Then Holmes opened the door to reveal the great showman standing there. He wore a wide-brimmed grey felt hat, black coat and britches, and western boots. His hair, moustache, and goatee were shot through with grey, and his piercing gaze lighted on Holmes’s face.
“Mr. Holmes,” Cody said, sweeping off his hat, “it is a pleasure to see you again. But how did you know who I was before you even opened the door?”
“Who else in this city but the great scout of the plains could move so silently through the corridors of the hotel that no one could hear him?”
Cody had turned his right ear slightly toward Holmes to hear the answer, and Holmes touched his nose surreptitiously so that only I could see. I ascertained his meaning, as I smelled the faintest odor of livestock, a clue that I felt we need not mention to Cody.
“I guess that’s so,” Cody said with a smile.
Holmes gestured him inside. “You remember Dr. Watson, I am sure.”
Cody said that he did, and shook hands with me in his frank American way. After the re-introduction, Holmes offered him a chair. Cody sat down, both feet planted on the floor, his hands clasping his knees as he leaned slightly forward. He was about to speak, but Holmes raised a hand to stop him.
“Before you tell us why you have come to visit,” Holmes said, “I would like to know how you learned we were in Chicago.”
“Easy enough,” Cody said. “I saw it in the newspaper.” I suppressed the urge to tell Holmes that the article proved I was right about his being known in North America.
“Ah,” Holmes said, with a glance in my direction as if to say he knew my thoughts. “I suppose some reporter or other noted our arrival at the railway station.”
“Must have,” Cody said, “and then he jotted it down in time for the late edition. As soon as I saw it, I decided to track you down.”
Holmes walked across the room and rested his shoulder against the chimneypiece. “Not as difficult as tracking on the plains, I imagine,” said he. “But you did not come here to talk about tracking.”
“No,” Cody said. “I came to ask for help.”
Holmes took his pipe and the Persian slipper, brought all the way from England on our journey, from the chimneypiece. He filled his pipe with tobacco from the slipper, and when he had made sure the pipe was lighted to his satisfaction, he said, “I am not surprised to hear it. A man with your duties and responsibilities at this moment would not come merely for a visit. What is the nature of the problem?”
Cody leaned further forward as if to express his earnestness. “It’s not real easy to explain. Have you heard that one of the exhibits here at the Exposition is Sitting Bull’s cabin?”
Holmes looked in my direction. Taking my cue, I said, “We have read of it, but have not yet strolled the Midway. I believe there will be a daily ‘war dance’ performed at the site. It is, if you will permit me to say so, not unlike something from your own show.”
“It sure is,” said Cody. “Some folks might even see it as some kind of conflict, but that’s not the problem.”
“The problem has to do with the cabin, however,” said Holmes.
“It does. I believe somebody wants to destroy it.”
“But why?” said I. “And how?”
“How? Well, the plan is to burn it. Why? That’s hard to say. Some people never have forgiven Sitting Bull for his part in the Custer massacre, and even his death at the hands of the Lakota police didn’t end their desire for revenge. To destroy his cabin would be one way of striking at him even though he’s dead.” Cody sighed. “There’s more to it than that, though. If the cabin’s destroyed, at least some of the blame will fall on me and people in my show. Sitting Bull was with me for a little while, and even now I have some Indian performers that the government and a lot of the rest of the country would prefer to have living on the reservations. Destroying the cabin would be an act of revenge, and it would make me and my performers look bad.”
“Have you informed the police?” I asked.
“Certainly,” Cody said, “but I have a feeling they’re not up to the job.”
Holmes nodded his assent and added, “Their forces are spread too thin with the Exposition and all its visitors. It would be difficult for them to mount a twenty-four-hour guard on an exhibit on the basis of a rumor.”
“It’s no rumor,” Cody said. “I’m sure of that.”
“Then how did you come to hear of it?” asked Holmes.
“From Annie Oakley and Frank Butler. They overheard two men talking. One of them said, ‘Burn Sitting Bull’s cabin.’ Butler says he heard him distinctly, and he heard the other agree. The voices came from behind a row of tents. Naturally, Butler ran down to the end of the row, but by the time he got there, the men had disappeared, lost in the crowd of people who work on the show. There are hundreds of them.”
“And no one else overheard the conversation?” said Holmes.
“No one. The nearby tents were deserted, and it’s a wonder that Butler happened to hear, considering the noise of the camp. Can you help me, Mr. Holmes, or do I need to go to somebody else?”
“Butler overheard nothing more?”
“Only nonsense. He could tell you himself if you’d come for a visit to my campgrounds.”
“Very well,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, let us see what we can do to assist our American friend.”
Colonel Cody expressed his thanks and settled his hat on his head. Holmes and I readied ourselves and went with him to the site of the great Columbian Exposition.
We went first to the Indian village on the Midway, as it was nearer the hotel. The site was across the way from the Lapland village, which had a board building covered with sod as well as a tent. Next to it stood the International Dress and Costume exhibit, which promised “Forty Ladies from Forty Nations, a World’s Congress of Beauties.” I was quite eager to have a look inside the building, but Holmes, of course was not interested.
“We did not come here to gawk, Watson,” he said.
Further down the Midway was the immense Ferris wheel, towering 250 feet above the ground. I was thoroughly interested in that, as well, but Holmes had eyes only for the Indian village.
First, he inspected the sign that announced the war dancing. He said, “Make a note of the time, Watson.” I did, and we entered the area and found the cabin easily. The outside walls were pocked with bullet holes and what I took to be splashes of blood, possibly a result of Sitting Bull’s final moments.
An Indian stood near the entrance. He was clothed in full buckskin regalia and wore long braids and a feather in his hair. Cody spoke to him, the man moved aside, and we entered. As we did, another went quickly out the back door. He wore a loose shirt with crimson bands at the cuffs, elbows, and shoulders. A wide crimson “V” adorned the neck. Cody came in behind us and did not see him, but Holmes stood silently for a moment, looking toward the doorway.
The moment passed, and Holmes, as was his custom, examined the entire edifice with great care. I had no idea what he might have been looking for, as, knowing nothing of such a cabin, I saw nothing out of place. The place smelled of the smoke of many winter fires. The odor had infused the very wood of the walls, along with the smell of tobacco.
When Holmes had finished his inspection, he pronounced himself ready to speak to Butler, and Cody led us down the Midway, past innumerable wonders, though none was so grand as the Ferris wheel. We had a walk of several blocks beside the tracks of the Illinois Central Rail Line before reaching a crossing street, and then another long walk past the tents of Cody’s show and livestock before reaching the campgrounds, which were located between the Illinois Central and the Exposition itself. Farther to the east was the vast inland sea called Lake Michigan, and a breeze from the lake cooled the air.
The campgrounds swarmed with men and women striding about in the colorful garb of all the nations represented by the Congress of Rough Riders, and of course American Indians and cowboys of all stripes. They seemed to have no purpose in mind, but Cody assured us that all had definite assignments. The air was thick with the smell of livestock.
“We had best talk to Mr. Butler as soon as possible,” Holmes said.
“Before I left to find you, I asked him to stay in his tent,” Cody said, and he led us through the crowds.
As we walked, I heard a veritable babble of languages spoken around us. I wondered if Butler had detected a distinct accent, and I was certain that would be among the first things Holmes questioned him about.
The tent to which we were led was somewhat larger and grander than most, if grand is a term that may be
