by Kari Bovee
Annie’s stomach flipped, but when everyone turned to scrutinize her, she held her head high.
“That reporter had been misled by someone who wished to harm Annie’s reputation. Even though the story was not true, it did not reflect well on the Wild West Show, and I can’t have that. While we must give the investigators every consideration, when it comes to reporters, button up—do not tell them a thing. We can’t control what they print in those damn rags, but we don’t have to contribute.” He paused to scan the room, looking into each person’s eyes. “Do I make myself clear?”
Everyone murmured his or her assent. Rusty Post raised his hand.
“Pardon me, Colonel, for asking, but do they have any notion who shot Carver?”
The murmurings grew louder. The Colonel held his hand up to silence everyone.
“I don’t rightly know. The detectives keep saying that they will inform me when they have a suspect, and since I’m likely a suspect, they aren’t about to show their hand until they figure out that I had nothing to do with Mr. Carver’s untimely death.”
“What about that drunk old fool that’s been following Miss Oakley around? Has anyone questioned him?” Mr. Post asked.
Annie again wanted to sink into the floor but lifted her gaze to meet the Colonel’s eyes. He looked at her with such kindness she wanted to cry again, but instead gave him a reassuring smile. She knew that he didn’t enjoy dragging her reputation further into this.
“I mentioned him to the sheriff, but they haven’t been able to locate him.” The Colonel’s eyes swept the group.
“Well, he must be the shooter,” someone shouted.
Annie’s eyes shifted to Twila, who stared at the ceiling, as if bored with the conversation.
The Colonel held up his hand again.
“I know we’d all like to blame an outsider, but I don’t want anyone making assumptions or wielding accusations. The Buffalo Bill Wild West Show is your family, and I expect you to treat your fellow performers and crew like they were blood relatives. Because of this calamity, and out of respect for the dead, we will continue our shutdown for two days, but I want everyone to continue practicing routines. When we open our doors again, I want us to give the people the best damn show they’ve ever seen. Are you with me on this?”
Everyone voiced their agreement.
Annie suddenly realized that in going to the far side of the tent to escape Frank, she’d hemmed herself in. She glanced around for a way out and spied LeFleur and Bobby engaged in another argument. Bobby’s face bore a look of barbed defiance as LeFleur pointed a finger at him. Annie started to make her way over to them when Bobby yanked his hat off his head, slapped it against his thigh, and stalked past her in such a hurry that the wisps of hair on the side of her face moved from the breeze he’d created.
LeFleur glanced at Annie and he, too, strode past her, eyes focused straight ahead, as if on a mission.
What could they be fighting about? Where had Bobby disappeared to the day before, and why?
Annie’s head pulsated with disappointment, hurt, and confusion, but she’d look into all this later, when her head stopped pounding. At least Frank had gone. She had no idea where, but felt relieved that she wouldn’t have to face him . . . for a while longer.
CHAPTER 16
“Correction: It has come to the attention of the editors of the St. Louis Times that previous statements in a story about Wild West shooter Annie Oakley were untrue. Miss Oakley was dismissed of horse theft charges, and the injuries suffered by Vernon McCrimmon, at the hand of Miss Oakley, were deemed self-defense by Judge Brody of Darke County, Ohio.
It is with great respect that we, the editors of the St. Louis Times, apologize to Miss Oakley for the aforementioned mistakes regarding her good name.”
St. Louis Times – April 19, 1885
Annie made a beeline for the stables. Once there she placed a halter around Buck’s head and picked up the lead rope to take him out of the round corral. Listless, he followed behind her, his feet dragging, creating little clouds of dust as she led him through the gate.
She longed to ride him across the open fields, away from all her pain, but Buck still hadn’t recovered from his illness. No matter, she just needed to see him—her only real comfort. A nice walk and some fresh grass might cheer both their spirits. A thicket of black gum trees in the distance beckoned. The two of them would keep walking, she reasoned, toward those trees, away from the show, away from Frank, away from her troubles.
As they strolled through the thick grass, Annie kept an eye on Buck, observing his behavior, trying to figure out what ailed him, what made him sick. He hadn’t shown this sort of malaise since McCrimmon owned him, and then he suffered from malnourishment and abuse. Not the case now. His ailment didn’t seem to be from anything on the outside of his body, so it must be something from the inside. She’d once heard Mr. Shaw from the North Star Mercantile say that his horse suffered from a poor liver. If that were true of Buck, wouldn’t she have seen this behavior before? This illness hadn’t appeared until they joined the show.
Annie remembered Twila asking if there had been a change in Buck’s food, but there hadn’t been since they’d come to St. Louis, and Mr. Post secured only the finest hay from the local farmers. Besides, all the other horses ate the same hay and drank the same water. Annie stopped in her tracks, letting Buck drift in front of her as he searched for the sweetest shoots of grass. The water. All the horses shared the same water—except Buck. Separated from the others because his fear of the barn, he drank from his own water trough.
“C’mon, Buck.” Annie pulled on the rope, turned around, and headed back to Buck’s corral. When they reached it, she led him inside, took off the halter, and walked to the wooden water trough. It was half empty. Light enough for her to tip over.
She ran back to the barn and grabbed one of the smallest glass bottles they used for shooting practice. She made sure it had a secure-fitting lid. Once back in the corral, she popped off the bottle’s cork lid and dipped the small jar into the water, letting it suck the liquid in, filling it. She smashed the cork into the opening and pressed it down tight, then slipped the bottle into her dress pocket.
Grasping the side of the trough, she pushed, tipping out all the water onto the ground outside of the fence. When the water was gone, she let the trough fall back upright with a dull thud.
After several trips to the main water tank with a bucket, Annie filled Buck’s trough half full, like before. Enough to keep him hydrated for the next several hours.
Sweating from the exertion, Annie brushed her hands together, satisfied at a job well done. Now she had to see Sitting Bull about getting the carriage to go into town.
Annie stood in the small reception area of the St. Louis Times offices, the crisp, punching sound of typewriters echoing throughout the large room as she waited for Emma Wilson. Reporters leaned intently over their typewriters, sitting in rows of desks neatly lined up like a farmer’s neat row of produce. The smell of ink and paper wafted in the air, giving the atmosphere a heavy sense of importance. This was the epicenter of knowledge, the place where people spun the city’s tales of politics, social doings, convenient lies, and the hard truth.
She spotted Emma Wilson heading toward her at a fast clip, today in a sage green dress with a white lace collar and cuffs and pearled buttons down the front of the bodice. The color of the dress made her eyes glow, more so now that she saw Annie there, waiting to speak with her.
“Annie!” Emma held out her arms and wrapped Annie in a tight embrace. “How odd that you’ve dropped by. I was just going to go see you. I have some news, but what brings you to see me? I’m honored.” Emma’s skin flushed pink, and her eyes danced with delight.
Annie, suddenly self-conscious at the attention Emma had inadvertently called toward the two of them, felt heat rush to her face and her palms grew clammy.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Of course, dear. Follow me.”
Annie followed Emma down the aisleway between the rows of desks, trying to avoid the stares and whispers of the other reporters. When Emma reached her desk, she sat down and pointed to the chair positioned to the right of it.
“Here?” Annie looked around the room, her coat suddenly too warm with all the eyes staring at her.
“Appalling, isn’t it?” Emma said. “This is the only space I’m allotted. I’m afraid it will have to do.”
Annie took off her coat and sat in the chair. She folded her coat on top of her lap and placed her reticule on top of her coat.
A short, delicate-boned man appeared next to Annie’s side. His triangular face, all angles and points, broke into a smile to greet her. He moved with a feminine air.
“Well, as I live and breathe—Annie Oakley! How do you do?” He bowed at the waist.
“Run along now, Harold,” Emma waved her hand at him. “She’s my exclusive. Go find someone else to pester.”
The man sneered at Emma but moved on, much to Annie’s relief.
“Now, what can I do for you, Annie?”
“First, I have to tell you, the Colonel doesn’t want any of us to talk to reporters.”
Emma, her face flushed pink, smiled warmly. Annie admired her creamy complexion, void of the unsightly freckles that covered her own nose. Miss Wilson cut a tall, lithe, willowy figure and—despite her avant-garde manner of dressing—she looked like she belonged in high society. Annie wondered what had drawn her to journalism. A lady like her usually married into another wealthy family and certainly did not stain her hands with work.
“I’m not going to ask you a single thing about the murder, promise. I was actually going to go see you because I have a surprise. I’ve arranged a shooting exposition downtown, an all-women’s exhibition, Annie, in St. Louis. Won’t that be spectacular?”
When Annie didn’t reply, Emma reached out a hand to touch Annie’s sleeve.
“My dear, what is it? You look positively wretched.”
Annie forced a smile, surprised that her anxiety showed so transparently in her face. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“My dear girl. What is this all about? Why have you come to see me?” Emma leaned closer and the fragrance of lavender and vanilla filled the space between them. “Is it about the story printed about you? You did see the paper this morning, didn’t you? The retraction and apology were there, front page center.”
“I haven’t. It was there?” Annie asked, glad to find some relief in her dim life.
“Of course it is. I gave you my word, and I am always true to my word.”
“I am grateful, Miss Wilson.”
“Emma, I insist you call me Emma. The story shouldn’t have been printed in the first place. It’s nobody’s business who has, or has not, had an affair with whom.”
“But that man was my enemy, not my lover.” Annie tried to conceal her affronted astonishment at Emma’s statement. “No tryst ever occurred. I despised him.”
“I know there wasn’t, Annie. I’m just pointing out that we’re all human beings who occasionally have love affairs. You are almost a grown woman, so you don’t have to concern yourself with what other people think.”
Annie relaxed, somewhat appeased, and let her back rest against the rungs of the chair.
“Again, I thank you for the paper’s retraction and apology—it means so much to me to have my reputation cleared.” And that too would be gone, as soon as word spread about her intimacy with Frank.
“But that is not what you are upset about, is it? Please let me help if I can.”
“It’s Buck.”
“Your horse.”
“He’s the most precious thing in my life. I’m afraid someone may be purposefully making him ill. Shortly after we arrived, his health changed. Some days he’s better than others, but he’s had a consistent malaise, and lately he doesn’t have the energy to perform. Some days he barely eats.”
“But who would want to harm your horse? What could anyone possibly gain from making Buck sick?”
“To get me out of the way or ruin me.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“There is someone.” Annie hesitated. Could she trust Emma with her suspicions? “But I have absolutely no evidence, just a hunch.”
“Go on. It will be off the record, promise.”
“Twila Midnight—or Vernon McCrimmon.”
Emma’s eyes lit with enthusiasm. Clearly she loved a mystery.
“How do you think he’s being poisoned? His food?”
Annie shook her head. “Mr. Post keeps a good eye on the hay and grain, and I trust him completely. I couldn’t imagine a single reason why he would want to harm Buck.”
“McCrimmon I understand, but you think Twila would have reason?”
Annie nodded.
“Jealousy often leads to desperation,” Emma said. “I would expect that more than one person in the show feels bested by the new—and extremely popular—Annie Oakley. So how do you think your jealous culprit is poisoning Buck?”
“Well, since we’ve ruled out food, I would guess someone is tampering with his water. He doesn’t like the barn, so Mr. Post keeps him in a pen in the corral, which means his water is out in the open. Mr. Post and his crew are always busy in the barn mucking stalls or feeding the other animals, so it’s possible that someone has been sneaking out there and slipping something in Buck’s trough. I just need to figure out what’s in that water, and then maybe we can find out who’s making Buck sick.”
“Oh, how intriguing.” Emma tapped her lower lip with the end of a pencil. “I have a friend who’s a scientist. Perhaps he could look into it?”
Annie’s spirits lifted. She pulled the small glass bottle filled with water from her pocket.
“If we can get this sample of the water tested, could he determine if it’s been tainted?”
“You clever, clever girl!” Emma’s green eyes glowed. “Look, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll figure out how to get it tested. If not the scientist, then maybe I can convince someone in the sheriff’s office to help us. My exfiancé was a sheriff at one time, until he got into politics.”
“Your ex-fiancé?” Annie asked, smiling for the first time that day.
“Oh yes, it’s a long story. Mummy and Daddy wanted me to marry within my social class, so of course I chose someone they considered ‘well beneath our station.’ It was all quite scandalous.”
“But you didn’t marry him?”
“Heavens no. I didn’t love him. I found my parent’s stuffiness repressive and, as my father said, I ‘felt compelled to rebel from the very things that had brought me the best that life can bring.’ They disowned me, which is initially why I had to find work as a reporter, which, by the way, they also find ‘unacceptable.’”
“I’ve never known a woman like you,” Annie said, delighted by Emma’s bravado. “You seem so confident, like you could take on the world.”
“You seem the same.” Emma grinned. “You just don’t know it yet. Now, how about the shooting exhibition? Can we also make that happen?”
“I would have to discuss it with Mr. LeFleur, and possibly the Colonel. I’m not sure if my contract has specified limitations on what I can do outside the show, but I will look into it, I promise.”
“Very well.” Emma looked into Annie’s eyes. “Are you quite restored, Annie? Have I helped you in any way with your current troubles?”
Annie smiled. “Yes, you have, Emma, and I thank you for it.”
By the time Annie returned to her tent, she’d almost forgotten about Frank’s betrayal—until she saw him, perched on her bed.
Of all the nerve.
“Well, there she is,” Lillie said, sitting on her own bed, draining liquor from her flask, a cigarette bobbing in her ridiculously long cigarette holder. “Frankie here has been waiting for you.”
“Mr. Butler, I would like you to leave.” Annie clenched her fists at her sides, refusing to look at him.
/> “And I would like to speak with you.”
“Well, I would like to rest before practice, so if you will excuse me.”
“It’s rather important.”
Annie didn’t want to argue in front of Lillie, who, sprawled across the bed, legs akimbo, stared at them through a cloud of cigarette smoke. Annie raised an eyebrow at her, in the hopes she would offer to leave, but Lillie ignored her—quite possibly on purpose.
“Well, if you won’t leave, I will.” She spun around and stomped out of the tent, Frank behind her. She walked until they were out of earshot of the rest of the camp, then turned to face him so abruptly he nearly walked right into her. She crossed her arms over her chest, breathing fire. Frank rested his hands on his hips.
“For the life of me, Annie, I don’t understand why you’re so mad at me. What in the world has gotten into you? One minute we were in love, and now you’re walking around like I did something horrible. This is mighty confusing.”
Annie sucked in a breath, every fiber of her being shaking with rage.
“I saw you with Twila,” she said between clenched teeth.
“With Twila? When?”
“Hours after we—after I left.”
His eyes shifted from side to side, as if trying to remember.
“I don’t recall seeing Twila last evening. Around dusk, a bunch of the boys and I took a ride through the park, looking for clues to Carver’s murder. We were out there for hours, and then I came by your tent, but you were fast asleep.”
“I saw you, Frank. I saw you with her in your tent.”
“Oh, come on, Annie. Why would I do such a thing? You must have been dreaming—”
“How can you stand there and lie to my face? I saw you.” Annie could feel her heart pumping, her face flushing with anger, tears threatening to surface.
“Well, then you need to get your eyes checked, little darlin’, ’cause it wasn’t me you saw.”
“I am not your little darlin’. You can’t just show up at my tent. We were supposed to keep this quiet, but I find you sitting there with Lillie. Did you say anything to her about us?”