“Now that we’ve officially met, I hope I will be seeing more of you,” said Miss Harris. “I’ve read all about you.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Like you’re only sixteen.”
“That’s not true,” scoffed Jane. “I’m twenty.” (In truth, she was seventeen, but she always lied about her age. It suited her for folks to think she was older than she was, and she was so tall and brawny that they always believed her.)
“I see,” said Miss Harris. “Well, in any case, I think it’s admirable, what you do.”
Jane scratched at her head. “I am decent with the whip.”
“What I mean is, you don’t let your gender define you,” Miss Harris continued primly. “You walk about in men’s clothes and go adventuring just like a man. You’re not limited by the constraints of your sex. You’re perhaps the most daring and progressive woman in America, and I find you fascinating.”
Jane felt her face redden. “Uh, why, thank you, miss.” She found herself suddenly tongue-tied. She glanced up at the sky, where the sun was almost directly overhead. “Shoot, look at the time. I better scoot. Nice meeting you.”
“Likewise,” said Miss Harris.
It was nice, thought Jane as she walked away. This kind of thing usually happened to Frank, not Jane. She’d never had an honest-to-goodness admirer before.
“Well, shucks,” she whispered to herself.
She was almost finished putting up the flyers when she became aware that she was being followed by a man she didn’t know. Jane took off her hat and wiped her brow as if she were catching her breath, and surveyed the man from the corner of her eye. He was shorter than she was by almost a head. Young, maybe twenty at most. She could take him.
She crossed the street for no good reason but to confirm that he’d cross the street after her. Which he did. She walked for a spell, then stopped. So did he. She started walking again, faster. He sped up, too. She broke into a jog and then ducked around a corner, upon which she stopped and spun to wait for the fellow. When he turned the corner, she grabbed him by the front of the shirt and bashed him into the side of the building. With her other hand she presented her six-shooter. It wasn’t a fancy one like Bill’s, but it would get the job done.
“What business do you have with me, sir?” she asked politely.
It took him a moment to answer, seeing as the wind had been knocked out of him. Then he smiled broadly, which caught her off guard. He did not have particularly good teeth.
“You’re Calamity Jane,” he panted at last.
“What’s it to ya?” she replied.
“I’m Jack McCall. I got a message for Wild Bill Hickok,” he said, still smiling at her. “It’s about them woofs.”
TWO
Frank
“I simply adore a man with a dog,” the blonde girl gushed.
Frank had heard the same girl say the same thing earlier, when they’d been riding into town. But he didn’t mind the repetition in the least.
“Do you?” He smiled, and three out of the four beautiful women gathered outside the theater pretended to swoon.
“Oh yes. Dogs are so cute,” the blonde said. “And clever. I so admire cleverness. You’re probably clever too, aren’t you, Mr. Butler? Or should I call you Frank?”
He didn’t get a chance to answer, because another girl said, “Oh, Mr. Butler, how do you shoot so well?”
“Lots of practice—”
But the third girl moved in.
“Is it Mr. Butler, or do you prefer Pistol Prince?”
“I—”
“Oh, Mr. Butler, your poodle is so adorable.”
To which George replied with a growl, and all the young ladies backed off a step.
“I’m so sorry,” Frank said. “George is afeared of the ladies.”
I am not scared of ladies, thought George indignantly. I’m a brave dog.
See here, reader, Frank could hear the thoughts of animals—dogs, mostly, but sometimes wolves, wild cats, and the occasional angry badger. It was a skill he didn’t advertise, for reasons we’ll explain later.
Frank patted George’s head. “I think you’re a brave boy, George. The bravest.” It wasn’t so much that George was scared of women, it was more that he just didn’t like them, plain and simple . . . and utterly mysteriously, because Frank adored them.
“Awww!” cooed all four ladies in unison. “Poor George.”
George sniffed with disdain.
Overhead, the sun crawled toward noon, so Frank put his hands out, palms down in a calming manner, and said, “Thank you for your much-appreciated attention, ladies, but I have to prepare for the show.”
“We’ll be there,” said the brunette.
“And we welcome your attendance,” Frank said.
George growled, as if to say he would welcome anything but their attendance, and Frank nudged him with his knee.
“Toodleloo,” sighed the blonde.
“Same to you,” Frank replied.
The crowd of women reluctantly dispersed, and Frank ducked into the theater.
Why do you talk to them every time? George looked up at Frank, his dark eyes curious.
“Well, it’s part of my job.” Frank scratched the back of George’s head. “I like talking to the ladies. I like ladies.”
More than me?
“Of course not.”
George huffed as if he weren’t sure he believed Frank and trotted over to a crate filled with props. But you don’t like like them, George thought. Not any of those ladies.
“I like them fine.” Frank followed George to the crate and used a crowbar to pry off the lid. “But town after town, they all start to blend together.” He carefully removed the paper-wrapped mirrors (for trick shots) and glass balls (for shooting). “It would help if you weren’t so mean to them,” he added.
I growl because they’re not the right mate for you.
Frank coughed and almost dropped one of the glass balls. “Excuse-a-what?”
“Hey there, partner.” Bill came in, walking stiffly. “Need some help?”
“Sure.” Frank gave one last eyebrow raise to George, and then he and Bill set up the targets and other props. It all had to be placed just so, because in a sharp-shooting show where bullets were flying, attention to detail was crucial. Frank handed George an empty whiskey bottle, and the pooch took it and placed it on a pedestal on the opposite side of the stage.
Is this right? George asked.
Frank nodded. The bottle was for Jane’s bullwhip act. She was so good with a bullwhip, she could . . . well, your narrators don’t want to spoil it for you. You’ll have to wait for the show.
Frank paused in the center of the stage, the familiar buzz of preshow anticipation filling him. And for that one small moment, he let himself imagine that show business was all he did.
The heat of the lights on him.
His gun in his hand, the bang of each perfect shot.
The audience gasping and cheering and calling his name.
“Frank Butler!” they’d cry. “Hooray for the Pistol Prince! Frank! Frank! Frank!”
He drew in a deep breath. Even the smell of the theater was something special, like velvet and sawdust and dreams.