She nodded, slowly.

“Give him this fer bein’ honest. He tried t’find out stuff best as he could. An’ it weren’t like he were makin’ all thet up for a guidebook, where he could git people in trouble with what he wrote.” Cody leaned back, evidently seeing that he was convincing her, and took a long pull on his beer. “There you go. Jest go right on readin’ an’ likin’ the books. You wanta look at a fine man what’s a Injun, you don’t haveta look no further’n Fox an’ his boys. An you was disposed t’like ’im on account of that there Winnetou. So ain’t no shame in still likin’ them books. I’m mighty partial t’Mister Verne an’ Mister Twain, an’ there ain’t a word of truth in thet, neither, an Mister Twain right often makes out like he was there!”

She sighed. What Cody said made a great deal of sense. The stories were still good stories; the characters were fine people, people she wished she knew! They just weren’t . . . true.

And Cody was right. They didn’t have to be true to be good.

But that brought up something else. “I overheard you saying something to Kellermann . . .” she ventured. “About not understanding why there were so few people who came to the show a second time.”

Cody blinked at her, and pushed his hat back on his head. “Huh. Well, ayup. Thet’s got me puzzled. We got good crowds first couple’a days, then arter thet, it jest peters out. Thet didn’ happen in England, nor in Italy, same people’d turn up two, three times. We got outa France purdy quick, seems they jest didn’t cotton t’Wild West shows, an’ it ain’t jest us, Buffalo Bill had th’ same problem.”

“Well . . . I think it is because of Karl May,” she said, hesitantly. “It is because in Karl May’s books, the Indians are heroes. They are noble people, who only fight because their land is being taken. And in your show, they are savage bandits. You just told me not to contradict what people think because of Karl May, but that is what the show itself is doing.”

Cody stared at her. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, closed it again, and stared at her some more. His moustache bristled with alarm before it settled down again.

“All right,” he said, finally. “Our job ain’t t’edumacate people, like I said. Our job’s t’make money. So . . .” Now it was his turn to furrow his brow and sit in silence, thinking. “I reckon . . .” he said, slowly, sounding as if he was thinking out loud. “I reckon we gotta change th’ show. Like, ’stead of th’ Injuns attackin’ th’ settlers . . . the bandits could.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, inviting her comment.

“The Indians could rescue them,” she offered. “And instead of starting that off with the war dance, perhaps they could all become friends and have some other sort of dance?”