Free Buffalo Bill Wanted! by Alex Simmons Page B

glance, things might hold together, but they really don’t make sense. If we can see the problems, a good lawyer could tear this case to pieces in a courtroom.”
    â€œAnd you can bet Buffalo Bill would hire a good lawyer,” Owens said.
    â€œSo Silent Eagle would get off—even if everyone was all angry?” Dooley asked.
    â€œSomeone certainly wanted people all stirred up,” Wiggins said. “Angry enough, maybe, to kill Silent Eagle before he even faced a judge and jury.”
    â€œThey’re stirred up, all right,” Dooley said. “While we visited with him, the chief told us that people are now booing the Indians’ acts in the Wild West show.”
    â€œI heard someone turned up at the exposition grounds last night, throwing horse turds at the American eagle on the front of the building.” Owens laughed. “I wouldn’t want that job of cleaning that up. The coppers chased them off, or they’d have cut down the flag too.”
    â€œAnd you think someone’s paid for all of this?” Jennie asked Wiggins.
    â€œWhy not?” Wiggins jumped up to pace around the room. “When we got involved in our first mystery, we stumbled on a group of posh folks aiming for high stakes. Maybe this is the same thing.”
    The door to the pub swung open, breaking his train of thought. Mr. Pilbeam, the owner of the Raven Pub, came in. It was a little hard to read his expression behind the impressive salt-and-pepper whiskers that curled from his sideburns to meet across his upper lip.
    â€œI thought I heard you come in,” the pub owner said. “Benny Flagg has been in here having a few pints and telling everyone about his adventures out in Earl’s Court.” He glanced over at Wiggins. “He talked a bit about your adventures too.”
    â€œWe didn’t do anything wrong,” Dooley said anxiously.
    â€œI didn’t say you did,” Pilbeam replied. “We just got word that Benny’s horse turned up at his stable. Whoever stole the poor beast probably treated him better than Benny did. There was a poultice of grass and leaves over the sore spot on his shoulder.”
    Cries for more drinks came from the pub, and Pilbeam went back to the outer room. Wiggins and his friends looked at one another.
    Jennie asked the obvious question. “Where would Silent Eagle find grass and leaves around here?”
    Owens frowned. “Someone’s garden, maybe?”
    â€œSure,” Wiggins said sarcastically. “Most people would never notice an Indian climbing over their garden wall to borrow a few fixings for a stolen horse.”
    â€œThere’s Victoria Park,” Dooley suggested. “My da takes me there sometimes on a Sunday.”
    â€œThat’s a good three-quarters of a mile away,” Jennie said. “And the place is awfully public.”
    â€œSo, we need a place with green things that’s close, not too public, where people wouldn’t notice someone digging.” Wiggins frowned, then looked up. “The Tower Hamlets Cemetery.”
    â€œA churchyard?” Jennie said in surprise.
    â€œIt’s bigger than that,” Wiggins replied. “There’s a wall around the place so people can’t see in. The graveyard is also near the gasworks—not so many people round about there.”
    He got up and headed for the door. “Maybe we should go and take a look before the coppers hear about this and come searching.”
    Less than ten minutes of walking brought them within sight of the brick walls surrounding the cemetery. Wiggins began dragging his feet. “My little brother is buried here,” he said. “It’s where they put people who are too poor to pay for a funeral— thousands and thousands of them, I was told.”
    He shook his head, forcing the tears away. “There might be someone at the gates,” he said, his voice gruff.
    Jennie eyed the bricks.