“This is too much!” A colorful rug covered the hardwood floor, the furniture was all solid oak and polished silver, and the bed was big enough for Annie and all three sisters. “I can’t accept this.” She couldn’t pay for it.
“Nonsense, dear.” Mr. Frost put her trunk down at the foot of the bed. “This is your first trip into the big city. Allow me to make it a memorable one.”
Annie was so grateful she was at a loss for words.
“Now, I’ve acquired tickets for the show. We’ll go this evening, at eight, if that’s all right with you. And tomorrow, Mrs. Frost wants to take you to the local shops and give you a taste of city life. See if it’s to your liking.”
“That’s very kind.” Annie didn’t have enough money to buy anything, but she would have fun looking. Well, maybe if she skipped a meal or two, she could buy Huldy some paints, or Sarah Ellen some fabric. And if she got the job—no, when she got the job—she’d be able to buy something nice for herself, too.
“I’ll leave you to unpack. Come downstairs when you’re ready for supper.” Mr. Frost left the room, whistling.
Annie grinned and got to work putting her belongings away. Then she came to the gun case that held her father’s old Kentucky long rifle.
Annie had taught herself to shoot at only eight years old. When she’d loaded and aimed out the window, the force of the blast had knocked her back and across the room. But she’d killed the squirrel she’d been aiming for, and that was what they’d eaten for supper that night.
She’d only gotten better from there.
She opened the case just to look inside. This was her ticket to a better life. This was the way she’d ensure her family’s survival. This was the way she’d convince her mother of her ability to provide for herself—without a man.
Carefully, she closed the case and locked it, then laid a hand on the wood.
(Hey. It’s us—your narrators. You may have noticed that our characters have what some might call an unhealthy obsession with guns. This was a symptom of the time—guns were becoming more easily available in America after the Civil War, shifting from the basic rifles that people used to hunt and defend themselves to flashier revolvers and six-shooters, a situation that, coupled with rampant alcohol use, lent itself to more of a gun-happy “shoot ’em up” mentality and a rise in death-by-gun violence. The problem was becoming so bad that many towns were demanding that people turn in their guns to the sheriff before they were allowed to enter. Well, thank goodness we’ve got that problem solved now. Right?
Oh. Wait.
Anyway, we, your faithful narrators, would like to reassure you that no real live humans were harmed by firearms in the writing of this book.)
After a while, Annie went downstairs for supper, but she wasn’t halfway through the lobby when she spotted three very impressive—very recognizable—figures. (And two others standing with them.)
The first was Wild Bill Hickok, and she knew him because of the broad black hat, long hair, and signature coat he wore. He and another man were in discussion with Mr. Frost, asking about transportation. A third man—a scrawnier fellow with a permanent smile—stood apart from them but watched them closely.
Then there were the other two: Frank Butler and Calamity Jane. They were both tall and carried weapons, but the similarities ended there. Where Mr. Butler was put together—wearing a fine jacket and polished black boots—Miss Calamity looked intense with her mud-spattered buckskins and unkempt black hair. They made quite the interesting pair, Annie thought, gently elbowing each other, bickering in the same sort of friendly way Annie and her sisters did.
Annie stood there, starstruck. She’d come to see these people, and here they were. Mr. Frost hadn’t said a word about them staying at his hotel. What were the odds?
“Your carriage will be around right away, Mr. Hickok,” said Mr. Frost. He was smiling coolly, as though he met celebrities such as Wild Bill Hickok every day. And with this fancy hotel, maybe he did.
When Mr. Frost disappeared into another room, the group huddled together. “This is the best lead we’ve had in weeks,” said the man who wasn’t Mr. Hickok. “We absolutely cannot let Mr. Badd get away tonight.”
Mr. Badd? That was a little on the nose, wasn’t it?
Never mind the man’s name. They didn’t sound like they were talking about show business. But then what . . . ?
Everyone knew Wild Bill had stopped hunting garou years ago, so this couldn’t be about that. Unless it was. Regardless, their tones suggested their imminent trip was important—maybe adventure important—and if Annie wanted to join the show, she needed to do what anyone else would do.
Follow them.
Quickly, she ran back upstairs, unlocked her gun case, and grabbed a pouch of ammunition. The group had already left when she returned to the lobby, but she was out the door in time to see them all climb into a carriage.
She looped her gun strap over her chest and kept low (which wasn’t hard, given that she was five-foot-nothin’), and the instant the carriage jerked into motion, she jumped onto the back, keeping just out of view of their window.
Mama would be horrified. Grandpap Shaw would throw a fit. But this, Annie knew, was what she was meant to do. It was absolutely the most exciting moment of her life.
FOUR
Jane
“Nothing’s happening,” Jane complained. She’d been crammed in the carriage with Bill, Charlie, and Jack McCall for nearly an hour, watching the comings and goings at the aforementioned P & G factory down by the river. Only there hadn’t been any comings or goings to speak of—no Mr. Badds skulking, no rogue garou creeping about. The place had been silent and still.
Jane was getting antsy. Her butt had fallen asleep some time ago, and Jack McCall was not the sweetest-smelling fellow to be pressed up against. That, and he would not stop smiling at her, which made her feel, well, antsy.
“Maybe if we got out for a spell, looked around?” she suggested.
“We could always come back tomorrow.” Frank drew his pocket watch out of his vest and checked the time. The show wasn’t a cover for Frank—it was his life, his joy, his “raison debt,” he called it. He’d been downright reluctant about hunting the Alpha lately.
“We should wait,” barked Charlie. “Something will happen.”
Across from Jane, Bill closed his eyes. Frank fidgeted with the watch. Jane’s knee started to bounce up and down.
Jack McCall turned to look at her. “That sure is a nice shirt you got on.”
She frowned. “You could get one near enough like it at any general store.”
He smiled. Again. “No, I’m saying, I like it. On you.”
“Oh.” What was it with people complimenting her lately? She decided to change the subject. “Do you, uh, come here often?”
Jack scratched his head. “I ain’t never been to Ohio before.”
“But you’re a garou hunter,” she said. “So this kind of situation must be familiar.”
He coughed and glanced out the window at the darkened factory. “Right. I hunt the woofs. That is what I do. Every day. Yep.”
“And is this how you do it?” she asked. “You sit and wait for something to happen?”