From a High Tower Read online

  Cody blinked at her, and pushed his hat back on his head. “Huh. Well, ayup. Thet’s got me puzzled. We got good crowds first couple’a days, then arter thet, it jest peters out. Thet didn’ happen in England, nor in Italy, same people’d turn up two, three times. We got outa France purdy quick, seems they jest didn’t cotton t’Wild West shows, an’ it ain’t jest us, Buffalo Bill had th’ same problem.”

  “Well . . . I think it is because of Karl May,” she said, hesitantly. “It is because in Karl May’s books, the Indians are heroes. They are noble people, who only fight because their land is being taken. And in your show, they are savage bandits. You just told me not to contradict what people think because of Karl May, but that is what the show itself is doing.”

  Cody stared at her. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, closed it again, and stared at her some more. His moustache bristled with alarm before it settled down again.

  “All right,” he said, finally. “Our job ain’t t’edumacate people, like I said. Our job’s t’make money. So . . .” Now it was his turn to furrow his brow and sit in silence, thinking. “I reckon . . .” he said, slowly, sounding as if he was thinking out loud. “I reckon we gotta change th’ show. Like, ’stead of th’ Injuns attackin’ th’ settlers . . . the bandits could.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her, inviting her comment.

  “The Indians could rescue them,” she offered. “And instead of starting that off with the war dance, perhaps they could all become friends and have some other sort of dance?”

  He shook his head. “No, we need th’ war dance, but th’ war dance kin be ’cause they’re chasin’ the bandits off. An’ the settlers kin be goin’ t’ Californy, steada Texas.”

  “So they could have a peace pipe ceremony?” she suggested. “Karl May thinks pipe ceremonies are very important. I think everyone will want to see one.”

  “’E got thet right, at least,” Cody mumbled. He drank the rest of his beer. “Lessee . . . I wish’t we had more buffalo. We could hev a buffalo hunt. But them critters is hard ’nuff to control as ’tis, an’ I wouldn’ wanta risk runnin’ ’em on account of they might take a notion t’go through the barreecade inter th’ stands, an’ anyway, there ain’t ’nuff of them t’make a good show. The ones we got was trained from calves, an’ they’re still no picnic t’handle, but at least they kin be controlled pretty reliable.”

  He was rambling. She did her best to get him back on the subject. “Well, Leading Fox is an Air Master, why don’t he and I have a shooting contest?” she suggested. “Or . . . you know . . .”

  It was an audacious idea. And if she had not trusted Fox and his control of his Elementals, she would not have suggested it.

  “. . . he could do knife and perhaps tomahawk tricks with me as his target.” She began to warm to this idea, as Cody’s eyes widened in alarm and his moustache practically stood up by itself. “He could make my outline in arrows or knives. He could split an apple on the top of my head with an arrow or a tomahawk! I could hold things for him to shoot! He could shoot a cigarette out of my mouth!”

  Cody stared at her in utter disbelief. “You . . . you’d let him do thet?” he gaped.

  “He is an Air Master. He cannot miss as long as his Elementals and mine are making sure all is well,” she pointed out. She grew even more enthusiastic. “We could say we are blood brothers! That is very important in the Winnetou books, and in fact, we are, in a way. We could say that I trust his aim because of that!”

  “An . . . you think people’d go fer thet?” He shook his head. “If’n this was back home, people’d hev my hide fer riskin’ your’n that way, with a Injun.”

  “It would make people come back again and again,” she said, firmly, sure of her own ground. “But . . . we must ask Fox first. If he is against this, then we won’t do it. But you need to find a way to make the Indians heroes all through the show if you wish to make more money.”

  “I’ll think on it.” He shook his head. “It’s a furrin’ way t’ think.”

  “You’re in a ‘furrin’ country,” she pointed out.

  All he could do was shrug, thank her, and wish her goodnight.

  There were a good three days of travel by horse between Schopfheim and their next destination of Silberbrucke. Since no inn could possibly hold all of them, they had already planned on camping, making a more abbreviated camp than they did for the shows. They also planned on making the trip leisurely, to spare the buffalo, and to allow them to camp early enough to get in some practice sessions. Giselle drove her little wagon-home, sitting in the front door to do so, very grateful that all she would have to do would be to unharness and feed the horses and tether them to the wagon overnight. She did not envy those who had tents. Their quarters might be more spacious than hers, but it came at a cost of inconvenience—though they all did seem to be able to pull up camp quickly, so probably they could make camp just as quickly. Or perhaps they did not intend to pitch the tents at all. According to Karl May, frontiersmen often just laid down on a horse blanket with a saddle for a pillow and—

  And perhaps she needed to stop thinking about what Karl May said about Americans, and just keep her eyes open to what they actually did.

  Lebkuchen was harnessed in a team with a Grand Quadrille horse, whose name was Polly. Lebkuchen had been in harness before, of course, but never beside another. She didn’t like it, but Polly was not inclined to take her nonsense, and before they had gone many miles, Lebkuchen had settled into grudging acceptance of the situation.

  The entire company settled into a steady pace down the narrow country road—a pace, she suspected, that was far more pleasant for them, here, beneath the towering trees of the Black Forest, than it would have been back home. And this time, instead of referring to Karl May, she was comparing the road they were traveling with those glimpses of the West she had gotten from Fox’s language lessons. Here there was cooling shade, there—there was none. The road had seen enough rain that it was not dusty, but neither was it muddy—there, dust would have risen beneath the hooves of the foremost in the party to choke all of those who came behind. And the sun would have scorched down on them, punishing them from daybreak to sundown.

  Plus, she could encourage light breezes all along the road, just enough to keep the flies off the beasts and freshen the travelers. Without an Air Master in attendance, they would have had no such comfort. Perhaps that was why everyone seemed so cheerful.

  As they moved along, whenever they passed a farm, children and sometimes all the adults would drop whatever they were doing and run to the roadside to gape at them. Cody encouraged the entire troupe to smile and wave, and he would have Lightning do a few simple tricks, or Texas Tom would rope a fencepost or twirl his lariat above his head. Then Kellermann would hand the father, or at least the oldest boy, one of their handbills. “Y’never kin tell,” Cody said, when she asked him about this. “They might decide t’ pack up an’ come t’the town to see th’ show.”

  About midmorning, Leading Fox, who had been traveling at the front with the Captain, came trotting back along the line of wagons and beasts. He turned his handsome spotted horse when he came to her vardo, and rode along beside her.

  “Cody tells me you have given him revelations that cause him some concern, and make him think he will need to change the show, somewhat.” The Indian’s tone was more amused than anything else, so she nodded to him.

  “I would like to hear these revelations for myself.” He waited, clearly prepared to wait for as long as it took for her to tell him. So, once again, she found herself explaining the difference in how her people viewed the American frontier and especially its Indians, and how all this was due to the overarching influence of a writer who probably hadn’t ever been as near to a single real Indian as she was now, much less been the actual hero of the Western escapades he had written about so voluminously, and with such apparent authority.
/>   When she finished, Leading Fox rode beside her in silence for a long while. She didn’t dare say anything. All those things Karl May had said about Indians . . . what if he was angry? What if he was insulted? What if—

  Beneath the well-worn leather of his buckskin shirt, his shoulders were shaking. After a moment, she realized he was laughing, silently. Finally he spoke.

  “Apache . . . living in a pueblo! The Mescaleros friends with the Dineh! Apache farming!” His shoulders continued to shake. “And this is all only in the first book, you say! And there are many more such . . . books . . .” He finally calmed himself, but it was clear he was greatly amused. “Well, that does explain why your countrymen seemed to regard me as an object almost of veneration—and without ever realizing I am a Medicine Chief. I should like to meet this Karl May of yours one day. Although I fear he would not like to meet me. It would not be pleasant for him to have his illusions exploded.”

  She opened her mouth to object, but Leading Fox raised his hand.

  “No, I completely agree with the Captain that we should not explode these illusions. We should work within them. My tribesmen and I came over the great water in order to make a great deal of the white man’s money. The best way that we can do this in your land is to give your people what they wish to see. Cody is using our time between stops to think this over, and how he can change the show to match these expectations without changing what we actually perform all that much.” Fox smiled slightly as she heaved a sigh of relief. “I will tell you, it will improve our spirits, my tribesmen and I, to be transformed into heroes, and I do not think the others will care once Cody puts it to them that we stand to make much more money.”

  “I . . . I thought Indians didn’t care about money . . .” she said, hesitantly. “I don’t mean to . . .”

  Fox’s raised eyebrow caused her to stop before she said anything else. “Under most circumstances you would be correct. But my people, my little tribe, have been studying you whites for some time, working for you and among you. The Pawnee have been Scouts for the Union Army for many years now, partly because the Union Army fought the Cheyenne, the Arapaho and the Sioux, who were our enemies. Our reservation lands are poor. We have observed that time and time again, when something that a white man wants is found on our reservation lands, we are pushed to poorer lands yet. The only thing that the white man respects is a deed of land bought with money.” Leading Fox shrugged, slightly. “So, now in Cody we have a white friend who will buy land for us, and my tribe, at least, will never be pushed out again. If a white man tries to take it from us, we will go to the white man’s court, and show our paper, and he will go away unsatisfied. We may not have the breadth of land that we once were able to roam across freely, but we will have good land, land we can farm, land that will feed us. We will have to give over hunting the buffalo in favor of keeping cattle, yet that is a small price to pay for being free. But for that—”

  “You need money!” she exclaimed.

  “Even so,” he replied, with a nod. “In the Scouts, we learned to fight with the white man’s weapons. So we shall do so again, and the weapon is money. My tribe, at least. Perhaps, in time, we will seem to vanish into the white man’s landscape, as we vanished into our own, and he will take no heed of us, and we will go about our living in peace.”

  It seemed horribly unfair that Leading Fox and his people were being forced to work so far from home in order to buy back what should have been theirs by right. But as Giselle was sadly aware, there were many, many things that were horribly unfair. At least Fox and his tribe had a plan, and as far as she could tell, it was one that had a good chance of success, as long as they could all make this show prosper.

  “Now, Cody thinks, and I think, that some, indeed, many, of your ideas have merit. But they are scattered and unconnected as leaves before the wind,” Fox went on. “So we will take your ideas and give them substance and form. Cody is good at this. He would not have been able to save what is left of the show if he were not. He intends to hold a meeting tonight when we are camped, to explain what he has thought out. Once he makes the others understand why this must be, he will wait to see if they have an idea or two. He will probably call upon you to explain this writer to the others. But do not be surprised or unhappy if he claims your ideas as his own. You are new to the company; he has their confidence. You are a girl, he is a man, who has commanded. What comes from your mouth might be objected to. What comes from his will be heeded.” Again Fox shrugged. “It is what it is.”

  Well . . . she was surprised, and a little hurt, and rather disappointed to hear that. It made her feel a bit cheated.

  But she swallowed her disappointment, and nodded, because Fox was also right, and not just because she was new to the company, but because, as he had pointed out, she was a girl. She didn’t like it, not a bit . . . but it was what it was.

  Kellermann, riding ahead, had found a farmer who was willing to let the show camp in his pasture for the privilege of having his family come and gawk. The stolid little family certainly got enough to make their eyes go very round, as Cody had ordered that as many of the company as were inclined should get some practice in before sunset. The extensive family marveled at the bison from a safe distance, exclaimed over the longhorn cattle, watched her as she began trying to cut a playing card in half with a single shot, admired Texas Tom’s rope tricks, fed Lightning the Wonder Horse carrots until he was likely to become flatulent, and nearly went out of their minds with excitement over Leading Fox and his small band. Eavesdropping on them, it became clear that the entire family was composed of Karl May readers. Their cup of joy overflowed when Fox spoke to them in slow, extremely dignified German, answering their questions selectively.

  Quite selectively, Giselle noticed. Fox carefully avoided mentioning anything that would contradict what she had told him about Karl May’s writing. She wondered very much why it never occurred to them to question that an Indian spoke perfect German, but then again, given that Winnetou apparently spoke perfect German in the books, perhaps it never occurred to them that Indians normally did not. . . .

  Finally, just after sunset, Captain Cody shooed them gently off and gathered everyone under the mess tent for dinner and the meeting. Word had been spread of this meeting, and it was clear people were curious, and perhaps a little apprehensive.

  Perhaps because the last such meeting he’d called had been to announce that their manager had absconded with all the money.

  Lanterns on every table gave plenty of light, and it took remarkably little time for the company to sort themselves out and get seated. Once everyone was served, Cody stood up, and got instant silence. He looked around, his demeanor relaxed, and smiled. “First off, lemme tell y’all this ain’t bad news.”

  A wave of relief spread across the tent. Spoons and forks that had been held in tense hands now clicked against tin plates. If Cody was going to talk, that was all well and good, but so far as his troupe was concerned, it was no reason to refrain from eating, when you could listen and eat at the same time.

  “So, here’s what I done figgered out. Now, you all know Miz Ellie’s from these here parts, and I was askin’ her ’bout how folks felt ’bout our show an’ all, an’ she commenced to tellin’ me ’bout a writer feller in Germany who, well, from ever’thin’ she an’ Kellermann says, he’s just about Twain, Dickens, Mister Alger, an’ Shakespeare all rolled up inter one. An’ he mostly writes ’bout our parts back home.”

  Now she saw he clearly had the attention of everyone in the tent. They didn’t stop eating, but their eyes were fixed on him, intrigued.

  “Seems like ’bout everybody buys his books and reads ’em. Herr Bauer an’ his herd, on this here farm? Yeah, ev’ one of them, iff’n ye can reckon that! Shoot that’s like—like our boy Johnny Dermot an’ alla his family back home gettin’ thesselves every consarn one of Twain’s books soon as one comes out an’ settin’ down ev’ night
t’read one over supper!”

  They all laughed at that as Johnny blushed, but grinned, since it was common knowledge that the cowhand could barely write his name. Still she could tell that made an impression on them all.

  “So that’s why folks hereabouts are likin’ us way better’n the Frenchies did,” Cody went on. “But there’s jest one problem. This Mister May feller, the one that wrote all them books . . . he ain’t never been to the West. Hellfire, he ain’t never been to ’Merica. So he . . . kinda got a lotta stuff wrong.” Now Cody nodded at her. “So, tell ’em ’bout these books, Ellie.”

  She stood up, all eyes on her, and licked dry lips. “The books that people like best are about a German, who is supposed to be May himself, and an Apache chief named Winnetou,” she began. And choosing her words carefully, she began telling them the narratives of the books that she had read.

  Her audience began with raised eyebrows.

  The explanation ended with howls of laughter on the part of the others, and with herself a bright scarlet. Cody motioned for her to sit down, and she did so in mingled embarrassment and anger. If I’d thought he was going to make a laughingstock out of me—

  Her anger smoldered as Cody waited patiently for the laughter to die away. At that moment, if it had not been for Fox putting a restraining hand on her shoulder, she would have gotten up and stalked out of the tent . . . possibly even out of the show altogether.

  “All right, settle down,” Cody said as the last of the laughter faded, casting her a slightly apologetic look. “I might could remind some of y’all ’bout the times you stuck yer feet in it right up to the knee, when we got over t’England now . . . like when you got drunk an’ shot up that pub in Manchester, Tom, an’ we had t’bail y’all out . . . or when Jem mistook that fancy anteeky Chinee pot fer a spittoon.” Cody’s eyes were scanning the entire tent, and there were several people who tried to avoid his gaze, wearing expressions of chagrin. “Right then. Iffen y’all was actually listenin’ t’what Miz Ellie was sayin’, ’steada laughin’, y’all mighta noticed somethin’. Seems like when the folks hereabouts read them stories, there’s one thing that stands right out. Injuns is the heroes.”