Read Buffalo Bill Wanted! for Free Online Page A

under a scruffy hat. He ran off, but there was no mistaking the hawk-like face they’d seen—it was Silent Eagle.
    The question was, what was he up to?
    Evening was coming on by the time the boys got back to the East End. Wiggins could feel a strange kind of energy in the neighborhood even before he spotted teams of men slapping large handbills on every space they could find.
    It took both boys working together to figure out the words on the top line of the handbill. “ ‘Monster rally,’ ” Wiggins said finally. But there was a lot more to decipher.
    â€œI think we may need to show this to Jennie,” Owens said.
    After glancing to see that the handbill crew had moved along, Wiggins yanked down the still-damp paper.
    â€œSo . . . let’s find her,” he said.
    They checked several places before finding Jennie at the Raven Pub. She sat grim-faced in the back room, Dooley at her side, an evening newspaper spread before them.
    â€œDa ended up working late after all.” Dooley tried to hide his disappointment with a smile. “Then on the way home, I heard the newsboys—”
    â€œAnd I bought another paper.” Jennie thumped a hand down on the newsprint. “Somehow, our friend Mr. Pryke must have gotten a look at Inspector Desmond’s report from the hospital. According to this newspaper, he’s accusing Buffalo Bill of smuggling, bringing savages into Britain, attacking people . . . just about everything but trying to overthrow the Crown.”
    â€œGive him time,” Owens said.
    Wiggins produced the handbill they’d taken down. “I suppose that’s what this is all about.”
    Jennie looked it over. “It’s not as long-winded as the things he told the newspaper reporters, but otherwise it’s about the same. Smuggling. No respect for law. Savage behavior. And he’s inviting everyone to a mass meeting to discuss it tonight.”
    Wiggins picked up the handbill. “Then that’s where we should be.”
    Just after nightfall, crowds of men appeared, whooping it up and waving burning torches as they marched through the East End. They congregated for the meeting in Stepney, at an open area called Arbour Square. Wiggins and the other members of the Raven League followed their friends and neighbors. Most of the people around them seemed to treat the proceedings as a sort of holiday, laughing and larking about.
    â€œI don’t see any of our folks here,” Wiggins observed.
    â€œYou won’t catch my ma at one of these,” Owens replied. “Pryke doesn’t spend much time in the West Indian and Hindu neighborhoods. Guess he’s not ‘one of us ’ ”
    Wiggins caught sight of a familiar figure standing at the edge of the growing crowd. He nudged Owens. “Isn’t that your friend Mr. Shears?”
    Shears was a local barber who’d served in the army with Owens’s father. After the older Owens had died in battle, Shears had befriended the whole Owens family. Right now, he stood with his hands on his hips, looking as if he’d just tasted a particularly sour persimmon.
    â€œMr. Shears!” Owens said as they came closer. “What brings you out here?”
    His smile of greeting dimmed a bit. “I came to hear what that fellow has to say.” From the look on the barber’s face, Wiggins knew Mr. Shears had wanted to call Pryke some other name.
    â€œI knew Jemmy Pryke when he had a rathole of an office, earning a dubious living by trying to keep burglars from going to prison,” Shears said. “Then all of a sudden he was standing for Parliament as ‘J. Montague Pryke, friend of the working man.’ ”
    Shears shook his head. “His whole life, he was just a mouth working for whoever crossed his palm with silver. That’s what he’s still doing, though I don’t know where the money comes from.”
    Jennie frowned. “You think someone