Spellbound

by Sharon Ihle

  “What was the war like?” J.R. asked. “Is shooting at folks when the law says it’s all right the same as plugging ‘em during a robbery?”

  Had Luther asked such a question, Gant might have punched him in the mouth. As it was, he swallowed his anger and said, “Shooting folks is shooting folks, J.R. It doesn’t feel any better if the law says it’s all right.”

  Humbled, J.R.’s gaze slid to the ground.

  This tickled Luther’s funny bone. He laughed as he said, “As you can see, Gant, the little fellow never did quite work out the way the old man hoped.”

  Thinking about how that comment might have hurt J.R., Gant realized that he hadn’t been the only Gantry who’d suffered during the years with their father. J.R. had endured more torment than any of them, and certainly for a longer stretch of his life than Gant. Even when the kid smiled that forlorn puppy-dog expression remained wrapped around his eyes, a bandage over his wounded soul. As long as J.R. rode with the Gantry Gang, Gant was pretty sure that smile would never move beyond the parameters of his mouth. At the very thought, something hot spiraled up from Gant’s belly and then spread its warmth to his chest. It occurred to him that maybe his emotional pockets weren’t quite as empty as he’d assumed.

  Thinking of the rest of the family, he asked, “Where’s everyone else? Junior, Lou, and the old man?”

  “Scouting, like me and J.R.”

  “Scouting?” Gant made a visual sweep of the tent city. “Here? What the hell for?”

  Luther’s smile grew wide. “Things got a little too hot for us in Texas again. Pa thought it was time we had a look-see at some of our neighbors.”

  “But why Greenville? There’s nothing here but a few burned out buildings.

  “You’re absolutely right, little brother.” He turned and rapped J.R.’s skull through his hat. “See how smart your big brother is? We ain’t all dumb like you.”

  Then he turned back to Gant and said, “Nothing here but all that new money for reconstruction. Ain’t that the reason you happen to be wandering along after that circus?”

  “No, Luther, that’s not it at all.” He was not going to let Luther know that he had a vested interest in the show, or that he was connected to it in any way. “I’m moving up north. I just pulled up here long enough to spend the night.”

  “North, huh?” Luther scratched the stubby whiskers at his chin. “What do you have going for you up that a-ways?”

  “A new start.”

  Luther chuckled, a deep belly roll of a laugh. “Hell, if you want that, just throw in with us again. We’re meeting back up with Pa and the boys on down to Nawleans in a few days. I ‘spect the old man’d be mighty happy to lay eyes on you again.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” J.R. said. “Pa’s been looking around corners for you for the past three years. Why don’t you come with us? I’d be just like old times.”

  Gant’s gaze slid over to his younger brother. J.R. was twisting the tail of his belt, looking nervous and far younger than his twenty-four years. His mouth was twisted into a smile, one of those wobbly, self-effacing grins that started a flood of warmth in the pit of Gant’s belly. J.R. was still a kid with a good heart, a basically decent sort who might actually make something of himself if given half a chance. Who better to give him that chance than his big brother?

  “Well?” Luther asked, sounding impatient. “What do you say to joining up with us again?”

  “I’ll have to think on it a while.”

  Gant heard the excited voices of the crowd growing louder. The circus was headed back this way. He had to get his brothers out of the processional’s path, or risk all that he’d worked so hard to accomplish. Draping his arm around J.R.’s shoulders, he guided him in the opposite direction.

  As they walked, Gant asked, “Where were you two heading when we bumped into each other? They got a saloon of some kind in this little town?”

  “Hold up, Gant,” Luther said, coming up from behind. “We was following that circus wagon, same as you.” He patted his holster. “I was thinking of putting a hole in the damn idiot who’s making all that racket up top ship, but J.R. talked me into seeing the show instead. Why don’t we all go together? It might be worth our time later, after all them folks have paid for their tickets.”

  Before Gant could respond, the wagon carrying the Gypsies rounded the corner and headed straight for the ship. It was too late to try and relocate his brothers. Thinking of simply ducking out of sight, Gant glanced around for a hiding spot and found nothing. By the time he turned back, the fancied-up mule and wagon were upon him.

  From her perch on the driver’s seat, Rayna hollered, “There you are, Gant, you worthless excuse for a leader. Do you know that I sent this parade up not one, but two alleys that just quit in the middle of nowhere?” Her words trailed after the wagon as it rolled on by the Gantry men. “Thanks for making us all look like such idiots.”

  Luther stared at Gant, surprise brightening his muddy yellow eyes. “Did that little gal say something about you being her leader?”

  As Gant worked on a way of responding, Melvin marched by waving his General Grant puppet.

  “Attention, Citizen Gant,” hollered the wooden general. “I do not recall giving you permission to cool your heels while I march around in the mud. I sentence you to thirty days on nothing but Mollie’s cornbread and Mississippi River water.”

  From behind Melvin, Mollie’s voice rang out. “I heard that, General Grant. I’m gonna start a batch of cornbread the second I get back on board that ship, and you’re gonna be the official taster.”

  Laughing as she passed Gant, Mollie nodded an acknowledgement toward the men standing beside him. “Well, fellahs? How’d we look? Good enough for Gant to make a little back on his investment?”

  Gant groaned, and because he had no choice, tipped his hat her way. “Everyone looked good enough to double it, Ma’am. Maybe even triple.”

  Still laughing, Mollie continued her march toward the landing. As the other performers paraded by the stunned Gantry brothers, with Hans and his three fully awake and hungry lions bringing up the rear, Gant stood silently waiting for the comments that were sure to follow.

  Holding his belly as he laughed, Luther finally said, “You ran away from prison to join the circus, little brother? Is that what I’m understanding?”

  Careful to hide his less-than-brotherly thoughts, Gant admitted, “I made a small investment in the show.”

  Luther laughed even harder. “And what do you do at show time? A little ballet on the back of that mule?”

  J.R., who’d been tugging on the sleeve of Gant’s shirt, finally managed to get a word in.

  “What do you do, Gant?” he asked, clearly impressed by his brother’s new life. “Are you really in the circus show?”

  Luther provided an answer before Gant could. “I’ll bet he’s a clown.”

  Seeing no point in standing there explaining anything to this sneering brother, Gant slowly began to walk toward the levee.

  “Think what you will,” he said from over his shoulder. “Just stay the hell away from this showboat.”

  “But Gant,” shouted J.R. “Ain’t you gonna join up with us again?”

  “No, and when you meet up with our dear father, don’t bother to give him my regards.”

  *

  Late that afternoon as show time drew near, Rayna took up her position outside on the landing to entice the onlookers into buying a ticket to the circus. She was dressed in her fortune-teller garb complete with the headband that featured a coin dangling between her eyes, as well as her crimson shawl and matching apron. Maria had braided her hair Gypsy-style, dividing it into four coin-decorated sections.

  As she walked along the riverboat landing carrying a crystal ball the size of a small melon, Rayna called out, “Fortunes told for free. Come and get your fortune read by Princess Rayna, authentic Romany Gypsy from Spain. That’s right, free, for today and only today, fortunes for free.”

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nbsp; Slowly, a few daring souls broke away from the gathering crowd.

  A young man on crutches hobbled up close to Rayna and said, “What do you see in that piece of glass about me? Do I even have a future?”

  Rayna didn’t need a crystal ball to see what the war had done to this Southerner. He was missing more than a leg. He lacked even a simple glimmer of hope in his deep-set eyes. Trying to put at least a little fire back into his soul, Rayna told him about the things she thought he might want to hear, tales of the South rising again to its former level of pride and visions of new prosperity. She ended her reading by suggesting that he take in the circus, knowing that if nothing else, the laughter would do him some good.

  Just up the landing near the gangplank, Gant stood watch over the proceedings. From his viewpoint back of the blue and white ticket office, he observed Rayna in particular, making sure that she wasn’t out to make herself a little extra money as she attracted the townsfolk. At the same time, Gant performed his most important job, that of keeping riffraff away from the circus and helping the ticket taker decide when to accept payment with means other than United States currency. Occasionally, if the situation warranted it, Mollie had instructed him to allow a few free customers admittance, those, she explained, who had absolutely no way to see the show otherwise. Especially children. She couldn’t stand to see even one child turned away if the only thing that stood between that child and the show was the price of a ticket.

  To that end, Gant had already allowed a family of four to start up the gangplank after they’d offered two of the woman’s homemade sweet potato pies and a basket of fresh produce picked from the ruins of their farm. He had a feeling he was about to admit his first free child as well. Out of the corner of his eye, Gant spotted a small boy with bright orange hair darting between the shells of old buildings, inching his way closer and closer to the ship in such a sly manner that he had to be looking for a way to sneak aboard the ship.

  Gant smiled to himself, for that kind of theft was not the sort that kept him awake at night, and then let his gaze drift back to Rayna. She was talking to what appeared to be some kind of preacher and the woman alongside him, his wife, presumably, and waving the crystal ball on high, eyes flashing as she filled their ears with tall tales.

  As hard as he tried, Gant could find no fault in her performance. So far each customer who paid a visit to the fortune-teller had stepped right up and bought a ticket to the circus. Wearing a smile, no less. Too bad the Gypsy was a thief, Gant thought, shaking off something that went deeper than disappointment.

  Looking for a diversion from them all, Gypsies and brothers alike, Gant turned his attention back toward town where he’d last seen the red-haired boy. No boy, but the brothers Gantry strolled into view. Walking down the middle of the road as if they owned it, Luther and J.R. made their way toward the levee, and then veered off to the left at the landing, to where Rayna stood with her crystal ball.

  His blood pounding through his veins, Gant turned to the ticket taker, funambulist Anna Mae Gunther. After whispering a few instructions into her ear, most of them regarding the red-haired boy, he started down the gangplank.

  On the landing, Rayna sensed something was amiss about the two men as they approached. The bigger one, a man with a thick barrel chest and scowling face, disturbed her the most. The other, smaller, looking very much like a little boy in his demeanor and carriage, didn’t concern her as deeply.

  As the men closed in on her, Rayna held the crystal ball between her body and the men as she said, “Your fortunes, gentlemen? Fortunes for free today.”

  The bigger man ducked around the globe of glass and stepped right up beside her. Fondling one of her braids, he said, “I got a better idea, sweetheart. Why don’t I tell your fortune? Won’t take more than ten minutes.”

  Laughing, he wrapped the braid around his fist and gave it a tug. “Come on. I know a place just around the corner where we can have a little privacy.”

  Slipping her free hand between her apron and skirt, Rayna jerked her head back. Her braid didn’t budge from the man’s grip.

  Giving him a tight smile, she said, “I am part of this circus, sir. My fortune-telling is done right here or not at all. Please let go of my hair.”

  The man chuckled, and then tugged her even closer as he said to the smaller man, “Ain’t she just about the prettiest gal you seen in a long time, J.R.? I think it’s just downright fortunate for her that we came along.”

  The one called J.R. bit down on his bottom lip with a pair of protruding front teeth. He cast a quick, wary glance Rayna’s way, and then stared down at the ground. “Yeah, Luther,” he muttered. “She’s the lucky one all right.”

  Luther leaned in close and tried to nuzzle Rayna’s ear. She canted her head, avoiding him, and warned, “Let go of me now, Sir.”

  He simply laughed.

  Out of patience, a little frightened, too, Rayna withdrew her dagger from the hidden sheath and pointed it directly at the big man’s navel.

  Turning the blade over so he would be sure to notice it, she said, “If you don’t let go of me this minute, you’ll be having your fortune told by Satan himself.”

  Luther laughed again, but there wasn’t much humor behind the sound. Then he said, “Apparently this sweet little thing doesn’t know just who she’s dealing with. Tell her, J.R.”

  Looking at her with soulful eyes, he said, “That there’s Luther Gantry, Jr., ma’am.”

  Rayna had heard the name somewhere, assumed it was supposed to evoke fear, but she couldn’t remember why. Holding her ground, she said, “So?”

  Luther uttered another, shorter laugh. “I imagine you’ve heard it somewhere before, haven’t you?”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps. I don’t remember.”

  He jerked a thumb toward the smaller man. “Tell her what your name is, J.R.”

  “It’s, ah, I’m Luther Gantry, Jr., too, ma’am. They call me J.R. for junior cause they can’t call me Junior cause I already got another brother called Junior.”

  Three Luther Gantry, Jr.’s? As Rayna considered the absurdity of naming three sons in the same way, it suddenly hit her—could these men be part of the infamous Gantry Gang? She’d read about them, thinking all the while they were a fictitious bunch of ruthless outlaws, murdering thieves born only in the imagination of the author who’d penned a series of books about them. Rayna hadn’t really believed they were real.

  “You’re looking real good and impressed, gal,” said Luther, his voice lower, more threatening. “As I was saying earlier, I’d like you to do a little fortune-telling for me, private-like.”

  Her attention fully on the crazed outlaw, Rayna didn’t realize that Gant had joined them until she heard the sound of a gun’s hammer clicking into place.

  “Get your filthy hands off of her now, Luther,” he warned. “If you don’t, I’ll just have to put a hole right through your fat head.”

  Slowly, Luther twisted around until he’d locked gazes with Gant. When he saw that a Colt .44 was pointed directly between his eyes, he released Rayna’s braid and stepped away from her.

  Smiling, acting as if the incident had been nothing more than a game, Luther said, “Ain’t no need for violence. I was just having a little discussion with the lady. She wasn’t cooperating too well. I didn’t know you had a special claim on her.” He bent low, offering a phony bow. “My apologies.”

  Because he knew better than to let Luther think that he cared even a little for Rayna, Gant said, “The Gypsy doesn’t mean a thing to me. She belongs to our lion-tamer. Ever tried to stop a full-grown African lion with one of these?” He waved his gun. “They’re about as effective as using a slingshot on a grizzly. It’d be a damn good idea if you just went on your way and pretended that you’d never seen her.”

  Luther didn’t even question the story. He just shrugged and said, “So I made a little mistake. We come to see the circus. I don’t see why we can’t stay. You got a problem with that, little brother?�
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  Rayna’s gaze shot to Gant. “Brother?"

  Luther threw back his head and laughed. “God almighty. Ain’t you told these folks your real name?”

  Since there was little else he could do, Gant muttered under his breath, “Shut up, Luther. Just shut up and get the hell out of here.”