There was much to discover, as well. For instance, how the steel springs on the stagecoach made it rock like a cradle, rather than bouncing its passengers about, as Jessica would have expected. And how public execution wasn’t always conducted with civility outside the courthouse doors. More often than not, the guilty parties would be lynched from ranch gates, trees, or beams inside the stables. Either that, or shot beside an open grave, tied, if they were lucky, to a chair.
She also began to appreciate just what hardship the frontiersmen and women had to suffer. Rocking like a babe you might be, on the road out of Santa Fe. But you’d be wedged knee-to-knee, from dawn to dusk, with belching men and sweaty women clutching bawling babies, and if the ground was rough or rocky, you all got out and walked. Leather blinds at the windows, rather than glass, which would break, ensured the journey was either draughty and cold or else unbearably hot, and farmers led even worse lives, never mind the Indians. The real enemy was the weather, where drought, floods, and tornadoes wiped out years of planning in an instant.
But under Brodie McLintock’s watchful eye, the West was not so much wild as glamourized and tamed, where every single bullet found its mark. Under the strict march of routine, time sped by — helped, Jessica suspected, by the fact that she was living an artificial life in artificial surroundings. But there was solace in being carried with the current. Humming Negro spirituals while sewing blue beads on a deerskin tunic served to cushion her from the world beyond the compound. A cold, dark, cruel, and soulless world, and whilst all bubbles eventually have to pop, for now, among the wigwams and sombreros, the ponies and the warpaint, reality was feeling the draught of fifteen hunting knives whizzing past her hair.
“I’ve had some thoughts on how to improve the knife-throwing act,” McLintock told her one fine Saturday morning.
Out in the arena, a cowboy with swarthy good looks flicked and cracked a rawhide lash to make patterns in the ground. Idaho Joe was up a stepladder, nailing back a sign that had been knocked over in the melee. The rest, including Jessica, were doing what they did most mornings after breakfast: picking up the debris of the night before.
She shot him a sharp glance from the corner of her eye. “I have a feeling, sir, that my mood will not be enhanced by what you are about to tell me.”
One thing she had learned about the showman: Nothing stood still with him. Only two days ago, he had introduced a new money-spinner at the sideshows. Have Your Portrait Taken With a Genuine Cheyenne Chief.
“Considering,” she said, “that Soaring Eagle is a Sioux. And he’s not a chief, either, come to that.”
He shrugged. “Cheyenne sounds more noble, less warlike, and besides...” He grinned. “Since Soaring Eagle cannot read, he doesn’t know that he’s Cheyenne.” “Allow me to recite a poem I once heard.
There are tricks in all trades, even yours and mine,
And even showmen, sometimes, tread too close to the line.”
McLintock leaned down to collect the discarded ticket stubs that littered the fairground floor like snow. “I have a feeling my mood will not be enhanced by what’s coming next, either.”
She ignored him.
“We paid to see a marvel, a cherry-coloured cat,
Whatever else we passed by, we knew we must see that.”
The shells of roasted chestnuts crunched underneath their feet as they worked together to collect the litter.
“The thing was nothing but a con-trick, we wanted our money back.
But we were then reminded... that cherries, too, are black.”
“Now that, Miss Tate.” He wagged a playful finger. “That is precisely the kind of temperament that inspired my modification to your act.”
“Let me guess. You intend to pin me to a flaming wagon wheel and spin it while Raven Feather throws his knives.”
McLintock let out a throaty chuckle. “Hardly. I was simply going to institute a touch of comedy during the introduction.” He affected his showman’s stance and voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you now Raven Feather and his lovely wife, Three Ponies. Ned will then pipe up: Three Ponies? That’s an unusual name, isn’t it? To which I shall reply, Not if you’ve ever met her, Mr. Fenton. Nag, nag, nag...”
For the first time since she could remember, Jessica laughed.
“Exactly,” he said. “Because it strikes me that laughter is the one element that has hitherto been missing from the — flaming wagon wheel?” He flicked his long hair over his shoulders. “That is an inspired suggestion, Miss Tate. First-rate. In fact, I’ll have a word with Raven Feather right now. See how he feels about a moving target. It will certainly have the audience — Hey, are you all right? Miss Tate? Jessica?”
His voice came down a long tunnel. She couldn’t hear. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t even breathe...
“Fine. I’m fine. It’s just a dizzy spell, from bending down so much.”
“I didn’t mean to tease. There will be no danger from the knives,” he assured her earnestly. “The act—”
“No, no, I realize that.” Most of it was skill, but there was also some degree of trickery involved. “I just... just—”
In her hand, the newspaper she’d picked up was shaking like an aspen. The Wimbledon Times had, quite understandably, given the Extravaganza a stupendous review. Superlatives peppered the account like grapeshot. But news was news, and certain things took precedence. The front page, for instance, whilst making mention of the show, was primarily dedicated to two separate murders in the area. One, the grisly discovery of a man who had been bludgeoned to death in his own home. The killing must have taken place some time ago, since it was only when neighbours noticed an unpleasant smell that the police broke down the door and found the body. The second reported the murder of a young woman who had been found strangled on the Common.
“Ah. That.” McLintock took the paper from her shaking hand. “Read about it myself. Nasty business.” He rubbed his jaw. “Poor girl was here only a few days ago, pestering Ned Fenton for a job.”
Jessica remembered her. Snub nose. Bold eyes. Now lying in the morgue...
“He refused to employ her, although Lord knows a couple of saloon girls handing out fliers in the suburbs wouldn’t go amiss. Froths and feathers are the best advertising money can buy.” McLintock’s mouth pursed downwards. “Thing is, though, and as much as I hate to speak ill of the dead, girls like that bring nothing but trouble.”
Jessica focussed on her toes. “Girls like what, exactly?”
“Prostitutes, Miss Tate. Sorry to be so blunt, but that’s how it is with a life on the road. Girls think they can make easy money by joining a travelling show, and, of course, they can. Often, men who visit these sideshows do so in the hope of experiencing a rather more personal thrill, but this Extravaganza is family entertainment, Miss Tate. Such men are doomed to disappointment, and if one happens to vent his frustration in murder beyond the boundaries of our fence, it is tragic. But by no means uncommon.”