Buffalo Bill Wanted! (3 page)

A man climbed onto a rostrum at the side of the track. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” The man must have had lungs of leather to be heard over the crowd noise, even with a megaphone in his hand. “Buffalo Bill and Nate Salsbury proudly present America's National Entertainment, the one and only, genuine and authentic, unique and original . . . Wild West!”

The audience cheered politely at first, then with more enthusiasm as Indians, Mexican riders, and American cowboys rode past in a grand procession. Colonel Cody came riding out on a large white stallion. The performers wheeled into a line, suddenly surging toward the grandstand at a full gallop.

Hundreds of hooves pounded the earth. War whoops and yells filled the air —and in the lead rode Buffalo Bill!

Wiggins held his breath as the stampede rumbled right for him. At the last possible second, the colorful line of riders came to a perfect halt, kicking up clouds of dust. Wiggins and everyone else went wild. Dooley couldn't contain himself, leaping about as he cheered.

For the next hour, Wiggins found himself transported to a different world of wild sights and rugged pastimes. He and his friends chattered excitedly as they saw exhibitions of trick shooting, roping, and riding.

Other times, Wiggins completely forgot anyone was with him as he became lost in dramatic scenes. Indians attacked a wagon train, a stagecoach full of special guests, and a settler's cabin—but every time, Buffalo Bill Cody and the cowboys came riding to the rescue.

The Indians showed off their special skills, riding races against one another, demonstrating a war dance. They also showed grimmer talents, seizing captives by the hair, slashing with a glittering knife, and holding up a reddened scalp!

Shocked, Wiggins glanced at the other members of the Raven League. Jennie turned away while Dooley hid his eyes. “That wasn't real!” Owens insisted in a hoarse voice.

It wasn't—the prisoners soon reappeared in other scenes, safe and sound, though Wiggins found it hard to keep track of them as the arena swirled with wild scenes, thundering hooves, echoing gunshots, and deafening applause. By the time the show ended, Wiggins's hands hurt as he and his friends filed out with the crowd.

The members of the Raven League faced a long walk back to Mile End Road in London's East End. But reliving the amazing action they'd seen made the trek seem easier.

“We've got to come back tomorrow!” Owens enthusiastically cried.

“How?” Jennie raised the practical question. “We've no money left at all. And we were lucky today, sneaking in as we did. If Colonel Cody hadn't come along, that fellow would have tossed us out on our backsides.”

Wiggins laughed, but he had to agree with her. It would take a while to raise some money to come back—train fare, at least. For the rest, well, they'd snuck in once. Could they do it again?

“You have to admit,” he said to Jennie, “that was a bit of all right, wasn't it?”

“A bit?” Jennie's face beamed. “It was the most wonderful thing I've ever seen. I plan to write everything down so I'll remember.” She held up her special treasure, the little notebook and pencil Dr. Watson had given her. Her smile dimmed a bit. “But I won't be writing about how the Indians took that man's hair off. Scalping, they called it.”

“Not just them,” Wiggins told her. “Even Buffalo Bill lifted a scalp back when he was fighting the Indians, or so I hear.”

“My mother's cousin wrote a story about that when the Wild West show first came to London,” Owens said.

The others nodded. They knew Owens's relative worked for a small West Indian newspaper in the city.

“It was after the Indians had wiped out a detachment of cavalry,” Owens began.

“Custer's Last Stand,” Dooley eagerly put in.

Owens nodded. “I wouldn't want those savages coming after me. A bad lot, they are.”

“Those red devils wouldn't last long in London,” Dooley insisted.

“They're brave, though,” Jennie said. “We saw how dangerous one buffalo could be. Imagine riding into a herd of them—hundreds. That's what Indians do when they hunt the creatures.”

“Well.” Wiggins chuckled. “If they're such a wonder to you, maybe we'll let 'em scalp
you
tomorrow.”

The others laughed—even Jennie, after clouting the boys once or twice each.

They finally reached the crowded tenements of London's poorest section. Despite the grim surroundings, the day's colorful events filled Wiggins's mind as he went home.

The visions stayed with him when he woke up the next morning. After a quick breakfast—a stale bread roll dunked in sweet tea—Wiggins set off on errands for some local merchants. Jennie was right. A day off had been a grand thing, but now each of them had to earn money.

At the end of the day he was hot and tired as he trudged along Whitechapel Road, heading back to his neighborhood. Should he see if his friends were about or just go home and rest? As he came to Mile End Road, he heard a newsboy calling out the headline of the day. Wiggins suddenly froze, listening.

“Extree! Extree!” the lad shouted. “Savage attack in Earl's Court! Horrible crime at American Exhibition! Constable attacked . . . shot and scalped! Shot and scalped!”

Chapter 3

DIGGING IN HIS POCKET, WIGGINS CAME UP WITH A penny to buy the newspaper. One look at the crowded columns of type and he shook his head, grumbling. “I can't read this.” Folding up the paper, he headed for the Raven Pub.

Mr. Pilbeam, the pub owner, allowed Wiggins, Owens, Jenny, and Dooley to use the Raven's back room as a clubhouse of sorts. Faced with deadly peril while trying to solve the mysterious disappearance of Sherlock Holmes, Wiggins and his friends had pledged to help one another, forming the Raven League. Some people thought the name came from the ravens that lived at the Tower of London. Legend had it that if these birds ever left, the British Empire would fall. In truth, though, the group named itself after the place where the four had made their pact.

He was in luck. Everyone had stopped by today.

“Have you heard what the newsboys have been crying up?” Wiggins waved the newspaper.

“I was hoping they were saying things that weren't actually in the story,” Jennie replied.

“Read it, then,” Wiggins said, holding out the paper. “It's too much for me.”

Jennie frowned as she scanned the page. “ ‘Shocking attack at Earl's Court,' ” she read the first headline. “ ‘Police constable near death. Barbaric act of cruelty.' ” Her face grew grimmer as she read on.

“Well?” Owens pressed. “We're waiting.”

“Do they talk about Indians?” Dooley asked.

“It says an off-duty police constable was shot at the Earl's Court exhibition grounds.”

“Plenty of posh folk around there,” Wiggins said. “That would draw the local villains.”

Jennie shook her head. “The policeman was found in the stables of the Wild West show.”

“What was the copper doing there?” Owens asked.

“No one knows,” Jennie replied. “He was unconscious when he was found.” She hesitated, then read from the paper. “ ‘A heavily engraved revolver was found near the stricken policeman. It was identified as a weapon that had been presented to Colonel William F. Cody, an American more commonly known as Buffalo Bill.' ”

“They're trying to make it out that Buffalo Bill did it?” Owens said in surprise.

“There's more.” From Jennie's expression, Wiggins knew it wasn't good. “While the constable lay helpless, he was . . . abused.”

“Abused?” Wiggins echoed. “How?”

“His attacker used a knife to remove the constable's hair—his scalp.”

Dooley's eyes went big. “He was scalped? Maybe there was an Indian involved. Who else would do something like that?”

Jennie looked troubled. “When we were coming home from the show, Owens mentioned Buffalo Bill scalping someone,” she said.

“That was during a war!” Dooley exclaimed. “After Custer's Last Stand.”

“It happened during the last great wars with the Indians,” Owens said. “Buffalo Bill was serving as a scout with another part of the army, trying to keep more tribes from joining the uprising.”

He screwed up his face, trying to remember all the details. “Buffalo Bill and the leader of the war party fought each other. The Indian's shot missed. Buffalo Bill's didn't. Then he noticed that the dead Indian was wearing a long blond scalp that had come from a woman. Cody got so angry, he scalped the chief, holding it up to the troopers riding past and shouting, ‘First scalp for Custer!' ”

Wiggins let out a long breath. “I'd heard some of that, but not all of it.”

Dooley leaned forward, all excited. “I saw a picture of it in a magazine once.” He frowned. “But I didn't know what it was about, and it didn't show any blood.”

Wiggins gave him a look. “They wouldn't, in a proper magazine.” He glanced at Jennie. “It ain't respectable.”

She folded the paper. “Respectable or not, maybe other people have seen that picture. Or someone might reprint the story, especially since Colonel Cody's gun was found beside the policeman. What do you imagine those people will think?”

Dooley's face went nearly as red as his hair. “Buffalo Bill wouldn't do nothing like what you said!” Wiggins could see the hero worship in the boy's eyes as he spoke.

“I don't think so either,” Wiggins said slowly, but doubt crept into his voice. Working for Sherlock Holmes, he had learned that people could do all sorts of things—especially rich, famous people.

“You don't sound so sure,” Owens challenged. It was clear that Colonel Cody had impressed him too.

Wiggins shrugged.

“Why would Buffalo Bill lift the scalp from a copper, of all people?” Owens pressed.

“I'm not saying he did,” Wiggins replied. “It's just that I remember something Mr. Holmes told Dr. Watson. He said, ‘Only the clues should lead one to the culprit—nothing else.' What that means is, none of us should assume Buffalo Bill is guilty
or
innocent. We should look at the clues.”

“I don't know if the scalping was a clue,” Jennie said. “But the newspaper made a big thing about the gun found beside the policeman belonging to Colonel Cody.”

“I don't care if they found him standing over the copper with a bloody knife,” Dooley said hotly. “Buffalo Bill helped us and was nice to us. I'll tell anyone—”

“Wait a tick,” Wiggins interrupted. “The gun
belonged
to Buffalo Bill. That doesn't mean he used it. He didn't even have it when he was supposed to go on for the show. Remember?”

“You're right!” Owens said excitedly. Dooley nodded vigorously.

Even Jennie had to agree. “That could be a clue,” she said. “Shouldn't we make sure the police know it as well?”

It was a long walk from Mile End Road in the East End to Charing Cross in the middle of London. With every step, a little more of Wiggins's confidence leaked away. The police didn't like the poor folk of the East End, and the feeling was mutual. Out in the street, Wiggins and his mates had made some coppers' lives difficult. And by working for Sherlock Holmes, he'd often helped to make the police look foolish. They couldn't expect a warm welcome at Scotland Yard.

When they turned off onto Whitehall, Wiggins saw a policeman he knew, but the man wasn't in uniform. Inspector Desmond wore a well-cut suit, standing out from the shabbier figures cut by some detectives. Wiggins had seen him around the East End, guiding posh folk wanting a look at the “lower classes.”

The policeman was also a well-known figure to London newspaper readers. Not surprising, Wiggins thought. Outgoing, with ruddy good looks and a carefully clipped reddish brown mustache, Desmond charmed most of the city's reporters. Now, though, he didn't look charming. He seemed downright angry as a short, portly man chewed his ear.

Wiggins's eyes went wide as he recognized the second man—J. Montague Pryke. Like most East Enders, Wiggins, Dooley, and Owens knew him by sight.

“Who is that?” Jennie asked.

“That's Mr. Pryke,” Wiggins replied. “He's an MP, a Member of Parliament. He represents the East End in the House of Commons.”

“He's a fiery one,” Owens chimed in. “He gets people all stirred up with his speeches. Always saying he's one of us and all.”

Wiggins puffed up his chest and tucked his thumbs behind his jacket lapels. “I come from humble beginnings,” he said, trying to sound like a politician.

The kids chuckled as they glanced over at the man. Pryke's pudgy face wasn't humble as he glared at Inspector Desmond, even if he had to look up at the policeman. The MP's extravagantly curled mustache seemed to bristle as he loudly complained.

“The people of London, not to mention your fellow officers, expect a quick resolution to this barbaric attack on one of our own policemen,” Pryke barked. “We also expect that you, as the head of the investigation, will be firm with these uncivilized American visitors. Scotland Yard has shown itself to be remarkably lax when dealing with, shall we say, a certain—
class
of criminal.”

Pryke's voice grew louder and his words echoed off the arched stone ceiling above. “A common burglar could expect to spend the next few years in Dartmoor after being captured. But what happens to a society jewel thief like ‘Gentleman' Jeremy Clive? Just because he went to the right schools and has the right friends, he somehow manages to escape from his cell. Now you and your superiors are coddling this collection of Yankee cutthroats and out-and-out savages. Like yourself, this Buffalo Bill person is very popular in the higher social circles. Has the Yard become timid in the face of a celebrity? Or could it be—”