My Calamity Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  Annie gasped. “Like people who work in a candle factory in Cincinnati?”

  “That’s really specific, but yes, like that.” Many Horses shook her head. “Swearengen has been having wolves bite people, including a lot of my people, and then taking them into Deadwood. Sometimes we see them again, and we try to help them, but they don’t want to come back home.”

  “Why not?”

  “They don’t seem like they can want to come home.” Many Horses’s voice went tight, like she was trying not to cry. “They act like they might, but then they get flustered and confused, and then just say they have something they have to do.”

  “Are they being blackmailed?” Annie asked.

  “No.” Many Horses looked out across the stream. “No, I think it’s something even more sinister. My father believes they’re being controlled by Swearengen.”

  “Right. You said that.”

  “No, I mean”—Many Horses sucked in a sharp breath—“mind control. My father believes that Swearengen is an Alpha, capable of putting other wolves under thrall, and that is why my people cannot—will not—come home. Or, if they do, it’s only to bite others and take them back into Deadwood.”

  “That’s horrible.” Annie had spent the last two months struggling to come to terms with Frank being a garou, but now, with this, it was easy to slip back into that cold hatred. What kind of monster would take control of other people?

  “This is happening to garou from all over,” Many Horses said. “They come here and fall under the thrall, and then go out and bite more people to create more wolves.”

  Annie shook her head, wishing she had something encouraging to offer but unable to come up with anything. Too easily, she could imagine the wolves who’d kept her captive involved in something like this.

  “My father went west to meet with other Plains tribes,” Many Horses went on, “but I would not go without my sister.”

  Here it was—the reason Many Horses wanted her help. “Where is your sister?”

  “Swearengen’s got her,” Many Horses said. “They bit my sister and took her to Deadwood, and I haven’t seen her since. I won’t leave without her. She’s my best friend. My confidant. My everything. And I won’t go anywhere while there’s still a chance she’s alive.”

  Annie’s heart twisted at the pain in Many Horses’s voice. Oh, the lengths she would go to if Sarah Ellen or Huldy needed saving. “What can I do?”

  “I know Walks Looking is in Deadwood,” Many Horses said. “She must be.”

  “You want me to find her?”

  “Yes.” Many Horses peered down, and when the bears didn’t move, she quietly lowered herself to Annie’s branch. “I can’t go into Deadwood. I’d be killed.”

  “What? Why?”

  Many Horses gestured at her face and arms and everything else. “Hello. I’m Lakota, and I’m not under Swearengen’s thrall. People in Deadwood would kill me the moment I stepped into town.” Many Horses looked away, over the creek, but she couldn’t quite disguise the grief choking her voice. “My father and the other tribes were attacked at the Little Bighorn River a month ago.”

  Annie’s throat tightened. “Oh no.”

  “A general named Custer led his army into the village and tried to kill everyone there, but our numbers were superior, and we won the battle. We call it the Battle of the Greasy Grass. But because we won, white people everywhere are mad and trying to kill all of us, even people who weren’t there. Reservations aren’t safe, either.”

  Annie wanted to be sick. On the stagecoach trail, she’d heard talk of watching out for Natives, and killing any who were spotted. Many Horses had taken a great risk in following Annie. “I’m so sorry,” Annie whispered. “I know it doesn’t change anything to hear this, but I think it’s horrible, what we’ve done to you and your people. It’s not right.”

  Silence stretched between them, giving Annie time to think about how she should have said something on the trail, when the others were talking about killing Natives. She should have stood up and announced her dissent.

  Next time, she promised herself—because she wasn’t naive enough to think there wouldn’t be a next time—she would do better.

  Many Horses tightened her jaw. “I used to see some of my people in town, before the battle. I watched from the hills and could see Lakota men and women walking around Deadwood. White people pushed them around, but I could at least check on them. But ever since the battle”—her voice broke—“I haven’t seen them. They’re either in hiding, or dead. I don’t know which.”

  Annie’s heart squeezed for her.

  “I don’t know if it’s possible to reach all the Lakota wolves, but perhaps my sister is still alive.” Many Horses gazed westward, her expression heavy with sadness. “My father said he would return to the Black Hills. I would like Walks Looking to be able to greet him.”

  “I want to help,” Annie said. “Whatever I can do.”

  Many Horses sat up straighter, surprise clear on her face. “You will help?”

  Annie nodded. “I have sisters, too, and if anything happened to them . . . Well, I know how you must feel about wanting to be reunited.”

  “Thank you,” Many Horses said after a few minutes. “If you hadn’t agreed to help, I’d have had to push you out of the tree.”

  “Really?”

  “No. But I’d have thought about it.” Many Horses gave a strained half smile. “I keep thinking about how scared she must be, surrounded by people who hate her because of what she is. They don’t know anything about who she is.”

  The words struck Annie closer to home than she’d been prepared for. After all, she’d known who Frank was before finding out what he was, and she hadn’t been shy about badmouthing garou.

  “I have something that will help,” Many Horses said, producing a small vial from her pocket. A purple-tinted liquid sloshed inside. “This is wolfsbane, mixed with a few other herbs. Just a drop should sever the bond between Swearengen and anyone under thrall. Hopefully.”

  Annie didn’t love the hopefully at the end, but she took the vial and put it in her own pocket. “So your sister should drink it?”

  Many Horses nodded. “But be careful. She might resist.”

  This was sounding like a worse and worse plan, but if anyone deserved something going right, it was Many Horses. “I’ll make sure she gets it,” Annie said. “I promise.”

  Many Horses pressed her mouth into a line as she gave Annie a searching look.

  A blush rose in Annie’s cheeks. “I know you don’t have any reason to believe me. White people have broken a lot of promises.”

  “Without fail, your people have broken every promise.”

  “I won’t break this one,” Annie said.

  “We’ll see.” Many Horses gave a tentative smile. “But I’ve been observing you from a distance for a few days now, and I don’t hate what I’ve seen. I want to trust you, Annie Oakley.”

  “I’ll do my best to earn it,” Annie said. “Will you tell me about Walks Looking? So that she knows I’m there to help her, I mean. She won’t have any reason not to eat my liver otherwise.”

  “All right. But turn around so I can bandage your back.”

  Annie smiled and obeyed. “I think we’re best friends now.”

  “You wish.” But Many Horses was smiling, too.

  Several hours later, the bears finally got up and left, but not before Annie noticed the mama bear shoot a dirty look over her shoulder.

  When the bears didn’t come back, the girls climbed down the tree and washed the blood off Annie before she returned to the wagon train.

  “I’ll meet you here as soon as I can,” Annie said. “Watch out for bears.”

  “I think you’re the one who needs to watch out for bears, but I’ll do my best.”

  By the time Annie made it back to the wagons, everyone in the group was waking up and getting ready for the last day of travel. She kept to herself, changing clothes as quickly as possible be
fore climbing onto Charlie’s horse.

  At last, the wagons set off toward Deadwood. Everyone smiled while they worked, bright with renewed energy and eager to see the end of this journey, but a dark worry settled around Annie. Swearengen, the Alpha, the villain the Wild West show had been hunting all this time, was somewhere ahead.

  Then, finally, they reached the town.

  Deadwood was set in a narrow gulch, with steep hills rising like walls on either side of the main road. Clapboard storefronts advertised saloons, saloons, and more saloons—with a couple of shops for mining supplies sprinkled about for variety.

  Mud—not the kind of mud made out of dirt—squelched under Charlie’s horse’s hooves, and a mighty stink flooded into Annie’s nose. She blinked away the tears stinging her eyes and gazed around at the inhabitants, but they were as filthy as the town. Their faces needed washed, their clothes needed mending, and no matter how hard Annie tried, she couldn’t find one person with a full set of teeth.

  That’s when the sign over a saloon fell and hit a drunk man on the head. He dropped face-first into the mud and all the people around him had a good laugh.

  Annie flinched, wondering if someone should make sure the man was all right, but just as she considered climbing off Charlie’s horse to do it herself, he rolled over and laughed. Mud from his face slid into his mouth.

  Annie swallowed back the taste of bile. Never in her life had she been anywhere near this disgusting.

  Hand sanitizer hadn’t been invented yet, but if it had, Annie would have been pouring it all over herself and squirting it at the residents of Deadwood, because five minutes in, there was no denying it: Annie hated Deadwood.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Jane

  Jane loved Deadwood. From the moment she arrived, she knew it was her kind of place. In Deadwood, everyone kind of looked like Jane, and everyone kind of walked like Jane, and everyone kind of talked like her, too.

  “Hey, you!” said a man from the door of a saloon. “Come ’ere!”

  “Yeah?” Jane stepped toward him.

  “Come closer,” he slurred, and when she did the man belched in her face.

  She brapped right back at him. The man laughed coarsely and called her a name that Jane didn’t understand the meaning of, because (in spite of what a certain popular TV show about Deadwood will lead you to believe) that particular dirty word didn’t come into regular usage in America until 1890, and this is still 1876.

  “Here!” yelled another man, and thrust a heavy white pot into her hands. “Have a free commode from Bullock Hardware and Supplies!”

  A-yep. She was going to fit in here fine.

  What was there not to like? Everything in the town was brown, brown, and more brown, which happened to be Jane’s favorite color. On a related note, they gave out free commodes. And best of all, you could get a stiff drink pretty much everywhere you cast your eye to. There were four “theaters” (ahem—brothels), and five saloons: the Montana Saloon (even though they weren’t in Montana), the No. 10 Saloon (even though there weren’t nine other saloons), the Lone Star Saloon (even though they weren’t in Texas), the Shaggy Dog Saloon (even though the owner only owned a bunch of mangy cats), and the Tully Saloon (which was owned by a man named Smith). Nothing was properly named in Deadwood. Which was just Jane’s style.

  But first: the cure. The pamphlet had said to go to a particular place in Deadwood, and talk to a particular person, only Jane couldn’t rightly remember either one of those finer details. It’d been months ago, after all, that Winnie had read her that pamphlet, and Jane hadn’t exactly written it down.

  She asked around. One fellow said the cure could be found on Sherman Street, but all Jane discovered there was a shabby-looking bakery. Another man suggested the corner of Gold Street and Main, but at that juncture sat a log cabin–type grocery store owned by a man named Farnum, who wouldn’t stop talking at Jane in a funny way she didn’t understand. Farnum was the one who told her to try Old Doc Babcock’s place, seeing as she was looking for a cure, so she should probably see a doctor.

  The cure wasn’t at Old Doc Babcock’s, but the old man did know where to find it: the Gem. Once a day, around about one o’clock, there was a show at the Gem to demonstrate the cure of the latest garou to pay the hundred-dollar fee.

  “A quack, though, that Swearengen,” grumbled Old Doc Babcock. “What you need to do is take one of my tonics.” He rummaged around in a cabinet and started lifting out bottles. “This one here is Tott’s Teething Cordial, satisfies the baby, pleases the mother, gives rest to both. But it would work on the garou, too, I imagine.” He saw that Jane looked unconvinced. “I also got Casseebeer’s Coca-Calisaya, made from the very best Peruvian coca leaves.” Jane shook her head. “How about Dr. Lindley’s Epilepsy Remedy, for fits, spasms, convulsions, and St. Vitus’ dance—that’d calm a wolf type right down, I reckon. Or here’s Mixer’s Cancer and Scrofula Syrup, which cures cancer, tumors, abscesses, ulcers, fever sores, goiter, catarrh, scald head, piles, rheumatism, and all the blood diseases. That would cover the garou, right enough.” He turned to her, his arms full of bottles. “For one hundred dollars, you could have them all.”

  Jane took a step back toward the door.

  “How about it, young feller?” said the doctor. “One of these is sure to fix your wolf problem right up.”

  “It’s not for me. It’s for a friend,” Jane said hastily, and then beat it out of there. It didn’t take her long to locate the Gem. When she got there people were getting the chairs set up for the show. A large metal cage had been placed on the stage next to a podium. For a minute she stood staring at the cage.

  “Hello, there,” said a lady, who by her dress and face paint Jane instantly knew to be a prostitute. “Come for the cure, have you?”

  Jane found herself shaking her head. “I’m a garou hunter, see. That’s what I am. Yep. So I’ve come to see if this cure business is true, because then I should probably look for another form of employment, don’t you think?”

  “All right,” laughed the painted lady. “Well, the cure works, sure enough, but it won’t get rid of all the garou. There’s not too many of them that can afford the hundred dollars a pop.”

  Jane nodded thoughtfully. “That is a lot of scratch.”

  The lady smiled. “Enjoy the show.”

  Jane took a seat in the back.

  At precisely one o’clock, another painted lady walked up to the front onto the makeshift-stage area and addressed the small crowd that had wandered in from the street. She motioned for them to settle down, and everyone went silent.

  “What you came to see here today is a marvel,” she began by way of introduction. “And the woman who brings us this marvel is no less than a miracle worker, in my estimation, a pioneer, an entrepreneur, an explorer, an inventor, and a—”

  “A woman? Isn’t it a doctor?” Jane asked loudly. This entire thing felt less legit if the cure-it-all person wasn’t a doctor.

  “She has come to clear this wolf plague that’s cursed our fine country,” the lady continued as if Jane hadn’t spoken. “I give you, Deadwood’s very own, Alice Swearengen.”

  Oh. He was a she, Jane surmised as a woman in a fancy dress took the stage. She was wearing a brown top hat with a length of silk tied around the brim, which trailed down her back like a bridal veil. She gave a graceful wave to the audience. Jane’s heart started racing, her blood pounding all the way up to her head.

  She really, really wanted the cure to be real.

  “I am Alice Swearengen, the proud owner of the Gem, but call me Al,” said the woman. “Some time ago I took an interest in this wolf epidemic that is raging across America. It affects so many people who cannot help what they are and would otherwise be good and upstanding members of society. There must be some way, I thought, to eradicate this affliction without destroying the garou themselves.”

  Jane clapped hard at that.

  Al Swearengen continued. “After many years of trial and e
rror, I came up with a serum that will, once injected into the bloodstream, attach itself to the part of the person that has been corrupted into a wolf, and quickly disintegrate the connection between the man and his inner beast. Any man—or woman, mind you—who wants to, can be cured.”

  Swearengen’s eyes found Jane’s in the crowd, and the hair on the back of Jane’s neck lifted. There was something familiar about this lady. Jane couldn’t put her finger on what. It was hard because the lady’s face was partially shaded by her hat.

  “Why so expensive, then, if you mean it for any man?” another member of the crowd called out—obviously another garou who couldn’t afford the stiff price of the serum. “Why a hundred dollars?”

  Swearengen had a ready answer: “The ingredients for my serum are top secret, and extremely rare, which necessitates the higher price tag.”

  “All right, then,” called still another man in the audience. “We came here to see it, didn’t we? Let’s see it!”

  This was Jane’s kind of crowd.

  “Of course,” said Swearengen mildly. She turned back toward the painted lady who was her assistant. “Can you bring me Mrs. Hoagy, please?”

  The lady dashed away for a minute and then returned escorting a little old woman. She walked in small steps to stand on the stage, so bent over it looked painful. She was wearing dark glasses and a hat that largely covered her face. As if the bright light was too much for her tired eyes.

  Swearengen took her hand. “I’m so glad to see you, Mrs. Hoagy. Can you tell me about your condition?”

  “Oh, Doctor, Doctor, Doctor,” the woman said in a strange, trembly voice, even though nobody had actually confirmed that Alice Swearengen was a doctor of any sort. “I got the woof inside me, Doctor. Can’t you help me?”

  “Of course I can. But it will only work if you truly believe in it. Do you believe, Mrs. Hoagy? Do you desire with all your heart and soul to be rid of the wolf?”