feared a panic that would panic fair-goers and cause a stampede like that of the buffalo the Indians wanted to recall.
“You’ll need help,” Cody said.
“You must carry on with your show so that they suspect nothing,” Holmes told him.
“This is Wovoka’s work!” said Cody. “If the others are party to it, it’s because of him.”
“They may not be involved,” said Holmes, “but we must waste no more time. Come, Watson, let us take up our station.”
I did not know what or where our station was, yet I followed Holmes as always. As we hurried along and passed the big show tent, I found myself wishing I had brought my pistol, but I had left it behind in Baker Street. We were, I thought ruefully, a long way from home. I should have borrowed one of Cody’s sidearms, but it was too late for that now. Holmes set a rapid pace, and I was hard pressed to keep up with him.
Between breaths, I asked Holmes what the Ghost Dancers expected to achieve, and how we might stop them.
“I believe they seek revenge on Cody for his imagined part in the events leading to Sitting Bull’s death and the later slaughter at Wounded Knee.”
Holmes’s knowledge of the West’s history far surpassed mine. I knew little of the latter event other than that after Sitting Bull was killed, a number of their tribesmen, including women and children, had been killed in a fight with the U.S. Cavalry at Wounded Knee, in the Dakotas three years ago.
“They may also hope to call attention to their plight,” Holmes continued. “Most of them remain on reservation land no white man wants or could live on.” He paused. “Or Wovoka might merely crave attention. Since the Ghost Dance’s failure, he has lost influence and prestige.”
Holmes was no believer in visions, and thought little of those who held to them, especially when others were likely to suffer because of them.
“We should arrive in ample time to prevent the burning of the cabin,” Holmes continued, though he did not slacken his pace. “Did you not see the Fire and Guard building earlier?”
As always, Holmes’s powers of observation outstripped my own. I confessed I had not. “You were no doubt looking at the Ferris wheel,” he said. “The station is quite near the Indian village, and there are hundreds of guards. Perhaps a thousand or more, though of course not all in one place.”
“You did not mention them to Cody.”
“I was not entirely sure of their competence or presence, though having walked along the Midway, I am now more certain of their numbers. Did you not notice them?”
Once again I had to confess that I had not, though now that he mentioned it, I did recall a number of men in uniform.
“They were recruited especially to make the Exposition safe,” Holmes said. “In spite of my earlier misgivings, I believe we can count on them for help.”
I hoped he was correct. We reached the Midway, which bustled with a multitude of men, women, and children. The crowd at the Ferris wheel was especially impressive. We made our way through them, apologizing as we went, and soon came to the Fire and Guard building. Holmes went up to the door and asked a capped and uniformed young man there for someone in authority.
“I am in authority,” the man said, his scanty moustache fairly bristling. “You can tell me what you need.”
Holmes was not one to truckle, but this was an emergency. Instead, he said, “I believe someone plans to burn Sitting Bull’s cabin in the Indian village. We must prevent it.”
The young man did not hesitate. Fishing a whistle from a pocket, he blew a piercing note, and men ran to us from all sides as well as from within the building. The young man crammed his whistle back into his pocket and began shouting orders.
It was one of the few times that I ever saw Holmes appear dumbfounded. In fact, I cannot remember another. He had not expected such a reaction, but it seemed that the Guard had been waiting for an opportunity to show its value, apart from the usual petty annoyances of asking people for their admittance cards and harassing them for minor violations.
Unfortunately, the men were merely hired with the idea that their numbers and manner would prevent problems. Confronted with a true crisis, they dashed off in all directions, shouting at the crowds and each other, shoving people aside, and generally wreaking havoc along the Midway. Men and women clutched their children to them, while those whose offspring had wandered off looked wildly about and cried out for them.
“My word, Holmes!” I exclaimed as the mob surged around us. “What have we done?”
Holmes, though some would not expect it from him, was not without humour. He smiled a thin smile and said, “It seems my uneasiness about the Guard was justified, after all. However, if this massive disorder does not disrupt the plans for the fire, nothing will.”
“But what of those who planned it? Will they not escape in the confusion?”
“It will be our job to stop them.”
“How will we know them?”
“The Ghost Shirts,” said Holmes. “We must look for the Ghost Shirts.”
I recalled the man we had seen in the cabin earlier. I had, at least, observed that much. We forced our way through the throng and were pushed about in return. When we reached the Chinese theater with its tall towers trimmed in red and blue, Holmes tugged at my sleeve.
“There, Watson!” he said, and pointed.
I saw, over the heads of many people, a man dressed in a long black coat, his head covered by a black hat that almost concealed his face.
“That is Wovoka,” said Holmes.
No Ghost Shirt could be seen. “He has taken to wearing the clothing of civilization so as to be unrecognized,” Holmes insisted. “After him, Watson!”
We hastened in the man’s direction, but Wovoka saw us coming. He must have known we pursued him, for he took to his heels. Thanks to the crowd, however, he could move no faster than we at first, but the multitude thinned quickly, as most were drawn to the cabin where the Guard had gone. Wovoka ran faster, as did we.
By the time Wovoka reached the Ferris wheel, we had narrowed the distance. Ahead of us, the gargantuan wheel rotated slowly on the mighty axle, its heavy cars rocking gently as it turned. To my surprise, we saw Wovoka leap up the stairs to the loading platform, thrusting aside those in line, and throwing several of them to the ground and impeding us.
Perhaps he hoped we would be afraid of the machine, or perhaps he thought that he could escape into the sky from its upper heights, and hang suspended while the Ghost Dance changed the world. First, though, he had to board it, but the operators made no attempt to stop the wheel, and the cars were secured by screened windows and locked doors.
Wovoka did not intend to be captured. He leapt from the platform and grabbed hold of the roof of a passing car. Within seconds he had pulled himself atop it. The passengers in the car stood from their chairs and watched in amazement.
“He has trapped himself,” said Holmes as the car moved upward. “In the great circle, he can only come back around to us here on the platform.”
For the barest fraction of a second, I thought of the Reichenbach Falls and of a figure dropping down, down. “Holmes,” said I, “what if he chooses not to return atop the car?”
“Then he does not, but I believe he will, Watson. The Ghost Dance is a circle, and he circles now. He will return to close the circle.”
When Wovoka reached the apex of the wheel’s turn, we watched him rise to stand atop the car, look toward the sky, and spread his upraised arms. It was an amazing sight: the man of the plains rode atop the engine of civilization, stretching out his arms for something he sought, something beyond the power of man or machine to deliver. I do not know what answer he might have sought in the blue and the clouds, but I do not think he found it. He remained firmly fixed atop the car.
The wheel continued in its round, and as his car began its descent, Wovoka sat down cross-legged, his shoulders slumped. When the car reached the platform again, he jumped off, right into the waiting arms of Sherlock Holmes.
I believe he had hoped to be taken up into the sky, until the earth covered us over-me, Holmes, Buffalo Bill, the
