They had nearly reached the hotel before John McGarrigle realized that his third, second, and fourth fingers were now decorated with ruby, diamond, and emerald rings.
There was a time when Lady-Jane Little Feather would not have missed the appearance of a great magician.
For weeks before such an event, members of Omaha’s “sporting” society would vie for her company. Politicians, salesmen, pimps, and regulators would send letters and telegrams begging her attendance. Some would be accompanied by gold pieces, others by cash in advance. Jewelry would be proffered, dresses—even horses.
On opening night, Lady-Jane would scandalize the respectable women of the city with both her presence and her attire. As the gaslights of the Academy of Music sputtered and blazed, she would emerge from a fine landau, the flaming red or milky pink of her gown’s skirt preceding her. Layers of silk and lace would bunch behind her to form the largest and longest bustle in the crowd. Gasps would be audible at the plunge of her neckline and the bareness of her arms.
Once inside, Lady-Jane would be seated in a box beside her highest bidder. Throughout the great hall would be heard the sound of gloved hands slapping the shoulders—and sometimes the heads—of admiring husbands. She relished these occasions; they not only provided first-class entertainment but also paid more than her going rate without her having to “perform” herself. The whoremaster Calhern seldom accompanied her, busy as he was lining up the women, the drink and cocaine, and the odd boy or two for the party to follow.
From the Academy’s stage, she had listened to the stories of Mr. Mark Twain as he performed selections from The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County and The Innocents Abroad. She had thrilled to the moving voice of Madame Adelina Patti singing Lucia di Lammermoor and Salammbô. Over the years, there had been countless jugglers and contortionists, singers, and dancers, even a group of Negro college students from Fisk University whose spirituals brought the audience to tears.
Had she still been the Red Rose of Omaha, nothing would have kept her from the performance of the man thought to be the greatest magician in the world.
Now, she could only hear the details second-hand.
“It was amazing,” Julius said as they sat in her corner of Standing Bear’s lodge. “He strolled across the stage carrying an ordinary walking stick. Then, he let go of it. Everyone expected it to fall, but instead it stood straight up and began to bang on the floor and hop back and forth. People applauded and laughed. And then he borrowed a gold watch from old man Bennett, the bank president.”
Lady-Jane smiled. “One of my best clients.”
“I’ll bet. Anyway, his assistant, a huge red-haired fellow, brought out a big target with a hook in the center of the bulls-eye; then he reached behind his back and produced an enormous blunderbuss—it looked like something the pilgrims would use to hunt turkeys. He told the audience that he would load the watch into the gun and shoot it at the target so it hung on the hook. I was sitting near Bennett. He was sweating like a pig. But Alexander fired it, and it hung right up in the bulls-eye; and when he called the old man back onstage and gave him back his watch, he looked like he’d been reprieved of murder.”
They shared a hearty laugh. “It must have been wonderful,” she said. “I can almost see him … and all the beautiful ladies in their best and the men in their long coats …”
She looked down at her rough hands. Tears came to her eyes. “I used to be a tough whore. Man tried to take more than he’d contracted for, I’d kick his ass down the Dime’s back stairs. Now I tear up because a magician comes to Omaha and I miss it. I tell you, Julius, I’ve got to get out of here.”
Julius patted her hand. “Tall order.” he said. “Hiding here was the best way to keep the whites believing you were burned with the Dime. But since those posters went up …”
Her tears turned to bitter laughter. “They say I killed twenty people. A thousand dollars doesn’t seem like much of a reward for that: fifty dollars a head as I figure it, and less if they count the burned and the crippled. But most of them was whores, so I guess it’s a bargain. Hell, I used to make that off of one railroad boss back when I still looked human.”
Julius smiled ruefully. “You’re still beautiful,” he said.
“When I go to the river to wash myself, I don’t look at the water. But I can feel my skin. I can see my arms and hands. Another year here and my hide will only be fit to stretch across a drum. Another two, and I’ll be a monster like the rest of them.”
“I think you’re looking more like your old self,” Julius said. “That’s a fine necklace you’re wearing, and you look less thin than on my last visit.”
Lady-Jane smiled again. “Well, a whore needs a patron. Chased By Owls meets me in secret so his thugs won’t know he’s fucking a white slut. And as brutal as he is in war is nothing compared to how he treats a turncoat in bed. At the Dime, it would have cost a client five hundred to do what he does to me for some trinkets and extra meat. Twice, during his fun, I’ve reached for his knife, but I guess I’m still enough of a professional to bear it; and anyway, I wasn’t even sure who I meant to kill: him or myself.”
The shriek of a dozen children penetrated the lodge, followed by the sound of moccasins running over ground and hooves pounding. Lady-Jane and Julius made for the entrance and stepped outside. Everywhere, people were laughing and waving their fringes, quickly making their way toward the camp’s south entrance.
What greeted their eyes seemed to come from another world.
The mounted contingent was led by the shaman who, it was said, shook and cried by the hands of the gods, the better to tell things to come. The gray man was dressed not in his usual filthy buckskins, but in the kind of clothing the whites wore on Sundays to worship their gods. His suit was blue with a white stripe, and his tie shone red like a darting fish. Beside him rode a huge man who was whiter than any white the Ponca had yet seen, his hair and the tiny spots on his face as red as the sumac flower. Behind the riders came two wagons driven by nervous-looking Chinese. They were dressed in native garb, but not the kind seen on Omaha’s railroad coolies or laundry men. Their tunics were deep crimson and decorated with gold mandalas, and their black trousers bore embroidered dragons from waist to ankle. The reins and bridles of their horses flowed with silken streamers, and each wagon carried an array of large and small boxes, lacquered in red and gold.
But it was the figure at the rear that brought gasps from the Ponca.
He rode a horse as black as a raven, its hide interrupted by not so much as a star on its nose. His saddle was also black, fine-tooled with the twelve signs of the zodiac and the sun and moon smiling with the faces of men. Black, too, were his long coat and the cloak that spread across the horse’s hindquarters. Beneath his tall hat, his face was pale and bearded, its top half obscured by smoked glasses that hid his eyes from view.
The bizarre entourage stopped at the village center and dismounted in time to see Standing Bear emerge from the medicine lodge. Julius hurried to join him.
The chief nodded to the three white men. “As always, John McGarrigle, you are welcome among the people. I trust the wiles by which you are known have helped you elude any soldier or other nuisance seeking to find us.”
“No worry about that, Bear. The way I send dogs off scents, anybody looking for the Ponca should be somewheres in Kansas by now. And if they’re extra special dumb, Connecticut.”
Julius translated this as “yes.”
Standing Bear turned to the other two visitors. “My Speaker tells me that you are interested in our ways and that you may be trusted among us. I also understand that the man in black is kin to One Tongue and that he produces miracles for money. He has told me that he will do as such for us in exchange for our hospitality. My Speaker says that your medicine is caused by neither god nor demon, but by practice and skill, as a man would ride a horse. And so, you too are welcome; and I shall look forward to your demonstration.”
Alexander bowed and removed the smok
ed glasses. “It is indeed a great honor to be invited to your village, your majesty. From my cousin, I have heard of the ways of the Ponca. He has told me there is much the white man may learn from you. As to a demonstration—if you will permit me?”
Standing Bear nodded, and The Great Herrmann shot his cuffs in the air. Moving slowly, the man in black reached behind Bear’s ear and produced a large ring. On either side of its blue diamond were tiny hunting bows in gold and, beneath them, platinum arrows. Alexander held the ring up for all to see and then, falling to one knee, offered it to his host.
There was a great silence throughout the tribe. Wives grabbed the arms of their husbands and children ran toward their mothers; Chased By Owls cursed and brought his hand to the hilt of his knife.
Standing Bear stared at Alexander, incredulous. This was indeed powerful, even dangerous medicine; but to refuse a gift from a guest would be the height of bad manners. Julius stood rigid, hardly breathing, wondering when his insane cousin might break the tension.
Finally, Alexander winked at Julius and spoke.
“My sainted mother told me never to go visiting empty-handed.”
Julius translated. Even the children were silent as Standing Bear absorbed the information. Then his red, weathered face broke into a grin and exploded in laughter.
“Tell him,” the chief said to Julius,” that my mother said the same thing.”
Julius did as instructed and soon the entire village was holding its bellies. Alexander rose as if he had been dubbed a knight and placed the ring on the chief’s index finger, only to have it appear on his own a second later. He apologized profusely and replaced the ring, which again made its way to his hand. By the time he had repeated the trick twice more, Standing Bear was nearly helpless, tears of delight tracing the deep creases in his cheeks. Finally, Alexander bowed and backed away, leaving the ring with his host.
“If One Tongue says this is not witchcraft, then I will believe it and hope that before you leave us you will show me a little of how this is done. Now, I must leave you. We are preparing a feast and I must supervise. I thank you for the fine gift and hope that it will not disappear again before you leave.”
Still laughing, Standing Bear walked off. Prophet John made his apologies and went in search of firewater. Seamus Dowie began directing the Chinese assistants, removing the boxes from the wagons and unpacking the crates of equipment.
“So, Julius,” the magician said in German. “You have become an Indian. What next? A Hindu? Or perhaps a member of Parliament, complete with an accent from Eton.”
“I assume you have a message for me, Alex. I suspect it is the same one I’ve heard before. I suggest you deliver it, so that we may move on to happier topics.”
“Yes, I’ve said this to you before—because I’ve seen you do this before. In the old land, to the Poles, you spoke as a Pole, to the Germans like a German. When we first came into Philadelphia, you were not a Jew, but a Russian, remember? Now you perform your miracles on these poor savages. I am used to you becoming what you behold, but as fetching as those moccasins may be, isn’t this going a bit far?”
“Interesting judgment, coming from a man got up like a magpie. And I suppose that the Great Herrmann chants the week’s Torah portion at every show and refuses to perform on shabbos?”
“I may not, cousin, but I’ve never denied my origins. Last year, the Munich press was full of an incident in which I knocked down a theatre manager who, believing I was a pure Aryan, made unkind remarks about the stinginess of our co-religionists.”
“I’m sure the yids of the world are grateful. Still, it may interest you to know that my brothers and sisters here know well what I am. And perhaps because they are even more despised than we, I have become more a Jew than ever. Except I’m not the frightened Jew of the shtetl, but the Jew that we learned about in school—unafraid like a Maccabee. As for the moccasins, well, they are fitting for the environment and I don’t get horse shit on my nice white spats.”
The Great Herrmann looked down past the blackness of his trousers to see that his silken shoe coverings had turned brown with manure and mud. Alexander looked at Julius, then back down at the spats.
“Your point is taken,” Alex said.
Arm in arm, the cousins walked toward the lodge that had been prepared for Alexander and his retinue.
“I assume that you will be able to help me in my little performance tonight?” Alexander said. “I’ll need an assistant who understands English, and you’ll do until someone better comes along.”
“If you think the distinguished Speaker of the Ponca is going to make a fool of himself before the tribe, you’re mad. But there’s a woman here—a quite pretty woman, too—who speaks fine English and understands a thing or two about performance.”
“A woman? Will our audience be tolerant of that?
Julius shook his head. “These are Indians, Alex. They haven’t survived in this harsh land a thousand years by being fools. They don’t waste time debating whether or not it’s proper in the Lord’s eyes for a woman to assist a magician; their gods are too busy supplying buffalo and making the snow fall to concern themselves about such nonsense. Only whites are stupid and dirty-minded enough to believe that Jesus sits around worrying about the niceties of show business.”
That evening, the Great Herrmann made no accommodation to the primitive setting, but offered up every part of his act that could be performed with fire for footlights.
He blazed through a litany of card magic; cut off and restored the bird’s head and floated the goldfish bowl. He burned Standing Bear’s necklace and returned it to him intact. He even performed “the floating boy.” For the dénouement, he produced gifts for the chief and his wives from his tall black hat: a Colt single-action revolver, a bolt of orange silk, knives for cutting and carving, and, finally, a box of fine panatelas.
Throughout the evening, Lady-Jane performed her role flawlessly.
Informed of her part in the evening’s entertainment, she had hurried to her lodge. From beneath her mat, she retrieved a small cardboard box, broke the seal and opened it. Inside was a small bar of plain hand soap. She had earned it on her knees before a Dutch peddler, but tonight it would be worth the price. Placing it in the pocket of her skirt, she ran toward the Niobrara.
Having bathed, Lady-Jane combed and tied her hair into a tight chignon. She reached down beneath the mat again and retrieved the one decent dress she had brought with her when she fled the Dime. She had kept it as flat as possible to maintain a semblance of pressing and periodically exposed it to sun and wind, avoiding the ruin of mildew. It was simple, made of cotton and gingham, with enough piping and lace to appear respectable, and enough silk and whalebone to highlight the charms beneath.
Asked to display the magician’s doves, she did it with gesture and style. Commanded to step inside a box, she obeyed with grace, sliding in and out of Alexander’s apparatus with feline nimbleness. Even Seamus Dowie was forced to admit that her presence added an element heretofore unseen in any magic act; something only a woman could provide. That night, stepping and whirling through a world of illusion, the Red Rose of Omaha seduced the audience—every man, woman, and child—as easily as she had the richest cattle barons and scions of railroad fortune.
For nearly a year, Half Horse had pondered the source of the power that had cost him so dearly.
Before the egg-eater boy’s arrival, he had been Speaker: a position of honor within the council and of status among the people. As such, he had traveled to the white man’s villages and taken part in the negotiation of treaties. Sitting at Standing Bear’s side, he had translated complex land partitions and water rights with the Blue Coats and their chiefs. True, mistakes had been made in these deliberations, and the chief had sometimes chided him for his interpretations; but could this not be attributed to the white man’s trickery and a wicked language with a dozen meanings for every word?
At first, Standing Bear had informed him that the you
ng white would be his assistant, schooling him in the finer points of English and helping him with idioms and slang no Indian could be expected to know. But at the very next negotiation, Half Horse found himself sitting silent as a boulder as the boy interpreted, purposely speaking too fast for understanding. A few days later, Half Horse returned from a hunt and was told that a white man and woman were being interrogated in the chief’s lodge; but when he attempted to fulfill his duty, he was detained at the door by two braves. When the terrified couple emerged, it was the boy, not he, who shouted instructions for mounting a horse while blindfolded and the warnings to never return.
Half Horse was not called upon to interpret on any day thereafter.
He knew it was unnatural for a man to come into another man’s world and speak his language as if born to it. He suspected that only a bargain between a man and a demon could produce such abilities.
Half Horse consulted Voice Like A Drum, the medicine man, to see if such a demon could be flushed into the open.
“Sometimes,” Voice Like A Drum said, “a man may be given a gift by the Unknown and no demon is involved at all.”
“Yes,” Half Horse said. “This would be a man like me—gifted by the Almighty in return for hard work.”
Voice Like A Drum sat impassively, his head wreathed in smoke. “All of the people in our village know that Little Horn has big ears and can hear a butterfly from here to the Niobrara. It is also well known that Yellow Wolf has a large penis that makes his wife smile. Like these, gifts may come in different sizes and bring different results. And just as some people may have bigger penises than other people, there are others who may have more words than other people.”
Half Horse left the meeting feeling vaguely insulted and still unconvinced. He remained certain that only a spirit could bestow such power, but he lacked the evidence that would condemn the boy and restore him to rank.
Then the Great Herrmann arrived in camp.
If ever a demon existed, it was this white man. His clothing, his demeanor, and the miracles he worked—could there be more proof that this was a spirit sent to do mischief? Surely, this was the black devil that gave One Tongue his extraordinary powers!
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