Buffalo Bill Wanted! (6 page)

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Authors: Alex Simmons

BOOK: Buffalo Bill Wanted!
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Owens nodded but didn't look at Wiggins. “Even some of my people are calling the Americans all sorts of names.”
“That bothers you?” Dooley asked.
Owens shrugged. “Seems funny. We don't want no one treatin' us like dirt, but we're quick to do it to others.”
Wiggins pointed toward the back of a large furniture wagon rattling along the street. “There's our ride.”
The others caught on and one by one ran behind the vehicle to jump onto the tailgate of the wagon.
“I still think that mob at Pryke's speech last night was bought,” Wiggins proclaimed after they were all aboard. “Nat Blount was there, and he doesn't care anything about people—except the ones he plans to nick something from. Same for some of those blokes he was standing with.”
“Maybe he was trying to pick a few pockets in the crowd,” Owens offered.
“If he went after one of those blokes he was standing with,” Wiggins shot back, “they'd have hacked off his fingers and fed them to him one by one.”
“What would be the purpose of hiring a phony crowd of angry citizens?” Jennie asked.
“Maybe to make Pryke look important,” Wiggins replied.
“But he's already important,” Jennie said.
“This is getting too mixed up for me.” Dooley shook his head. “Are we after thugs, smugglers, or what?”
“I have no idea,” Wiggins admitted, then he went quiet. The wagon rattled along westward to Piccadilly, where Wiggins signaled for them to get ready to hop off.
“Well, once we figure out who took Buffalo Bill's gun, we'll have the answer.” Wiggins dropped from the wagon, and the others followed.
He took a quick glance around to get his bearings. This neighborhood was expensive, near the fine gentlemen's clubs and the theaters. Coming up to Regent Street, he led the way to number 59.
They stood in front of the five-story stone building, whose ground floor was a gentleman's outfitters. “Colonel Cody has two floors of rooms upstairs, or so this mate of mine told me,” Wiggins said. “He helped deliver some of the flowers all the ladies were sending to Buffalo Bill.”
A four-wheeled coach waited out in the street, and the front door of the house stood partially open.
While the coach driver was distracted by his horse, Wiggins walked up to the house and gingerly gave the doorknob a pull. The door swung farther open. “In we go,” he said.
Jennie sent a worried glance at the coach's driver, but he never glanced at the children as they entered the house.
Wiggins went to peer up the stairway while the others huddled together by a large potted palm—almost as if they thought they'd blend in with the foliage.
“Come on,” Wiggins whispered over his shoulder.
He turned back to discover a stocky man in a derby hat frowning up above them. “Where did you lot come from? This is a gentleman's establishment. No casual labor or mendicants need apply.”
“It's the butler.” Owens took a nervous step back.
“Not fancy enough.” Wiggins smirked. “He's probably a valet.”
“Do I need to repeat myself ?” the servant said sharply. “We don't allow beggars in here.”
“We ain't beggars,” Wiggins told him. “We're here to see Buffalo—I mean, Colonel Cody.”
“Yeah, we're friends of his,” Dooley added.
“Of course you are.” The servant pushed back his sleeves as he came down the steps toward the children. “Since you won't leave nicely, I'll just have to—”
“Now wait just a minute, guv.” Wiggins threw up his hands to fend off the man's grip.
“You touch me,” Dooley warned loudly, “and I'll take—”
“What's going on here, Jim?”
A new figure appeared at the head of the stairs: Buffalo Bill's partner, Nate Salsbury.
“I was just about to evict them, sir,” Jim said anxiously. He'd managed to snag both Jennie and Wiggins by their collars.
“Hello, Mr. Salsbury,” Jennie said politely. Wiggins wanted to laugh at the sight of Jennie trying to maintain her dignity as the servant gripped her collar. “It's good to see you again.”
“Hello again, little missy,” Salsbury replied with a wry smile.
“You know these—children?” the servant asked.
“They were visiting Colonel Cody in his tent,” the show manager said as he approached the group. “Let 'em go.”
As the servant moved away with a dazed expression on his face, Dooley stuck his tongue out at the man. But when the servant glanced back at the group, Dooley appeared to be studying the design on the rug.
“If you came by to enjoy Colonel Cody's hospitality, ” Salsbury told them, “you've picked a bad time.”
“Why?” Owens asked.
“Surely you've heard about the attack,” Salsbury replied. “I was here with Bill last night when the police came around to question us again.” He gazed back up the stairs.
“We read about it,” Wiggins said, “and we thought of something that might help.”
Salsbury turned back around to face them. “What do you know that might help us?”
“The newspapers—and other people—are making a lot of the fact that the gun found by the constable belonged to Buffalo Bill,” Wiggins said. “But we know it was lost long before the attack. Remember?”
“Lost,” Jennie echoed, “or stolen.”
“Well, look who we've got here!” a loud voice interrupted.
“Hi, Buffalo Bill!” Dooley almost cheered as the frontiersman walked down the stairs and joined them.
“Morning,” Cody said, ruffling Dooley's hair and shaking hands with the others. “What brings you here?”
Jennie quickly explained the reason for their visit. “Did you ever find out how the gun got out of your tent?”
Cody shook his head. “Nate and I looked into it.”
“You may find it hard to believe, considering your visit,” Salsbury told them with a grin. “But very few people have access to the tent during the show.”
Cody shrugged. “I can't see any of my folks stealing one of my guns. They had plenty of opportunities before, and nothing like this has ever happened. ”
“I think it was some souvenir hunter,” Salsbury said, “and I'll say as much to Inspector Desmond the next time I see him.” He shook his head. “I doubt, though, that will be enough for the local police—or the newspapers. They'll still suggest that Cody or someone else in the show hid the gun, pretending that he'd lost it.”
“It would have to be a pretty determined souvenir hunter if no one could get into that area,” Wiggins said. “And why would he attack the copper?”
“The police are determined to prove that one of my people took the gun and then turned it against the policeman,” Cody said. “It's up to me, not you young ones, to prove otherwise. After all, a man was scalped.”
"Shot
and scalped,” Owens added.
“Not with my gun,” Cody said firmly. “It was loaded with blanks, like all the guns in the show.”
“Are you sure?” Wiggins asked.
Colonel Cody nodded. “Only two shots had been fired. The other cartridges were still in the gun. They were blanks, all right.”
“That explains it!” Jennie exclaimed. “The newspapers said the constable had been shot. But the doctor at St. Bartholomew's said there was no gunshot wound.”
Wiggins was trying to decide what to make of that when Dooley cried, “We'll help you sort this out, Colonel Cody!”
“And we know a person who may be even more helpful,” Jennie said. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
She had taken the words right out of Wiggins's mouth. However, he noticed that Nate Salsbury seemed to tense on hearing the great detective's name.
“We don't need anyone else nosing about in this,” Salsbury said. “To be honest, we've been trying to lie low. The last thing we need is more unfriendly attention from the newspapers. Our publicity man is having nightmares as it is.”
Colonel Cody put a steadying hand on Salsbury's shoulder. “Nate's a little wound up right now,” he said. “But I say whoever attacked and scalped that policeman needs to be caught and taught a lesson.”
“But Colonel—”
“But nothing, Nate,” Cody interrupted. “My reputation means a lot to me, but the lives of the people in the show mean more. I think we can use any help we can get. So if Mr. Holmes can take the case, I'd be glad of it.”
“Then we'll speak to him for you,” Wiggins said, proud to be able to make the offer.
“Well, thank you kindly,” Colonel Cody replied. “Since you're working for me, seems only fair that you should be pulling a salary.”
The frontiersman reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “I'm still not all that certain of how your money works, but this should be enough to start.”
Wiggins and the others stared in wide-eyed amazement as Colonel Cody poured crowns, shillings, and pence into Wiggins's hands.
“That's almost two pounds there,” Dooley gasped.
Cody took out a card and scribbled on it. “This will get you into the show grounds whenever you need to bring any messages.” He grinned. “What's the matter? Not enough?”
“Oh, more than enough,” Wiggins said enthusiastically. “And don't worry, we do this all the time. Getting Mr. Holmes to help will be no problem at all.”
“What do you mean, he's not home?” Owens exclaimed in dismay.
The young girl in the ill-fitting maid's uniform stood in the doorway of 221B Baker Street like a grenadier guard at Buckingham Palace. “I mean,” she replied, “that he and Dr. Watson ain't here,” she said, sounding annoyed. “They're away on business.”
Dooley stepped forward, a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. “You remember me, don't you?” he asked her. “You helped me, uh, us the last time we were here.”
The girl looked around nervously. “I remember,” she replied. “But Mrs. Hudson could be back at any minute, and I ain't supposed to let anyone—”
“Could you at least tell us when Mr. Holmes will be back?” Dooley asked her.
“Not really.” The girl continued to glance up and down the street. “They left this morning for King's Cross Station, but Mr. Holmes said they was flyin'.”
“Flyin'?” Owens repeated blankly.
“Did they take anything?” Wiggins asked.
“Each of 'em had a Gladstone bag. Now I have to go!” With that, the young maid quickly shut the door.
“How can anyone—” Jennie began.
Wiggins smiled at the look on her face. “They ain't
flying
,” he explained. “They're taking the
Flying
Scots-man. It's a train that leaves from King's Cross, going all the way up to Edinburgh.”
“Scotland—and bags,” Owens moaned. “They could be gone for days.”
Dooley removed his cap and scratched his fiery red hair. “Just grand, that is. What do we do now?”
Wiggins tried to recall how Mr. Holmes had used the Irregulars. What would he have assigned them to do now? The image of Nat Blount flashed before his eyes, waving a torch at Pryke's rally. Suddenly, Wiggins had a plan.
“Follow me.” Wiggins led the group down Baker Street, heading for the Underground station.
“Someone tries to frame Colonel Cody,” Wiggins began slowly as the idea took shape. “And right away, Pryke starts making all Americans look bad. Maybe those things are connected.”
“You mean because Colonel Cody is an American, Mr. Pryke might have tried to frame him?” Jennie asked.
“Why not?” Wiggins said.
“But how do we find out if that's true?” Owens asked.
“By checking on Nat Blount and his friends from the mob last night.” Wiggins fished out some money as they approached the Underground train station. “I say Nat was hired to be part of that mob, so he might lead us to who hired him.”
“So let's get looking for the little rat,” Owens said.
Wiggins held up his hands. “There's something else. What did you think about Mr. Salsbury?”
“He was nice enough,” Jennie said. “But . . . distracted.”
“He wasn't happy when you mentioned Mr. Holmes.” Dooley scowled in memory. “And he was mean to that Indian.”
Wiggins's eyebrows rose as he remembered what seemed to have been an argument between the two Wild West employees. Was that why Silent Eagle had snuck off the grounds? Was he following Salsbury?
“Mr. Salsbury also didn't seem too interested about who could have taken Buffalo Bill's gun,” Jennie said. “Maybe that's because
he's
the thief.”
“You think
he
took Buffalo Bill's gun?” Owens asked. “Why? So he could make his partner look bad?”
“Maybe Salsbury wants to run the show,” Jennie said. “Or maybe he wants to sell the gun to some souvenir collector. Perhaps I'll go around to the pawn-shops. Pawnbrokers often deal with collectors.” She colored. “Mother and I have become familiar with some pawnbrokers lately.”
“All right, then,” Wiggins said, mulling over the possibilities. “See what you and Dooley can find out while Owens and I go look for Natty Blount. We'll all meet again here at the Raven.”
Wiggins and Owens scoured the East End looking for Natty Blount—with no luck.
“Just grand,” Wiggins complained. “All the time I don't want to see him, he turns up like a bad penny.”
Just then, Owens nudged him with an elbow. “Keep walking,” the other boy said, looking straight ahead. “But turn your eyes a little bit to your left.”

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