Chapter 11 #2
Suzette was seated within the coach. Her role in this drama was to be the maiden in distress, the one who would be rescued by Buffalo Bill, himself. It was Saturday, late in the afternoon, and this would be the last of three shows for the day.
The coach jerked back and forth as dirt from the mules kicked up enough dust to create a cloud, even this cold, Colorado environment.
Suzette was reclining next to an open-air window, and with the coach running at full speed, she was joggled this way and that, often sliding into the gentleman seated next to her, necessitating several apologies from them both.
Behind the coach could be heard the war cries and the high-pitched whooping of the Indians as they gained speed over the wagon.
In anxiety, Suzette’s stomach lurched over once, causing Suzette to lay a protective hand across her abdomen.
Funny, the Indians hadn’t sounded so frightening in rehearsal.
What was it about the actual performance that made the event seem so real?
Perhaps in rehearsal the Indians were not so loud or so intent on their prey, or maybe the crack of the whip was not quite so ominous or desperate.
Whatever it was, it took no stretch of the imagination to envision how it would have felt to be involved in a real incident, even knowing that Buffalo Bill and his riders were to come to their “rescue.”
Jittery now, she glanced toward her fellow passengers seated across from her, a man and his “wife.” They all three shared a smile, and then, on cue, the man drew his pistol, leaned out the window and commenced firing the blanks from his gun.
Gazing once again out her own window, Suzette marveled at the skill of the Indian brave who rode up to the front of the coach on her side. The warrior sent a round of arrows toward the driver, who immediately fell over, “dead.” But the stagecoach kept going.
The Indian jumped from his seat on his pony to the coach, grappling to hold on while he wormed his way onto the topmost seat.
Truly, it was a most athletic move. Meanwhile, another one of the Indians, a man she knew was called Red Shirt, rode up to her window, and, drawing his bow taut, sent an arrow aimed directly at her.
She screamed, even as the arrow whizzed harmlessly past her. Of course she’d known this was to happen; they had rehearsed it many times. Be this as it may, however, whether the stunt was real or not, it was still shocking.
At last the stagecoach came to a halt. The Indians dismounted and surrounded them. One Indian, whom she believed to be the man she knew as Red Shirt, ripped her door open.
Suzette screamed, again according to script. Even without the inducement of the script, she might have truly screamed regardless. Indians were everywhere—and they were painted for war.
And then the oddest thing happened: the Indian who had ripped open her door winked at her.
Winked at her? Red Shirt?
Eyes wide, she studied her attacker more carefully. Ah, here was the reason. This was not Red Shirt at all. This man was… It was Black Lion, and beneath all the war paint on his face, he was grinning at her.
Stepping into character for a moment, he frowned at her, sized her up and down, from the top of her bonnet to the tips of her boots. Then he said, “I think you will decorate my tepee well. Although my wife may be jealous of one so beautiful.”
Suzette shook her head at him, then shivered, remembering she was supposed to be frightened. “Why, sir, do you mean to tell me you are already married?”
“Alas, I am,” he replied in an accent that sounded more British than Native American. “My wife is a white woman, too, and very beautiful, also. It is strange, for she looks much like you.”
Suzette almost laughed. “Oh, do stop,” she admonished, damping down the smile. “If you keep this up, Black Lion, you are going to cause me to laugh instead of doing what I am supposed to do—which is screaming and begging for mercy.”
“Scream away,” he said as he pulled her from the coach. But his touch was hardly rough. Indeed, he brought her into his arms, and for an instant only, he pressed his face up close against hers.
“Sir.” She added a scream to the word for good artistic measure. “This is sudden, is it not?”
“So it is. But I must work fast, I fear, for even now the cavalry is sounding their horns in the distance, and I suspect that soon I will be lying here dead at your feet. Ah, what a man must do to hold his own wife in his arms.”
She burst out laughing.
He frowned at her and shook his head. “And now you laugh at me when you should be screaming.”
“Oh, of course. I forgot.” She shrieked.
His hand came up to cover her mouth, but instead of jerking her toward his horse, as he was supposed to do, he leaned down, took his hand away for the barest of moments and pressed a kiss against her open lips.
She wasn’t supposed to respond. Dear Lord, she was performing in front of thousands of people. How could this happen?
Yet, she answered him back in the only way she could.
She fell in against him, and within seconds his arms encircled her.
A cavalry trumpet sounded close at hand, which must have prompted him to remember the script, for he said, “Lean on me,” and then he dragged her as gently as possible toward his pony.
“You should not have done this. You should not have kissed me,” she said, even while she pretended to struggle to get away from him. “Someone is sure to have seen. Do you wish to bring trouble to yourself?”
“A man might dare much,” he responded while fielding her attempts to hit him, “when he discovers his wife has not a single moment to spend with him.”
“But I thought you understood—”
He winked at her, and then, as he had predicted, soldiers and the Wild West riders sped onto the scene, coming to the rescue of the coach.
Within a matter of minutes, Cody galloped toward her and Black Lion.
After jumping down from his mount, Cody had no sooner pulled Black Lion away from her than the two men commenced upon a completely scripted yet desperate fight.
Suzette found herself silently cheering for the Indian, and she wondered if any of her counterparts of old might have done much the same.
Cody won, of course, and when it was over, Black Lion lay at her feet. Alas, it was done. Her honor had been saved a terrible fate.
“My lady.” Cody bowed. Then he smiled at her and gallantly extended a hand to help her to her feet.
“Sir,” she said loudly so the audience could hear. “You have saved me. You have saved my father. How can I ever repay you?”
“No need to do so, ma’am,” answered Cody in his best theatrical voice. “I am only doing my duty.”
“Ah! You are so brave. You are my hero!” With this said, as she was supposed to do in this little drama, she collapsed into a faint, directly into Cody’s waiting arms.