by Jim Tully
“How long’ll it be?”
“About three or four hours, lady.”
The Baby Buzzard grunted and walked away. “Pay the railroads all the damn money you make an’ then they can’t do you a little favor. Have to wait all this time to git started.”
The Baby Buzzard lost no time in getting the circus unloaded. The property boss was given Silver Moon Dugan’s work to do. Buddy Conroy took charge in place of Slug Finnerty.
She hobbled about snapping orders. The men cursed her under their breath.
An old “roughneck” canvasman and stake-driver laid out the tent on the lot. And to the surprise of all it was done as well as Dugan could have accomplished.
Jock gave me some dry clothes and allowed me to sleep until time for the parade to return. All that day I basked in my little glory.
Number Four arrived after dinner with its diversified cargo.
Cameron with both legs broken, was carried out of the caboose. On his face was scorn for his position and pity for himself.
The entire circus gathered about the train. Silver Moon Dugan looked ashamed. His limp was more decided.
“How’s hittin’ the ties, Silver?” yelled a voice.
“Go to hell,” was Silver’s retort.
The Ghost and Gorilla Halen were unhurt.
Back of them came the young fellow whom Silver Moon Dugan had red-lighted.
His clothing was badly torn, his face deeply scratched.
As I had spread the story of his first having been red-lighted by Dugan, his appearance was greeted with a wild shout.
A doctor was called. He pulled and twisted at Cameron’s legs, and then put them in crude plaster casts. The battered barbarian looked at them when the doctor had finished. He glanced then at the Baby Buzzard and shook his head violently, at last snapping out:
“God damn the God damned luck!”
One of the hardest, the most merciless, and the meanest of mankind, who had red-lighted many men himself and who had cheated many hundreds in his wandering life, he added:
“That man ain’t human. He’s lower’n a skunk’s belly.”
“Well he’s hard enough to be human,” sneered Silver Moon Dugan, “and I’ve seen him somewhere. It seems to me he pulled a fast one with Robinson’s five or six years ago. Believe me or not, if I ever put my glims on ’im agin there’ll be music along this railroad. I’ll play ‘Home Sweet Home’ on his God damn ribs with bullets.”
Cameron tried to turn over. His body twitched with pain.
“You’re a tune too late, Silver. You’ll never see that bozo this side of hell.” His eyes were bleared with the wind and rain of the night. They were crossed for a moment with clouds of humor.
“But you gotta say this, Silver, you done met your match in that greaser.”
“I have like so much hell,” returned Silver Moon Dugan.
Cameron, oblivious of the retort, added:
“It’s funny about people. The minute I saw that guy I felt like apologizin’ for ownin’ the show. That’s the kind of a guy he was. His damn hard eyes were like diamond drills an’ his nose hooked like a buzzard’s. He’s no regular roughneck, I knew it, but what’n hell is he?”
The Baby Buzzard, never soft, looked down at the hulk with broken legs. She started to say something, changed her mind, then turned to me. Her flat and aged breast rose once, then sank. An emotion was killed within her.
In all the months she displayed no interest in me, save that I could read well aloud—and now:
“Where you from, kid?”
“Oh, I’m just a drifter. Joined on in Louisiana before the Lion Tamer got bumped off.”
“That’s right. I’d forgot,” she returned. “Did that lousy wretch take your money too?”
“My last two bits,” I replied.
The Baby Buzzard allowed herself the shadow of a grin. Then for fear of being too generous with herself, she frowned.
“Damn his hide, the nerve. A guy that’d do that ud skin a louse for its hide.”
She handed me a half dollar. Clutching it in my hand I returned to Jock.
Cameron insisted on being present each time the tent was pitched. A covered wagon was turned over to him, the canvas on each side being made to roll up like curtains. It was roped off from the gaze of the public. Here he would lie like a flabby, wounded but unbeaten general directing his forces. I was his errand boy.
The circus was to close in a week. The nights even in the South were now cold. Frost covered everything each morning. Roughnecks, musicians, acrobats, all talked of a headquarters for the winter.
Cameron’s reputation as a red-lighter had been accentuated by his own catastrophe. “He’ll have to pay us now, the old devil. He can’t make a gitaway on broken pins,” was the comment of the old roughneck who had laid out the tents in Silver Moon Dugan’s absence.
But nevertheless we were all worried about our wages. If we allowed the show to go into headquarters in another state it would be impossible to collect. We would not be allowed to go near Cameron’s headquarters. Citizens and police would protect Cameron against the claims of circus hoboes. Such communities had always protected Cameron and his tribe of red-lighting circus owners from the ravages of roughnecks who wanted justice.
I could feel the tension on the lot. Many of the older canvasmen had what is known as a “month’s holdback” due them, twenty or thirty dollars for a month of drudging labor. It was wealth to men of our kind to whom a dollar was often opulence.
The final pay-day would cost Cameron several thousand dollars. How would he face the situation with two broken legs? We all wondered.
“You’ll git yours, kid, don’t worry,” Jock had assured me. But even then, I was not so sure.
To ease my mind I talked over the matter indirectly with the Baby Buzzard.
“Gosh, I’ll feel rich next Thursday, when the show closes,” I said to her.
“What for?” she asked. “Money only runes people like you. You won’t do nothin’ with it but git drunk an’ go to whore houses an’ git your backbones weak.”
I passed the word along. It made us more determined to collect than ever.
XVIII: The Last Day
XVIII: The Last Day
PUTTING up the tent was a spasmodic effort on the last day.
A feeling of uneasiness pervaded the lot. A half dozen roughnecks rejoined us. They had deserted the show after the hey rube fight.
“What? You back?” roared Silver Moon Dugan, as they advanced in a body toward him.
“Yeap, what’s left of us, Silver,” the ringleader replied insolently. “An’ we want our dough, too. This is pay day, you know.”
Dugan parleyed with them no more. They either looked too formidable, or he had other plans. No attempt was made to “chase ’em off the lot.”
Instead, Dugan hurried to Cameron. They were soon joined by Finnerty, Jock and the Baby Buzzard. I went with Jock.
Jock’s heart was never with Cameron. He loved morphine and horses. Life was to him, except when he had “a habit on,” a dream that had broken in the middle and had left him dazed. Every horse had his love. He was all pity when he saw a galled shoulder or spavin on any animal, whether it were in his keeping or not.
The “paste brigade” awaited our arrival. Traveling days ahead of us in the advance car, they were now ready to go into winter headquarters with buckets, paste and several unused tons of varicolored circus advertising.
Giant yellow, red and green posters everywhere announced Cameron’s “acres of tents.”
The paste brigade and other advance men left in their car at noon after a long parley with Cameron.
One of the paste slingers waved some greenbacks at us.
It made us more hopeful of being paid that day.
Word was soon spread that we were to be given our wages next day at Cameron’s winter headquarters. A feeling of rebellion followed.
Silver Moon Dugan exerted himself to keep his canvasmen from mixing
with their six former comrades. To avoid open warfare he used all the crude diplomacy of which he was capable.
He realized that if the local police were called in there would be a great deal of damage done. Another general hey rube fight might result.
By an underground current the workingmen had decided that Cameron was to pay or the circus would not move.
Cameron’s legs were heavily plastered and held high above his head with a rope and pulley. In spite of this he was half propped up in his bed when we arrived.
The canvas curtains were down on each side of the wagon. The Baby Buzzard rose when I entered. Her manner was very kind. I sensed what was to follow.
Presently Goosey and the property boss entered. There was much random talk of the situation, then Jock’s voice:
“Don’t try it, I’m tellin’ you, you’ll never move the show.”
“Well we can’t pay ’em here. We’ve got to figger things up an’ it’ll take till tomorrow to do it,” said Finnerty.
Jock interrupted with, “Well it’s no skin off my beak, but I’ve gotta play half-square. All I’m tellin’ you is—don’t.”
“Well, the boss has a right to pay tomorrow if he likes,” snapped Silver Moon Dugan. “You’ll have the dough for your bunch. That’ll let you out.”
“But it won’t let you fellows out,” Jock looked down at Cameron. Finnerty rubbed his one eye.
“Oh hell,” he said, “tell ’em to come to winter headquarters for their money. Who gives a damn about a lot of hoboes, anyhow. Money spoils bums, that’s my opinion.”
“Same here,” snapped the Baby Buzzard.
Cameron motioned to me.
“Here, kid, take this message to the men. Just tell ’em I said pay-day was tomorrow. At two o’clock every man will get his bonus and we’ll have a big barbecue in the evening.”
Jock followed me out. Together we walked in the direction of the horses. There was a blare of music along the midway.
A strong wind began to blow. Tiny pieces of paper and empty peanut sacks whirled about the lot. Jock said nothing to me. He walked slowly, and save for a nervous twitching about the mouth was calm.
“We’ll go tell ’em, kid,” he said at last, “but tell ’em I got the money for my squad today. You should worry, you’ll never want to travel with this damned outfit again anyhow. This is goin’ to be the damndest blow-off Cameron ever had. I can feel it in the air.”
The men received Cameron’s message with sullen contempt. They stood in groups about the lot.
When the last rube had gone home, and while the wind swirled across the lot carrying the debris of a rustic holiday with it, at least a hundred and fifty men marched toward Cameron’s wagon.
Down the midway they came, Rosebud Bates in the lead playing on the clarinet.
There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight.
Back of Rosebud Bates was Blackie.
His appearance startled me. I could hardly believe my eyes.
“I knew he’d show up again, by God,” said Jock. Blackie’s eyes were wild in his face.
“Is he drunk?” I asked Jock.
“Nope. He’s full o’ heroin.”
The six roughnecks who had appeared early were with him, three on each side. Their eyes, less vivid, still had something of the same expression as Blackie’s. Each of their right hands were in their right coat pockets. Their coats were jerked sideways as their arms swung. Blackie’s coat was unbuttoned. Experience had taught me that the hands gripped revolvers in the coat pockets. If trouble came, the bullets would rip through the cloth.
They marched directly to Cameron’s wagon.
“Good Lord, Jock, what’ll happen?” I asked.
“Anything. When guys are loaded up on heroin it’ll give ’em more nerve an’ make ’em more desperate an’ make ’em think faster’n anything on earth.” He grunted. “Cameron’s in trouble sure as hell. I just know now that Blackie was loaded when he red-lighted you guys.”
A shot was fired from the rear of the wagon. Blackie, untouched, started running toward it. The others followed him.
Silver Moon Dugan and Finnerty stood near the rear wheel.
“Thought you’d git me quick, did you, Silver,” sneered Blackie, hand held high in his coat pocket. Dugan hesitated, his mind not as alert as Blackie’s who was on fire with murderous heroin.
Blackie fired. The bullet crashed through the thick muscle of Dugan’s right arm.
He groaned dismally. The gun dropped. One of Blackie’s comrades picked it up.
Blackie then stepped in close. His immense arm went upward. There followed a bone-crushing thud. Dugan’s jaw cracked. He sank.
Finnerty, dumbfounded by the suddenness of Blackie’s action, held his hands up as if to plead. Blackie sprang at him with the agility of a mountain panther.
His hand left his pocket, clinging to his blue revolver. Half circling, he twisted Finnerty’s body until it seemed he would break his back. Then his monstrous arm went around Finnerty’s throat like a vise.
“Search the rat. Quick,” he yelled.
Two men pounced upon Finnerty ripped a watch and chain from his breast and went through his pockets swiftly. In another instant Blackie’s gun thudded brutally against his jaw. It tore Finnerty’s flesh and covered his one good eye with blood.
The men surrounded the wagon. “Keep a gun on these birds,” snapped Blackie. A roughneck stood over the unconscious Finnerty and Dugan.
Gorilla Haley and four others of Dugan’s henchmen ran quickly toward the wagon. They were caught like mice in a trap.
Blackie saw them and yelled, “Hey Rube! Dugan’s stool pigeons! Let ’em have it!”
Cameron lay in his bed helpless while the Baby Buzzard shrieked curses.
“Ain’t they a man among you, you God damn crummy varmints.”
Her shrieks were soon lost in the avalanche of brutality that followed.
The “Ghost” collapsed in fear before a fist reached him.
“Give him the boot,” yelled Blackie. His face and body were quickly kicked beyond recognition.
He squirmed on the ground like a mass of blubber and then became rigid.
The rest were annihilated by more than a hundred circus roughnecks, a tribe of men the equal of which in sheer courage and primitive fighting ability no frontier country in the world’s history has ever produced.
Recruited from the roughest of the rough, surviving hunger, cold, dreary and seemingly endless hours of labor without fatigue, they were now in their proper element.
Gorilla Haley, the seasoned fighter, did immediately that which had made his name a byword in annals of circus barbarism. He looked about quickly and backed against the wagon so that no one could get behind him. He would at least be able to see his antagonists.
“He’ll get it anyhow,” said Jock, “the damn fool. It’s not his circus. They’ll murder him.”
Gorilla Haley was everything in the human calendar of vices. But he was not a coward.
Weighing at least two hundred and forty pounds of muscles, his immense sparse body bent low, his long arms reached out with fierce blows and warded off the attacks of a dozen men. Blackie shouted, “Lay off, men, I’ll give him a chance and take him myself.”
The wind had died down for a few moments. Combined with the temporary lull of voices, the effect was spectral.
The mind even in great danger often sees pictures for an instant that are remembered a lifetime. I threw my head back from sheer fatigue of excitement.
Above me was a deep blue sky dotted with shining regiments of wonder. An immense silver and blue cloud seemed hung suspended in the center of the blue dome.
Tired and wretched at the end of a long season of migratory labor, with nothing but the insecurity of a gypsy at the finish, I still had left that mightiest heritage of toil-worn men—a sense of wonder.
To the left was the Milky Way. A half Pawnee Indian stake-driver, long since red-lighted, had told me one night as our tr
ain traveled through an edge of Kansas that the Milky Way was only white dust made by a horse ten miles high and a buffalo even taller, racing like hell and high water across the sky. He told me that the horse ran on one side where the biggest stars were; that the buffalo made the little dust.
Reality blotted out the sky. The lull ended.
Blackie, not so ponderous as Gorilla Haley, closed in upon him as we formed a ring around them. Never was there fiercer impact. Their foreheads crashed together. Stunned, Gorilla’s knees sagged. Blackie’s wild eyes danced like a vicious animal’s. He tore the clothing from Gorilla’s body as he yelled, “I like to fight ’em naked.”
The cloud darkened and ran down the sky on all sides like spilled ink. The wind came up. It thundered. Rain drops rattled on the paper-strewn ground.
Into the fusillade of blows Blackie stepped. One caught him across the nose and the blood streamed. Angered to a pitch of even fiercer fury, he struck with accurate aim at Gorilla’s head and body.
With clothing torn from their bodies they cursed each other through lacerated lips. They broke apart and crashed together again. Breasts heaving, faces trickling blood, they reeled, punch-drunk, under the brain-jarring monotony of blows.
The men pushed in closer and the fighters had barely room in which to move. All of Gorilla’s caution was not enough. A black jack crashed upon his skull as Blackie’s mallet fist connected under his chin. He fell instantly. Blackie kicked him in the face.
One of the six roughnecks rushed up to Blackie. “I done it! I done it!” he shouted.
Blackie looked toward the big top and yelled, “Hurray!!”
Instantly the circus grounds were lit like day.
There came the shrill neighing of horses, and the whining of other animals.
“The big top’s on fire,” shouted the army of roustabouts. Forgetting money, they all ran toward the burning tent.
“Let ’er burn,” yelled Blackie as he sprang into Cameron’s wagon followed by the six roughnecks.
The curtains of the wagon were ripped off.
“Where’s your money, you broken-legged old faker? This is pay-day. I’ve got three weeks’ wages comin’. Do you think I swing a sledge for you for nothing?” And Blackie danced a jig before the prostrate Cameron, saying, “The boobs love a fire. It gets them every time.”