A Heart for Home (40 page)

Authors: Lauraine Snelling

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BOOK: A Heart for Home

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The exit gate swung open, and the performers poured out.

“Easy, boy.” Cassie tightened the reins as she and Wind Dancer waited for their signal. Never sure who was more impatient, she or her mount, she swallowed again, counting the beats of the fife and drum so they would enter at exactly the right moment. “Six, five, four, three, two, one. Go!”

Wind Dancer leaped forward and hit his stride as they breezed through their mounted shooting act. She drew her revolvers and nailed the targets as they galloped by. Coming around the far side of the arena, she swung down to the side and shot from under the pinto’s neck to set a line of bells ringing. They slid to a stop in the center of the ring and, sliding her pistols back into the holsters, she waved to the crowd, turned, and did the same again. As the horse kept his hindquarters in one spot and spun around with his front legs, she pulled the shotgun from the scabbard at her left knee and downed each of the clay pigeons shot into the air, nudged Wind Dancer into a lope, and blew the heads off three puppets as they popped up from behind a wooden wall. Had her hidden assistant been off even a whisker, she’d have failed. Cassie hated failure worse than anything, and would’ve been fighting anger if she’d missed a shot.

Known officially as the Shooting Princess – her mother had been a member of the Norwegian royal family, thus the
princess
tag – Cassie absolutely forbade any trickery in her act. There was no one ringing the bells if she missed or breaking the glass balls if her shots were off. She had a reputation to uphold, much like her hero, Annie Oakley.

Cassie had started trick riding at age six on the back of her pony, with her trick-riding father and mother as her coaches. The three of them had been billed as the Fancy Riding Lockwoods since they introduced her into their act when she was seven. By then she’d been riding for four years. Growing up in the world-renowned Wild West Show gave Cassie a different kind of education from most young people.

Wind Dancer again slid to a stop in the center of the arena, both of them bowing after she dismounted. She gave him a pat on the shoulder and waved him toward the exit, through which he galloped with applause following. Cassie continued her act by using her rifle to shoot an apple off her dog’s head – an act used often by Annie Oakley – wowing the crowds. Othello had learned to sit perfectly still as her shot split the apple. The audience always laughed when he ate half and brought the other half to her.

She then shot the ashes off a cigarette smoked by her current assistant, Joe Bingham. After reloading her six-shooters, she split plates and performed a variety of other shooting stunts before her black-and-white pinto tore back into the arena. Catching the saddle horn and swinging aboard, she executed several more riding tricks while galloping around the arena and waving her hat. Then she stopped in the center, bowed from her horse, and rode out to thunderous applause.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is our final act for today.”

Three chuck wagons burst into the arena.

“Pardon me. Those cowboys insist on a chuck-wagon race, so hang on to your hats, folks.”

Cassie barely heard the announcer’s voice, but she well knew what he was saying. She dismounted by her tent and let Wind Dancer rub his forehead against her shoulder, all the while telling him what a good horse he was.

“Wonderful, as always.” Joe slapped his hat against his thigh.

“Working with you has made me a real believer in not smoking.”

“I saw you flinch – not much but enough to see.”

“Just can’t get used to a bullet flying by that close to my nose. The urge to duck and run . . . it’s all I can do to stand there.”

“No one else would know that.” After unbuckling the chest collar, she uncinched her saddle and pulled it from the horse’s back. Joe took it and carried it into her tent to set it on the stand built for it. Cassie removed the silver-studded bridle and buckled a halter in place instead. Brushing Wind Dancer helped her relax after the high tension of her act. Her father had always told her to take care of her own horse and equipment, not to give the job to someone whose life did not depend on top performance of everything associated with her act.

She’d never gone a day without thinking about him, now more than most other times, as she replayed her act in her mind to see if there was anything that needed tightening or if there was something new she could add. While she enjoyed the competition of shooting matches in the States and in Europe, the show took another kind of preparation and practice. When she was shooting in a match, it was just her and her guns. And her competitor, of course. But a successful show took into consideration everything and everyone around her.

Father, if you could give me an inkling of what I’m sensing, I’ d sure
appreciate it.
Moments like this she wasn’t sure if she was speaking to her dead pa or to her living heavenly Father, whom she’d met early on at her mother’s knee.

“You going to the meeting?” Joe asked.

“What meeting?”

“In the food tent. A sign was posted at breakfast.”

“What’s the meeting for?”

“I have no idea. Didn’t you read the sign?”

“Didn’t go to breakfast. Who called the meeting?”

“Jason, I’m sure. Who else?”

The little worm of concern popped its head up again. “Receipts were good, weren’t they?”

“A crowd like we had should help make up for the last couple of shows.” People hadn’t come out as much in the rain like they had in Bismarck the week before.

Why did the idea of a called meeting bother her? Perhaps because so often Uncle Jason used a meeting as a place to announce bad news. Jason Talbot wasn’t really her uncle, but since he and her parents had been good friends, as well as business partners, she’d always called him that. Besides, he was the one who promised to see to her welfare after her father passed on.

Prescient, her mother had often called her. Days like today prescience was not a comfortable trait to have.

“You need some help, or should I go check on the others?”

She knew Joe had a sweet spot for April, one of the women who played in several of the western scenes. Joe played the part of the wagon master on the trail and was a soldier in another scene. Most of the actors played various parts. The more parts they played, the better their chances of staying on with the show for more than one season.

“You go on. I’m going to clean my guns before supper.”

“Okay.”

She watched him walk away, the slight limp he’d earned from being stomped by a bucking bronco more obvious when he was tired or upset. As they’d added more rodeo-type events to the program, several of the men bore the scars of a flying fall. Calf roping and steer dogging weren’t quite as dangerous.

After Micah had taken Wind Dancer back to the rope strung between several trees where the horses were tied and fed, she brought out her cleaning supplies and, using the top of her trunk for a table, set to cleaning her guns, starting with the pistols and finishing with the twenty-gauge shotgun. Her favorite was her Marlin lever-action rifle, with the etching of a valley on the brass plate on the stock. Her father’s valley of dreams had become her own. Someday she would find that valley and make his dreams of breeding horses, particularly the Indian Appaloosas, and raising cattle come true.

When the gunpowder and lead residue were cleaned out and her guns lubricated, she wrapped them in soft cotton and laid them in the leather satchels, ready for the next performance. The ringing of the supper bell brought Othello to his feet. He stretched and glanced over his shoulder to make sure she got the point.

“I’m coming.” She set the satchels inside the tent and, making sure nothing was out of place, set off for the dull gray tent that had once been white. As she walked to the meal tent, she glanced at the painted wagon her father and mother used to live in. Uncle Jason had appropriated it after the funeral, sending Cassie to live with an aging pair of performers who had since left the show. The gilt was in need of polishing, and some of the paint could use freshening up too, but everyone still referred to it as the Gypsy Wagon, the name her father had christened it many years ago. The words that arched over a charging buffalo,
Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show
, still stood for quality and fair treatment for all the members of the troupe.

Lately, however, she’d heard some grumbling, especially from the show Indians who were hired on a seasonal basis. The exceptions were those who had become permanent members, like Chief, who drove the boss’s wagon in the opening parade.

Why did these thoughts keep plaguing her? “Come on, Othello. Let’s get our food and go eat.” She broke into a dogtrot and laughed when he gamboled beside her. “We need to go hunting one of these days. You think Micah would like to go along?”

“Go along where?” Joe fell into step beside her.

“Hunting. Othello said he wants to go hunting. For birds, most likely.”

Joe rolled his eyes and shook his head. “How come no one understands that dog but you?”

“Friends are like that. He doesn’t flinch when I shoot the apple off his head.”

“I told you – ”

She raised a hand to stop him. “I was just teasing.”

“Oh.” Joe glanced down to see Othello staring up at him. “I didn’t yell at her, so don’t go glaring at me.” He muttered more under his breath but stopped when Othello bumped his leg with a sturdy nose.

“You know his hearing is far stronger than ours.”

“And his nose and – ”

“What set you off?” A grin broke across her face. “April didn’t want any help – is that it?”

He stepped back and motioned for her to enter the tent before him.

She tossed a grin over her shoulder. “Sorry.”

“You are not.” He stepped back when Othello paused and his tail stopped wagging. “All right.”

After the last person was served and before the early diners got up to leave, Jason Talbot stood up from the table off to the north corner that had become his. “Folks,” he called. When the din continued, he raised his voice and clapped his hands. “I have an announcement to make.” He paused and waited. Slowly the people quieted and focused on him, waiting.

“Much to my sorrow, I have to tell you that this has been the final performance of the Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show. Pick up your pay envelopes. We are just not making enough money to cover expenses, and there is nothing else I can do but close it down.”

Cassie stared at him, her stomach in a knot. Surely he couldn’t be serious.

LAURAINE SNELLING is an award-winning author of over 60 books, fiction and nonfiction for adults and young adults. Her books have sold over two million copies. Besides writing books and articles, she teaches at writers’ conferences across the country. She and her husband, Wayne, have two grown sons and a bassett named Chewy. They make their home in California.

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Lauraine Snelling