“I was delighted to hear that you had a show, Lewis.”
“Not as delighted as I was, Preston.”
“Been too long. Hector’s around somewhere, you know.”
“We’ve had visits from his people. We sent them away, chastised.”
Preston smiled and raised a finger to signal the bartender.
“Let me buy, Preston. It’s my turn.”
“No. This is the least I can do for an old-time circus man that I’m going to drive completely out of this part of the country.”
“Nobody’s ever done that, Preston.”
“You haven’t seen my show.” Preston looked down at his drink as he spoke. “I have two dozen elephants, Lewis.”
“Hector claims to have a dozen.”
Preston laughed. “He’s got four and two are sick. Oh, Hector’s great fun. Belongs in prison, when you think about it. But my two dozen are real, Lewis. I’ve got fifty horses and five chariots, I can put on a chariot race like the Ringlings, I’ve got a lion trainer with a dozen big cats, I’ve got a high-wire troupe and acrobats and Chinese jugglers and my menagerie has more than a hundred animals. I’ve got a dozen clowns, I’ve got trained dogs, trained monkeys, sharp-shooters, trick riders, contortionists, and a man who shoots himself from a giant crossbow.”
Preston never raised his voice, and there was a note of disbelief in it, as though he could not quite believe his own good fortune, or his own genius.
“My camp looks like a small city, Lewis, and when we get out on the road and I put my new trucks out front, the local people just pull off to the side to watch us pass.” He drained his whiskey and looked at Lewis.
“You always were a great showman, Preston. I always thought you’d show the Ringlings a few things if you had that kind of money.”
“Thank you, Lewis.”
“Well, I’ve got aerialists and acrobats and wirewalkers, too, Preston. Now I don’t have two dozen elephants.” He held up a finger. “I have one and it’s Jupiter, the biggest elephant on earth. And I have one clown act, and it’s Roy Green and Shirley Morrissey.” Lewis watched Preston’s eyes widen and felt a stirring in his stomach. “I’ve got one bareback rider but it’s Lucy Brown. I’ve got a Russian that trains housecats and a snakeman who gets bit every single time out and he dies and then revives himself and the crowd thinks Jesus did it. I’ve got some of the old Rough Rider bunch and I’ve got another Red Ape, don’t shake your head, Preston, it’s a true fact, I’ve got two men that can lift a truck, and Preston, Preston, I’ve got Harley Fitzroy.” Lewis bit back his smile.
Preston Crowe’s mouth worked but for just the shavings of a second he was speechless. He covered the moment with a wide grin.
“The hell you say!”
“Come see my show.”
Preston stared at him for several seconds, then said, “You always were a genuine circus man, Lewis. Always a worthy competitor. It sounds like the damnedest little show anybody could think up, but it’s got nothing like the size, the color, the splendor of what I can give them. Folks’ll see my show coming into town and forget all about a show like yours.”
“Some will. Only some.”
“Well, maybe so. You enjoy your stand here, Lewis. I’m going to hit the big towns, but I move fast, I’ll hit a lot of the small ones as well, and I plan to cover the whole of Wyoming and then I’ll hit every good-sized town in Montana.”
“Both of ’em?” Lewis said, and they laughed.
“I expect we’ll see one another.”
“Good luck,” Lewis said.
“Same to you, Lewis. You’ll need it.”
Preston patted him on the back and left the room, waving to the locals as they thanked him for their drinks.
“I always liked Preston,” Shelby said quietly.
“Ever the gentleman,” Lewis said. He tried to picture a tent four times the size of his own, filled with spectators, the ring crowded with two dozen elephants, men chasing one another in golden chariots, a lion tamer with a dozen cats.
“Damn,” he said.
THIRTY-FOUR
“Hey, Rube!”
They noticed the crowd as they drove back toward camp, a tight-pressed knot of men off to the side, near the horse corral.
Lewis exchanged a quick look with Shelby, then left the road and drove up behind the men. Some turned at the sound of his engine and he recognized the look, a mix of excitement and fear and the blood-lust: men watching a fight.
They clambered out of the car and pushed through the crowd. A tall, fleshy man in a loose shirt was facing Zheng and Sam Jeanette. Ranged in a ragged line behind him were perhaps a dozen men, clearly backing him up. A larger group of men seemed to be hanging back, as though not directly involved. Sam stood with his right foot back just a few inches and his hands down at his sides, and Lewis knew he was seconds away from launching a punch. Behind him, Lewis saw Foley and the Perez brothers, Alexei and Joseph Coates. The big man turned to say something to his friends and Lewis saw that he was young, perhaps twenty.
Another kid who thinks he’s Dempsey.
He had blond hair and dark, close-set eyes and a massive head to match the rest of him, and as Lewis approached, he could see the kid flexing his hands.
Lewis moved closer and put a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“What’s going on here?”
The kid shook off Lewis’s hand.
“Nothing you got to worry your gray head about, mister.”
Lewis ignored him. “Sam?”
“This gentleman was having some fun with Mr. Zheng.”
“He does not like Chinese people, Lewis,” Zheng said.
“Then he can leave.” He looked at the kid. “You’ve got no business here. You show my people respect or take your ass out of here.”
The boy turned now, flashed a look of mock surprise at his audience and faced Lewis. He was a little taller than Lewis but at least forty pounds heavier.
“You travel with freaks, mister. And chinks and…” he looked at Sam Jeanette, “the colored. Your circus is full of ’em. I got to show respect to these freaks you bring in? Don’t make me laugh.”
“This is mine, Lewis,” Sam Jeanette said.
“No. It’s nobody’s. This fella was just leaving.” Lewis grabbed hold of the back of the kid’s shirt and tugged, then sidestepped just as the big punch came through. It didn’t land clean but caught him along the side of his head. He lost his balance and stumbled back. The kid took his stance and brought up both big fists, and an eager look came into his eyes.
Alexei burst through the ring of men, and Lewis saw a pair of the older miners go flying on the other side as Joseph Coates threw a massive shoulder into their line. The kid wheeled to face Alexei and blinked. Then he saw Joseph Coates and his eyes went wide. Lewis saw the other miners move in, one of them carrying a pipe, and heard Shelby yell the old alarm, “HEY, RUBE!” and then the big kid and his friends found themselves facing a solid line of the circus people—performers, hammer gang, roustabouts.
“Just hold on now!” Lewis said. “Nobody move.”
The larger group of towners seemed to sag back. Maybe the kid and his friends weren’t local men, maybe they were and the other men didn’t want anything to do with them. Lewis looked at his own people and decided they could take the kid and his friends, but it was almost inevitable that the others would eventually join in.
Lewis scanned the faces of the larger group: miners, many of them, tough, unhappy men, and if they came into the fight, it would be bad, a lot of his people would be hurt. No, this one was his.
He held up both hands and turned in a slow circle, looking into the faces on both sides.
“Just hold on, boys, just hold on.” He looked at the kid, whose nervous gaze kept moving back and forth between Alexei and Joseph Coates.
“
That’s right, kid, either one of them will rip your arms off in front of your friends. But we’re gonna keep this private. These folk are my friends. You do them harm, you answer to me. I’ll ask you again: you leaving?”
The kid grinned and shook his head, but his eyes had gone dead, and he was just getting his balance to throw a sucker-punch when Lewis hit him. The kid went down and got up immediately on one knee. He blinked and shook his head, worked his jaw and then stood. Lewis braced himself and felt rather than saw the ring of men around them give way to make room.
Lewis and the kid moved in a slow circle and neither threw a punch. The kid kept his hands high to his face but he fought bent over from the waist so that his head was thrust forward. Lewis flicked a left to see what the kid would do. The kid brought his fists closer together but didn’t move his head. A target, anyway.
Lewis moved to his left, flicked out a jab, watched the hands come together and hooked around them. He threw a right to the boy’s midsection and took a punch that caught him in the forehead and wobbled his knees.
The boy came at him throwing long looping punches and Lewis moved to the right, circled around and threw punches blind, fighting to clear his head. He caught the kid coming in with a straight right, and blood streamed from the boy’s nose. The kid put a hand to his nose and looked at it. He wiped his face on his sleeve, put his head down, and came in with both hands pumping. Lewis took most of the blows on his arms, but a couple caught him on the head and he gave ground.
The kid came at him again, and Lewis went into a crouch, throwing hooks up under the kid’s arms. An uppercut caught the kid under his big jaw and he staggered back, flailing one arm, and Lewis thought he would go down. Then the kid caught himself, glared at Lewis, and came back at him. His face was red and puffy, the lower half smeared with blood, and the close-set eyes looked angry and confused. He came in swinging both hands, and Lewis felt the toe of the kid’s boot this time, catching him in the thigh. He sidestepped, threw three punches of his own, and then a heavy right hand caught him moving away and put him on the seat of his pants. A dull throb was spreading across the left side of his face, and he could hear his own breathing.
“Get up, Lewis,” he heard someone say. He was hot, he was nauseated, he could feel dirt clinging to the sweat. He had to roll part of the way over to get back to his feet, and the kid almost caught him before he was ready. He ducked under the fresh assault, dug his right hand into the kid’s ribs and heard him groan. Lewis backed off a couple of steps and sucked in air but there didn’t seem to be enough. The young one came at him again, they traded punches and Lewis knew he had landed three for one, but his seemed to have little effect. The kid had cut him over his eye, and sweat trickled into the wound. They closed again, and the kid kicked at him, but Lewis blocked it with his leg and drove the toe of his boot into the kid’s shin.
He heard the kid gasp “shit” and he drove a right into the injured nose. They circled again, and Lewis fought for breath. The other man was gasping, the air bubbling through his bloodied nostrils, and his face was tomato-red but he wasn’t going down. They closed again, grappled, and each tried to sneak in short close punches, and the kid tried to get at Lewis with his feet again. As they broke, Lewis landed a left to the kid’s face that made him grimace but nothing more. He’d hit this boy with his best and the kid was still coming, and Lewis had nothing more to hit him with.
The kid caught Lewis flat-footed with a looping left, and Lewis went down. He moved to a sitting position, gasped for air, and looked around for the kid. He was a few feet away, bent over, hands on his knees. His face was an blotchy red and he watched, hoping Lewis would stay down.
Lewis smiled and got slowly to one knee, and he saw the kid’s heart sink. He was on his feet before the kid could cross the space between them and ducked under the kid’s roundhouse right. He held the kid off with his hands and felt the other man’s weight, felt his own strength evaporating. He backed away and tried to muster enough for one perfect punch.
He could hear the talking around him, they were all muttering and he realized every member of his camp was watching him take a beating. He heard Helen’s voice.
“I want to stop this,” she was saying, and someone was trying to calm her. He heard her curse whoever it was.
The kid straightened in the little clearing and tried to brush his wet hair from his face. He had a stricken look in his eyes, and Lewis knew at least he’d punched holes in the kid’s swagger.
A fifty-two-year-old man did all this to you, boy.
Lewis beckoned to him and wondered what he’d do when the kid got there. He came in one last time and Lewis was lowering his head in anticipation of the first punch when a huge figure in a blue suit pushed his way in and shoved each of them in opposite directions. Lewis fell backward onto the dirt, sat, and the newcomer boomed out, “This fight is over, gentlemen.”
A muscular young man emerged from the group behind him and yelled out, “Says who, fatso?” and Preston Crowe dropped him with a loud smack of his walking stick.
“I say so,” Preston said calmly, gazing around at the crowd.
He looked at Lewis’s opponent.
The big fighter scowled and opened his mouth in bloody protest, and Preston shot the dirt end of the walking stick into it. The kid made a choking sound and a look of panic came into his eyes.
“My name is Preston Crowe and I’m not a runt like these fellows you single out, and I’ll tell you frankly that I have killed a man with my hands and it wouldn’t bother me to do it once more.” He pushed a little with the stick, the kid gagged, his eyes grew enormous, and Preston pulled the stick out and walked away from him.
“I’ve sent my men for your sheriff,” Preston said to no one in particular. “Hello, again, Lewis.”
“Thanks, Preston,” he said, not sure he was speaking clearly anymore. Shelby was trying to pick him up by his armpits and Helen was in front of him, dabbing at his injuries with a handkerchief and muttering curses that would have shamed a sailor.
“Don’t mention it. Pick one closer to your own age next time, Lewis, or carry a cudgel.”
Lewis panted for a moment. “Wasn’t my idea. Trying to keep it from getting bigger.”
“I understand. I saw two fellows killed once in a clem.”
Lewis leaned back and tried to catch his breath. When he thought he could speak he said, “Barnum lost more than a dozen in a big one, I’ve heard.”
“But this is the twentieth century.”
“I liked the part about killing a man with your bare hands,” Lewis said, and his voice sounded distant to him, labored. “Anything for a good story.” He smiled up at Preston.
Preston blushed slightly. “I’ve used it before. It is effective among a certain element. When you’re my size, people are more judicious about calling you a liar.”
Preston studied them all for a moment and then said quietly, “Hello, Helen,” and removed his flawless boater.
“Lovely to see you, Preston.”
“The years have been kind to you, Helen.”
“The devil’s got a silver tongue, Preston. But thanks anyway.”
The sheriff arrived, a chubby man with a pained facial expression. He surveyed the crowd, spoke to an older man, and then went over to the young fighter and his companions. The sheriff stood nose-to-nose with the kid and spoke until his face was tomato red. When he wheeled about and strode away, the young brawler looked dazed.
The sheriff tipped his hat to Helen and looked at Lewis.
“You all right, sir?”
“I’ll live.”
“I’m sorry about all this.”
“Tough times bring trouble.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Troubles from all points of the compass sometimes. This bunch is not from our town, they come here looking for work or trouble and they don’t much care which. And one of th
e men just told me some fella was goading these boys into starting something with you.”
Lewis frowned. “What fella?”
“I didn’t see him, but they tell me he was a real big man, tattoos on his hands.”
Lewis exchanged a quick look with Shelby. “Joe Miles.”
“Who’s that?”
“Fella that works for another outfit. We go back a long time.”
The sheriff frowned and nodded once. “Well, I’m just sorry this happened to you here. You run a clean show and you been generous with your tickets. If these boys bother you again while you’re in my town, you come see me first.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sheriff nodded and walked away.
“I’ll be leaving now, Lewis,” Preston said. “I was trying to eat my dinner when I saw men running to this end of town. It was good to see you, Lewis.”
“Always a pleasure, Preston,” he muttered, climbing to his feet.
“Watch out for that old bastard Hector Blaney, Lewis. And Lewis? If we meet in Montana,” Preston said over his shoulder, “I’ll run your little mud show into the ground.”
“I want to see that,” Lewis said. He shook off their hands and walked a couple of wobbly steps. He was slightly dizzy, and when he looked around he saw that every member of his circus was watching him. Harley Fitzroy stood with his arms folded, shaking his head, and the boy had inserted himself between two of the adults. Lewis was telling himself that Charlie looked terrified, when he felt himself falling. Shelby caught him, and then Doc Morin was hovering over him.
“Put him in my tent,” Helen said, and no one argued.
He leaned on Shelby as he walked through his circus folk, answered the nervous questions with an irritated, “I’m all right, I’m fine,” and tried to ignore the concern in their eyes.
THIRTY-FIVE
Recuperation
They let him sleep for an hour, and when he woke, Harley Fitzroy was sitting beside the bed with one bony hand on Lewis’s shoulder. The hand felt hot, as though the magician were feverish. The old man nodded, muttered something about acting his age, and left. Doc Morin came in and put ten stitches over Lewis’s eye and four in his chin to close a cut Lewis didn’t even know about, a bandage on his cheekbone where the skin had been chafed away, and a heavy wrapping around his body to support what the Doc believed to be a cracked rib. He worked quickly and efficiently, cursing and complaining all the while.
The Blue Moon Circus Page 28
