to a halt, and vaulted from the animal to his feet.
More applause.
To the beat of Indian drums, three Apache maidens brought Junipero his bow and two quivers of arrows.
Junipero nocked an arrow, took aim, and released the missile, which sailed through the row of hoops and exited at the far end, embedding itself with a sharp thwack in the target board.
He repeated the feat from greater and greater distances.
Finally, one of the Apache maidens dashed to the edge of the arena and returned to Junipero with a flaming torch. Junipero nocked another arrow and then held its tip in the flame until it caught fire.
While this was being done, a second Apache maiden walked to the far end of the series of hoops. She formed a circle with her hands and, standing just to the side, she held out her hands in line with the series of wooden rings. As the crowd realized what she was doing, a murmur arose.
Jack sat saddle at the edge of the arena. At this point in each performance, he whispered a brief prayer for both Junipero and Liluye, the girl at the far end who held her hands out as a final hoop. Without question, bull riding was dangerous—and he prayed for his bull riders, as well—but for some reason, this act made Jack hold his breath.
Junipero took aim with the flaming arrow.
Jack kept his eyes on Liluye.
A hush fell over the crowd.
The warrior let the arrow fly.
Waiting to hear the familiar snap of the arrow striking the target board, Jack instead heard a shriek.
Liluye fell to the sawdust, and Junipero’s arrow veered off to the opposite side, ultimately piercing the ground at the base of the low wall that separated the audience from the performers.
Jack gave Fuego the rowels and raced for Liluye.
Many in the crowd were on their feet. A cascade of chatter spread throughout the arena.
Jack swung down from the saddle before his horse even came to a full stop.
Liluye was on her knees. Before Jack reached her, he could see blood on both her hands, on her buckskin dress, and on the sawdust.
“Where’d it hit you?” he asked.
The other Apache girls arrived at Liluye’s side.
Liluye showed Jack her left hand. The arrowhead had sliced the flesh between her thumb and index finger all the way to the bone. “It will be all right,” she said, tears glittering down her copper cheeks. She bit her lip and drew in an uneven breath.
Jack pulled the cravat from around his neck. “Here, use this to slow the bleeding. Let’s have the girls help you to your tent and get you cleaned up. Can you make it?”
She nodded and accepted the cloth tie.
“I’ll check on you as soon as I can, OK?”
Liluye’s friends helped her to her feet and on toward one of the performers’ exits.
When Jack looked back for Junipero, the warrior was already on his pony and riding out the far end of the arena.
Jack mounted up and rode to the center of the venue where he had Fuego wheel so that everyone in the audience could see his sober expression. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “every day in the West is dangerous. These Indians, cowhands, scouts, teamsters, and trailblazers have known perils by day and threats by night. One and all, they are a brave lot. I am proud to inform you that the Apache maiden, Liluye, having stood only a whisper away from calamity, remains unwavering in her courage. She’s going to be quite all right. Meanwhile, let us show her our admiration and appreciation with a hearty round of applause.”
The audience’s response was immediate and seemed to Jack quite genuine. As they clapped, he wondered whether an entire season’s luck had at last run out, or whether something else had been at work, causing Junipero’s unfortunate miscue. He scanned the
crowd until the ovation died down.
“And now, my dear friends, young and old, the moment so many of you have been waiting for,” he called out with a broad smile. “With all due respect to Miss Annie Oakley and to Mr. Billy Dixon, let’s give a warm welcome to the most astounding, the most prodigious sharpshooter our great nation has ever seen—‘The Pride of the Prairie,’ the lovely Miss Adelia Flynn!”
Adelia galloped in on a handsome blue-roan gelding that perfectly complemented the sapphire-blue shooting outfit she had selected. Her act was flawlessly executed and wonderfully received. With her Colt Lightning slide-action rifle, she shot and shattered twenty-five consecutive glass balls, without missing a single one, as each was tossed into the air. Then, from horseback, on the move, she used her Colt Model 1877 revolver to shoot specifically designated bottles from intricate stacks set up on tables.
Jack returned to the center of the arena and swung down from Fuego. “How about that, ladies and gentlemen?” he called with heartfelt exuberance.
Effusive applause filled the tent. Adelia rode to Jack’s side and stepped down from her saddle.
Jack turned to her and said in a stage voice, “You know, I’m not such a bad shot myself, Miss Flynn.”
She smiled broadly, and Jack had a sense it wasn’t only for the audience. “Are you challenging me, Cimarron Jack?”
“I am, Miss Flynn.” He teased her with his eyes. “I’ll bet I can shoot a tossed silver dollar dead center. It’s smaller than those glass balls you shattered.”
“Well, then, let’s see you do it.”
“Would you like to see that, ladies and gentlemen?” Jack called out.
The crowd responded with cheers and clapping.
With a flourish, Jack drew a brand-new silver dollar from his pocket, held it for all to see, and turned in place. Upon completing his turn, he flipped the coin into the air, drew his Colt revolver, and squeezed the trigger.
An assistant caught the falling coin and held it up to show that the formerly flat silver disk was now bowl-shaped. As the applause continued, he offered the bent coin as a souvenir to a redheaded little girl in the front row.
