Girl with a Gun Page 2

  “Miss Mosey, wait.” LeFleur pushed his way through the crowd. They all three stepped aside—away from the wave of people.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. LeFleur,” Annie said. “I owe you the entry fee. I’ll pay back every penny, I promise.”

  “You are a wonder, Miss Mosey. The crowd loves you.” LeFleur grabbed both of her hands and laughed.

  “But I lost.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Annie. They loved your spunk, your talent. They’ve never seen a girl like you. Listen, I want to take you and your mother to dinner at the hotel. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Annie and her mother exchanged glances. Her mother frowned again, in obvious disapproval.

  “Well, I suppose we will then, thank you.” Annie hoped Frank Butler wouldn’t be there. She didn’t want to face him again. “We’ll have to bring along my brother and sister.”

  “Meet me in the hotel restaurant at six o’clock. Bring everyone.” LeFleur tipped his beaver top hat and pushed into the crowd again.

  “Eating at the hotel,” Susan said. “I’m not sure we should. I’m not sure it’s proper, and we certainly haven’t enough money for the week.”

  “But it would be rude to refuse, Mother. The grouse are coming back. I’ll have a good week next week. Don’t worry.”

  Annie’s mother gave her a dubious look. “Eating at the hotel—as if I were the Queen.”

  The main door to the Grand Terrace Hotel revolved in a circle, sucking people in and spewing them out, all in one fluid motion. Annie and her mother watched for several minutes before stepping into one section of the orbiting door and scooting their way into the interior, plush with velvet chairs and potted palms. A grand marble staircase soared in an upward arc to the next floor. Large tapestries decorated the walls. One depicted sleek horses, red-coated riders, and a pack of long-eared dogs, galloping in pursuit of a fox. Others illustrated pastoral scenes and grand houses.

  “Excuse me?” A man wearing a dark red suit and a tiny cap approached them. “Are you Annie Mosey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow me, please.” He tipped his hat and led them through the elegant lobby into the restaurant filled with silk brocade upholstered booths and gleaming marble tables. They paused in front of a set of cream-colored velvet curtains, and the man pulled them back to reveal a small group of people chatting and sipping champagne.

  Mr. LeFleur, Buffalo Bill, the exotic woman, and a stocky Indian wearing a full-feathered headdress, engrossed in their conversation, didn’t seem to notice Annie and her family.

  No Frank Butler. Annie didn’t know if she felt relieved or disappointed.

  “Mrs. Mosey, children. Please come in and join us.” LeFleur stood up.

  “It’s Mrs. Brumbaugh” Susan said.

  Annie’s shoulders tensed at hearing her late step-father’s name. He’d turn in his grave if he knew her mother had taken up with Joshua Anderson—a man she had nursed back to health after a farming accident. Joshua wooed her and promised to marry her. All he’d done so far is live off of Susan’s kindness and drink all day. Since her step-father died, Annie and her family’s quality of life had shifted from moderately comfortable to achingly poor, and now the burden of providing for the family fell on her. She spent her days hunting food and game to sell to the grocer, to keep her family fed.

  “Of course, my apologies.” LeFleur ushered them in and offered them champagne.

  “No, thank you.” Annie held up her hand in refusal, as did her mother.

  “How charmingly prim.” The exotic woman’s lips turned up into a smile, but her dark eyes narrowed. Annie bristled at the woman’s tone.

  “And you are?” Annie asked.

  “Allow me to make the introductions. This is Miss Twila Midnight, Colonel Cody—also known as Buffalo Bill, but we call him Colonel—and Chief Sitting Bull.” LeFleur swept his hand toward the group. “The Chief particularly admired your marksmanship today, Annie.”

  “The real Buffalo Bill and Chief Sitting Bull!” John Henry shouted, nearly jumping out of his seat. “I’ve read about you two in the newspapers. They’re famous. Annie, they’re famous!”

  “John Henry, where are your manners? It’s not polite to gush.” Annie placed a hand on John Henry’s arm.

  “But it’s Buffalo Bill and Chief Sitting Bull, Annie!”

  Everyone laughed, except Twila Midnight. She lowered her sparkling gold eyelids and flashed them open again, the fire of her stare aimed at Annie.

  “Chief Sitting Bull and Mr. LeFleur are quite taken with you, Annie.” Buffalo Bill leaned forward to pour more champagne into his glass.

  “I’ve been trying to convince the Chief here to join our Wild West Show for a while now, in the hopes we can kindle a certain . . . solidarity between our peoples. He’s been bullheaded about it until today, says you inspired him. Now he thinks it might be a good idea if you both joined the show.”

  Annie’s eyes darted from Buffalo Bill, to the Chief, to LeFleur. She opened her mouth to speak, but words wouldn’t form.

  “Watanya Cecilia.” Chief Sitting Bull leaned forward and pointed a finger toward her.

  “He’s just christened you ‘Little Miss Sure Shot.’” Buffalo Bill raised his champagne glass to her. Sitting Bull said something to the Colonel in his native language.

  “The Chief would like to consider you his adopted daughter.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Susan gasped.

  “But—why?” Annie whispered to the Colonel.

  “Says you remind him of a girl he held special once, long ago. A spirited girl, like you. It may also be that the Chief never had a daughter, only sons.

  “My manager, Mr. LeFleur here,” the Colonel slapped LeFleur on the back, his voice taking on a more serious tone, “thinks that you and Mr. Butler have a certain . . . chemistry. He thinks you two competing against one another will draw huge crowds.”

  Annie ran a finger under her lace collar, its stiffness suddenly strangling her. She hoped they didn’t notice the perspiration pooling on her upper lip.

  “Annie,” LeFleur said, “you made Frank Butler shoot his very best today, and we need him to shoot his best. Plus, the Chief has decided that he’ll only join if you join, and we want both of you.”

  Annie looked at her mother, who sat open-mouthed and red-faced.

  “We’d like to offer you a contract to go on tour with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. Your salary will be $100 a month, and there aren’t any women, let alone girls, earning $100 a month in the business. You’re the best and will be treated like the best.”

  Annie drew back, clamped a hand on her chest.

  “You want me in your show, squaring off with Frank Butler, traveling—”

  “Yes, that’s exactly right,” said the Colonel.

  Annie’s mind tumbled with the possibilities. She could support her family entirely and experience something other than North Star. She glanced at her mother’s dubious face.

  “Your offer is very, very generous, sir, but I can’t leave my family. They need me. I—”

  “We’ll make out just fine, dear.” Susan grabbed Annie’s arm, smiling to the group, her lips twitching with uncertainty. Annie’s mouth dropped. Thank goodness her mother understood the direness of their situation and knew this opportunity could save them.

  “Annie’s my little worrier. Takes such good care of us, right, children?”

  John Henry and Hulda nodded, their eyes wide.

  Chief Sitting Bull, a giant grin spreading across his face, turned to Buffalo Bill and offered him a weathered hand. The Colonel shook it, then both men turned to Annie.

  “What do you say, Miss Mosey?” The Colonel waited, stroked his tawny, pointed beard.

  “May I bring my horse?” she asked.

  The Colonel and Chief Sitting Bull exchanged glances.

  “A mounted female shooter. By golly, that’s a heck of a good idea,” the Colonel said, his eyes twinkling. He cocked his head to the side.
“Mosey. Not much of a show name. Got anything else?”

  “My grandmother’s name was Ogle. But that’s not very catchy—what about Oakley?”

  “Annie Oakley.” The Colonel slapped his thigh. “I like it. Welcome to the show, Annie Oakley.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “Darke County Ohio Darling ‘Annie Oakley’ Joins Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. Crowd-Pleasing Competition and Entertainment Ahead for All.”

  St. Louis Times – April 1, 1885

  Annie’s body trembled with excitement as the train, pulling Buffalo Bill’s twenty colorfully painted boxcars, arrived in St. Louis. Mr. LeFleur explained to her that they would camp near the train tracks at the city’s newest marvel, Forest Park, an expanse of fourteen hundred acres of meadows, trees, lakes, and streams along the River de Peres.

  It surprised Annie at how quickly the crew assembled the makeshift camp she would consider home for the next four weeks. Large, white canvas tents lined up in three straight rows—as neat as her late father’s fields—made the center of the camp. Adjacent to the white tents stood a large, circular tent, red-striped, like one she’d seen in a picture of the circus. Smoke billowed from the top indicating that the mess crew was already busy preparing the performers’ first meal.

  Across from the big top, a couple dozen tipis dotted the grounds. Indian men and women gathered in groups, talking and laughing as they sat outside, tending their fires. Behind the tipis stood a large wooden structure with fenced paddocks to house the show’s many horses, cattle, and buffalo. Buck’s new home.

  Annie bit a fingernail. Buck had never resided indoors, in any sort of barn. He’d always lived in fields, with only the shelter of several large elms. She hoped he’d adjust to the confinement.

  LeFleur escorted Annie to her new lodgings. She stepped inside the tent and sucked in a breath as her feet sank into the plush carpet, her eyes scanning the room. An elaborate wood-framed bed with a thick mattress stood in one corner, while a more modest bed graced the east corner of the tent, and next to that bed, a small cradle. A mirrored vanity with matching velvet stool and a wooden wardrobe painted in a bright floral pattern completed the furnishings.

  She’d never imagined living in this kind of opulence. It flew in the face of everything her family believed in. She could hear her mother’s voice in her head: “The heart of Christian simplicity lies in the singleness of purpose, which is first to seek the Kingdom of God. The call to each is to abandon those things that clutter his life, like wealth and worldly goods, and to press toward the goal unhampered.”

  Annie dismissed the voice, and the uneasy doubt it pressed upon her juxtaposed feelings.

  “You will be sharing your accommodations with an Indian girl named Kimimela,” Mr. LeFleur grabbed the lapels of his silk jacket. “We call her Kimi. She is here to assist you with whatever you need, and she will be designing and sewing your costumes. Kimi has a little girl, named Winona.”

  As if on cue, a tall, statuesque girl walked into the tent, holding an infant in her arms. The girl looked fourteen at most. Not much younger than Annie. The fringe on her suede dress brushed against her long, brown legs as she walked across the room and lowered the bundled child into the cradle. When Annie turned to ask Mr. LeFleur a question, he had vanished.

  Kimi went to her bed and picked up a package wrapped in brown paper. She handed it to Annie, her dark chocolate eyes opened wide.

  “For you.”

  “What is this? But I can’t—” Stunned, Annie took the package.

  “Please. I am so grateful.”

  “Grateful? I haven’t done anything.”

  “Please, open.”

  Annie tore open the paper and underneath lay a beautiful sky-blue suede blouse with intricate embroidery and shiny beads sewed onto the yoke.

  “Your first costume,” Kimi beamed.

  “You made this? It’s beautiful. Thank you. But I—” Annie smiled, touched at Kimi’s thoughtfulness, but how could she tell her she couldn’t possibly wear such an extravagant thing?

  Annie and Kimi stared at each other in silence, both grown suddenly shy. Kimi’s face crumpled and she began to cry. She ran over to her baby.

  Annie followed, horrified that Kimi had taken her silence as a sign of disregard, when a freckle-faced boy of about twelve years old appeared at the open tent flap.

  “Miss Oakley, Mr. Butler would like to see you.”

  Annie’s hands went immediately to her hair, which she knew must look like she had been caught in a dust storm, then silently chided herself for her vanity.

  “I’m Bobby Bradley.” The boy offered his hand. “I’m one of the youngest sharpshooters and all-around cowboys—and I do whatever Frank Butler needs me to do.” Bobby’s eyes traveled to the back of the tent where Kimi kneeled at the cradle, cooing to her baby, apparently no longer crying.

  “Well, I’ll be going.” Bobby leaned to his right to get a better look at Kimi, who ignored him. Disappointment written on his face, he tipped his hat to Annie and hurried out of the tent.

  Annie, still wiping the dust from her face and clothes, saw Frank Butler’s silhouette appear just outside the canvas wall.

  “Miss Oakley, care for some target practice?”

  “Good day, Mr. Butler.” Annie stepped out from the tent.

  “Call me Frank. Shall we go?”

  “My rifle is still in the wagon, I’ll just go and—”

  “You can’t rely on your Henry for everything. You’ll need to be a well-rounded shooter, especially if you’re going to be mounted.” He pushed a pistol toward her, almost crushing it into her chest.

  Annie bristled. She did just fine with her rifle, thank you very much.

  She took the proffered pistol, glancing down to admire the finely etched floral design on the barrel. The gleaming mother-of-pearl handle felt cool and smooth in her hand.

  With a cocky tilt of his head, Butler bade her to follow him. They passed by the corrals and Annie noticed an older man attempting to lead Buck into a barn stall. He tugged and pulled on the rope halter but couldn’t coax Buck inside. Annie knew Buck saw the stall as a small black hole where he might go in and never come out, probably still traumatized by the two-day train trip. They hadn’t been able to get Buck into the train car until the Colonel insisted Twila give him some calming herbs. The herbs seemed to take the edge off his terror, but Buck kicked and thrashed all the way to St. Louis.

  Annie stopped and watched as the man dangled a bucket of food in front of Buck. The horse finally followed him inside the stall. Oats worked—sometimes.

  Frank led her to an open area where a series of targets were lined up against a fence. He turned to face her and handed her the other pistol.

  “Let me see you hit all those targets.”

  “Mr. Butler, you know I can shoot.”

  “With a rifle. I want to see how you shoot a pistol.”

  He put his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and cocked a hip. Annie tried to ignore the way those grey-blue eyes slowly surveyed her face. She raised both of the pistols and pulled one trigger after the other, until she’d hit every target.

  “That’s what I thought.” Frank took back both pistols, emptied the chambers, and then locked his eyes on hers. “You never miss. LeFleur thinks you’re a wonder, and the Colonel thinks you’ll make him money, but I swear on everything that matters to me that if you let me win again, I’ll make sure you’re fired.” He shoved his pistols back into their holsters. “Welcome to the show, Miss Oakley,” he said, striding off.

  Annie’s insides crumbled, and she swallowed down her disappointment. She never should have considered Frank Butler’s feelings during the contest. She never should have missed.

  She sighed, feeling as welcome as rain at a picnic.

  On the way back to her tent, Annie heard banging and shouting coming from the barn area and then saw Buck running free, his lead rope trailing behind as the old man chased after him, cursing at the top of his lungs.
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  Buck must have spotted Annie, because he slowed to a trot and headed toward her. He circled her once, came up behind her, and pushed his nose into her back, his nostrils flaring and his rib cage heaving. She grabbed the line and stroked his neck.

  “You’re okay, fella.”

  “Damn horse struck at me then pulled away from the hitching post.” The winded and sweaty man approached them. Stick thin and balding, with a grey beard straggling well past his chin, he plopped his beaten, dirty, sweat-stained hat back on his head.

  “I’m sorry,” Annie said. “I think it’s the barn. He’s not used to being confined.”

  “Well, he’s gonna have to get used to it. We can’t have the son-of-gun just wanderin’ around.” The man spit out a hunk of chaw.

  “I’m sorry.” She held out her hand. “My name’s Annie.”

  “Post. Rusty Post.”

  “Oh, my. That’s really your name?”

  “Since the day I was born. I keep care of the animals around here. We got a herd of forty horses, twenty head of cattle, and twelve buffalo, and none of them ever once tried to strike at me—not even them wild Indian ponies.”

  “Again, I’m sorry,” said Annie. The man bore a slight resemblance to Vernon McCrimmon, the man from home who had made her and Buck’s lives a living hell for a year. A man she’d hoped she’d never see again. No wonder Buck resisted. “I’ll work with Buck, Mr. Post. I’ll try later to get him into the barn.”

  “I can make him a pen outside of the barn, but you’re gonna have to come up with something to keep him settled while he’s contained. Talk to Twila about giving you some of them herbs again, like she did for the train ride from Ohio. We need to calm that boy down.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  Post strutted his bow-legged way back to the other animals.