A thunderclap shook the ground.
The boys ran back across the clearing the way they came. Paul fell behind. He pumped his legs hard to keep up, but as he reached the center of the clearing he went down with searing pain in his ankle.
Now at the pond bank, Paul reached for his left ankle as he recalled the pain of the small animal trap that had clamped on his leg that stormy day. His memory of what happened next was fuzzy. He recalled that Roy had come back to him, knelt over him, and over the noise of the rain had screamed, “Hold still.”
But young Paul couldn’t hold still. He was writhing against the trap, kicking and bucking. Roy’s hands came to his shoulders and pinned him to the ground. He drew back a fist.
A moment later Paul was waking up. They were still in the clearing. The downpour had slowed, leaving the forest quiet and dripping. The left side of Paul’s face thumped in pain. He blinked the rainwater from his eyes. “What happened?”
“Old Sniffy’s having a good laugh at this,” Roy said. He held up the small animal trap. It looked ridiculous and pathetic without any teeth. “This little guy had you kicking raindrops.”
Paul sat up and rubbed his ankle as Roy tossed the trap aside. The pain wasn’t bad. In fact, Paul felt embarrassed to see how little damage the animal trap had done.
“Sorry about that,” Roy said.
“Sorry about what?”
“I had to hit you to stop your squirming. Only way to get a hold of that trap and pull it off.”
Paul put a hand to his jaw. He worked it up and down. “Doesn’t seem too bad.”
“Want me to try again?”
Paul smiled. “I’d rather you helped me up.”
Roy stood and offered his hand.
12
Roy came out of the forest to a two-track road heading north. Looking south he saw more forest with the road cutting through like a saw blade's path. To the north there was a sign. He stayed off the road, twenty feet inside the wood line until he reached it.
Bracken — 5 miles
pop 550
With such a population there would be a general store and a saloon. The coin bag weighed heavily on his head. His skin ached for want of salve, and his mouth wept for meat and ale. He crossed the road and walked along the western shoulder, no longer pushing through the forest, but ready to duck into cover at the sight of any horses or carts. It was nearing dusk. He reckoned it would be dark by the time he reached Bracken.
The forest turned over to cornfields with red barns and silos as he neared the town. Society. Closer still he heard a blacksmith hammering in the distance. He smelled kerosene and smoke. The farms turned over to smaller lots with houses near the road. He passed homes with oil lamps set on dinner tables—steaming plates of food, families praying for grace. The lots were divided by split-rail fences and lined by rock walls.
The glow of the town’s gas lamps pierced the darkening sky.
Roy stopped short of town and looked it over. There was one main street with a few squat buildings on either side. Two silhouetted men crossed the thoroughfare. Three horses were tethered to a boardwalk rail. There was another sign.
Peace to All Who Enter Bracken
Roy passed the sign and moved into the town proper, picking his way through alleys and staying in shadow. He passed the blacksmith’s shop. A blast of heat came from the open door. Orange sparks flew as the smith pounded and flipped hot iron. The intended object appeared to be a long dagger or a sword. Peace to some who enter Bracken. The blacksmith never looked up as Roy passed.
Ahead and to the right was a row of shops fronted by a long boardwalk. At the far end a sign marked the Imperial Inn and Saloon. To the left were a few ramshackle huts with no signs above them. Between them was the Bracken Bank and Loan, fronted by its own short boardwalk. The two men that had crossed the street were walking along the opposite boardwalk toward the Imperial. Their boot heels knocked hollowly as they went. They stopped for a moment to exchange something, and then continued through the saloon doors. Roy heard faint laughter and tinkling piano notes of Home on the Range from inside.
He came upon a signboard with years of paper layered on its face. Tacked in with bright new nails was a wanted poster. Roy squinted, expecting to see a gator’s likeness—dead or alive, a few dollars reward—but the face on the poster wasn’t his own. Drawn in black ink was the face of a severe man. His beard was thick, his eyes blank. If the artist had meant to capture what this man would look like in his own coffin, it was dot on.
GENTLEMAN MURDERER!
a
REWARD of $500
will be provided to anyone who can capture and retain the outlaw, Frank Ledger. Though Ledger is a polite and cultured man—in fact a former judge presiding over Hale County—he is extremely dangerous, always armed, and may be found in the company of his three younger brothers. He is wanted for the VIGILANTE JUSTICE MURDER of one Waylon Fremont, gunned down on the streets of Bracken on May 29th, 1879. If you have any information on this man or his whereabouts, please report it to-
At that point the poster had been overlaid by a business card for William F. Brandson, Sexton and Undertaker. Either a prophetic coincidence or someone’s idea of a hoot. Apart from the wanted poster there were town announcements, more business cards, and items for sale. Roy peeled back layers until he found a familiar yellow placard.
Jack McLean’s Congress of Curiosities
Together with the Top Tent Circus
is Coming to Bracken April 20th at 6 p.m.!
Come see the spectacle! The ten-in-one tent featuring
Camilla, the Camel Girl
Girda, the Heaviest Woman Alive
Strong Man Samson
Scales, the Crying Lizard
and many more!
The placard was yellow, meaning it was put up in 1878. 1877 had been green, ‘76 was blue, and ‘75 was red.
The placards were the work of Jack McLean’s advance man, Sully. It was an advance man’s job to keep a day or two ahead of the circus and sideshow, nailing up these placards in upcoming towns. Sully was a small man with a fast horse and penchant for theatre, or theat-ar, as he would pronounce it. He’d put up placards by the dark of night and spend the next morning whispering to townsfolk how they must’ve magically appeared. By evening he’d visit saloons, hop on top of a bar or a table, and preach mightily of the show’s barbaric acts, their appalling nature, and never mind the illustrated beauty who crossed the line by showing too much flesh.
By the next morning he’d be gone, the seeds of morbid fascination successfully planted.
The placards were colored with plant dye. They faded badly against the sun. The color rotated every four years, so this year’s placard would be red again. No red placard on this signboard meant the show hadn’t been through Bracken in over a year. Must have been too small a take for McLean to warrant a trip back through.
Roy moved past the signboard and up the boardwalk. A heavyset, balding man in suspenders sat outside a shop at the near end. He had a wild mustache and the beginnings of a beard on his cheeks and chin. His chair was tilted back against the wall and his hands were locked over his stomach. Fast asleep. The sign above the shop read Earl’s Goods. Roy tipped his hat low and pushed up the collar on his duster. Satisfied his face was hidden, he approached the heavy man and knocked on the wall above his head.
The man awakened with a snort. His chair fell forward and cracked down against the boardwalk. “Jesus Hell!” His was voice like that of a bullfrog. “You scared the shit right out of me!”
“You Earl?” Roy said, speaking into his collar.
The man’s eyes squinted as he examined Roy’s face. A meaty hand came up to rub his fuzzy chin and scratch his neck. “Whatever you’re trying to hide, son, it ain’t working.”
Roy backed up a step. He’d sworn to himself he’d stay in the shadows, avoiding society altogether, and yet here he was, barely a day removed from prison, already breaking his promises. Damn his hunger. Damn his thirst. He migh
t have to kill this man. His hand moved toward the revolver on his waist.
“I can see you been beat up something bad,” the man said. He nodded toward the distance. “You been up in them hills?”
Roy’s hand stopped. He looked over his shoulder. Past the buildings there were dark, forested hills just short of qualifying as mountains. Even at night you could see the gray veins of logging trails snaking through the pines.
Roy nodded. Better a victim than a freak.
“Well don’t go up there again. Though I reckon you don’t need me to tell you that.”
“Shop open?” Roy said. “I could use something.” His right hand went to the spot on his left arm where he habitually started the application of salve.
The man looked at the gun on Roy’s hip. “Been closed a couple hours.”
“You won’t be robbed. I mean you no harm.”
“Ain’t worried about being robbed. Just ain’t open.”
Roy nodded and moved past the man, down the boardwalk.
“Now hold on a second,” the man said.
Roy stopped, waited.
“How badly you needin’ something?”
“Depends on what you got.”
The man sighed. “All right, then. Come on back here and I’ll let you in.”
Roy turned and came back.
“Earl Walker’s the name.” He stuck out his hand to shake.
Roy paused. His muscles tensed. Just because this man couldn’t see his affliction didn’t mean he couldn’t feel it. He watched Earl’s eyes as they clasped hands.
“New in town?” Earl said as they shook.
If he felt Roy’s scaly skin, it didn’t register on his face. “Yes.”
“You should call on the Imperial,” Earl said, gesturing down the boardwalk. “They got booze, beds, and beauties.”
All three sounded like pie slices to Roy, but salve sounded better. “I need something for what ails me.”
“If one of those ain’t for what ails ya,” Earl said, “there ain’t nothing that is!” He clapped Roy’s shoulder.
The sensation of the man’s touch shot down to Roy’s toes and weakened his legs. Earl Walker was completely unknown to him, but any touch was an extraordinary kindness. A gust of wind could have knocked him over.
Earl produced an iron key ring and stabbed one into the lock. The door rattled a chain of bells overhead as it opened.
“Stay out of them hills,” Earl said, crossing the threshold of his shop. “Once them Ledger boys get after you, they don’t quit. But I reckon you met them already.”
Roy followed Earl into the store. He breathed in cedar and spice like a sailor might take in the mighty sea. “Ledger boys?” His mind’s eye traveled back to the wanted poster on the town signboard.
“I assume they’re the ones that did that to your face? A bad lot, those fellas. They hide behind religion like it’s a license to thieve and kill.” He lit some candles on the countertop. “Shoulda used that smoker on your waist.”
Roy looked around the small shop. Though it was poorly lit, he could see hammers, nails, flour, rock candy, medicine. He wished he had ten dollars.
“So what can I do you for?” Earl said.
“Salve,” Roy said. “Got a couple wounds I need to cool down.” He laid a hand on his waterskin and found it flat. “And might there be a well?”
“Well’s in the alley past the Imperial.” Earl turned to examine the wall of square cubbyholes behind him. He plucked out a small tin can. “Just one?”
“How many you got?”
Earl reached deep into the hole and pulled out five more small cans. “Total of six.”
“I’ll take them all.”
Roy’s stomach soured as he realized he’d have to take off his hat to get to the coin bag. His skin grew hot. Water rolled down his cheek and he wiped it away.
Earl came back to the counter with the six cans of salve stacked like a tiny totem pole. “Good stuff this salve. Ten cents a can, which makes a total of sixty. Anything else?”
“Jerky?” Roy said, hoping the jerky was far down the counter so he could remove and replace his hat while Earl’s back was turned.
No dice.
Earl’s hands flicked beneath the countertop and an open box of jerky touched down between them. “As much as you need. Penny a strip. Buy ten and I’ll throw in a square of hardtack.” He reached under the counter and produced a decently-sized chunk of bricklike biscuit.
Roy leaned forward and removed his hat, cupping the coin bag inside to keep it from falling. He plucked out the bag and slid the hat back on. “Then I’ll take ten.” He watched Earl’s eyes.
Earl’s expression didn’t change. He pulled out ten strips of jerky and put them in a neat stack, using the hardtack as a base. He wrapped it all in brown paper, swiftly tied the bundle with twine, and slid the package next to the salve totem. “Seventy cents.”
Roy opened the coin bag and poured the contents into his hand. All Indian-heads. Jesus, he hadn’t expected that. Should have checked the bag before now. He spread them on the counter and counted out seventy. He gave Earl the money and put the rest back in the bag.
Earl dropped the pennies into his register and slid the drawer closed.
Roy packaged his new goods into the burlap bag and tied it over his shoulder. “Much obliged.”
Earl nodded.
Roy saw something behind Earl’s eyes. The man had something on his mind and was yet to express himself on it. Best to be gone by the time he got around to it. Roy turned toward the door.
“I saw you,” Earl said.
Roy stopped. His heart gave a single hard pump before fluttering madly. The gun on his waist suddenly weighed fifty pounds.
“Pardon?” Roy said, not looking back.
“In Charleston,” Earl said. “I saw you there.”
Roy heard a drawer open. Heard something slide out. Heard the drawer close again. Something metallic clacked down on the countertop. He didn’t want to kill this man, but want and need were separate things.
“You were with the sideshow. You’re Scales, ain’t ya?”
“That’s not my name.” Roy turned and drew his gun, sighting Earl’s chest. He clicked back the hammer.
Earl Walker stood there holding a cigar. A copper tinderbox sat on the counter in front of him, emitting a yellow flame.
“Fair enough,” Earl said, unfazed by the threat.
Roy lowered the revolver, eased back the hammer.
“I used to have a life there,” Earl said, “in Charleston. Even had a wife.” He studied the cigar as he rolled it between his index finger and thumb. “We had a son, too. I reckon he was supposed to be a twin, but his brother never grew quite right, and my son was born with little parts of his twin all over him.” He touched his cigar to the flame. The end turned orange as he rolled it back and forth. He lifted it to his mouth and dragged in, brightening the cherry. “Doctor called him a parasitic. He died within a week. My wife, rest her soul, ended herself over it.”
Roy slid the revolver back into its holster.
Earl pulled open a drawer, drew out another thin cigar, and offered it to Roy.
Roy hated cigars. Hated their look, their scent. Samson smoked them. Rather, he chewed them like an animal, and sometimes he liked to extinguish the cherry on the perfect flesh of an illustrated woman. Still, there was no payoff in insulting this man. He took the cigar.
Earl nodded toward the flaming tinderbox.
Roy lit up.
“Not but a week after they were gone, your show came to town,” Earl said. “I’d been spending my time at the bottom of a bottle. Didn’t know what was next for me. One day I found myself in your sideshow tent, watching y’all cross the stage. The fat lady, the girl who walked on all fours, the armless guy, and a bunch of others. It left me to wonder what he’d be like.”
The man wanted to know what might have been for his son, had he lived. Straight from the freak’s mouth, as it were. Roy considered
offering the truth, but what good would it do to tell it? How could this man benefit from knowing his son’s life would have been nothing but judgment and pain?
“Your son would’ve led a fine life,” Roy said. “We all bear crosses.”
Earl Walker continued to hold Roy’s gaze.
Roy tasted the thin cigar, dragged in the smoke. It burned his throat but he didn’t cough. His head lightened. His neck and shoulder muscles relaxed. He conjured a scene where Samson pinned Jesse down with his giant hands. His mind’s eye saw Samson search for a good spot, somewhere along her ribs and up near her chest. He heard her scream when the embers found her flesh.
His jaw clenched, his neck and shoulders tensed back up. The taste of smoke turned bitter in his mouth. He crushed out the cherry and laid the cigar down. If Earl Walker felt insulted, he could say so.
“Crosses,” Earl said, “is what them Ledger’s boys will be wearing if you run into them, ya hear? You see a silver cross on a man’s chest anywhere near these parts, you turn and run, understand?”
Roy nodded.
“The eldest one.” Earl gestured in the direction of the signboard outside, the wanted poster. “Frank. Water runs deep and cold with him. You take a wide berth you see his likeness.”
“Fair enough,” Roy said.
Earl crushed out his own cigar and laid it next to Roy’s. “My son was lucky to die, wasn’t he?”
Roy thought of Jukey as he walked away.
13
When the caravan started away from Charleston in 1878, James Corr had been with the sideshow for just under a year. Like the other performers, he’d had a strange and difficult childhood because of his deformity, and by the time he reached a working age he’d found no decent way to make a living. He approached Jack McLean one night after a show in a Kansas cowtown, and didn’t have to say a word. His lack of arms did the talking. The next day James Corr was Jukey, The Armless Marvel.
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