Buffalo Bill Wanted!

by Alex Simmons

  When they turned off onto Whitehall, Wiggins saw a policeman he knew, but the man wasn’t in uniform. Inspector Desmond wore a well-cut suit, standing out from the shabbier figures cut by some detectives. Wiggins had seen him around the East End, guiding posh folk wanting a look at the “lower classes.”

  The policeman was also a well-known figure to London newspaper readers. Not surprising, Wiggins thought. Outgoing, with ruddy good looks and a carefully clipped reddish brown mustache, Desmond charmed most of the city’s reporters. Now, though, he didn’t look charming. He seemed downright angry as a short, portly man chewed his ear.

  Wiggins’s eyes went wide as he recognized the second man—J. Montague Pryke. Like most East Enders, Wiggins, Dooley, and Owens knew him by sight.

  “Who is that?” Jennie asked.

  “That’s Mr. Pryke,” Wiggins replied. “He’s an MP, a Member of Parliament. He represents the East End in the House of Commons.”

  “He’s a fiery one,” Owens chimed in. “He gets people all stirred up with his speeches. Always saying he’s one of us and all.”

  Wiggins puffed up his chest and tucked his thumbs behind his jacket lapels. “I come from humble beginnings,” he said, trying to sound like a politician.

  The kids chuckled as they glanced over at the man. Pryke’s pudgy face wasn’t humble as he glared at Inspector Desmond, even if he had to look up at the policeman. The MP’s extravagantly curled mustache seemed to bristle as he loudly complained.

  “The people of London, not to mention your fellow officers, expect a quick resolution to this barbaric attack on one of our own policemen,” Pryke barked. “We also expect that you, as the head of the investigation, will be firm with these uncivilized American visitors. Scotland Yard has shown itself to be remarkably lax when dealing with, shall we say, a certain—class of criminal.”

  Pryke’s voice grew louder and his words echoed off the arched stone ceiling above. “A common burglar could expect to spend the next few years in Dartmoor after being captured. But what happens to a society jewel thief like ‘Gentleman’ Jeremy Clive? Just because he went to the right schools and has the right friends, he somehow manages to escape from his cell. Now you and your superiors are coddling this collection of Yankee cutthroats and out-and-out savages. Like yourself, this Buffalo Bill person is very popular in the higher social circles. Has the Yard become timid in the face of a celebrity? Or could it be—”

  Pryke gave Desmond a long, slow wink. “Did the word to go slowly come from the ‘higher-ups’? ”

  “What does he mean by that?” Dooley asked.

  Wiggins motioned for Dooley to be silent. There was tension in the air, and he half expected the Scotland Yard man to explode with anger at this insulting hint. Instead, Desmond took a deep breath but ignored the remark. “The constable is in the hospital, and we’ve been unable to get any statement. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Bart’s to see him right now.” He tipped his bowler hat and set off down the passageway.

  Wiggins darted after the policeman. “Inspector —”

  Desmond barely glanced back. “I’ve no need of anything a street Arab may be selling,” he said gruffly.

  “Street Arabs” was what respectable Londoners called the children who roamed the streets looking for any kind of work to earn a few pennies. Wiggins had heard solid citizens talk about these street kids as if they were barely a jump above the savages Buffalo Bill had brought to town.

  Owens spat on the pavement in disgust. “Don’t even bother. He ain’t interested in hearing from the likes of us.”

  “Maybe we should take this to Mr. Holmes,” Jennie suggested. “He’d certainly listen to us.”

  “And the coppers’ll listen to him,” Dooley added.

  "No,” Wiggins replied. “Not yet. I’ve got a better idea!”

  Chapter 4

  WIGGINS STARTED EASTWARD BACK ALONG THE STRAND. “We’ve got to get to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital!”

  “Why?” Dooley asked in surprise. “You sick?”

  Wiggins rolled his eyes. “No. Inspector Desmond said he’s going to Bart’s to see the injured copper, so that’s where we need to be.”

  “Are you daft?” Owens exclaimed. “They’re not going to let us in to see him, no matter how nice we ask.”

  “Good,” Wiggins said with a smile. “Because we’re not going to ask. We’re going there to see what we can see, hear what we can hear. Desmond said the copper hasn’t talked yet. I want to know what he says when he does.”

  “Why?” Jennie asked.

  Wiggins was already moving down the street. “We know someone took Colonel Cody’s gun yesterday,” he replied, “and it looks like they used it on the constable—”

  “So they can frame Buffalo Bill!” Owens finished as he caught up with Wiggins, Jennie and Dooley close behind. “But who, and why?”

  “Maybe they were stealing the gun and the constable caught them,” Dooley suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” Jennie said. “The gun went missing hours before the officer was attacked.”

  “Well, let’s go and find out!” Wiggins led the others at a half run to Fleet Street, turning left onto the Old Bailey. The hospital rose before them, its gray stone walls grimy with more than a hundred years of soot, but still large and majestic.

  Wiggins and the others stood watching for some way to enter without being stopped. “One or two of us might slip in,” Wiggins told them. “But not all four of us.”

  Suddenly he spotted a distressed woman hurrying toward the hospital gate. She had three children scurrying along behind her and a small baby in her arms.

  “Right!” Wiggins cried. “Jennie, Dooley, tag after that lot. Look like you belong with them till you get inside.”

  “Then what?” Dooley asked.

  “We look for the inspector,” Jennie replied, grabbing Dooley’s hand, “or the injured copper. Come along!”

  Wiggins grinned as Jennie hurried with Dooley across the street. He was pleased at how quickly she’d picked up on his idea.

  Guess she’s starting to fit in! Wiggins thought as he leaned against a lamppost.

  “What’ll we do now?” Owens asked as they watched their friends trail the family into the hospital.

  Wiggins replied with a shrug. “We wait.”

  “Where’s the casualty ward?” the upset woman called as she came through the arched gateway. As she was being directed to a building on the left, Jennie and Dooley took advantage of the brief hesitation to join the family. Only one of the children seemed to notice them as they trailed along to another building—the others were too focused on their mother.

  Coming in the entrance, the frantic woman clutched at the arm of a short woman in a white bonnet and apron. “My husband was hurt across the way in the meat market. They told me he was brought here.”

  “Here” was a large, dim, echoing room, full of sick people and medical staff moving among them.

  “What is his name?” the nurse asked.

  Jennie didn’t hear the reply over the noise of coughing, babies crying, clanking instruments, and walking feet. She guided Dooley off to the side of the crowded scene.

  “Where are we going?” Dooley asked.

  “Take a look.” She nodded to their right, where Inspector Desmond stood talking to a tired-looking man in a rumpled suit—a doctor, she imagined. Close by the two men stood some sort of cart piled high with sheets and towels.

  Jennie realized that if she and Dooley could get behind the cart, they could overhear without being seen. “Follow me,” she whispered to Dooley.

  Jennie and Dooley waited until a nurse came out from behind a framed screen, carrying away a bundle of bloody linens in her arms. Then they scuttled for the cart.

  They must keep the most sick or injured people beyond there, Jennie thought.

  She and Dooley were close enough now to hear the inspector’s voice even with the racket around them.

  “It’s vitally important that I s
peak to him, Doctor, ” Desmond said.

  “I understand that,” the doctor replied. “But Constable Turnbuckle has received grievous injuries—powder burns on his face, though we found no wound. Then he was beaten severely.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “It is a miracle that he is still alive,” the doctor added. “He lost a great deal of blood from the scalping.”

  “And the longer I wait to speak to him, the farther away his attacker can fly.”

  “Very well, Inspector.” The doctor threw up his hands. “But be aware he is hardly in his right mind.”

  “Yes, yes,” Desmond replied. “I’ll be on my best behavior.” Inspector Desmond and the doctor stepped behind the screen.

  Jennie peeked from around the cart. She could see the foot of a bed and part of the inspector’s back as he bent forward. A gas jet on the wall gave slightly better light. Creeping up to the screen itself, she got a glimpse of the patient. Constable Turnbuckle lay on his back, still and quiet. His head was wrapped in white bandages, but Jennie could see small brown stains on the top and sides.

  “Speak softly, Inspector,” the doctor cautioned. “I don’t want him upset in any way.”

  Jennie could see the inspector’s lips move, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying over the noise in the rest of the great hall. The injured officer’s moans and mumblings were even less intelligible.

  “I’ve got to get closer,” she whispered to Dooley.

  Dooley pulled her away from the partition. “You planning to turn invisible?” he demanded. “That inspector will see you and toss us both out.”

  Jennie looked around, spotting a pail of dingy gray water and an old mop. She grabbed two towels from the cart, tying one around her waist like an apron. The other she wrapped about her head, covering her hair. With trembling hands, she wrung out the mop and began slowly swabbing her way around the screen.

  “Be ready to run if this doesn’t work,” she whispered to Dooley, who remained hidden behind the cart.

  Inspector Desmond and the doctor had their backs to her as she moved closer, still pretending to mop the floor.

  “Constable Turnbuckle,” the inspector said softly, as if trying to wake a sleeping child. “I repeat. Did you see who assaulted you?”

  Now Jennie could hear the constable’s replies, though that didn’t make them easier to understand.

  “Smug . . . ga . . . saw him . . .”

  “Who did you see?” the inspector asked.

  “Inspector, please,” the doctor warned.

  “Just another moment.” The inspector leaned in closer. “Did someone shoot you?”

  “Buffalo . . . stop . . . smug . . . smuggling.”

  The inspector quickly turned toward the doctor. “Did you hear that? You’re a witness.”

  “Yes,” the doctor replied cautiously. “But to what?”

  The inspector looked just as puzzled as the doctor. “I’m not sure, Doctor. At least, not yet.”

  Jennie felt she had pressed her luck as far as it would go. She had not been noticed, but it was only a matter of time before the two men saw her or someone else came in. She slipped back around the screen.

  Dooley jumped out of hiding. “What did you hear?”

  “Let’s get out first,” Jennie hissed. She discarded her disguise by the cart and hustled Dooley out of the building.

  They rushed across Giltspur Street to where Wiggins and Owens leaned against a lamppost. Both boys came alert.

  “What happened?” Wiggins asked.

  “The constable is hurt badly.” Jennie shuddered at the memory of the bloody bandages. “But he mumbled a few things.”

  Jennie quickly repeated what she had heard in the hospital room.

  “Well, what is that supposed to mean?” Owens asked.

  “The inspector had no idea either,” Jennie replied.

  Wiggins ran a hand through his bristly hair. “Sounds like he’s talking about smuggling something. But what?”

  “He also said ‘buffalo,’ ” Jennie reminded them. “Do you think he meant that Buffalo Bill is a smuggler?”

  “He wouldn’t do that!” Dooley burst out angrily. “He’s a hero, and he wouldn’t shoot a policeman either.”

  Wiggins’s stomach tensed as he searched for something to say. He liked Buffalo Bill too, but he’d also heard Sherlock Holmes say so many times, “Never let emotions affect your thinking on a case.” To Wiggins, this meant that a villain could be just as likable as a hero—Colonel Cody could be guilty somehow.

  He was about to share his thoughts with the others when he spotted Inspector Desmond exiting the hospital.

  “Let’s try to tell him about the missing gun again,” Wiggins said. “He might listen this time.”

  This time the inspector did stop, but after listening to their story, he shook his head. “I already know about that gun.”

  “But how?” Wiggins asked.

  “Oh, one of Colonel Cody’s people told me,” Desmond replied. “But it doesn’t really matter, as—”

  “What do you mean?” Dooley exploded. “It’s very important! It proves Colonel Cody couldn’t have used it against that copper.”

  Desmond slowly turned toward Dooley, his dark brown eyes boring into the boy’s. “Actually,” he said calmly, “it proves nothing, yet.”

  “But—”

  “Colonel Cody could have hidden his gun or had someone take it to establish an alibi.”

  “No,” Dooley insisted.

  Wiggins put a hand on Dooley’s shoulder, trying to calm his friend.

  “What makes you so sure?” Desmond inquired.

  “We’re not,” Jennie replied. “It’s just that Colonel Cody wouldn’t have any reason to attack that constable.”

  “Perhaps, young lady,” Desmond mused. “Or rather, he has no reason we know about. But there could be some little secret the colonel and his Indian friends are hiding.”

  Wiggins and the others quickly exchanged glances.

  “Whatever is going on, we’ll ferret it out.” Desmond leaned a bit closer to them. “But you young people should stay out of it, please.” He gave each of them a long, steady look. “I wouldn’t want what happened to the constable to happen to you.”

  Chapter 5

  BEFORE ANY OF THE RAVEN LEAGUE COULD RESPOND to Desmond’s serious words, the inspector stepped to the edge of the pavement and hailed a passing hansom cab. In moments, the two-wheeled cab was rattling away over the cobblestones.

  Wiggins’s shoulders sagged, and it wasn’t just from the thought of the long walk home.

  “I don’t know which is more annoying,” Jennie complained. “The way he treated us as if we hadn’t a brain in our heads or having him say the gun being stolen earlier didn’t matter.”

  “At least the coppers aren’t just looking at Buffalo Bill,” Owens said. “It sounds as if they’ll be picking on the Indians he brought with him, though.”

  “What would you expect them to do after some fellow has his hair lifted?” Wiggins asked.

  “Perhaps,” Jennie admitted. “But there’s no proof that they did it.”

  “Well, I hope they lock up those savages,” Dooley said. “Then they can’t hurt anyone else.”

  “More likely, they’ll just keep an eye on them.” Wiggins scratched his head.

  “I wish I could stay on with you,” Dooley said. “But my da is supposed to get off work on the docks early today. We’re going to have a meal and all.”

  “I ought to be going too,” Jennie added. “There should be some sewing work I can pick up to take home to Mother.”

  After quick good-byes, Dooley and Jennie set off. Owens gave Wiggins a sidelong look. “You’re not going to let it go, are you?”

  “Maybe I should,” Wiggins replied. “Maybe I should just be glad like Dooley and let the coppers go after the savages. What do I owe them? But then I remember the Indian who calmed down the buffalo outside the show.”

  “Silent
Eagle.” Owens shrugged. “All he did was bring some grain.”

  “Would you walk up to a giant beast that was huffing and puffing away? One false move and it could have turned Silent Eagle into jelly—along with us, I’d wager. That took courage.”

  Owens shrugged again. “As much as you’d need to slice a man’s hair off ?” he asked. “Maybe he’s the Indian who attacked the constable.”

  “That copper was already wounded. He couldn’t have stopped whoever scalped him,” Wiggins replied. “His attacker wasn’t brave. He was a coward.”

  Owens slowly nodded. “So, I say we go to the exhibition grounds and nose around some more.”

  Moving southwest, the boys hitched rides on the backs of wagons and carriages until they jumped off only a short walk from the exhibition grounds.

  “I hope you’ve been thinking up some sort of plan on the way here,” Owens said as they got closer to the exposition. “Do you plan to tell the ticket taker we’re personal friends of Buffalo Bill?” He grinned. “Or do we hope they’re moving another buffalo in?”

  Wiggins didn’t have a plan, but as they arrived at the exhibition grounds, they quickly saw that wouldn’t have mattered. All bridges leading to the show grounds—and to the tent village—were guarded by groups of police constables.

  “What are they all doing here?” Owens asked.

  Wiggins sighed. “We heard Mr. Pryke shooting his mouth off to Inspector Desmond about Americans in general—and the Wild West show folk in particular. I’ll bet he’s been stirring up others as well. Maybe it would be a good idea to keep people out.”

  Owens abruptly nudged him. “There are a couple of familiar folks.”

  Wiggins quickly spotted a short figure in a dapper suit talking with a taller, bronze-skinned figure in rough clothes. “Nate Salsbury and Silent Eagle,” he said.

  Even from a distance, Wiggins could see that the two men clearly weren’t having a friendly chat. At last, Salsbury abruptly turned away and walked off through the police guards. When Silent Eagle went to follow, the constables turned him back. The Indian vanished into the tented area.