My Calamity Jane Page 17

  Then the worst memory of all, Virginia City, Montana. By then Jane had known her mother could turn into a wolf monster, but she hadn’t known that turning into a wolf was brought on by a bite, or that there were other wolf people wandering about in this world, called the garou. At the time the wolf just seemed to be another one of the many facets of her ma’s personality: one minute, smiling, stroking Jane’s hair, rocking a baby in her arms, the next minute ranting and raving, throwing their only teacup to smash into bits on the floor, the next minute telling randy jokes around the kitchen table to a bunch of visitors, the next sprouting fur and fangs and ripping up the new curtains Lena had sewn.

  But that last night in Virginia City, that was the worst.

  And it had started with an argument over the moon.

  “Come on, Char,” Pa had pleaded with his hands full of rope. “We don’t want a repeat of last month. Let’s get you tied up.”

  “I don’t want to be tied up,” Ma said with an angry laugh. “I want to be free.”

  “You cain’t,” he said.

  “Why cain’t I?”

  “Because you might hurt someone.”

  “If I hurt someone,” she said coolly, “they had it coming.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Oh, but I do.” Ma smiled a wicked-type smile. “It ain’t natural to tie me up. It ain’t the way.”

  He shook his head. “What is the way?”

  “The way is the wolf.” Ma stretched her arms over her head and grinned. “I should run. I should hunt. If I kill someone, they were meant to die. If I bite them, they’ll turn, and that’s all the better.”

  “You will bring calamity upon us,” Pa said mournfully. He wasn’t drunk then, one of Jane’s only memories of her father sober.

  “No,” Ma said. “I’ll bring truth. Let me bite you, Robert, and you’ll see.”

  “And what about our children? Have you forgotten them?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “I love my children.”

  Jane, who’d been hiding up in the loft even though her pa had told her to go with her brothers and sisters to the neighbors’ for the night, smiled when she heard her mother say that. She loved her children. Which meant she loved Jane.

  “When they’re old enough, I’ll bite them, too,” Ma said.

  Her father inhaled sharply. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because then they’ll be strong. They won’t get diseases. They won’t die like so many sheep. They will be wolves in a pack. They’ll be part of the future, instead of stuck in the past.”

  Pa’s hands tightened on the ropes. “You’re not right in the head. It’s not your fault. I should have protected you. I should have never let you get bit.”

  “I wanted to get bit,” Ma said. “I asked for it.”

  “You what?”

  “I always knew I was meant for better things than this. I was meant for greatness. I won’t accept this is as the most I’m going to get—this shack in the mud. This life.”

  Her pa was quiet for a long time, and then he said, “I am your husband, so what I say goes. And I say I gotta tie you up.”

  Jane knew immediately that this was the wrong thing to say. Her ma never did like that “I’m the boss of you because I’m the man” kind of talk. Pa should know better.

  “I’d like to see you try.” Ma’s chair scraped as she stood up. There was the tearing of cloth and a low, horrible growl, and Ma was the wolf.

  Pa didn’t act surprised. He dropped the rope and picked up a chair, like he was the lion tamer Jane had seen once at a circus. With his other hand he brandished a gun.

  And that’s when Jane knew he meant to kill her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry, Char.”

  “No!” Jane cried.

  Both heads turned to look at her, peering over the edge of the loft. Then the beast that was her ma stalked toward Jane, snarling. In her yellow eyes Jane saw no recognition, no love, only an intent to harm. To bite. Maybe to kill.

  She scrambled back against the wall as the wolf leapt into the loft. A shot rang out, and the garou howled in pain as a bullet tore through her back. She fell heavily to the floor of the loft. Jane took the opportunity to run past her and jump off the edge.

  Her pa caught her as she came down. He set her on the floor and said calmly, “You run now, Martha, straight to the neighbor house, and don’t look back.”

  She ran. She tried not to hear the other gunshots behind her.

  She tried not to think about what they meant.

  At sunrise, her pa showed up at the neighbor’s house to collect the children. He was bandaged and bruised, his clothes in tatters. There was dullness to his eyes. But he was alive.

  “Goodness!” exclaimed the neighbor lady. “What happened to you?”

  “I took a tumble off my horse on the way over,” he said. “I’m all right.”

  His eyes found Jane’s.

  “Is she . . .” Jane couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  “She’s gone to the angels,” her pa said.

  “Oh my!” cried the neighbor lady, holding baby Sarah Beth tight to her chest as if to protect her from the news. “Was it the fever?”

  “Yes. It was a fever took her,” Pa said. “There was nothing for it.”

  Jane felt wetness on her cheeks. She opened her eyes. These dreams that had been chasing her were bad dreams, but there was a kind of relief in them. At least in these dreams, no matter how bad, she could see her parents again. She wasn’t alone.

  Outside the full moon was rising against the window.

  Come to me, it said.

  Jane threw back her head, and howled.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Frank

  “Are you gonna write something, or are you gonna just hold that pencil above that paper until we get there?”

  Bill was staring at Frank, who was staring at a blank piece of paper. The train rocked back and forth, and Frank and Bill rocked with it.

  George whimpered.

  “It’s okay, boy,” Frank said, scratching George’s head. “We’ll be there soon.”

  That’s not why I’m whimpering. There are so many ways you can start the letter. Just write it already.

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day . . .”

  “Oh, shut up,” Frank said. But actually that was pretty good. There was no way he was going to use it, though, and give George the satisfaction.

  Bill, who had given up on getting an answer from Frank, pulled his hat down over his eyes and tilted his head back.

  Bill’s own letter to Agnes was on the seat between them. Frank leaned over to read it.

  My own darling wife Agnes,

  I know my Agnes and only live to love her. Never mind, pet, we will have a home yet, then we will be happy.

  Frank felt a pang in his chest. He picked up the letter to read more.

  “Write your own darn letter,” Bill said from under his hat.

  “What am I supposed to write?” Frank said. “Something like, ‘Hey, I thought we were getting along pretty good, until I turned out to be something you hated. But maybe we can get past that?’”

  Bill sat up and put his hat back in its regular position. “Yeah, something like that.”

  Frank shook his head. “Annie’s hatred of wolves runs deep. It’s not something a letter can fix.”

  “But it might be something love can fix.” Bill took back his letter to Agnes.

  Frank turned away. “You’re only saying that because you found the love of your life.”

  “Maybe,” Bill said, sipping on a mug of coffee. “But love is strong.”

  “Strong enough to overcome hate?” Frank asked.

  Bill shrugged. “Maybe.” He lowered his hat again.

  You could tell her how you feel, George thought.

  “That’s just it. I don’t know how I feel.”

  Yes, you do, George thought again.
You just don’t know what to do about it.

  “Oh yeah?” Frank said. “How did you become so smart?”

  George buried his face against Frank’s leg. I’ve watched humans for years. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned— Wait, is that a ball? It’s a ball!

  George ran after a wadded-up piece of paper another passenger had thrown over his shoulder.

  “Gee, thanks, George,” Frank said.

  He went back to staring at his blank page. And finally, after a month of traveling, he wrote words.

  Dear Annie,

  “Okay, Frank,” he said to himself. “Progress.”

  He tried to see the situation from Annie’s point of view. What if he’d found out she was a garou? In that case, she’d probably have worked hard to become the perfect garou, best in her family, and then everyone would want to be a garou like Annie.

  Maybe that was the answer. He should bite her.

  George growled at him, as if he could read Frank’s thoughts.

  “I would never,” Frank said.

  Bill snored softly beside him, obviously content with his love life.

  “What are you working on?” a voice asked.

  Frank looked up to see a man sitting across the aisle. He was slight of build, but well dressed, with an expertly tailored suit and a pair of round glasses perched on his nose. A pencil and notebook rested on his lap. “I’m sorry, but who are you?” Frank asked.

  “Edward Wheeler.” The man held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  Frank shook it. “Aren’t you the one who’s been writing all of those garou stories?”

  The young man beamed. “Yes. I’m glad to hear someone’s reading them.”

  “Well, excellent work,” Frank said. “But I don’t know anything about all of that.”

  “Don’t you travel with Wild Bill and Calamity Jane?”

  “We’re on a hiatus,” Frank said.

  The man scribbled into his notebook.

  “That’s not something— There’s no story in what I just said,” Frank protested.

  Mr. Wheeler nodded distractedly. “I know. But I take notes on everything.”

  Frank wasn’t sure he felt very comfortable around someone who documented his every word.

  Mr. Wheeler looked up. “I’m doing a follow-up piece after your successful string of shows in Cincinnati. What’s next for your group?” He licked the tip of his pencil and held it poised over the notebook.

  After a long pause, Frank said, “We’re looking into retirement.”

  “Retirement?” Mr. Wheeler said incredulously. “At the height of your success?”

  “Well, Wild Bill got married and is looking to settle down.” Frank allowed himself a moment to feel sad. He had not talked to his dad about his apprehension over Bill’s impending retirement. Bill deserved to retire in peace and not bear any responsibility toward Frank’s utter despair about continuing the show without Bill and how could he do that to Frank??

  “But what about Calamity Jane?” Mr. Wheeler asked, pulling Frank back from spiraling into pure terror at the thought of the future. “She’s obviously not ready to retire. Where is she? Can I interview her?”

  Jane’s departure and subsequent travel to Deadwood was definitely not something Frank wanted in the papers.

  “Jane is taking something of a sabbatical,” Frank said. “So, really, there’s no story to tell.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” Mr. Wheeler said. “I heard she’s traveling to Deadwood for a particular reason.”

  Frank furrowed his brow. How could this reporter know so much? Then Frank remembered something his dad had told him about the press. Sometimes they pretended to already know something to get people to talk. Frank was not going to fall into that trap. “Who said she’s going to Deadwood?”

  “What’s the reason for her sabbatical?” Mr. Wheeler inquired.

  “She’s traveling to Deadwood for no reason,” Frank said.

  “So she is going to Deadwood,” Mr. Wheeler said.

  Frank rubbed his forehead. “Can we be done talking now?”

  Mr. Wheeler shrugged. “I think my readers would be very interested in knowing how Jane is doing. Have you at least heard from her? Is she all right?”

  Frank studied Mr. Wheeler’s face and thought that it wasn’t just the readers who were interested in how Jane was doing. Sadly, he didn’t know what was happening with Jane. Yet.

  He was about to give a vague response, but then he noticed another man walking down the aisle, probably on his way to the dining car. He was the same man Frank had seen accepting money from Jack McCall when they’d followed Jane to the train station. Frank would have recognized that enormous handlebar mustache anywhere.

  “Excuse me,” Frank said to Mr. Wheeler, standing up.

  “But wait, you were about to tell me about Calamity Jane,” Mr. Wheeler said.

  “Another time,” Frank said, waving him off.

  Frank followed the mustachioed man to the dining car and watched him order a dozen biscuits and a jar of jelly, which was definitely too much for one man to ingest.

  Then Frank followed him through two more train cars before the man finally sat down. Frank watched from just outside the door as the man distributed the food among a half dozen other passengers.

  “One at a time,” the man with the mustache said.

  The group formed a line.

  Frank noticed that one of them was missing a finger—like the worker who’d been bitten in the P & G factory. He was that worker, Frank realized, which meant he was a garou.

  Frank watched the group for a while. They all seemed dependent on the handlebar-mustache man, like he was in charge of them.

  Frank’s mind whirled. Mr. Handlebar Mustache had gotten money from Jack McCall, and now here he was taking the factory workers . . . where? Frank needed answers.

  It was time to confront this guy, even though confrontation was one of Frank’s least enjoyable pastimes. He would so much rather be shooting the ace of spades out of George’s teeth in front of a paying crowd.

  He entered the car.

  Mr. Handlebar Mustache looked up at Frank, then down at his newspaper, then up again, with a startled expression. There were biscuit bits in his mustache.

  “Can I talk to you?” Frank said. “I have some questions.”

  The man glanced around, surveying his cohorts. Then he nodded and motioned for Frank to follow him. They left the train car and stood in the corridor connection.

  “What are you doing with these infected factory workers?” Frank struggled to be heard over the roar of the wind.

  The man opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it.

  “Why did Jack McCall give you money?” Frank shouted.

  The man shook his head.

  “Who are you?”

  The man looked relieved. “My name’s Jud Fry.”

  Finally, Frank had an answer to at least one question, albeit the most useless. “Where are you going?” he yelled.

  “Deadwood,” Jud Fry answered.

  “Why?” Frank said.

  “Because . . . because . . .” Mr. Fry seemed unable to finish the sentence. It was like every time he attempted to speak, something was choking him.

  “Who’s giving you orders?” Frank shouted. “How are you involved?”

  Mr. Fry squeezed his eyes shut. “I . . .” He winced. “I can’t . . . I can’t say.”

  “I don’t think you want to hurt these people,” Frank said.

  Mr. Fry, eyes still shut, shook his head.

  “Then help me,” Frank implored him. “Who are you working for? Does this have anything to do with the Pack?”

  Jud Fry opened his eyes, forcing a nod. “I’m a thrall.” His expression became desperate, haunted.

  “A thrall?” Frank repeated. “What the heck’s a thrall?” The mayor had said something about thralls too.

  “I have to . . . do what they say,” said Mr. Fry, with effort. “I can’t .
. . talk about it.”

  “Who put you under this thrall?”

  “I said I can’t talk about it.”

  “Was it the Alpha? Who is the Alpha?”

  “I can’t,” Mr. Fry repeated. “If you want answers, find the cure.”

  “What? Why?”

  Mr. Fry held up a finger.

  Frank was patient, because the man obviously was going through something, and— Oh crap. With a yell, Jud Fry threw himself over the railing and off the train. For a few seconds, Frank thought poor Jud Fry was dead, but then he saw Mr. Fry tuck and roll and run off into the woods.

  Frank stood there for a minute, staring at the spot where Jud Fry had disappeared. Then he returned to the train car to interrogate the factory workers. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  The men exchanged glances with one another.

  Frank sighed. “Why are you on this train to Deadwood?”

  The man closest to him shrugged.

  “Are you under this thrall?” he asked another.

  The man pressed his lips together.

  Frank kept asking, but they stonewalled to the point that it seemed ridiculous. Eventually, Frank gave up and headed back to his own car to tell Bill what he’d learned, which wasn’t much, except that when he asked about the Alpha, Fry had told him to find the cure. What if the person behind the cure was the Alpha? Or knew something about the Alpha?

  Frank couldn’t be sure. But one thing he did know, riding that train as it hurtled toward Deadwood: there was no turning back.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Annie

  You might recall that Annie had also taken the train as far as it would go and then joined up with a group of would-be prospectors who were on their way into Deadwood. It had been a nice time, as far as arduous journeys across dangerous terrain went, as Annie had spent her days getting to know the other travelers, keeping a wary eye out for bandits, and performing a few trick shots for everyone in the evening. She had to keep her skills sharp, and she liked serving as a walking, talking advertisement for Wild Bill’s Wild West. (Shortly after leaving Cincinnati, Annie had decided she wasn’t fired until Mr. Hickok himself told her that she was fired.)