A Touch of Camelot (2 page)

Kicking out again, the kid narrowly missed Cole's cheekbone. Cole yanked hard, bringing the boy down. They collapsed together into the mud, Cole landing on his back to wrap his arms around his captive's middle.

The contents of the kid's pockets spilled out as they struggled: an astonishing collection of coins, bills, watches, and playing cards. Cole howled a curse when he felt teeth sink into his forearm, but he didn't let go. He rolled over instead, flipping his adversary onto his back. They'd already lost their hats in the scuffle, and Cole saw russet-red hair fashioned into a crude bowl cut. It looked soft and glossy, and it was just as it occurred to Cole that he had never seen hair like that on a boy that his palm swiped across the kid's chest and he stopped dead to discover that he wasn't wrestling with a boy at all.

They both froze.

"Sweet mercy," Cole whispered.

He had never felt a girl's breast. He had dreamed about it a few times, and, of course, he had contemplated it quite a bit. There were girls in Beaver Creek who wouldn't have minded if Cole came courting, but none were the type a fellow could rightly consider grabbing at. Besides, marriage was the last thing on Cole's mind. A Pinkerton didn't have time for a wife. No, Cole had finally been forced to reach the gloomy conclusion that breasts weren't likely to play a large part in his future.

But now his moment had arrived! And he wasn't quite sure what to do about it. His hand, however, suffered no such uncertainty. It refused to budge even as his conscience screamed,
Get your hand off her bosom, Cole! Give it up now and it'll go easier on you!

He had to force his mouth open to speak. His tongue felt thick as tar. "You're a gir—!"

Whatever hit him came from behind. And it hit him hard.

Pain exploded behind his eyes. Cole hit the ground, now only vaguely aware of the boy—
the girl
, he reminded himself dazedly—
the breast!
—wiggling out from under his limp arm. He heard voices from somewhere above as the ground seemed to swell and slant beneath him.

"You didn't have to hit him, Clell! What if you really hurt him?"

"Aww, he'll wake up with a goose egg, that's all. Besides, I had to do it. It looked like he was gonna try something."

"He wasn't gonna try anything. I'd have gotten away."

There was a burst of laughter. "Oh sure, Gwinnie!"

"Stop it! It's not funny."

"Come on, get your stuff and let's get out of here. Silas won’t be happy. We'll have to get you out of town. Damn, and the pickings were so good. Suckers around every corner..."

The voices faded. Cole, who was still so stunned he couldn't move or force his eyes open, continued to lie helpless. His head thrummed hot and painful. It felt wet. He hoped it was mud but was pretty sure it was blood.

Gonna die right here
, he thought miserably. Pinkerton material indeed.

PART ONE

"She knew naught but his princely face. It was when her brave knight came to her in the garden that the queen first asked him his true name ..."      
From the love story of Queen Guinevere and Sir Lancelot, as told by Emmaline Pierce to her daughter, Guinevere Pierce, 1868

Chapter One

San Francisco, California, June 1879

"Brothers and sisters! Do you believe?"

The assent of the crowd rose like the swell of a cresting wave. "We believe! Yes! Yes! We belieeeve!"

It was hot and stuffy inside the old circus tent. Tonight, it was packed full of believers and curiosity-seekers alike. Brother Christian put on a show that might have convinced Old Scratch himself to turn over a new leaf. Sister Guinevere Pierce, daughter of God, knelt sweating and uncomfortable at the head of a line formed before the raised stage, her hands clasped in prayer below her chin.

"I say, brothers and sisters,
do you believe
?"

The crowd was emphatic.
"Yes! Yes! Lord yes! We believe! We belieeeve!"

There were moans and shouts, stomps and whistles, and even some weeping coming from the back rows.

"Remember Matthew eight. Our Lord’s words to the woman from Capernaum. 'Your faith has made you well!'"

Arthur, Gwin's eleven-year-old brother, stood next to her, his shaggy dark curls in bad need of a trim. He looked convincingly pitiful in an old pair of patched overalls and teetering on crutches. He nudged her and whispered. "That's from chapter
nine
, not eight."

Gwin winced. Arthur was right. Silas was misquoting again. The crowd, of course, either failed to notice or didn't mind. Such was the hold that Silas Pierce wielded over his audiences. He was a gifted speaker, a man who perhaps had never quite grown up himself. Even as a child, Gwin had known what it was about Silas that so enticed his listeners. When he was on stage, he didn't just pretend to believe, he
believed
, and that unwavering faith seemed to emanate from his pores. It scattered into the crowd and caught like sparks on a dry prairie.

Silas had been misquoting all evening, which was uncommonly sloppy of him. He was distracted. Only part of him was believing, and Gwin knew something was wrong. Earlier today, he had disappeared into the city, returning to camp only in the nick of time to don his black broadcloth suit and emerge onto the stage. This was not like him. He always took time to prepare for an appearance. This was his way, and it, unlike the products he sold—be it miracle elixirs, hair tonics, magic pills, or salvation—had never changed.

Tonight he had gone on with no preparation, and Gwin found this unnerving. After all, this might have been the largest gathering they'd ever played to. San Francisco was a big town and Brother Christian was getting a big reputation. No longer did they have to hustle to attract new followers; new followers were ready and waiting in each town they came to. Gwin and Clell now travelled only two days ahead, posting signs on telegraph poles to advertise Brother Christian's Sinbusting Tent Revival. This was all it took. The crowds came out. And the money poured in.

Silas's deep voice resonated throughout the tent. "Your faith will heal you! Brothers and sisters, do you believe?"

As the crowd chanted its response, Gwin's thoughts drifted. There were times when she wondered what it might have been like to be raised in a normal family, to have lived in a house rather than in the back of a rambling medicine wagon. She wondered what it would have been like to be raised by normal parents with respectable occupations.

Her stepfather, Silas, and her late mother, Emmaline, had preferred to call themselves "entertainers." Gwin thought this euphemism stretched it about a mile, if not two, but there was enough truth in it to hang a hat on. She tried not to brood too much over the past, and she never would have spoken of it aloud. She loved Silas. He had raised her the best way he knew how.

Silas now addressed her, breaking into her thoughts. "Speak your name, little sister!"

Gwin looked up to meet his ice blue gaze, the peculiar coloring she had inherited, although not exactly from him. Otherwise, no one would have guessed that they were related. The auburn shade of her hair, the pale cast of her complexion, the shape of her nose and her mouth, she had taken from her mother.

As she'd rehearsed, Gwin spoke in a tremulous voice. "My name is Susannah! My brother and I have come all the way from Laramie."

"You have traveled to this place to be with the Lord God Jehovah. I can see that, my sister! Do you believe?"

"I believe, Brother Christian!"

Silas lifted his head. His salt and pepper hair had been dyed coal-black, but it was beginning to thin on top. Indeed, these days he sported a rapidly expanding patch of scalp that not even Professor Throckmorton's Incredible Hair Tonic seemed able to cure. Silas closed his eyes and touched his forehead as if listening to the exhortations of angels. The crowd hushed.

"But it is not you who is to be healed tonight, is it, Susannah?" Silas opened his eyes and fixed his fevered gaze on Arthur. He cupped the child's face in one hand. "It is this young man, lame and hurting, who has come to be healed by God this night! Glory hallelujah! Do you believe, little brother? Do you believe?"

Arthur bobbed his head. "Oh yes! I sure do, Brother Christian! I really do!"

Silas turned to Clell Martin, who stood near the rear of the stage next to a pair of ex-dance hall girls, twins named Molly and Lolly. They had joined the troupe as gospel singers only two months before. "Bring me my Bible, Brother Jonathan! Quickly! I feel the spirit of the Lord upon me!"

When Clell had joined the group he had been an orphan picked up by Silas in the streets of Kansas City. That had been almost fifteen years ago. Since then, he had grown into a tall, handsome young man and now, as he hurried toward Silas, his golden hair gleamed in the light of the lamps that were strung around the perimeter of the stage.

As Clell passed the dog-eared Bible into Silas's outstretched palm, Silas's commanding voice rang out, mangling yet another verse from the Book of Matthew, and Gwin rolled her eyes. Much more of that and they would be dodging tomatoes before this night was over. What was wrong with him?

Silas raised the Bible high in one hand and touched the boy's head with the other. "Join with me now, brothers and sisters! It is only through your faith and belief in God that He will work His miracles through us here tonight!"

Silas now reached out to Gwin. "Give me your hand, Sister Susannah!"

Gwin raised her head and, with her fingers spread wide, lifted her hand to join with Silas's. It was only for a brief second that her own deformity flashed visible. A thin web of skin that joined the lower third of her ring and smallest finger was almost translucent when held up to the light.

"Remember the words of the Lord! All is well! Your faith will heal you!
Brothers and sisters, do you belieeeve?
"

The crowd bellowed and shrieked, cried and bounced to its feet. "We believe! We belieeeve!"

"Believe, little brother, that God will give you the strength to walk again! I say, walk again! Walk again!"

It was Arthur's cue. He gasped and grimaced as he cast away one crutch. The crowd
oooooohed
.  He wobbled and cast away the second crutch.
Ahhhhhhhhh!
He pitched sideways, catching himself against Gwin's shoulder. A woman in the front row shrieked and fainted, overcome with either spiritual ecstasy or heatstroke, just as Arthur took one trembling step forward. He took another few steps and fell into Brother Christian's waiting arms.

The crowd erupted.

Gwin jumped to her feet, tears now streaking down her face. "My brother walks again!" But her well-rehearsed line was lost, drowned out by the clamor of the crowd.

*

Gwin stood quietly beneath the moonlit sky, her arms folded as she surveyed the twinkling hills of San Francisco. In the distance below, Molly and Lolly had brought the service to a rousing conclusion by leading the congregation through all four verses of "Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus." Obviously, Gwin's premonition of disaster had been ill-founded. The show was over and this was their last night in town. What could go wrong now?

After the show, Gwin, Arthur, and a man named Wilson had filed from the overheated tent right along with the rest of the animated crowd, but unlike the others, they had circled back a half mile into the outlying hills to wait until the camp was deserted.

Arthur, who was always wound up tighter than a watch spring after a performance, was playing true to form. His child's voice rose high to spike the clear night air as he paced excitedly behind her. "Our revels now are ended! These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air!"

Wilson appeared by Gwin's side, taking a slow draw from his crumpled cigarette. "What is the matter with that boy?"

Silas had discovered Wilson working in a carnival sideshow. The man with the "melting face" was horribly disfigured from burns he had suffered as a child. These days, Wilson elicited mingled gasps of horror and pity as he edged his way, with the use of a cane, through the crowd. No one ever doubted his claim to blindness.

"He must have read it in one of our mother's books," Gwin replied to his question. "Arthur remembers everything he reads."

"Everything? He remembers
everything
?"

"Pretty near."

Arthur stopped to squint up at them from beneath the brim of an old engineer's cap, a battered hand-me-down from Gwin's own childhood. "Shakespeare.
The Tempest
, Act IV."

Gwin swatted him on the arm. "Stop showing off."

Wilson nudged the boy. "Shakespeare, huh? You know, I seen that
Macbeth
once in a playhouse in New York City."

"Really?" Now it was Arthur's turn to be impressed. "You been to New York City, Wilson? When was that?"

As Wilson proceeded to enthrall Arthur with stories of faraway New York City, Gwin watched her little brother's wide-open face and had to ride out a sudden wave of affection that threatened to engulf her.

While it was true that she didn't like to brood over her own past, she wished things were different for Arthur. Her little brother was bright. No, he was more than just bright. He was truly special, and he deserved better than to be raised in a family of sharpers. He deserved to be in school where his talents would be nurtured. He deserved to be raised in a proper home. Gwin knew this, but there was nothing she could do about it. She wouldn't take Arthur away from Silas.

“Let’s start back,” she said.

She proceeded down the hill toward the billowing circus tent while, behind her, Arthur badgered poor Wilson with more questions about New York. Gwin paid little attention. She was thinking that maybe later, when they knocked off in Kansas City for the winter, she would take some of her earnings and hop a train back to San Francisco. There was a good chance that her real father had settled in California many years ago, before she was born, and now, because of certain remarks Silas had let slip, Gwin believed her father might still be living here. If so, she was determined to find him.