“Frank!” Bill stepped in front of him. “Son, are you listening to me?”
Frank blinked a few times. “Sorry, I was lost in thought, I guess.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“The show,” Frank admitted. “Do you think that someday—after we catch the Alpha, of course—the show really could be our job, not just a cover?”
Bill shook his head. “I’m tuckered out, kid. After we catch the Alpha I’m going to retire. For real this time. From garou hunting and from show business, too.”
“Oh.” Frank felt a pang in his heart. “Maybe we could take a vacation,” he suggested. “Rest up, then find a permanent place somewhere to do the show. A theater. Heck, maybe even this one.”
“Nah,” said Bill. “I’m done. You know it’s not only me I’m thinking about. I’ve got Agnes waiting for me.”
Oh yeah. Bill was married now. It was hard to remember sometimes.
A few months back they’d been doing a show in Cheyenne when Bill had run into an old flame named Agnes Lake. Agnes was in show business, herself. She owned a circus. She also walked the tight rope and trained the fiercest lions, tigers, and bears. (Oh my!) Bill was instantly smitten with her all over again, and in an impromptu move no one (or certainly not Frank) saw coming, Bill asked Agnes to marry him, right then and there, and she’d said yes. The honeymoon hadn’t been long, since the gang still had shows to do and the Alpha to hunt, but ever since they’d left Cheyenne—and Agnes—Bill had been talking of settling down. Even so, today was the first time Bill had ever said the word retire like he actually meant it.
Bill patted Frank’s shoulder. “I’ve had my time in the sun. But just because I’m done doesn’t mean you are. The show must . . .”
“Go on,” pressed Frank.
“Right. The show must go on. Without me.”
“Yeah, well, then I’ve got some pretty big shoes to fill,” Frank said glumly. It was hard to imagine Wild Bill’s Wild West without Wild Bill. How could the show really go on without the world’s greatest showman?
Bill chuckled and lifted a boot to go alongside Frank’s. “Not so big as all that, see? You’ll be a natural at it, son. I know you will. In fact, why don’t you take over the show from now on, manage things, get a feel for it?”
Frank’s breath caught. “What about Charlie?”
Bill pshawed. “He’s a Pinkerton. Not a showman. I’m sure he’d rather focus on the Alpha. You think you can handle it?”
“I can do it,” said Frank.
“Good. Can you finish setting up on your own?” Bill asked.
“Of course,” Frank said.
“I’m gonna head back to the hotel and get us squared away on that end.”
Frank watched him go. George sat at his feet.
It’s good to think about the future, George thought.
“Maybe,” Frank said. “But what if, when Bill leaves . . .”
The show falls apart? George supplied.
“Thank you for your confidence. I was going to say suffer, but sure.” Frank scratched George’s ears.
George’s tail thumped.
Frank sighed and turned back to the set, which was almost finished. He missed the days when it was just him and Bill, going from town to town, living hand to mouth. Well, more like gun to bull’s-eye.
From the beginning, life was always an adventure with his dad. Bill’s family farm had served as a stop on the Underground Railroad, and then Bill made a name for himself by joining the antislavery Free State Army of Jayhawkers, where he served as a bodyguard for General James H. Lane.
He fought in the Civil War and left Frank in the care of a family in Ohio. Those years were the longest of Frank’s life, the longest he’d spent without his dad.
When Bill returned from the war, he vowed to never leave Frank for more than a couple weeks at a time. The two went on the road again, and Frank noticed that people along the way started to recognize his father. His gunfighting abilities had granted him even more fame.
But it was Bill’s encounter with a bear where his legendary status really rose. The bear surprised him on the road, and Hickok shot it. The bear didn’t die, and the two wrestled until Bill used a knife to slit the bear’s throat.
Frank was with him at the time, hiding behind a tree, watching his dad in amazement.
As Bill’s star began to rise, so did the threats against him. The man who killed the Wild Bill Hickok would stand to gain fame and possibly fortune.
Bill spent the next few years teaching Frank the ins and outs of a nomadic life, all the while dodging bounty hunters and opportunistic thrill seekers who wouldn’t mind seeing Wild Bill dead by their hand.
Then, a few years back, Bill left for a scouting trip, and when he returned, he had a little girl in tow. Jane, her name was.
Jane took to their lifestyle like a fly takes to sugar. When Charlie joined up a couple years later, their gang felt complete. They had a good thing going, here. And now it seemed like they were all about to go their separate ways.
“I don’t know if I can carry it alone,” Frank murmured to the rows of empty seats.
George lay on the floor and put his chin against the wood. Don’t worry. I’ve been living this nomadic life for a while now, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s— George’s ears pricked up. Mail wagon!
Frank could barely hear the hoofbeats outside. George barked enthusiastically for a few minutes, and then settled down again.
“You’re a good watchdog,” Frank said.
I know, George replied. The mailman is dangerous, but I’ll protect you.
“Thanks. So what’s the one thing you’ve learned?”
What one thing?
“The one thing you’ve learned after your nomadic life?”
I don’t remember.
“Frank!” came a shout from the theater entrance. “Fraaaaaank!”
It was Jane. She ran down the aisle, spitting as she went.
“Try not to spit on the paid seats,” Frank called.
“I have news.” Jane put a hand up and leaned over, gasping for air.
George whined and cocked his head, and Frank walked to the edge of the stage so she didn’t have to yell.
“Jane, what is it?”
“You gotta come right now to Bill’s . . .” She lowered her head again, still struggling to catch her breath.
“Room?” Frank guessed.
Jane nodded.
“But, the show—”
Jane shook her head. “It’s a garou emergency!”
Once Jane, Frank, and George got to Bill’s room, Frank realized Jane’s definition of the word emergency was a bit looser than his own. His was more like, a burning building or garou attacking children.
What he found was Bill, standing next to a man who looked vaguely familiar.
Frank glanced at Bill to get a sense of his old man’s feelings about the stranger, and found the holsters of those beautiful ivory-handled pistols clipped. Bill didn’t believe they were in danger here, or the clips would have been off; it made for a faster draw. Not that Bill shot as much these days—his eyesight wasn’t the greatest anymore—but the clips worked as a secret code between father and son.