There wasn’t so much applause as re-evaluation of the teetering man on the field. It was possible that Duncan wasn’t actually drunk, but playing a part, no? And Duncan, though he spoke no German, was no stranger to the universal language of doubt. He made a tipping gesture with his thumb and forefinger, and Edgar trotted toward him with a new bottle of Sunny Brook. Duncan grabbed it, peeled away its cap, and emptied a third of the bottle down his throat.

When all the braves returned
              The heart of Redwing yearned….

There should have been more, but all he remembered was “Redwing,” which he yelled, followed by “Redwing!” He tossed the bottle by its neck into the gathering dusk, the light playing on its tumbling end over end, and he drew his pistols, shattered it, and, in a cool motion, held out a shot glass as if ready to catch the resultant high-proof rain.

The result was lingering merriment. The patrons began to understand that, though the Cossacks might in fact be Indians, the drunk man was well and truly plastered. Further, there was a rare moment before them, history potentially in the making, a history on top of all the other history they were currently burdened by, and perhaps they were discovering an entertainment as yet unknown.

The next stunt involved mounting Betsy, bringing her to a gallop, tumbling out of the saddle as if out of control, and rolling upright to shoot paper targets out of Edgar’s hands. He’d never exactly managed this while sober, but things had gone so well already that he felt confident.

When he was in the saddle, he told himself stories of himself. “Did you see him the first day he shot while drunk? Let me tell you the story. The forward roll he did at age fifty-eight!” After Germany, then France, and Italy, an audience with Pope Pius, the admiration of the Swiss Guard, a return Stateside.

Betsy knew how to skid to a standstill, four legs locking into place, and Duncan let the momentum carry him out of the saddle into a forward roll, and when he arose upright, hat flying away, hair leaping on the wind, pistols in hand, his eyes fell on the Kaiser.

He had in mind, finally, a witticism. It had occurred to him in a fifth of a second that he and the Kaiser were not that different—each of them dressed to hunt, each of them aware of his audience and the value of showmanship, and each shaken to the bones as a child by stories of the old and soon-to-be-extinguished Wild West. His quip was based on these facts, and samplers would be tatted with its succinct wisdom.

But there was also a difference between Duncan and the Kaiser. Duncan saw it the moment he opened his mouth: he did not matter.