“Now, Cody thinks, and I think, that some, indeed, many, of your ideas have merit. But they are scattered and unconnected as leaves before the wind,” Fox went on. “So we will take your ideas and give them substance and form. Cody is good at this. He would not have been able to save what is left of the show if he were not. He intends to hold a meeting tonight when we are camped, to explain what he has thought out. Once he makes the others understand why this must be, he will wait to see if they have an idea or two. He will probably call upon you to explain this writer to the others. But do not be surprised or unhappy if he claims your ideas as his own. You are new to the company; he has their confidence. You are a girl, he is a man, who has commanded. What comes from your mouth might be objected to. What comes from his will be heeded.” Again Fox shrugged. “It is what it is.”

Well . . . she was surprised, and a little hurt, and rather disappointed to hear that. It made her feel a bit cheated.

But she swallowed her disappointment, and nodded, because Fox was also right, and not just because she was new to the company, but because, as he had pointed out, she was a girl. She didn’t like it, not a bit . . . but it was what it was.

Kellermann, riding ahead, had found a farmer who was willing to let the show camp in his pasture for the privilege of having his family come and gawk. The stolid little family certainly got enough to make their eyes go very round, as Cody had ordered that as many of the company as were inclined should get some practice in before sunset. The extensive family marveled at the bison from a safe distance, exclaimed over the longhorn cattle, watched her as she began trying to cut a playing card in half with a single shot, admired Texas Tom’s rope tricks, fed Lightning the Wonder Horse carrots until he was likely to become flatulent, and nearly went out of their minds with excitement over Leading Fox and his small band. Eavesdropping on them, it became clear that the entire family was composed of Karl May readers. Their cup of joy overflowed when Fox spoke to them in slow, extremely dignified German, answering their questions selectively.

Quite selectively, Giselle noticed. Fox carefully avoided mentioning anything that would contradict what she had told him about Karl May’s writing. She wondered very much why it never occurred to them to question that an Indian spoke perfect German, but then again, given that Winnetou apparently spoke perfect German in the books, perhaps it never occurred to them that Indians normally did not. . . .