Buffalo Bill Wanted! by Alex Simmons Page B

is Indian blood.”

Chapter 7
    â€œTHINGS JUST KEEP GETTING BETTER AND BETTER, don’t they?” Owens tried to sound lighthearted, but he couldn’t hide the worry in his eyes.
    Wiggins jammed his hands in his pockets. “First thing tomorrow, we’re going out to the exhibition grounds.”
    â€œLast time you tried that, there were a lot of coppers around,” Dooley pointed out.
    â€œBut now we have a note from Buffalo Bill, don’t we?” Wiggins said. “That should get us in.”
    Dooley brightened a little but still looked doubtful. “What will we do when we get there?”
    â€œWe’ll nose around,” Wiggins said. “Just like the Irregulars did for Mr. Holmes—keeping our ears open.”
    â€œWe should talk to the Indians and see if anyone has a costume with those quills,” Jennie began.
    â€œI’m not going near them.” Dooley jumped up, his eyes bright with fear. “’Specially that Silent Eagle gink.”
    â€œHe can’t scalp us just for asking,” Owens joked.
    â€œHow will we get to Earl’s Court?” Jennie continued to concentrate on problems.
    â€œWe’ll manage,” Wiggins said. “Just wear something you won’t mind getting dusty.”
    They broke up, and Wiggins headed for home. Maybe he had sounded confident, but his head fairly buzzed as he tried to make sense of this new development. Could Silent Eagle, or one of the other Indians working for Buffalo Bill, have attacked the loud-mouthed Pryke? The decoration in the politician’s hand certainly suggested that. But then, it would also suggest that Pryke’s attacker had been dressed as a warrior.
    Wiggins had a sudden mental picture of Silent Eagle stealing out of the performers’ camp. Still, he thought, it’s one thing to sneak past a few coppers. It’s another to cross London dressed up in feathers and beads.
    Nonetheless, he had a bad feeling about all of this—and he feared things were only going to get worse.
    The next morning, they made their way to the Earl’s Court exhibition grounds, stealing a ride at the tail of a wagon.
    Soon enough, they reached the exhibition grounds. Jennie moved to the front of the group as they came to the bridge leading to the covered grandstand and the performers’ encampment. Approaching the police guards, she thrust out the note from Buffalo Bill.
    Wiggins hung behind, having spotted the ruddy face of Benny Flagg. Benny drove a hansom cab, but he’d unhitched his horse just past the bridge that led to the corral area. A row of stables for the horses in the Wild West show stood there. The cabbie shook his head as Wiggins came up.
    â€œHoped one of the stable blokes might come over to help.” Benny gently touched a large, inflamed sore spot on the horse’s shoulder, getting an unhappy snort in reply. “Harness gall,” Flagg said gloomily. “The old nag ain’t going to pull this rig. The RSPCA people would pinch me, just like that copper that went inside aims to do.”
    â€œCopper?” Wiggins repeated.
    â€œYeah, the one who dresses like a gent, with his mustache clipped just so.” Flagg had described Inspector Desmond in a quick sentence. “He came with two men to arrest one of the Indians.”
    When Wiggins heard that, he dashed to the other bridge to catch up with his friends. He saw that the constables set on guard had formed a cordon at the far end of the bridge, locking their arms together. On the far side of the police line stood at least fifty stone-faced Indians, some equally grim cowboys— and Jennie, Owens, and Dooley.
    Inspector Desmond stepped onto the bridge, a pair of constables behind him and a handcuffed Indian between them—Silent Eagle. Angry-looking young Indians came forward, only to be waved back by a chief in a feathered warbonnet.
    I can see why they’re upset, Wiggins thought, but they