From a High Tower (17 page)

Finally, just after sunset, Captain Cody shooed them gently off and gathered everyone under the mess tent for dinner and the meeting. Word had been spread of this meeting, and it was clear people were curious, and perhaps a little apprehensive.

Perhaps because the
last
such meeting he'd called had been to announce that their manager had absconded with all the money.

Lanterns on every table gave plenty of light, and it took remarkably little time for the company to sort themselves out and get seated. Once everyone was served, Cody stood up, and got instant silence. He looked around, his demeanor relaxed, and smiled. “First off, lemme tell y'all this ain't bad news.”

A wave of relief spread across the tent. Spoons and forks that had been held in tense hands now clicked against tin plates. If Cody was going to talk, that was all well and good, but so far as his troupe was concerned, it was no reason to refrain from eating, when you could listen and eat at the same time.

“So, here's what I done figgered out. Now, you all know Miz Ellie's from these here parts, and I was askin' her 'bout how folks felt 'bout our show an' all, an' she commenced to tellin' me 'bout a writer feller in Germany who, well, from ever'thin' she an' Kellermann says, he's just about Twain, Dickens, Mister Alger, an' Shakespeare all rolled up inter one. An' he mostly writes 'bout our parts back home.”

Now she saw he clearly had the attention of everyone in the tent. They didn't stop eating, but their eyes were fixed on him, intrigued.

“Seems like 'bout everybody buys his books and reads 'em. Herr Bauer an' his herd, on this here farm? Yeah, ev' one of them, iff'n ye can reckon that! Shoot that's like—like our boy Johnny Dermot
an'
alla his family back home gettin' thesselves every consarn one of Twain's books soon as one comes out an' settin' down ev' night t'read one over supper!”

They all laughed at that as Johnny blushed, but grinned, since it was common knowledge that the cowhand could barely write his name. Still she could tell that made an impression on them all.

“So that's why folks hereabouts are likin' us way better'n the Frenchies did,” Cody went on. “But there's jest one problem. This Mister May feller, the one that wrote all them books . . . he ain't never been to the West. Hellfire, he ain't never been to 'Merica. So he . . . kinda got a lotta stuff wrong.” Now Cody nodded at her. “So, tell 'em 'bout these books, Ellie.”

She stood up, all eyes on her, and licked dry lips. “The books that people like best are about a German, who is supposed to be May himself, and an Apache chief named Winnetou,” she began. And choosing her words carefully, she began telling them the narratives of the books that she had read.

Her audience began with raised eyebrows.

The explanation ended with howls of laughter on the part of the others, and with herself a bright scarlet. Cody motioned for her to sit down, and she did so in mingled embarrassment and anger.
If I'd thought he was going to make a laughingstock out of me—

Her anger smoldered as Cody waited patiently for the laughter to die away. At that moment, if it had not been for Fox putting a restraining hand on her shoulder, she would have gotten up and stalked out of the tent . . . possibly even out of the show altogether.

“All right, settle down,” Cody said as the last of the laughter faded, casting her a slightly apologetic look. “I might could remind some of y'all 'bout the times
you
stuck yer feet in it right up to the knee, when we got over t'England now . . . like when you got drunk an' shot up that pub in Manchester, Tom, an' we had t'bail y'all out . . . or when Jem mistook that fancy anteeky Chinee pot fer a spittoon.” Cody's eyes were scanning the entire tent, and there were several people who tried to avoid his gaze, wearing expressions of chagrin. “Right then. Iffen y'all was actually
listenin'
t'what Miz Ellie was sayin', 'steada laughin', y'all mighta noticed somethin'. Seems like when the folks hereabouts read them stories, there's one thing that stands right out. Injuns is the
heroes.”

Stunned silence fell, a silence so absolute that the lowing of a cow from the next field over sounded so unnaturally loud that Giselle winced. Glancing around her, she could see her fellow showmen in various levels of shock and disbelief. And it looked as if some of them were about to open their mouths and—say
something.

But Cody did not give them that chance.

“And
that
is why almost nobody comes back a second time to our show!” Cody said, with authority. “It'd be like us goin' t'the mellerdrama, an' instead of the hero winnin', it's the villain what gets the girl, the gold, an' ever'thin'! We wouldn't be comin' back a second time if that happened, right?”

That stopped those who'd been about to speak up dead in their tracks. Giselle actually saw it happen. First, the sudden jolt. Then, the mouths opening, then closing again as they digested what Cody had just said.

Cody began walking back and forth across the little space in front of the tables, his voice turning persuasive. “So I said t'myself . . . Cody Lee, jest what
are
we over here fer? T'make money, that's what! An' what d'we do t'make money? Well, it's purty damn clear we
ain't
gonna make money by showin' 'em somethin' they don't cotton to!” He paused to let that sink in. Eventually, he got nods. Some more reluctant than others, but nods all the same.

“So, this's what we're gonna have t'do. Same turns, but mebbe in a different order, an' this time, the Injuns gotta be heroes.” He stopped pacing and crossed his arms over his chest, setting his weight back on his heels. “Ain't like that's completely outa the question. Pawnee like Fox been Scouts wit' the Cavalry forever, seems like. So, I figgered I'd set my ideers up, an' y'all tell me iffin it ain't gonna work, an' how we kin make it work.” He nodded sagely. “An' I thought a good place ter start would be with the attack on th' settlers.”

Giselle kept her eyes on her food, and as the attention of the rest of the troupe left her, and the heat in her face began to fade, but the formerly savory stew tasted of chagrin now. “They could do with learning manners,” Leading Fox said quietly in Pawnee. “But they mean no harm.”

She shrugged a little, and thought about some of the comments she'd overheard her countrymen making about the “barbaric frontiersmen.”

“They were not laughing at me,” she admitted. “They were laughing at what the writer said.”

“Which is absurd,” Leading Fox pointed out.

“. . . well . . . yes,” she admitted. She ate a few more bites, then listened to what the Captain was saying with more than half an ear.

And she had to admit that he had given all of this a great deal of thought.
Then again, he does know these people very well.

They certainly were a
contentious
lot, however. Every single one of them seemed to have an opinion, every single one of them wanted to voice that opinion, and every single one of them thought his opinion, however unconsidered, was
worthy
of being heard. She got tired of it all long before it was over, but not before Leading Fox had silently gotten up and left. When it became clear that far too many of the troupe found arguing to be entertaining, she gave up as well. If some of her fellow players wanted to waste time when they could be sleeping in favor of listening to their own voices, well . . . that was one Americanism she was not inclined to emulate!

S
ILBERBRUCKE
was a handsome town, a little bigger than Schopfheim. The narrow river that gave it its name neatly bisected the place, with three handsome stone bridges crossing it. They camped beside the river and set up the show in the river meadow on the opposite side of town from where they had entered. Kellermann had ridden ahead and plastered the place with handbills, and by the time the cavalcade had reached it, there were people lined up on both sides of the road to see them enter.

Anticipating this, Cody had ordered that they all don show costumes that day, so Giselle was in her fringed leather leggings, skirt and shirt, with a red neckerchief and a broad-brimmed leather hat. Someone else was driving her wagon, which had been pulled to the campsite ahead by two of the Quadrille horses, while she rode Lebkuchen. Her mare was sporting that odd American saddle with rifle sheathes at either knee, complete with rifles.

Cody had assembled them in a particular riding order as well. He led, of course, but per the plan to make the Indians as prominent as any of the white men, directly after him came Leading Fox and Giselle riding side by side, followed by the rest of the Pawnee. An abbreviated version of the band marched behind them, playing a song she now knew to be “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” It certainly was lively, and the people of the Schwarzwald loved brass bands. As they passed between the lines of eager spectators, horses seemingly nodding their heads in time to the music, the townsfolk cheered and clapped along.

Fox stared stoically ahead, which matched what the readers of Karl May expected out of an Indian, but Giselle smiled and nodded and waved to either side of her, all the way to their camping grounds. The advance crew had already performed the duty of setting up the canvas “wall” around what would be the show grounds, keeping those who had not paid out. The show parade trooped in through the entrance, passed by the ticket booth, and made their way around the right side of the show tent to where the camps had been set up.

This meadow was not as big as the one at Schopfheim, so the canvas wall had been set up to enclose some of the trees. Giselle found her wagon set up and waiting underneath a fine old oak, with a little chair and table set out at the base of it. By this, she gathered that she was now to be part of the “tour of the camps,” and would be expected to be sitting there, willing to make conversation and doing something appropriate to her role.

Well, I can certainly clean my guns.

She had left Lebkuchen at the stabling tent for the show horses; now she went to see if Cody was at his own tent. The camps had been set up exactly the same way they had been at Schopfheim, with slight adjustments for the trees, so she had no trouble whatsoever finding him.

He was answering questions and directing some of the others, and she gathered as she listened to him that there
would
be an afternoon and evening show, she should stay in her show costume, and that a cold lunch was already waiting in the mess tent. Since that answered every question she had, she trotted to the mess tent to get her hands on food; breakfast had been at the crack of dawn, and she was starving.

Luncheon apparently consisted of slapping cold cuts of smoked or cooked meat between slices of bread and the ubiquitous coffee, which it appeared Americans lived on. The local butchers who must have supplied this meat had helpfully included pots of horseradish, pickles, and sauerkraut. The Americans did not appear to know what to do with these things—other than the pickles, which they were devouring with great relish. She was perfectly happy to heap sauerkraut on her sliced roast pork. Perhaps the others would learn from her example.

It was . . . strange . . . still strange . . . to think where she had been a mere month ago, and where she was now. If anyone had predicted this, she would have laughed first, then wondered if such hallucinations were dangerous.

People were not actually hurrying over their meal, so she took her cue from them, taking her time to enjoy something that actually tasted like the food she was used to.

She was not the earliest in the lineup for the Grand Parade; Captain Cody was already in place when she arrived, as were all the Pawnee and pseudo-Pawnee. For the first time since she had joined the show, the Pawnee were . . . smiling.

She didn't blame them. In her opinion, they finally had something to smile about. She was feeling as nervous as the day of her first performance; what if she had been wrong about all this? Oh, of course, the show could go back to the old way—but Captain Cody would never completely trust anything she had to say again.

Maybe it's not such a bad thing after all, having the Captain take credit for all of my ideas. If this fails, he'll be the one taking the blame for the failure, and not me . . .

The rest lined up; the formation of the Grand Parade was the same, the music was the same, and yet, there was a sense of a bit of nervousness. This wasn't the same show. This was a new show, and in the opinion of some who still were not convinced by either her explanation or the Captain's, a very risky show.

But there was no time for second thoughts. The band began Captain Cody's entrance music, the curtains parted, and the Captain galloped in. He did his salute to the crowd, came out again, and the Parade began.

And it was
not
her imagination: although the color-guard maintained their fierce and solemn expressions—properly, really, since after all they were carrying the two national flags and the sacred standards with the eagle feathers on them—the rest of the Pawnee, instead of looking straight ahead, waved and nodded soberly to the crowd. And the spectators nearly went insane at being acknowledged by the Indians. Some of the boys in the audience even dared to attempt what they thought were war whoops. By the time they all left the arena, she was feeling more confident.

Captain Cody was the first turn, of course. She was the second, doing her non-trick shooting, and waited patiently for him to ride back out. She forced herself to concentrate on her targets; she really, really needed to be able to do this with her own skills and powers, because the sylphs, while well-meaning, were not reliable. The newer rifles helped immensely, of course, as did the fact that she was shooting inside a great tent, so there was very little windage to speak of. She finished the last of her targets, mounted Lebkuchen, and made a circuit of the arena, accepting the applause with smiles and waves.

Once outside, she dismounted and drank thirstily from the barrel and dipper left at the entrance. She felt drained, more drained than after her first performance!

“Nervous?” She looked behind her. Cody was sitting at ease in Lightning's saddle.

“I am,” she admitted.

“Don' be,” he advised. “You was dead right. I heerd how them folks shined right up t'the Injuns. Jes' wait'll they come on as heroes.” He nodded. “Now you better run'n' get inter yer next costume.”

Cody was right; now came the Cowboy Camp and the “cattle stampede,” during which the cowboys got to show their riding, roping and “bulldogging” expertise. Then the Grand Quadrille, and she really needed to be in her dress and on her horse well before time for that. So far, there was nothing changed in the show except the order of the turns, but that was going to change.

The new arrangements meant that she had to wear her Indian dress
under
the Quadrille dress, which took some . . . arrangement. And she had to wear her black Indian wig as well, with the wig braids hastily pinned up. She was in place before the cowboys had finished their “round-up” of the cattle, joining the other riders, who were all Mexican. They grinned at her; she grinned back, and they all rode in to perform what was probably her most relaxed turn in the show.

But next, Kellermann announced the “Pageant of the Plains.” Cody had rearranged some of the turns into a kind of pantomime play. There was some music to set the mood as Kellermann made a little speech setting the scene and stalling for the time needed for the new costume change. And she had to scramble with the help of one of the Mexican ladies to wiggle out of the satin blouse and skirt, get the braids of her wig taken down, then turn to help Juanita make the same change. It made the men grin to see them “disrobing” right out in the open, but they didn't say a word, perhaps because they knew Juanita was as handy with a knife as Giselle was with a rifle. She wasn't the only one; the four Mexican men really
did
have to jump right out of their satin trousers and shirts and into buckskin leggings, and they didn't seem to worry very much about modesty!

She was barely ready to join the procession into the arena for the Indian war dance.

Then she and the Indians, and “Indians,” left to great applause, and the “settlers” drove their “wagon train” into the arena and made camp. She ran off to the little changing tent changed into her embroidered skirt, shirt, boots and vest, and ran back. There were a few songs and a “square dance,” then came the change. It was
bandits,
not Indians, who attacked the wagons.

The bandits seemed to enjoy their role very much.

And then, it wasn't the cavalry that ran off the bandits, it was the Indians! And
how
the spectators cheered when they did! As for the Indians, they
certainly
enjoyed themselves; their war cries were positively bloodcurdling, and they certainly used up their entire allotment of blank cartridges in the process of defeating the bandits. Giselle was in the wings, waiting for her next turn and peeking around the side of the curtain, and was deeply gratified to see the audience reaction.

Half the “Indians” pursued the bandits. The real Indians all stayed behind to see to the settlers. The cavalry (with Cody in the lead) turned up with the horses and the cattle, and the Pawnee pantomimed an elaborate peace pipe ceremony with both Captain Cody and the chief of the settlers. Then the entire group rode off out of the arena together, with cavalry and Indians riding point and rearguard for the settlers.
Exactly
as the readers of a Karl May book would have liked. And the cheers were deafening. Certainly much more enthusiastic than Giselle remembered hearing before.

Then came bull riding, which was quite wild and exciting, and after that, Texas Tom. But
then
it was the turn of the Indians to target-shoot from the backs of their galloping horses. Neither she nor Leading Fox participated in this. For the sake of impressing the audience, all the targets were clay plates in holders; the explosion of shattering pottery was very dramatic, and the plates disintegrated in a most gratifying manner whether they were hit in the center or nearer the edge.

This was a new “turn,” and Cody had included it with a little reluctance at Leading Fox's and Giselle's urging. Considering the wild applause it got, she hoped his reluctance had turned to the realization that they had been right.

Then it was time for her trick-shots. She still hadn't mastered the trick of reliably cutting a playing card in half, even with the help of the sylphs, but all the rest were consistent. The gasps and “ahs” that marked each successful shot were gratifying in every possible way. The only thing that clouded her satisfaction was the knowledge that this one trick eluded her. All she could think, as she took her bows, was
If Annie Oakley can do it every time
without
magic, why can't I?

Captain Cody came on again and did his trick-riding and shooting, which marked the end of the marksmanship section. It was time for another little pageant.

And now her nerves were on fire. This was the riskiest thing she had suggested trying. Cody was still dubious about it. Did she really know her people well enough?

She and Fox rode into the arena side by side, as Kellermann described the great friendship that was between them—in vague terms. There was silence from the audience, and she bit her lip a little, wondering if it was the silence of appreciation or disapproval. They had gotten halfway around, when the wicked bandits returned, pounding up on their horses. The audience gasped.

She and Fox were quickly surrounded, forced to dismount, and as Kellermann narrated the story, and the bandits pantomimed it, they threatened to murder both of them.

Her nerves dissolved as the audience reacted by whistling their disapproval of the bandits. Even though they really were dreadful, even in pantomime. They kept laughing, and even when they managed to stay in character, it was so exaggerated it was all that Giselle could do to keep up
her
appearance of being terrified.

She kept her ear tuned to the audience, and as they called out advice to her and Fox, shouting at the bandits to “Let them go, blackguards!” she knew that she had them.

Then their leader pantomimed that he had come up with an idea.

The “idea,” of course, as Kellermann narrated, was for Fox to perform knife-throwing tricks with Giselle as the target—