Читать книгу The Lost Diary of Annie Oakley’s Wild West Stagehand - Clive Dickinson - Страница 5

Well, I’ll be…!

I thought I’d seen just about all there was to see about guns and shooting and the Wild West. But not after today. No, sir.

Colt, Remington, Lancaster, Winchester, Double Gloucester – there ain’t a gun this side of the Rocky Mountains that I don’t know. And there ain’t a champion sharp-shooter I ain’t seen – leastways, not till this afternoon.

Now, I may not be that quick at book learning, but I know a sure bet when I see one. I reckon I could be on to a good thing if I start writing down what goes on around here. I can see my name in print already on one of those fancy book covers and in the newspapers.

Things ain’t going to be the same – that’s for sure. And about time, too. Last winter was the worst this show has ever known. First the steamship carrying everything down the river ran into another steamship and sank. We lost animals, wagons and camp gear, not to mention my precious guns and ammunition. That meant the show opened late in New Orleans, which ain’t good for business, especially at Christmas.

Then it started raining. It rained and it rained until I thought the old man river^* was flowing right through the camp. Only a handful of people came to watch the show. Business was so bad that Captain Bogardus, the top trick shooter on the bill, upped sticks last month and left the show for good, taking his four shooting sons with him. With our top gun gone, we didn’t have many shots left in the locker.

Then Buffalo Bill told me yesterday that he’s hired some sharp-shooter called Andy Oakley to take Captain Bogardus’s place. I sure hoped this guy would hit the target – the show needed all the help it could get. Only the Andy Oakley who turned up today ain’t what I was expecting at all. No, sir!

For one thing, Andy ain’t no Andy. She’s an Annie! And she’s so dainty and so ladylike, I still can’t make out how she can shoot a gun like she does. But boy (I guess I mean “girl”), can she shoot! Buffalo Bill sure knows how to pull something out of his hat when the chips are down.

There goes the cook’s bell for our dinner. I’d better stop writing now, ’cos I’m going to wash my hands and face for this meal – and that’s something I ain’t done for a very long time.