Buffalo Bill Wanted! (9 page)

“A churchyard?” Jennie said in surprise.

“It's bigger than that,” Wiggins replied. “There's a wall around the place so people can't see in. The graveyard is also near the gasworks—not so many people round about there.”

He got up and headed for the door. “Maybe we should go and take a look before the coppers hear about this and come searching.”

Less than ten minutes of walking brought them within sight of the brick walls surrounding the cemetery. Wiggins began dragging his feet. “My little brother is buried here,” he said. “It's where they put people who are too poor to pay for a funeral— thousands and thousands of them, I was told.”

He shook his head, forcing the tears away. “There might be someone at the gates,” he said, his voice gruff.

Jennie eyed the bricks. “I bet we could climb that wall.”

They all did, although Dooley needed a boost. Wiggins looked around at the cramped rows of crosses and statues that rose all around him. This was the private part of the cemetery, where people could buy plots. There were even a few aboveground mausoleums. The tombs were older. Almost fifty years of weather and London's smoky, cindery air had left all the stonework looking dingy.

His heart sank. The place was a quarter-mile square. How could they hope to find Silent Eagle if he didn't want to be found?

Jennie stepped forward. “Excuse me, Mr. Silent Eagle,” she said, not shouting but in a very clear voice. “I'm hoping you may remember us. We're friends of Colonel Cody—” She glanced back at her friends. “What did Chief Tall-Like-Oak call him?”

“Pahaska,” Owens told her.

“We're friends of Pahaska,” she went on. “You saw us at his tent the other day. And we saw you today when the police came for you.”

“I tried to help you,” Wiggins added, “with the keys.”

“And we want to help you now,” Jennie added.

Wiggins wasn't sure where the man came from. One moment, all he saw was stonework; the next moment, Silent Eagle stood in front of them. Dooley took a half step back and behind Wiggins.

The warrior gazed at them for a long moment, then nodded. “Silent Eagle remembers.” He gave them a half smile. “I do not think the blue-coat soldiers would send such young ones as trackers. So I will believe—and hope—you come to help me.”

“We don't think you done—did—nothing.” Dooley spoke up. Still, he remained hidden behind the others.

“I did not hurt the blue-coat man,” Silent Eagle said. “He made me angry because I believed he mocked me when the buffalo got loose. But Pahaska explained to me that the man thought we should laugh together after facing danger, so I did not stay angry.”

“We saw what you did with the buffalo,” Owens said. “You were brave, and your quick thinking saved a lot of people. Not like that bloke with no chin.”

Nodding, Silent Eagle lightly struck his own chin with the side of his hand, as if he were cutting it off. “That one did not know what to do. Zeke Black brought him from the big boat. Two of our buffalo had died, so they brought some more across the Great Water. Only one survived the journey, though. Zeke Black brought it to the camp, along with that useless man. I tried to explain this to the little man who does business for Pahaska.”

“Mr. Salsbury?” Owens asked.

Silent Eagle scowled. “I do not trust that one. He walked away, and I decided to go to Pahaska. But the blue coats would not let me out.”

“So you climbed over the wall,” Wiggins said.

The Indian nodded, looking surprised. “But when I came to Pahaska's house, that one—Salsbury—was already there. I returned to the camp. Then the blue coats came to take me, saying I almost killed a man, a chief who counsels Grandmother England.”

Dooley poked his head around Wiggins. “Who?”

“I think he means the queen,” Jennie said.

Silent Eagle nodded. “The old woman who came to us in a great shining wagon. Many came with her, but I did not see this chief. I do not know him. How then could I fight with him?”

The Indian looked down at his hands. “Since I went to the reservation, I have not carried a weapon, except for the ones they give me when we ride for the people. And those can do no harm.”

He glanced at his young listeners. “When a red man goes out among the white men in strange places, it is not good to have a knife or gun.”

“I guess not,” Wiggins said.

“Pahaska asked me to travel with him, and I agreed so I might learn the white man's secrets.” Silent Eagle smiled bitterly. “I went to learn how they could defeat my people so many times. Then I saw how you live— so many pressed together, so many greedy people, so much lying.”

He shook his head. “And when they come to punish those who do evil, you lock them behind stone walls.”

“What do you do?” Jennie asked.

“We drive them out or we kill them.”

Wiggins couldn't control the sudden chill that ran through his body. Indians lived a very different life from the folk of London town—even the poorest— with much harsher rules. Yet he absolutely believed that Silent Eagle was innocent.

The Indian's voice was matter-of-fact as he continued. “Better for a red man to lie as one of those buried here, behind stone walls, than to live that way. I thought these things while I stayed here, after I sent the horse on its way. For I realized I was alone in Grandmother England's land, where many white men and great waters stood between me and the plains that are my home. Then I said to myself, ‘I will sing my death song, go out of this place, and die fighting.' ”

“But you're not alone,” Owens said. “We believe you.”

“I am glad for that,” the Indian replied. “But there are many powerful men who do not believe me.”

“If you die, people will
never
believe you and the one who really did the evil won't be found,” Jennie explained. “Colonel Cody—Pahaska—will help fight to clear your name. You must find a place to stay safe until he can help you.”

“And where would that be?” Wiggins asked. “The coppers will be round here soon enough. Even if we had room for a boarder, I don't think my mam would jump at the idea.”

“Nor mine,” Owens had to admit.

“I can't see getting him up the stairs in our place,” Dooley said. “Too many people about.”

“Mr. Pilbeam?” Jennie suggested.

Wiggins shook his head. “He was a yeoman of the guard, protecting the queen. I don't see him hiding someone on the run from the law.” The pub owner was sweet on Wiggins's mother and had done many favors for the family. But this would be one favor too many. “Besides,” Wiggins went on, “there are too many sets of eyes around the Raven.”

“Maybe—” Owens drew the word out, his voice tentative.

“Maybe what?” Jennie asked.

“Or who?” Wiggins said.

“Mr. Shears,” Owens said. “He doesn't like Pryke, and he was suspicious about this whole hooraw. If we explain everything to him, he might be willing to help—at least for a little while.”

Skulking through the back alleys, they came to Mr. Shears's barbershop quickly enough. Owens and the members of the Raven League had a longer time convincing Mr. Shears to help Silent Eagle.

At last, Shears agreed. “There's a deal of clutter in back,” he warned. “It's closer to a storage closet than a room.”

“As long as there's space for Silent Eagle to sit.” Jennie glanced nervously at the Indian warrior. “You won't mind, will you?”

Silent Eagle shrugged. “Better here than in the white man's jail.”

“Just one thing.” Shears glanced at the razors and scissors neatly lined up along the counter. “Any cutting of hair around here, I do it.”

Even Silent Eagle smiled at that.

“We'll bring you some food,” Jennie promised, “and a change of clothes. I have a friend at a tailor's shop. They'll give me some old clothes.”

“Will you go back to Pahaska's camp?” Silent Eagle asked. “I must send messages to him and Tall-Like-Oak.”

“We'll bring them tomorrow.” Jennie scribbled notes as Silent Eagle spoke.

While they worked, Wiggins frowned, a thought coming to him. “If Mr. Holmes had been handling this case, the first thing he'd have done was to examine the scene of the crime,” he said. “That's what we'll do—first thing in the morning.”

Chapter 10

“THIS IS BETTER THAN HANGING FROM THE BACK OF some wagon.” Dooley eagerly leaned forward into the wind.

“So long as you don't tumble off the front.” Jennie caught hold of Dooley's belt, pulling him back. She sat in front with Dooley, trying to look calm and collected.

“You act like this is your first time on an omnibus, ” Owens teased.

“It is,” Dooley admitted cheerfully. “And I bet you've never been on one neither.”

“Face it, carrottop,” Owens shot back from the seat across, where he sat with Wiggins. “None of us have ever been on one of these.”

Wiggins chuckled. “True.” The omnibus was a double-decker affair with seats inside and on the roof. A single flight of narrow stairs curled up the back end of the horse-drawn public transport to the top—which was where he and his friends had decided to sit on their journey back out to the Wild West encampment. When they met this morning, the bus had been Wiggins's first choice.

“Wouldn't the Underground have been faster?” Owens asked. They'd had to change buses several times since they set off on the journey.

“Sure,” Wiggins replied sarcastically. “And it would have eaten up the money Colonel Cody gave us a lot quicker too.”

They arrived at the show grounds and quickly headed for the second footbridge—the one that led to the corral.

“All right,” Wiggins said, stopping next to the stables that flanked the entrance to the bridge. “This is where the constable was attacked. So any clues left behind will be right around here.”

“You mean if there are any clues,” Dooley corrected.

Wiggins tried to adopt a stern expression. “No, I don't,” he replied. “Mr. Holmes says there are always clues; you just have to look for them the right way. . . .” He struggled for a moment, trying to remember the right words. “Don't simply see,
observe
”

“We also have to get these messages to Colonel Cody and to Chief Tall-Like-Oak,” reminded Owens.

“There aren't too many people around here now,” Jennie pointed out, “but that might change.”

Wiggins thought for a moment, then grinned. “All right, then,” he replied. “You and Dooley start looking. Owens and I will join you after we deliver the messages.”

“But I want to—”

“Grand!” Owens called back as he and Wiggins ran off. “We'll be back soon.”

Dooley gave Jennie a look. “Well, isn't this nice? They go off and leave us to muck around. I think Wiggins just put us together 'cause he thinks I need a minder.”

“Perhaps he just thinks we work well together,” Jennie said. “Remember our first case?”

Dooley immediately brightened. “Maybe you're right.” He quickened his step. “Well, then let's get to it.”

For several minutes, Jennie and Dooley wandered about the entrance to the bridge, looking at the ground. They made wider and wider circles, then started looking inside the stables. The painstaking search quickly left Dooley feeling frustrated, especially since he wasn't really sure what they were looking for.

“This isn't getting us anywhere,” he complained.

Jennie was peeking over the rail into one of the empty horse stalls. “You have to be more patient,” she advised. “If it was easy to find, the police would already have it.”

“You don't know some of our coppers,” Dooley muttered, kicking a wisp of hay.

After a few more minutes, Dooley drifted out onto the footbridge. He leaned against the railing and looked down onto the tracks below.
Maybe a train will come by,
he thought,
and cover the whole bridge in a cloud of steam. Would that be like flying in a cloud?

His daydream stopped when he caught a glimpse of yellow and white on the embankment just behind the stable. The ground that sloped down to the tracks was covered with small stones and gravel. A spindly bush had managed to push its way to sunlight. Whatever it was—a book or magazine—had caught under a branch.

Dooley could see it was beyond his reach. Maybe he could climb over and grab it. But someone might see him, or, worse yet, he might roll down the steep hillside right into the path of an oncoming train. Then he remembered the pitchfork leaning against one of the stable stalls.

In a flash, Dooley grabbed the tool and returned to the bridge. Jennie never noticed him as she poked around for clues three stalls down.

Leaning as far as he could, Dooley reached out with the pitchfork. Holding it by the very end of the handle, he eased one of the fork's prongs between the pages. The magazine folded over the prong as Dooley slowly lifted up the tool and pulled it back toward him.

Just as he brought the pitchfork over the stone wall of the bridge, the magazine started to slip off the prong. Dooley quickly yanked back with one hand and reached over the railing with the other to grab the publication just as it fell.

It was in fairly good condition, medium-sized with a softbound yellow cover. Dooley couldn't read the title or any of the other words on the cover or inside, but a picture caught his eye.

The illustration on the front showed British constables capturing a hard-looking ruffian. A quick glimpse at the first few pages revealed similar illustrations of criminal types and police officers.