Lauraine Snelling - [Wild West Wind 01] Read online

  “Thanks, Micah. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  As a matter of habit, and to help her calm down, she let her gaze rove over the performers and back-lot hands as they went about their assigned duties. The performance was proceeding as normal, but something was wrong—she was sure of it. If only her father were there to talk this over with. After her mother died, her father often said he didn’t see how he could live without the wife he adored, so it wasn’t entirely unexpected when he had an attack of pneumonia while they were touring in England and soon died. Cassie had stayed with the Lockwood and Talbot Show because she knew no other life, and Uncle Jason had pleaded with her to stay and promised he would always watch out for her, just as he’d promised her father.

  The exit gate swung open, and the performers poured out.

  “Easy, boy.” Cassie tightened the reins as she and Wind Dancer waited for their signal to enter. Never sure who was more impatient, she or her mount, she swallowed again, counting the beats of the fife and drum so they’d enter at exactly the right moment. “Six, five, four, three, two, one. Go!”

  Wind Dancer leaped forward and hit his stride as they breezed through their mounted shooting act. Wrapping the reins around the saddle horn, she drew her revolvers and nailed the targets as they galloped by. Then, coming around the far side of the arena, she swung down to the side and shot from under the pinto’s neck, setting a line of bells ringing. Horse and rider slid to a stop in the center of the ring, and slipping her pistols back into her holsters, she waved to the crowd, turned, and did the same again.

  As the horse kept his hindquarters in one spot and spun around with his front legs, she pulled the rifle from the scabbard at her left knee and downed each of the clay pigeons that shot into the air, then nudged Wind Dancer into a lope and blew the heads off three puppets as they popped up from behind a wooden wall. Had her equine partner been off even a whisker, she’d have failed. Cassie hated failure worse than anything, fighting anger if she missed a shot and spending hours practicing so it wouldn’t happen again.

  Cassie absolutely forbade any trickery in her act. No one was ringing the bells if she missed or breaking the glass balls if her shots were off. She had a reputation to uphold, much like her hero, Annie Oakley. Cassie started trick riding at the age of six on the back of her pony with her trick-riding father and mother as her coaches. The three of them had been billed as the Dashing Lockwoods after they introduced her into their act when she was seven. She’d been the darling of the Wild West Show ever since.

  Growing up in a world-renowned show gave Cassie a different kind of education than most young people received. Her father insisted she learn reading and arithmetic, but touring the great shrines of Europe also gave her an up-close view of history, art, and geography.

  Wind Dancer again slid to a stop in the center of the arena, and both of them bowed after she dismounted. She gave him a pat on the rump and waved him toward the exit, through which he galloped, applause following him. Cassie continued her act by shooting an apple off her dog’s head and the ashes off a cigarette smoked by her current assistant, Joe Bingham. After reloading her six-shooters, she split plates and performed a variety of other shooting feats before the black-and-white pinto tore back into the arena. She caught the saddle horn to swing aboard and executed several more riding tricks while galloping around the arena, waving her hat before once again bowing in the center. This time as her horse raced toward the exit gate, she stayed mounted and rode out to thunderous applause.

  “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is our final act for today,” Jason Talbot shouted over the cheers.

  Three chuck wagons suddenly burst into the arena.

  “Pardon me, folks, but those cowboys insist on a chuck-wagon race, so hang on to your hats.”

  Cassie barely heard Uncle Jason’s voice, but she well knew what he was saying. She dismounted by her tent and let Wind Dancer rub his forehead against her shoulder, all the while telling him what a good horse he was and inhaling deep breaths to calm herself.

  “Great, as always.” Joe Bingham slapped his wide-brimmed felt hat against his thigh. “Working with you has made me a real believer in not smoking.”

  “I saw you flinch. Not much but enough for me to notice.”

  “Just can’t get used to a bullet flying that close to my nose. The urge to duck and run . . . it’s all I can do to stand there.”

  “At least no one else would know that.” After unbuckling the chest collar, she uncinched her saddle and pulled it from the horse’s back. Joe took it and carried it into her tent to place it on the stand built especially for it. Cassie removed the silver-studded bridle and buckled a halter in place instead. Brushing Wind Dancer helped her relax after the high tension of her act.

  Her father had always told her to take care of her own horse and equipment, to not give the job to someone whose life did not depend on top performance from everything associated with her act. Micah had stepped in to help her, as her backup. It never hurt to have a second pair of eyes and hands to make sure nothing was forgotten.

  She’d never gone a day without thinking about her father, and after her act even more so. They used to replay their acts in their minds to see if there was any place that needed tightening or if there was something new that could be added. While she enjoyed the competition of shooting matches in both the States and in Europe, this kind of show took another type of preparation and practice. When she was shooting in a match, it was just her and her guns—and her competitors, of course. But a successful show involved all the other performers and support personnel around her.

  “Father, if you could give me an inkling of what I’m sensing, I’d sure appreciate it.” She wasn’t sure if she was speaking to her dead pa or to her living heavenly Father, whom she’d met early on at her mother’s knee.

  “You going to the meeting?” Joe asked.

  “What meeting?”

  “In the food tent. A sign was posted at breakfast.”

  “What’s the meeting for?”

  “I have no idea. Didn’t you read the sign?”

  “Didn’t notice it. Who called the meeting?”

  “Jason, I’m sure. Who else would?”

  The little worm of concern popped up its head again. “Receipts were good, weren’t they?”

  “A crowd like we had today should help make up for the last couple of shows.” People hadn’t come out as much in the rain like they had in Bismarck the week before. They should have put up the big tents, but the days had started out sunny. Performing in the open arenas made the show seem more realistic.

  Why did the idea of a meeting bother her? Perhaps because so often Uncle Jason used a meeting as a place to announce bad news.

  Prescient, her mother had often called her. On days like today, prescience was not a comfortable trait to have.

  “You need some help, or should I go check on the others?”

  She knew Joe had a sweet spot for April, one of the women who played a white settler during a staged Indian attack as well as a pioneer woman on the Oregon Trail. Joe played the part of the wagon master on the trail and was a Union soldier in the attack by Indians. Most of the actors played various parts. The more they played, the better their chances of staying on for more than one season. Headliners like Cassie were paid better wages for a week than most men could earn in a couple of months. Cassie happily gave Jason most of her earnings so that he could reinvest them in the show. He always promised her that when she needed her money, it would be there for her.

  “You go on. I’m going to clean my guns before supper.” She didn’t add “and the meeting,” but it hung there between them. Joe was concerned too, but he tried not to show it.

  “Okay.”

  She watched him walk away, the slight limp he’d earned from being stomped on by a bucking bronco more obvious when he was tired or upset. As they’d added more rodeo-type events to the program, more of the men were bearing the scars of flying falls. Calf ropin
g and steer dogging weren’t quite as dangerous.

  After Micah had taken Wind Dancer back to the rope strung between several trees where the horses were tied and fed, she brought out her cleaning supplies and, using the top of her trunk for a table, set to cleaning her guns, starting with the pistols and finishing with the twenty-gauge shotgun. Her favorite was her Marlin lever-action rifle, with the etching of a valley on the silver-plated receiver on the stock. Her father’s valley of dreams had become her own. Someday she would find that valley and make his dream of breeding horses, particularly the Indian Appaloosas, and raising cattle come true.

  Someday they would have a home.

  When the gunpowder and lead residue were cleaned out and her guns lubricated, she wrapped them in soft cotton and laid them in the leather satchels, ready for the next performance. The ringing of the supper bell brought Othello to his feet. He stretched and glanced over his shoulder to make sure she got the point.

  “I’m coming.” She set the satchels inside the tent and, after making sure nothing was out of place, set off for the dull gray mess tent that once had been white. As she walked, she glanced at the painted wagon her father and mother used to live in. Uncle Jason had appropriated it after the funeral, sending Cassie to live with an aging pair of performers, Mac and Miz Mac. The gilt was in need of polishing, and the paint could use some freshening up, but everyone still called it the Gypsy Wagon, as her father had christened it many years ago. The name, Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show, arching over a charging buffalo, still stood for quality and fair treatment for all members of the organization.

  Lately, however, she’d heard some grumblings, especially from the show Indians, most of whom were hired on a seasonal basis. A few had become permanent members, like Chief, who drove the Gypsy Wagon in the opening parade.

  Why did these thoughts keep plaguing her? “Come on, Othello, let’s get our food and go eat.” She broke into a dog trot and laughed when he gamboled beside her. “We need to go hunting one of these days. You think Micah would like to go along?”

  “Go along where?” Joe asked, falling into a jog beside her.

  “Hunting. Othello said he wanted to go hunting. For birds, of course.” Cassie had never shot anything larger and had no intention of ever doing so.

  Joe rolled his eyes and shook his head. “How come no one understands that dog but you?”

  “Friends are like that,” she said, slowing to a walk. “He doesn’t flinch when I shoot the apple off his head.”

  “I told you—”

  She raised a hand to stop him. “I was just teasing.”

  “Oh.” Joe glanced down to see Othello staring up at him. “I didn’t yell at her, so don’t go glarin’ at me.” He muttered more under his breath but stopped when Othello bumped his leg with a sturdy nose.

  “You know his hearing is far stronger than ours.”

  “And his nose and—”

  “What set you off?” A grin broke across her face. “April didn’t want any help—is that it?”

  He stepped back and motioned for her to enter the tent before him.

  She tossed a grin over her shoulder. “Sorry.”

  “You are not.” He stepped back again when Othello paused and his tail stopped wagging. “All right.”

  After the last person was served and before the early diners got up to leave, Jason Talbot stood up from the table off to the north corner that had become his. “Folks,” he called. When the din continued, he raised his voice and clapped his hands. “I have an announcement to make.” He paused and waited. Slowly the troupe quieted and stared at him, waiting.

  “Much to my sorrow, I have to tell you that this has been the final performance of the Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show. Pick up your pay envelopes. We are just not making enough money to cover expenses, and there is nothing else I can do but close the doors.”

  Cassie stared at him, her stomach wrapping around itself. Surely this couldn’t be.

  Not like this.

  3

  Why didn’t he tell me how bad things were?

  “You think he means it, Cassie?” Joe poked her elbow to get her attention. She nodded as she turned. “Did you know anything? No, from the look on your face, I guess this is as big a shock to you.” He thumped his fist on the table. “I knew we’d have a winter break, but this . . .” Tipping his head back, he exhaled, the sound effectively describing his feelings.

  Cassie looked over to Micah, knowing she might have to explain this to him. Where would he get another job? Half his life had been spent here. And all of your life.

  The little voice inside made her want to scream. What about all the money her father had invested in the show? What about all of her wages that she’d returned to Jason to invest in the show? Was that all gone too?

  Feeling as if she were slogging through watery mud, she pushed herself to her feet. The only way to find any answers was to confront Uncle Jason. Most of the troupe and the back-lot hands were lining up at a table set up at the opening to the outside, where darkness was creeping around the tents. Leaving Joe, who was heading for the tail end of the line, she made her way outside and strode over to the Gypsy Wagon.

  Right now, instead of calling Jason by his familial title, she wanted to scream at him. That would shock him for sure. He still thought she was the biddable little girl who doted on her uncle Jason. Somewhere along the way in the last couple of years, she’d left that child behind and was developing a reputation for a strong will.

  Othello sat as she stopped at the bottom of the three steps leading up to the door and took a deep breath. “Uncle Jason.” She could hear someone moving around in there, so unless it was someone else . . . She raised her voice. “Uncle Jason.”

  “Come back later, darlin’. I have things to do.”

  “No. We need to talk right now.” She started up the steps and nodded when he opened the door and motioned her to come in. The first thing she saw was two carpetbags on the lower bunk, pieces of clothing trailing out. “What are you doing?”

  “Gettin’ ready to move on, just like the rest of you.”

  “So soon? I mean what about all the animals and the tents and all the gear?”

  “There’s a man comin’ for it all. I suggest you take your horse and whatever else you need and hit the road yourself.” He stuffed more shirts into one of the bags.

  “But what about the money my father invested in this show?”

  “Gone. All gone. Too much competition, too many expenses, just couldn’t keep ahead of it all. Then when I borrowed more money, the creditors demanded it be paid back right away.”

  “And my money? All my pay that you said was safely invested back in the show?”

  “Same. I’m sorry, darlin’.”

  She noticed an open bottle of whiskey sitting on the table. He made a move for it but then stopped. She’d wondered at times if he had a drinking problem but had turned a blind eye, since there was nothing she could do about it.

  “So you are just leaving it all?”

  “That’s the plan, missy.” He stopped his feverish packing. “I got something to tell you that I been puttin’ off these last couple of years. Good thing you came by.”

  She nodded encouragement. Who was this man, and where had her genial uncle Jason gone?

  He pulled a lockbox out from under the bed and flipped it open. After rummaging through some papers, he pulled out an envelope. “This is it.”

  “What?”

  “The deed to the show. When your father was dying, he had this will drawn up. When you reached the age of adulthood, you were to take over his half of the show.”

  “Age of adulthood, meaning what?”

  “Oh, eighteen, nineteen, I forget. You’ll find it in there.” He handed her the envelope. “I’d make sure that bank man doesn’t see that, or he’ll expect you to pay half the bills too.”

  Then what good is this to me? “Unc—” Never again would she use that word in regard to this man. “Ja
son Talbot, you mean I’ve owned half this company for possibly the last two years and you never told me? That’s thievery.”

  “Ah, honey, I was tryin’ to get it back to its former glory, and then I was going to tell you. You’ve had a good life here. I saved you a whole lot of heartache. Worrying about payroll, booking enough shows—ever since your pa died, it’s been too much, too hard.” He ignored her and grabbed the bottle from the table. “Sometimes I fear that he was the brains behind this. All those glory years.” He stopped and took a drink. “Now, you listen real close here. You know the company owns everything, including . . .” He shook his head and, taking a handkerchief from his back pocket, blew his nose.

  His pause gave her time to think. “Wind Dancer?”

  “No. Your pa bought him for you, but if you want that horse, you better get him out of here. Take this wagon, the team, and git.” He took another swig. “Go find that valley your pa always went on about. Somewhere down in the Black Hills. I hear there’s a road of sorts that the stagecoaches and the dray wagons use. You follow that and go find his valley.” He pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket. “You take this too. Help you get started.”

  She took it, shaking her head. “But surely all this show is worth more than the money you owe.”

  “It would be if they would give me more time. But banks are like that. Happy to loan you money, but things get tight and no matter what, they want their blood share.” He snapped the lockbox closed and tossed it on the bed. “You go get Micah and have him bring around the team. I think Chief would be glad to go with you. His reservation, Pine Ridge, is somewhere down there. He’s always talked about going back home ‘to die,’ but he’s got some more good years in those bones of his.”

  “Wouldn’t I be stealing?”

  “The wagon was your pa’s too. Got a bill of sale here somewhere.”

  “But you said they own it all.”

  “Forget what I said. Just do as I say. They’ll get plenty out of it all—call it my half. What they can’t find can’t be accounted for. You watch, most everyone will be gone in the morning, and I ain’t gonna be here to supervise who takes what. That’s just the lay of the land.” He stuffed some books and papers into the last bag and snapped both closed. “You go tell Chief I want to see him. He can take George and the Longhorns. Micah needs a horse, and he can harness up the wagon team. You get a move on, and you can be in the Black Hills before winter sets in.”