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Chapter 88 - 88: The West's First Sharpshooter

Edith's eyes sparkled. Today, Henry was, without a doubt, the most handsome man she had ever seen. His formidable skill, his deep knowledge of music, his unconventional ideas—it all combined to create an irresistible charm.

At 7:05 AM, the party arrived at the Denver train station. The train from San Francisco was already there, and a brand-new Pullman sleeper car was being attached to its rear.

The car was seventy feet long. It had two private compartments at either end, eight partitioned sections in the middle, and a spacious washroom with water supplied by an elevated tank.

A peculiar feature of the Pullman car was its staff: all of the porters were African American men between the ages of twenty-five and forty. George Pullman had made a practice of hiring former slaves, as they had been trained to provide impeccable service to white clientele. Demeaningly, all the porters were referred to as "George" by the passengers, just as slaves had once been called by their masters' names.

Pullman's motives were not altruistic; he hired black men because he could pay them exceedingly low wages, forcing them to rely on the generosity of the white passengers' tips for their livelihood. They provided a full range of on-call services—cleaning, carrying luggage, making beds, washing and ironing clothes, shining shoes—all to create an atmosphere of unparalleled luxury.

The porters, all named George, enthusiastically helped the party with their luggage, taking everything except their most personal items to the baggage car. Henry and Richard each tipped them a one-cent coin.

Henry noticed that Linda kept a firm grip on a small, 17-inch suitcase. He walked over and lifted Becky into his arms, freeing up her hands.

The interior of the car was a stunning display of Victorian elegance, with rich red velvet, cherry wood paneling, silk lampshades, and thick rubber mats to dampen the noise. The decor included black walnut inlays, framed mirrors, French-style upholstery, and polished brass fixtures.

During the day, the partitions between the sections were left open, allowing the passengers to mingle and socialize. Henry felt that even in his past life, he had never traveled in such comfort and luxury.

Richard had booked one of the private compartments for himself and Madeline, along with the four adjoining sections for Edith, Linda and her children, Henry, and Pete and Mary.

Over an hour later and nearly six hundred miles away, in the city of Omaha, Nebraska, a crowd of young aristocrats was gathered at an outdoor exhibition.

A large poster announced the event's incredible headline: "A Special Performance by the West's First Sharpshooter!"

"Chris," asked one of the noblewomen, a Dutch heiress named Consuelo, "is this Annie truly as miraculous as they say?"

"Believe me, Consuelo," the other, an English lady, replied. "You will not be disappointed."

The show began. A petite, slender woman, no more than five feet tall, stood with a lever-action rifle in her hands. A young man stepped forward to address the crowd.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to a shooting exhibition by the West's First Sharpshooter, Annie! I am her husband and assistant, Frank. Let the show begin!"

He walked to a spot twelve yards from Annie and took out a deck of playing cards. With a flick of his wrist, he sent three cards sailing into the air.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Annie fired in a rapid, steady rhythm, and all three cards were hit. Frank continued to throw cards, and the rifle continued to sing. After fifteen seconds, a man from the audience was invited to inspect the fifteen fallen cards. Each one had a clean, ragged bullet hole through its center.

For the second act, Frank stood ninety feet away and tossed three dimes into the air. Three shots rang out, and all three coins were sent flying. The crowd gasped in astonishment.

For the third, a wooden post was set up twelve yards away with an apple on top. Annie turned her back to it, raised a small silver mirror, and, aiming over her shoulder using the reflection, fired her Smith & Wesson Model 3 revolver. The apple exploded.

For the finale, Frank lit a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. From fifteen yards away, Annie fired. The first shot clipped the ash from the end. The second struck the cigarette itself, blasting it cleanly from between his lips.

The crowd erupted in a thunderous, standing ovation. The feat was unbelievable; one slip, and she would have made herself a widow.

After the performance, the four noblewomen rushed to greet Annie, their hearts filled with a sense of pride. In an era where the sport of shooting was completely dominated by men, she was a true icon.

The United States was a nation that worshipped individualism, a place where survival of the fittest was the unofficial creed. In the West, this manifested as a deep and abiding reverence for personal strength, especially the skill of the gunman. Sharpshooters were the celebrities of the age, their fame rivaling that of modern pop stars. It was why so many outlaws were romanticized as folk heroes; in an age of violence, to be a master of the gun was a virtue in itself.

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