“Yeah.”
“Then I’m not surprised about that all hell business. Sort of follows you around, don’t it, Morgan?”
Frank sighed. “It seems to.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s another dead man back yonder in that office.”
“Nope,” the marshal said, “not surprisin’ at all.”
Even though the shooting was over, the rest of the night was busy. But a lot of talking, the money that was packed inside Parmalee’s duster and tied to his saddle, and some records that Marshal Short found locked up in Carter’s safe told enough of the story so that the federal lawman accepted Frank’s version of the facts. The two of them rode out to Elysium, and Bonner kept his word and spilled everything he knew about the activities of Carter and Parmalee.
“Reckon you’re in the clear, Morgan,” Short said the next morning as they ate breakfast in the kitchen of the Duncan farmhouse.
Frank liked the marshal. Cullen Short had been a lawman for a long time, and was a no-nonsense type who believed more in what was right than he did in rules and regulations. He proved as much by telling Frank that he didn’t have to stay around for the inevitable hearings and inquests.
“I do have places to go,” Frank said, thinking about Charles Dutton.
“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want,” Horace told him. The farmer’s shoulder was heavily bandaged and he was pale, but his robust constitution wouldn’t let the wound keep him down for long.
“We have a lot of rebuilding to do here in Elysium,” Mildred added. “You’d be a welcome addition to the community, Mr. Morgan.”
Frank smiled. “A fella told me not long ago that I didn’t look much like a farmer. I’m afraid he was right.”
“Well, if you ever ride back this way, you’ll always be welcome,” Horace said. “There might not still be a settlement here this morning if it wasn’t for you.”
Frank finished his breakfast, shook hands all around, and went out to find that the dun was saddled and several bags full of supplies had been loaded on the chestnut. “Wherever you’re going,” Mildred told him, “you won’t go hungry.”
“I’m obliged.” Frank took the reins from the man who was holding them, swung up into the saddle, and lifted a hand in farewell. He rode out with a good feeling warming him. Despite the dangers they had faced and the destruction that had been visited upon them, the citizens of Elysium were sturdy folks, the same sort of pioneer stock that had made the country what it was and what he hoped it always would be. They would be just fine.
But a sense of unease stole into his mind as he rode away. What had Parmalee meant there at the end, when Frank had asked him what had changed him? Time, Parmalee had said. Had he been about to say time for something . . . or had he simply meant the passage of time itself, the steadily unfolding years with all their pains and disappointments and the realization that some things were never meant to be, no matter how much folks might wish it were otherwise?
Frank didn’t know, and right now he didn’t particularly want to think about it. He still had that business back East waiting for him.
Anyway, although a man might want to keep an eye on his back trail, he still had to watch where he was going.
The fellow came galloping up to Horace’s house a short time after Frank had ridden away. He dismounted hurriedly and approached the porch, where Marshal Short was still talking to Horace, Mildred, and some of the other citizens of Elysium.
“Is he still here?” the newcomer asked eagerly.
“Who?” Horace asked.
“Why, Frank Morgan, of course! The Drifter himself. One of the most famous gunfighters in the history of the West!” The young man took a pad of paper and a pencil stub from his coat. “I heard he was here. I write for the newspaper in Salina, and I want to ask him some questions.”
Marshal Short shook his head. “I’m afraid you missed out, son. Morgan’s already gone.”
The reporter’s eager expression disappeared. “Oh,” he said, obviously disappointed. But then, he brightened again with the resilience and optimism of youth and went on. “But I’ll bet some of you can tell me all about him and how he saved your lives and your homes. It’s still going to be a great story for the paper!”
Chapter 13
Frank smelled Chicago before he came in sight of it. It was an odd smell, mostly smoky, but with some unpleasant undercurrents. He reminded himself that Chicago was where the huge slaughterhouses were, the meatpacking plants that were the ultimate destination of those thousands upon thousands of cattle who came up the trails from Texas and other places.
Maybe what he was really smelling was . . . death.
That, and a hellacious number of people and all the smells that went with them. Chicago was the second-biggest city in the country. Only New York City had more inhabitants. Frank had read about it in the newspapers, just as he had read about the Columbian Exposition that Chicago was putting on, a sort of world’s fair celebrating the four hundredth anniversary of Christopher Columbus’s discovery of America. If things had been different, Frank might not have minded paying a visit to the Exposition. He didn’t plan to stay in Chicago that long, however. He was just going to catch a train for Boston as soon as he could.
Since leaving Elysium, he’d had time to ponder the situation during the long ride to Chicago. It seemed to him that since he had given Dutton’s spies and hired killers the slip down in Kansas, it would be safe for him to catch a train again. That wouldn’t put too many innocent people in danger, and it would sure cut down on the time it would take him to reach Boston and finally have that showdown with Dutton. As soon as he reached Chicago, he planned to head for the depot.
He could see the city’s skyline when he was still several miles out of town. “Good Lord, hoss,” he said to the dun. “Some of those buildings must be ten or twelve stories tall. Who’d want to live that high up in the air?”
The horse just tossed his head, as unable to answer that question as Frank was.
A short time later, they were moving down one of the city’s streets, the dun’s hooves thudding against the pavement. The smell was worse, and so was the noise. Trolley cars similar to the ones Frank had seen in San Francisco moved along the streets, their bells clanging. Vendors with pushcarts shouted sales pitches for their wares. The sidewalks were thronged with people, many of them shouting as well. Wagons rattled along, and the horses that pulled them contributed to the smell by leaving droppings whenever and wherever the notion struck them. Frank had never seen the inside of an insane asylum, but as he turned down a street called Michigan Avenue, not far from the lake, he thought that they probably looked a lot like downtown Chicago.
He gazed up at the tall buildings flanking him, and felt like he was riding through a narrow canyon. He had the urge to turn the horse around and gallop out of there.
But this was where he had to go if he wanted to carry out the mission he had started on, and he squared his shoulders and forced himself to keep moving, looking around at his chaotic surroundings as he did so and wondering again why folks in their right minds would choose to live like this.
A tall, florid-faced man with muttonchop whiskers was striding down the sidewalk not far from where Frank was riding. Frank called over to him, “Hey, mister, can you tell me how to get to the railroad station?”
The citizen, who wore a tweed suit and a bowler hat, looked over at Frank and raised his eyebrows. “Say,” he replied, “are you one of Colonel Cody’s cowboys?”
Frank brought the dun closer to the man. “Cody, did you say?” he asked. “You mean Bill Cody?”
“Yes, of course, Buffalo Bill himself. If you’re looking for him, you’ll have to go down to Jackson Park, where the world’s fair is.”
Frank frowned. “Bill Cody’s part of that world’s fair I heard about?”
“No, no, the Exposition’s planners wouldn’t allow him to take part. But he has his Wild West set up just north of there. You can’t miss it.
I hear he’s cleaning up from the people who go to the fair. I’ve been a couple of times myself, took the wife and our little girls. They never saw the like of it. Neither did I, to tell the truth.”
That sounded like Bill Cody, Frank thought. Bill had always been one to enjoy putting on a good show. And he was a canny businessman, too. Frank was willing to bet that whoever had decided not to let Cody be an official part of the world’s fair was kicking themselves about now.
“What about the railroad station?” Frank asked again.
“Which one? There are six stations here downtown, and quite a few others scattered around the city.”
Frank pondered that, but didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know which station would be best. But he was willing to bet that Bill Cody would, and besides, he hadn’t seen Cody in several years and wouldn’t mind renewing acquaintances. The showman could tell him the quickest way to get to Boston.
“Never mind about that,” Frank told the bowler-hatted citizen. “How do I get to where Cody’s show is set up?”
The man pointed. “Just keep going along Michigan Avenue here. When you get to Sixty-third Street, turn east toward the lake. You’ll see the Exposition on your right, and the Wild West is on the left across the street. Like I said, you can’t miss it.”
Frank nodded, and reached up to touch a finger to the brim of his hat in a polite gesture. “Much obliged, mister,” he said.
“Wait a minute,” the Chicagoan said. “You are a cowboy, aren’t you?”
“I’ve worked some at cowboying in my time,” Frank replied honestly.
“Have you ever killed a rustler or fought Indians or been in a gunfight?” The man’s face wore an expression of avid interest as he asked the questions.
For some reason, Frank felt just contrary enough to say, “No, my life’s been plumb peaceable. All that stuff you hear about the West, about gunfights and such, it’s just all made up. Things like that don’t ever happen.”
“Really?” The man was disappointed now. “I thought there were a lot of gunfighters and showdowns and such.”
“You mean where fellas stand out in the middle of the street and go for their guns to see which one’s the fastest?”
“Exactly.”
Frank shook his head. “Never happened. Not once.” “My word.” The man moved on down the sidewalk, muttering to himself. Frank felt a little bad about joshing him like that, but anybody who would believe such a bald-faced lie as that, anybody dumb enough to think that there had never been any gunfights in the West, shouldn’t ought to be out in the midday sun to begin with. Frank lifted the reins, clucked to the dun, and got moving again.
He followed the citizen’s directions, and after a few minutes left the tallest buildings behind, which came as a relief. The city opened up a little as he rode south. A vast area of railroad tracks and cattle pens appeared on his right. The great Chicago stockyards, Frank thought. He had heard of them for years, but this was his first sight of them. He could hear the racket caused by tens of thousands, maybe even millions, of cattle mooing plaintively, as if they knew the fate that awaited them. And even though the wind was off the lake, carrying the smell away from him, the stench of the stockyards was so massively overpowering that he could still smell it.
Even so, being out here was better than being cooped up amidst all those towering buildings.
As he passed the stockyards, Frank saw a lot of buildings looming on his left. They weren’t as tall as the ones downtown, but they were plenty big. A myriad of colorful flags on tall poles flew from some of them. Frank figured they had to be the buildings of the world’s fair. Closer, just north of the gathering of buildings, was some sort of arena, also with flags flying from it. Frank had a hunch that was where Buffalo Bill’s Wild West was located. He came to Sixty-third Street and turned left toward the arena.
He heard a band playing before he got there. The strains of a stirring martial air came to his ears. The music died away as Frank reached the entrance to the compound around the arena, where dozens of tents were set up. An arched gate marked the entranceway. It was flanked by large signs on which were painted life-size figures. On the sign to the left was a picture of a man in very old-fashioned clothing, and a banner above it read: PILOT OF THE OCEAN, THE FIRST PIONEER. Frank figured that since the world’s fair was officially the Columbian Exposition, this fella was supposed to be Christopher Columbus.
He didn’t have to guess about the identity of the hombre whose picture adorned the sign to the right. That man was dressed in fancy buckskins, had a rifle tucked under his arm and a high-crowned white hat on his head, and sported long gray hair down to his shoulders and a white goatee on his jutting chin. The banner hung above this portrait proclaimed: PILOT OF THE PRAIRIE, THE LAST PIONEER.
Buffalo Bill hadn’t changed a bit. He was still larger than life, the consummate showman. Frank would have reckoned that the man was a fake and a charlatan, if he hadn’t known for a fact that Bill Cody was a crack shot and one of the bravest men he’d ever met. Cody’s stories about being a Pony Express rider and scouting for the army and fighting Indians were all true. Frank even happened to know about some colorful exploits of Cody’s that hadn’t become general knowledge or part of Bill’s stage shows and outdoor extravaganzas.
A sign over a ticket booth announced that this was BUFFALO BILL’S WILD WEST AND CONGRESS OF ROUGH RIDERS OF THE WORLD. As Frank sat there for a moment, lounging in the saddle and shaking his head with a smile at Cody’s ebullient grandiosity, the music inside the arena died away and was replaced by the sudden popping of gunfire. Frank straightened, and his smile was replaced by a look of grim determination. It sounded like trouble had broken out in there, and since Bill Cody was an old friend, Frank was going to take a hand and do what he could to stop it.
He heeled the dun into motion and started past the ticket booth, trailing the packhorse behind him. The man inside the booth popped out of it through a little door, yelling, “Hey, mister! You can’t go in without a ticket!”
Frank paused long enough to demand, “Don’t you hear that shooting? All hell’s breaking loose in there!”
The ticket-seller waved a hand casually. “No, it’s not. That’s just Annie.”
“Annie?” Frank asked.
“Yeah. Annie Oakley. Little Sure Shot. Ain’t you heard of her, mister?”
“No, I don’t reckon I have.” Frank looked toward the arena, where the shooting had stopped momentarily to be replaced by a wave of cheers and applause. That didn’t sound like any corpse-and-cartridge session in which Frank had ever taken part.
“Well, buy a ticket and you can go in and see her for yourself . . . although you’re gonna have to leave those horses outside. Only animals allowed inside are the ones that are part of the show.” When Frank hesitated, the man went on with the enthusiasm of a natural-born spieler. “Better hurry and make up your mind, friend. You’ve already missed the Grand Review and most of Miss Oakley’s act, but you can still see the holdup of the Deadwood stage and the Battle of the Little Big Horn.”
Frank pointed to the arena. “In there, you mean?”
“That’s right. All the thrills and excitement you’d ever want.”
Frank grunted. He had ridden on the Deadwood stage one time, but it hadn’t been held up. Hadn’t been too exciting either, just bumpy and dusty. And the Battle of the Little Big Horn sure as hell hadn’t been thrilling for many of those who had taken part in it, at least not according to what he had heard once from Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves, the two gun-slinging blood brothers who had watched the battle from a nearby ridge, unable to stave off the inevitable bloody clash between the two cultures of red and white. Sam’s father, Medicine Horse, had died in that battle fighting for the Sioux, Frank recalled, even though he had known that the Indian way of life must inevitably go down to defeat.
And now, Buffalo Bill Cody had made that tragic occurrence part of his show, dramatizing it for the entertainment of city folks. Frank suppo
sed that was inevitable too. Sooner or later, history either became entertainment or was forgotten.
“I don’t want to see the show,” Frank told the man from the ticket booth, “but I would like to talk to Bill Cody.”
“Colonel Cody’s gonna be busy until this afternoon’s show is over, and anyway, he doesn’t talk to just any saddle tramp who comes along to beg him for a job.”
“I’m not looking for a job,” Frank said, keeping a tight rein on his temper.
The ticket-seller started back into his booth. He seemed not to have heard what Frank said. “Listen, friend, come back after the show and you can talk to the head wrangler. Maybe he’d have something for you.”
“I don’t want a—” Frank began. Then he stopped and muttered, “The hell with this.” He hitched the dun into motion again. He was going to ride over to that arena and wait for Bill Cody to come out.
The ticket-seller ran a few steps after him, yelling, “Hey! Hey, I told you, you gotta buy a ticket!”
Frank ignored the man.
Behind him, the ticket-seller shouted, “Stop that guy! He’s crashin’ the gate!”
Frank would have ignored that too, but a moment later, with a clatter of hoofbeats, several riders galloped up behind him and then circled around to get in front of him. He had to rein in because they stopped to form a barrier. Dust billowed around the hooves of their horses. There were four of them, and they all wore range clothes. Frank scanned their rugged, unshaven faces, thinking that he might have crossed trails with one or more of them, but they were all strangers to him.
“Hold on there, buckaroo,” one of the men said sharply. “You can’t just come waltzin’ in here. You’ve got to buy a ticket to the show.”
“I don’t want to see the show,” Frank said. “I just want to talk to Bill Cody.”
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