by Alex Simmons
“It would have to be a pretty determined souvenir hunter if no one could get into that area,” Wiggins said. “And why would he attack the copper?”
“The police are determined to prove that one of my people took the gun and then turned it against the policeman,” Cody said. “It’s up to me, not you young ones, to prove otherwise. After all, a man was scalped.”
"Shot and scalped,” Owens added.
“Not with my gun,” Cody said firmly. “It was loaded with blanks, like all the guns in the show.”
“Are you sure?” Wiggins asked.
Colonel Cody nodded. “Only two shots had been fired. The other cartridges were still in the gun. They were blanks, all right.”
“That explains it!” Jennie exclaimed. “The newspapers said the constable had been shot. But the doctor at St. Bartholomew’s said there was no gunshot wound.”
Wiggins was trying to decide what to make of that when Dooley cried, “We’ll help you sort this out, Colonel Cody!”
“And we know a person who may be even more helpful,” Jennie said. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
She had taken the words right out of Wiggins’s mouth. However, he noticed that Nate Salsbury seemed to tense on hearing the great detective’s name.
“We don’t need anyone else nosing about in this,” Salsbury said. “To be honest, we’ve been trying to lie low. The last thing we need is more unfriendly attention from the newspapers. Our publicity man is having nightmares as it is.”
Colonel Cody put a steadying hand on Salsbury’s shoulder. “Nate’s a little wound up right now,” he said. “But I say whoever attacked and scalped that policeman needs to be caught and taught a lesson.”
“But Colonel—”
“But nothing, Nate,” Cody interrupted. “My reputation means a lot to me, but the lives of the people in the show mean more. I think we can use any help we can get. So if Mr. Holmes can take the case, I’d be glad of it.”
“Then we’ll speak to him for you,” Wiggins said, proud to be able to make the offer.
“Well, thank you kindly,” Colonel Cody replied. “Since you’re working for me, seems only fair that you should be pulling a salary.”
The frontiersman reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “I’m still not all that certain of how your money works, but this should be enough to start.”
Wiggins and the others stared in wide-eyed amazement as Colonel Cody poured crowns, shillings, and pence into Wiggins’s hands.
“That’s almost two pounds there,” Dooley gasped.
Cody took out a card and scribbled on it. “This will get you into the show grounds whenever you need to bring any messages.” He grinned. “What’s the matter? Not enough?”
“Oh, more than enough,” Wiggins said enthusiastically. “And don’t worry, we do this all the time. Getting Mr. Holmes to help will be no problem at all.”
“What do you mean, he’s not home?” Owens exclaimed in dismay.
The young girl in the ill-fitting maid’s uniform stood in the doorway of 221B Baker Street like a grenadier guard at Buckingham Palace. “I mean,” she replied, “that he and Dr. Watson ain’t here,” she said, sounding annoyed. “They’re away on business.”
Dooley stepped forward, a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. “You remember me, don’t you?” he asked her. “You helped me, uh, us the last time we were here.”
The girl looked around nervously. “I remember,” she replied. “But Mrs. Hudson could be back at any minute, and I ain’t supposed to let anyone—”
“Could you at least tell us when Mr. Holmes will be back?” Dooley asked her.
“Not really.” The girl continued to glance up and down the street. “They left this morning for King’s Cross Station, but Mr. Holmes said they was flyin’.”
“Flyin’?” Owens repeated blankly.
“Did they take anything?” Wiggins asked.
“Each of ’em had a Gladstone bag. Now I have to go!” With that, the young maid quickly shut the door.
“How can anyone—” Jennie began.
Wiggins smiled at the look on her face. “They ain’t flying,” he explained. “They’re taking the Flying Scots-man. It’s a train that leaves from King’s Cross, going all the way up to Edinburgh.”
“Scotland—and bags,” Owens moaned. “They could be gone for days.”
Dooley removed his cap and scratched his fiery red hair. “Just grand, that is. What do we do now?”
Wiggins tried to recall how Mr. Holmes had used the Irregulars. What would he have assigned them to do now? The image of Nat Blount flashed before his eyes, waving a torch at Pryke’s rally. Suddenly, Wiggins had a plan.
“Follow me.” Wiggins led the group down Baker Street, heading for the Underground station.
“Someone tries to frame Colonel Cody,” Wiggins began slowly as the idea took shape. “And right away, Pryke starts making all Americans look bad. Maybe those things are connected.”
“You mean because Colonel Cody is an American, Mr. Pryke might have tried to frame him?” Jennie asked.
“Why not?” Wiggins said.
“But how do we find out if that’s true?” Owens asked.
“By checking on Nat Blount and his friends from the mob last night.” Wiggins fished out some money as they approached the Underground train station. “I say Nat was hired to be part of that mob, so he might lead us to who hired him.”
“So let’s get looking for the little rat,” Owens said.
Wiggins held up his hands. “There’s something else. What did you think about Mr. Salsbury?”
“He was nice enough,” Jennie said. “But . . . distracted.”
“He wasn’t happy when you mentioned Mr. Holmes.” Dooley scowled in memory. “And he was mean to that Indian.”
Wiggins’s eyebrows rose as he remembered what seemed to have been an argument between the two Wild West employees. Was that why Silent Eagle had snuck off the grounds? Was he following Salsbury?
“Mr. Salsbury also didn’t seem too interested about who could have taken Buffalo Bill’s gun,” Jennie said. “Maybe that’s because he’s the thief.”
“You think he took Buffalo Bill’s gun?” Owens asked. “Why? So he could make his partner look bad?”
“Maybe Salsbury wants to run the show,” Jennie said. “Or maybe he wants to sell the gun to some souvenir collector. Perhaps I’ll go around to the pawn-shops. Pawnbrokers often deal with collectors.” She colored. “Mother and I have become familiar with some pawnbrokers lately.”
“All right, then,” Wiggins said, mulling over the possibilities. “See what you and Dooley can find out while Owens and I go look for Natty Blount. We’ll all meet again here at the Raven.”
Wiggins and Owens scoured the East End looking for Natty Blount—with no luck.
“Just grand,” Wiggins complained. “All the time I don’t want to see him, he turns up like a bad penny.”
Just then, Owens nudged him with an elbow. “Keep walking,” the other boy said, looking straight ahead. “But turn your eyes a little bit to your left.”
Without turning his head, Wiggins did as he was asked. A sly smile appeared on his lips. Across the street was a building both of them knew—the gaming club that a gang leader named Limehouse Lew had used for his headquarters. Lew was no more, but his chief lieutenant, a big bruiser named Alfie Sinnott, had kept the business going. Today, Sinnott stood out on the doorstep as a line stretched down the block. Each bloke came by with his hand outstretched. Sinnott dropped a coin into each palm— including Natty Blount’s.
As Wiggins walked along, trying not to call attention to himself, he counted four other people he’d seen last night waving torches. He grabbed Owens by the arm and almost ran around the corner.
“Well, we don’t need to talk to Natty now.” Wiggins couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “We got what we came for.”
They ran back to the Raven Pub, eager to report their success. J
ennie and Dooley were already in the back room when Wiggins popped in, shouting, “You won’t believe what we just saw!”
He stopped short when he saw the glum looks on their faces. “What’s the matter? You couldn’t get a sniff about Buffalo Bill’s gun?”
“It’s what we just heard out in the public room.” Jennie’s voice was tight. “Mr. Pryke was found horribly beaten. They say he could die!”
Wiggins stared. “Is there anything to show who did it?”
Jennie nodded miserably. “He was holding something in his hand. A porcupine quill from America, tied in a piece of buckskin decorated with purple glass beads.”
“That’s the sort of thing you’d find on an Indian costume,” Dooley said. “Now even the people who don’t like Pryke are seein’ red—and the red they want to see is Indian blood.”
Chapter 7
“THINGS JUST KEEP GETTING BETTER AND BETTER, don’t they?” Owens tried to sound lighthearted, but he couldn’t hide the worry in his eyes.
Wiggins jammed his hands in his pockets. “First thing tomorrow, we’re going out to the exhibition grounds.”
“Last time you tried that, there were a lot of coppers around,” Dooley pointed out.
“But now we have a note from Buffalo Bill, don’t we?” Wiggins said. “That should get us in.”
Dooley brightened a little but still looked doubtful. “What will we do when we get there?”
“We’ll nose around,” Wiggins said. “Just like the Irregulars did for Mr. Holmes—keeping our ears open.”
“We should talk to the Indians and see if anyone has a costume with those quills,” Jennie began.
“I’m not going near them.” Dooley jumped up, his eyes bright with fear. “’Specially that Silent Eagle gink.”
“He can’t scalp us just for asking,” Owens joked.
“How will we get to Earl’s Court?” Jennie continued to concentrate on problems.
“We’ll manage,” Wiggins said. “Just wear something you won’t mind getting dusty.”
They broke up, and Wiggins headed for home. Maybe he had sounded confident, but his head fairly buzzed as he tried to make sense of this new development. Could Silent Eagle, or one of the other Indians working for Buffalo Bill, have attacked the loud-mouthed Pryke? The decoration in the politician’s hand certainly suggested that. But then, it would also suggest that Pryke’s attacker had been dressed as a warrior.
Wiggins had a sudden mental picture of Silent Eagle stealing out of the performers’ camp. Still, he thought, it’s one thing to sneak past a few coppers. It’s another to cross London dressed up in feathers and beads.
Nonetheless, he had a bad feeling about all of this—and he feared things were only going to get worse.
The next morning, they made their way to the Earl’s Court exhibition grounds, stealing a ride at the tail of a wagon.
Soon enough, they reached the exhibition grounds. Jennie moved to the front of the group as they came to the bridge leading to the covered grandstand and the performers’ encampment. Approaching the police guards, she thrust out the note from Buffalo Bill.
Wiggins hung behind, having spotted the ruddy face of Benny Flagg. Benny drove a hansom cab, but he’d unhitched his horse just past the bridge that led to the corral area. A row of stables for the horses in the Wild West show stood there. The cabbie shook his head as Wiggins came up.
“Hoped one of the stable blokes might come over to help.” Benny gently touched a large, inflamed sore spot on the horse’s shoulder, getting an unhappy snort in reply. “Harness gall,” Flagg said gloomily. “The old nag ain’t going to pull this rig. The RSPCA people would pinch me, just like that copper that went inside aims to do.”
“Copper?” Wiggins repeated.
“Yeah, the one who dresses like a gent, with his mustache clipped just so.” Flagg had described Inspector Desmond in a quick sentence. “He came with two men to arrest one of the Indians.”
When Wiggins heard that, he dashed to the other bridge to catch up with his friends. He saw that the constables set on guard had formed a cordon at the far end of the bridge, locking their arms together. On the far side of the police line stood at least fifty stone-faced Indians, some equally grim cowboys— and Jennie, Owens, and Dooley.
Inspector Desmond stepped onto the bridge, a pair of constables behind him and a handcuffed Indian between them—Silent Eagle. Angry-looking young Indians came forward, only to be waved back by a chief in a feathered warbonnet.
I can see why they’re upset, Wiggins thought, but they really seem to have something against the coppers. A thought suddenly flashed across his mind. In their blue uniforms and flat hats, the British coppers resembled pictures he’d seen of the blue-coated U.S. cavalry who’d fought the Indians in the past. Many of the warriors looked ready to have a go at this thin blue line here and now.
Desmond and his prisoner had nearly reached Wiggins on the other side of the bridge when another mob appeared from around the American Exposition building. Apparently, this crowd had just arrived from a nearby train station. The men had the shabby clothes and the gray, unwashed faces of classic East End loafers. Judging from the angry looks and waving fists, Wiggins figured they had decided to get busy today—and the reason, he realized with a sinking heart, was obvious.
“There that savage is!” someone at the head of the mob shouted. “He’s the one wot done for Mr. Pryke!”
The low growl from the mob sounded as vicious as anything that Wiggins had ever heard. He glanced down the street, where Benny Flagg still stood, then back to the line of police, trying to figure out which way to go. In a moment, Wiggins ran out of choices. The mob surged forward, shouting, aiming to seal off the bridge.
Wiggins retreated until he stood beside Desmond. The police inspector raised both arms, waving the crowd back. “This man is in police custody,” he shouted in the very voice of authority. “He will be taken to Scotland Yard and, in due course, will face a British jury.”
For a moment, Wiggins thought that Desmond’s calm approach might just defuse the situation. Crowd members began backing away, opening a path.
Then someone in the mob shouted, “To blazes with that! We come all this way, we’ll take care of ’im!”
Wiggins had no doubt that “taking care” of Silent Eagle meant something very bad indeed. Maybe even something deadly.
A knot of mob members, angrier —or drunker — than the rest, suddenly rushed forward. Among them was a big bruiser who confronted one of the constables accompanying Desmond. The copper tried to pull out his baton, but a single blow from a massive fist ended things quickly. The police officer dropped senseless at Silent Eagle’s feet.
Instantly, the Wild West performers burst into shouts, pushing against the line of constables.
Wiggins figured the Indian stood no chance if the mob members got their hands on him. Silent Eagle must have reached the same conclusion. His foot came up, lashing out in a kick to the big man’s belly. The oversized attacker went from loudly cheering his success to fighting for breath, clutching his middle as he folded in half.
Silent Eagle brought up his manacled hands, clasped together into one fist, clouting the gasping man on the side of the head. The big man spun and fell down, bringing three mob members down with him.
Taking advantage of the suddenly created open space, Silent Eagle dashed forward, using the man he’d just felled as a sort of springboard—launching off his back in a leap toward the thinnest part of the astonished crowd.
“Constables! After him!” Inspector Desmond roared to the police who’d been blocking off the other end of the bridge. As his men ran after Silent Eagle, the Wild West performers broke through the police line and stormed onto the bridge. The whole scene became a wild melee as the three groups clashed together.
Wiggins dodged and ducked punches and truncheons, trying to keep an eye on Silent Eagle’s escape.
“Cor!” Wiggins exclaimed. Silent Eagle showed all the Indian brav
ery, strength, and ruthlessness that Wiggins expected. The man used knees, elbows, and even his bound wrists as a club to fight his way to freedom.
Silent Eagle tore his way clear of the lynch mob and ran straight to where Benny Flagg stood trying to calm down his cab horse, spooked by the noise and fighting.
Snatching the reins from the cabbie, Silent Eagle vaulted onto the horse’s back. It would be hard to tell which was more dumbfounded, Benny or his horse.
The animal reared, lashing out with his fore-hooves, and the pursuing mob backed up hastily.
Wiggins was sure Silent Eagle would fall off the rearing horse, but the warrior clung to his mount as if he’d become a part of the beast, turning it around.
He might make it, Wiggins thought, if he could only get his hands free. . . .
He glanced over at the police officer who’d been downed at the beginning of the riot. The man still lay unconscious on the cobblestones. Hanging from his belt, Wiggins caught the glitter of keys.
Bobbing and weaving, Wiggins made his way through the struggling mass of people. He dropped to one knee and tore loose the key ring. Hunched over, he barreled his way to the end of the bridge and some open space.
With all his might, he flung the keys toward the fleeing Indian.
Even as he did so, a voice jeered inside his head. Fool, it said. Even if he sees them, what is he going to do? Stop, get down, and pick them up?
Silent Eagle apparently did see the keys because the horse veered in their direction. However, the Indian didn’t rein in his galloping mount. Instead he swung around, clinging with one leg as he stretched to the pavement.
Wiggins shuddered, certain the bareback rider would tumble to the hard stones and break his neck. But an instant later, Silent Eagle pulled himself upright, keys held victoriously aloft in his upraised hands.
Seconds later, both Indian and cab horse left the fighting and screaming behind, clattering out of sight.
Chapter 8
WIGGINS DIDN’T SEE WHAT HAPPENED NEXT. SOMEONE tripped over him, and they both wound up on the pavement. All he heard were cries of anger and pain, pierced with the shrill tweets of police whistles as officers called for more assistance.