Girl with a Gun Page 9

  “We’re going to have to come up with something for you to do to spice up your act.” LeFleur said. “Feel up to trying Lillie’s cigarette trick? You’ll be the shooter, of course, not the target.”

  Annie opened her mouth to argue against it, but too worried about Buck—and her possible future at the Wild West Show—to care, she held her tongue.

  “We’ll see if Butler’s up to standing in as target—as long as you’re willing to hold the cards for him later in the act.”

  “Of course,” Annie said. LeFleur and the Colonel might be losing faith in Frank’s skill, but she hadn’t. She couldn’t blame him for this temporary confidence issue. They’d brought her on as a rival to him, and the crowds fell in love with her. She’d inadvertently taken his place in their hearts. She bit her lip, too hard, and the coppery tang of blood filled her mouth. She shouldn’t have snapped at Frank like she did.

  Buck lifted his head from her lap and raised himself to an upright position, curling his sturdy legs beneath him with another stout sigh. He shook his head, making his forelock swing to chase away a pesky fly. Annie and LeFleur stood up, still watching his every breath. The horse closed his eyes again. He seemed comfortable, content. For the moment.

  “Let’s let him rest. Rusty will keep an eye on him.” LeFleur tugged on Annie’s arm.

  Afraid to leave the barn, afraid that Vernon McCrimmon might show up again and steal her horse right out from under Rusty Post’s nose, Annie scanned the area around the barn and over toward the main arena. Would the Colonel let her move her tent next to the barn? If anything happened to Buck . . .

  LeFleur slipped a hand around her waist and guided her to the fence. They all three crawled through, but Annie turned around to look over at Buck again. He hadn’t moved, but he seemed relaxed.

  “Make sure he has enough water,” she said.

  “I’ll make sure that’s full. Don’t you fret.” Rusty pointed to the left end of the corral to a large wooden water trough.

  “And McCrimmon?” Annie turned to LeFleur.

  “I’ll have some of the boys keep an eye out for him. What’s the best way to spot him?”

  Annie felt a momentary flash of satisfaction.

  “He has a limp.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Wild West Darling, Annie Oakley, Loses in Rifle Round. Rumors Abound about What Went Wrong.”

  St. Louis Times – April 15, 1885

  Annie and LeFleur approached the Colonel’s tent as Frank emerged. He made eye contact with Annie and politely tipped his hat, but Annie could see the anger and hurt she’d caused in those blue eyes. She wondered if Frank had come to see Twila, and her disappointment at the thought surprised her. Although preoccupied with helping Buck, she had to do something to make peace with Frank.

  “Frank, wait.”

  He turned around, his hands in his pockets. His eyes scanned her, then LeFleur, then back to her.

  “Mr. LeFleur,” Annie said, touching his elbow. “Do you mind?” LeFleur’s eyes widened in insulted surprise, but Annie offered a pretty smile and his expression softened. He turned and walked in the direction of the mess tent.

  Frank faced Annie head on, a calculated anticipation in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry I accused you of emptying my rifle. I know you would never do something like that. I was upset, and you didn’t take me seriously.”

  “I would never do anything to make you look bad, or hurt you, Annie.” He ambled closer, took his hat off with one hand and smoothed his hair with the other.

  “I know it’s been difficult for you since I joined the show, Frank, and I’m sorry. I didn’t know what it was going to be like, performing and everything. It’s been rather overwhelming.”

  “You’ve been good for the show, Annie, and good for me. Don’t ever apologize for your talent. Embrace it.”

  “I should have known it was Lillie. She’s been out to sabotage me from the beginning.”

  “You don’t know it was Lillie.”

  “But who else?” Annie shook her head, blinking up at him.

  “You don’t know it was her.”

  “There you go defending her again. Why, Frank? Is there something between you two?”

  “I invited you to dinner, not Lillie. But you’re jumping to conclusions and accusing Lillie out of the blue. Is it possible you forgot to load that rifle?”

  Annie gritted her teeth, but didn’t want to argue anymore. She didn’t have time. She had to make Buck her priority now.

  “I suppose you’re right. I shouldn’t accuse someone when I don’t know for sure.”

  “She’s a pistol, Lillie, but she really means no harm.”

  I couldn’t disagree more, Annie thought.

  Frank tipped his hat to her and left Annie, still feeling flustered and bewildered, standing in front of the Colonel’s tent. Annie knew Lillie wanted to make life difficult for her whether Frank believed her or not, but if Vernon McCrimmon had followed them from Ohio, he posed the most obvious threat.

  She drew a breath and stepped closer to the Colonel’s tent.

  “Miss Midnight?”

  “Come in,” Twila sang out.

  Annie ducked her head into the interior of the tent and gasped when she saw Twila Midnight with a giant snake wrapped around her middle, its head and flicking tongue next to the sultry woman’s ear. Nakota was right. In a crimson bustier with black stripes and a black lace skirt, the woman’s mysterious aura and the snake wrapped around her middle made her look like a witch.

  “You’re shocked,” Twila said.

  Annie’s eyes traveled to the other side of the room where the English-style pram rested in the corner. Winona must be sleeping. She lifted to her tiptoes to see into the pram, but she was too far away and too short.

  “Not shocked. Just surprised you’d have a snake near an infant.”

  “He eats mice, not babies.” Twila looked at Annie as if she’d just fallen from the moon.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t know that I’m a snake charmer.” Twila looked into Annie’s eyes, her feline lips curling upward. “It used to be one of the more popular acts in the show. I’ve given that up, but I couldn’t give up Hank. He’s like a child to me.”

  She unwrapped the snake from her body and, holding his giant coils in her hands, lowered him into a large wicker basket, closed the lid, then strolled over to the pram to peek inside. She then turned her attention to Annie, the same feline smile curling her lips.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Annie hesitated. It still bothered her to ask Twila for herbs to give to her horse. He’d improved before, but . . . Annie had no other option.

  “It’s Buck, my horse—”

  “Still bouncing off the walls?” Twila’s eyes flashed, and she placed a hand on her tiny corseted waist.

  “No. The opposite. He doesn’t seem to have any energy.”

  Twila tapped a long, pointy fingernail against her cheek. “Have you changed what he’s eating?”

  Annie shook her head.

  Twila walked over to where herbs hung from the rafters, obviously her little corner of the tent. The rest of it was all Buffalo Bill, with rugged, masculine accouterments—a thick, sturdy, four-poster bed, a weathered armoire, and at least a dozen pair of thigh-high leather boots with decorative beaded straps and feathers dangling from them lined up against the tent wall.

  Annie felt a twinge of apprehension as Twila used a large, bone-handled bowie knife to snip twigs and branches from the hanging plants. A flicker of light bounced off the thick blade, and Annie darted her eyes back to the pram. How safe could Winona be in the care of this odd woman? A niggling sense of unease climbed up Annie’s spine. Why was the baby so quiet?

  “May I see the baby?”

  Twila gave a curt nod and continued selecting and cutting herbs.

  Annie tiptoed over to the pram and leaned over the black accordion hood to see Winona, her sweet brown face in peaceful slum
ber; such a beautiful baby with her poker-straight, jet-black hair and a bowed little mouth, ripe as a plum. She looked perfect, and perfectly content. Annie released a breath.

  “Here you go.” Twila suddenly appeared at Annie’s side, startling her. The woman stood so close Annie could see light of the lantern reflecting in her coal-black eyes.

  “Crumble this up and put a small amount in his food each day. He should feel better in less than a week.” She held out a bundle of herbs.

  “Thank you.” Annie took the proffered twigs and leaves.

  Twila broke her gaze, leaned over the pram, and stroked the baby’s cheek.

  “How is the Colonel? He seemed to take Kimi’s death quite hard.” Annie swallowed hard, hoping she wouldn’t get a tongue lashing, or worse, but she wanted to see how Twila would react.

  Twila’s face turned to stone as she slowly she raised her dark eyes to Annie’s, but she said nothing.

  “You didn’t care for her much, did you?”

  “Are you implying something sinister?” Twila’s lips twitched.

  “No, just an observation. Some of us took it harder than others, and I was worried about the Colonel’s state of mind.” Her eyes drifted over to the multitudes of dried plants and flowers hanging from the tent’s ceiling. What if some of those plants were dangerous? Poisonous? Deadly? Who would know besides Twila? Could she have poisoned Kimi?

  “The Colonel was naturally upset. The girl was like a . . . daughter to him.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Annie managed a tight smile.

  Twila moved closer to her, enveloping Annie in a cloud of perfume that smelled like black licorice.

  “You are a pretty one.” Twila reached out to stroke Annie’s mane of braided hair. “No wonder he’s smitten.”

  Annie pulled back and Twila’s smile deepened, revealing a dimple on her left cheek. “He’s married, you know.”

  Frank married? Annie tilted her head in confusion.

  “The pitiful Mrs. LeFleur is ailing and bed-ridden somewhere in the South.” Twila grinned. Annie felt a surprising sense of relief.

  “I am sorry to learn of Mrs. LeFleur’s illness, but there is nothing beyond friendship between her husband and me.”

  “You don’t return his love?”

  “I was not aware of love.” Annie’s cheeks grew hot under the woman’s penetrating gaze.

  “I have great respect for Mr. LeFleur; I do not have romantic feelings for him.”

  “Poor LeFleur,” Twila said, a smug look on her face. “Take some advice, my dear, watch yourself. It can be dangerous to break hearts in the Wild West Show.”

  Annie delivered the herbs to Mr. Post, who reassured her that Twila Midnight would not give Buck anything that would harm him.

  “That conniving woman could get the Colonel to dismiss any one of us simply by crooking her finger the right way, so why would she involve Buck?”

  “I suppose you are right.”

  Annie longed for nothing but to stop thinking about everything, go back to her tent, and sink into her comfortable bed. It had been such a long, confusing day. But the image of Twila’s feline grin, the bowie knife, the snake, and sweet Winona under that woman’s roof haunted her.

  Annie hurried toward her tent, trying to push aside her anxieties and hopeful of rest. When she opened the flap and slid in, she found a cowboy on top of Lillie, his pants down to his knees. Hearing Annie, they broke apart and erupted with raucous laughter. The cowboy jerked his trousers up over his hips.

  “Oh, my. We might have offended the sensibilities of the ever-popular, but oh-so-proper Annie Oakley!”

  The cowboy tossed Lillie back onto the bed and pressed his face into her neck, causing another screech to come out of Lillie’s brazen mouth.

  Annie’s every instinct made her want to leave, but this was her tent. She’d lived here first, with Kimi and Winona. Lillie had no right to “entertain” when the two of them had to share the same space. A sour taste filled Annie’s mouth.

  “I need to get some sleep,” she said, her voice flat.

  “Oh. Did you hear that, Slim? Baby needs her sleep. Guess you better run along.” Lillie sat up, pushing the cowboy off her.

  The cowboy stood, hitched his pants higher up on his waist, and fastened his belt. He leered at Annie with the dull, watery eyes of a drunken simpleton.

  “I’m gonna go smoke a pipe with the Injuns, anyhow. They invited me to one of their pow-wows.”

  Annie turned away from his leathered face.

  “You’re cavorting with the enemy?” Lillie rose from the bed, her lacy robe falling open to reveal huge, pale breasts.

  “Well, I’m not sure what ‘cavorting’ means, but we occasionally like to have a snort of whiskey and a puff.” The cowboy tucked in his shirttails.

  “Don’t come near me again, you damn red-man lover!” Lillie shoved him, nearly knocking him off his feet. She then grabbed one of his boots and threw it at him. He flinched, spun around. She grabbed the other boot and flung it, making contact with his back. Gathering his discarded footwear off the floor, he left with an angry snarl on his face.

  Annie, transfixed by the outburst, didn’t say a word.

  “What are you looking at?” Lillie plopped herself onto the bed and tilted back the flask she brought out from under the covers. “Damned idiot,” she said, staring after the tent flap.

  Lillie never hid her antagonism towards the Indians, but the depth of her hatred surprised Annie. Did it come from something in her past? For the first time, Annie noticed despondency in Lillie’s eyes—but it was no excuse for her behavior, now or during their act.

  “I didn’t appreciate what you did today.” Annie went to the wardrobe on her side of the tent.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.” Lillie took another sip from the silver flask and leaned back onto her rumpled pillows, busily rolling a cigarette.

  “The bullets. My rifle.”

  “Oh, that.” Lillie let out a deep-throated chortle. “It was just a little joke. It was funny to see the look on your face.” Her head swayed and bobbed, the alcohol getting the better of her. It took three tries to light her cigarette.

  “What is your problem with me?” Annie couldn’t keep the sound of exasperation out of her voice.

  “It must be hard to be so perfect.” Lillie took a long drag on her cigarette. She blew the smoke out in a pointed line.

  “I’m not perfect. Far from it.”

  “Then why don’t you try some of this?” She held up the flask, threw back her head and laughed.

  “I don’t want your liquor, but I don’t know why we can’t be friends.”

  “Friends?” Lillie spat out the word. “Oh, that’s rich.” She took another swig from the flask, then a drag from her cigarette. “You’re a red-man lover, too. Or rather, a squaw lover. I’m glad that bitch is dead. I don’t know what I’d have to do if I had to live with her and that spawn of hers one more day.”

  Annie’s breath caught in her throat. Did Lillie just admit to something? She balled her fists, staring hard at Lillie, trying to decide if Lillie would have the audacity to kill someone.

  Lillie’s face bunched up and tears streamed down her pudgy cheeks. She looked away from Annie and then raised a shaking hand to her mouth.

  “They killed them all. My whole family. Damn Shawnee.” Sobs wracked her plump shoulders.

  Annie took in a deep breath, pulled her nightdress off the wardrobe hanger, and walked over to Lillie’s bed, suddenly aware there might be more to Lillie than puffed-up bravado and unbridled brazenness. She’d not seen this side of her.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Lillie.”

  “Yeah, I bet you’re sorry. You’ve never had to suffer a day in your life.”

  Lillie lowered her hands, her face instantly regaining its usual cynical expression.

  “Pardon me?” The sting of Lillie’s words hit Annie hard, as if Lillie had physically slapped her. How dare this . . . this person assume anyt
hing about her life? “You have no idea what you’re talking about; my family has suffered every day since my father died.”

  “You are the darling of the Buffalo Bill Wild West Show. People in the audience shout your name. You can outshoot Frank Butler with shotgun, rifle, everything. You’re so busy being humble you don’t even know what you have. I’ll never be able to shoot like you.”

  Annie paused, realizing the truth of Lillie’s words, suddenly understanding Lillie’s insecurities—that she’d never measure up.

  “You have your own . . . abilities.”

  “Oh, sure. I’m a lot of fun.” Lillie gathered the hem of her robe to dry her face.

  “I truly am sorry about your family. Losing my father—” Annie fiddled with the dressing gown in her lap, trying to figure out a way to press her about Kimi.

  “Did you see him slaughtered in front of you? Butchered? Scalped?” Lillie raised her bloodshot, tear-stained eyes to look into Annie’s.

  “No. He died as the result of a snowstorm.”

  “Hardly the same thing.” Lillie took another swig of the whiskey.

  “No, it isn’t, but it hurt the same.”

  Lillie burrowed deeper into the pillows and raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if searching for words.

  “I can’t look at them, the Indians, the savages, and not feel such hatred that it claws into my bones.”

  “Then why did you agree to work with them?”

  “It was this or the whorehouse.”

  Annie knew desperation, the ache of hunger and the fear of losing her loved ones to poverty, but she had never had to consider selling her body. She hoped she—and Hulda—never would.

  “The Indians in the show aren’t Shawnee, you know. Most of them are Sioux.”

  “Don’t matter. They’re killers. All of them. Turn your back on them and they’ll snuff you out.” Lillie reached down and stubbed her cigarette out on the earthen floor beneath her bed. She leaned back onto the pillows and closed her eyes.

  “I think you’re wrong. We killed their families, too. War is never fair. Kimi wouldn’t have hurt anyone. You would have grown to like her if she hadn’t—”