by Lon Williams
“What in thunderation!” exclaimed Winters.
Gunstock’s response was joyous. “Why, this is Tallyho Canyon, Winters; I thought you knew.”
Echoes had hardly died, when new sounds moved like mysterious winds, ceaseless, exciting.
Winters was besieged suddenly by forces of distress and terrifying anticipation. “What’s that?”
“What’s what, Winters?”
“Those noises?”
“I thought you knew,” said Gunstock. “Those are carnivals folks. And we’d better move along, or we shall miss something.”
Winters would have held back, but fate became his master. Cannon Ball sprang into a run. A race was on between him and Gunstock’s horse. Wind whisperings swelled into an overhead tempest. Gunstock rode faster and faster, but Cannon Ball swept heaving and snorting at his side.
At length Gunstock slowed and exclaimed in disappointment, “As I feared! We have missed a great deal.” He glanced at Winters, not to accuse, but to apologize for their inexplicable tardiness. “But, come, Winters; we shall still see much.”
Gunstock was off again, though at a more temperate rate. Winters rode spellbound, awed by those tempestuous, rumbling, ubiquitous sounds. On their left, in a glow that seemed to emanate from canyon walls, moved a hurrying procession, elements of silence within it in curious contradiction to an infinity of sounds.
“Can’t believe it,” rasped Winters. “Collie Gunstock, what trickery is this?”
“Come, Winters; we’re not so late as I thought.”
Gunstock urged his horse to renewed speed. Winters would have held back, but Cannon Ball, self-willed again, lunged forward at a furious pace. Both horses jolted to a stop at last on a hard promontory where Tallyho Canyon widened abruptly into a vast, desolate waste which Winters at once recognized as Alkali Flat.
“Fast horse you’ve got there, Winters,” Gunstock observed with a true horseman’s pride. “Almost as fast as mine.”
“Almost?” said Winters.
“Never mind; we’ll argue that later,” said Gunstock. “Put your mind on what is passing in that parade.”
Winters looked. Off to their left-front a procession was pouring onto Alkali Flat. Human beings, yes. Animals, yes. In his excitement, Winters for a while forgot his fears. He wanted to know what was this, what was that. Some things he recognized. Elephants, of course. Horses. Monkeys.
“But what funny looking people!” he exclaimed.
“Not so funny,” said Gunstock. “This is no ordinary carnival, where people come to gawk, drink lemonade and get themselves fleeced. This is an exhibition of thought and wish and retribution, all mixed in a kind of give-and-take pattern.” Winters comprehended nothing. “Explain yourself, Gunnie.”
“It’s like this, Winters. This is where men of nobler character who wanted things but could not have them, now have their wants satisfied. It is also where mankind’s composite wish for eternal retribution is being fulfilled as to characters of less nobility. You will see what I mean.”
An imposing sight had caught Winters’ attention. “What a lot of elephants! And what fierce groups of men on their backs!”
“Those are for Hannibal,” said Gunstock.
“Hannibal, Missouri?”
“No, Winters. This Hannibal was a general. Of ancient Carthage.”
“Oh,” said Winters. He remembered now. As a button, he’d read about Hannibal and his war elephants, and how Hannibal had wanted more and more elephants. Winters had felt sorry for him because he could not get as many elephants as he wanted. “But I thought Hannibal had been dead for ages.”
A frown struck Gunstock’s distinguished countenance. “We agreed not to be technical, Winters.”
“Yeah,” said Winters. “We did, didn’t we?”
Without thinking it extraordinary, Winters realized he could, and for some time had been able to see Gunstock quite distinctly. And now, a hazy light made all things visible.
Gunstock’s frown dissipated. “About those elephants, Winters. Hannibal could never get enough of them. He was forever calling upon Carthage for more and more elephants. Well, he is getting them at last. And each with its component of soldiers.”
Winters could see that. There was no end to them. Huge elephants, howdahs on their backs filled with swarthy, spear-bearing warriors, poured in endless file out of Tallyho Canyon and stretched into Alkali Flat as far as he could see. They moved in step, rocking and swinging along in tremendous silence.
Passing closer by Winters and Gunstock were horses with chattering monkeys upon their backs.
“Those,” explained Gunstock, “are human beings who have been changed into monkeys. They were annoying chatterers in their former state. Now they chatter from compulsion; I imagine they are very tired.”
Winters backhanded his mustache. He was glad he had never been a chatterer. Yet he wondered if some fate even more disagreeable awaited him. He sleeved his face and noted that his sleeve was wet.
Gunstock had his attention again. “Those funnies you see there, Winters; what would be your guess as to them?”
Winters stared. Passing were men who walked backwards. From their foreheads where eyes should have been, two horns extended, each two feet in length. They curved backward toward their owner’s faces. Their tips were equipped with eyes.
“I’d never figure that,” said Winters.
“Self-centered men,” said Gunstock. “Their eyes are fixed that way so they can always look at themselves. It results, however, in their having to walk backwards.” He pointed with a thumb. “Farther over you can see another sort of vanity expressing itself.”
Winters saw a procession of men who looked like walking balloons. “They’ve busted out of their clothes,” said Winters.
Gunstock nodded. “You have heard of men who were full of themselves, haven’t you?”
“Certainly have,” said Winters.
“There is a feeling, more or less universal I’d say, with respect to such men. You’ll see that wish expressing itself presently.”
Suddenly, far out on Alkali Flat, there was a loud explosion.
“What was that?” asked Winters.
“One of those fellows,” said Gunstock, indicating a line of walking balloons. “One has just blown up.”
There was another terrific detonation. Gunstock looked at Winters and nodded.
Winters understood. “But look at that one!”
A balloon had commenced to dance and bounce. “He’s so full of himself by now,” said Gunstock, “he’s bound to blow.”
Winters watched him. His discomfort was so intense that Winters could feel it himself. An explosion occurred then that made stars and mountains quiver. Nothing remained of him; not one small fragment. Winters was amazed. “What became of him, Gunnie?”
“He just blew up,” said Gunstock. “There was no substance to him anyhow. Not really.”
Winters meditated through anxious moments. He wondered what his own outstanding vanity could be, what frightful retribution it would bring upon him.
But other characters were streaming by—men with heads of stone (hard-heads, Gunstock explained); men tied behind wagonloads of young people, pulling back furiously, their heels plowing furrows (old fogies, said Gunstock); men with fungus and ferns growing on their bodies (moss-backs, said Gunstock); men with long ears and horns (bull-heads)…
Winters’ attention was caught by a procession of wagons over near Hannibal’s elephants. They were loaded with shoes, piled so high that four horses were required for each wagon. “Be-confound!” exclaimed Winters. “Did you ever see so many shoes?”
“They’re for George Washington’s soldiers,” said Gunstock. “Ever hear of George?”
“Sure,” said Winters indignantly. “Father of his country.”
“Remember Valley Forge?” Gunstock continued, smiling at Winters’ patriotic exhibition. “And barefoot soldiers? Blood-stained snow? George wanted shoes for his suffering soldiers. Well, they will never be wi
thout shoes again.”
Winters blinked. There were almost as many wagonloads of shoes as there were elephants. “Washington must’ve wanted shoes pretty bad.”
Gunstock agreed. “Must have.”
Then what had been a mere trickle of oddities became a torrent as Tallyho Canyon disgorged its goods. A horseman in gold and crimson garments rode by followed by a mounted host.
“Sir Robin Stirrup,” said Gunstock. “Grand equerry to King Carnevale.”
Winters was no longer afraid. He was thrilled. A beautiful woman excepted, in his opinion there was nothing that excelled a fine horse. Here were fine horses in tens of thousands.
Trumpets blew, and following Sir Robin’s riders emerged teams of cream-colored horses, one team behind another pulling in tandem, all embellished with shining harness and tassels. Winters expected to see a grand coach, drawn by seven or eight teams, but he was mistaken. They came on—and on. There must have been two thousand of them. They stretched away for miles. But at last a coach did appear, its coachman visible first, riding high indeed, but with a hat that went up out of sight. Down below, riding alone, sat King Carnevale, on his royal face a smile broad enough to encompass all humanity.
“Well!” exclaimed Winters. “He smiled at me.”
“I hope you remembered to smile back.”
“I think—yes, I’m sure I did.”
“Then you’ll be welcome at his carnival. Let’s go.”
* * * *
Winters and Gunstock rode down from their promontory and were swept along in a tidal wave of joyhunters. Great swings were going up for high altitude acrobats; ropes for tightrope walkers; trapezes so far up they seemed suspended from stars; circus rings enclosed by transparent canvas; race courses; chopping blocks; candy booths; lemonade fountains, and—most incomprehensible of all—long ponds of muck and slime and close-by herds of starving reindeer.
Winters rode close to Gunstock, fearful of getting lost. “Looks like a forty-ring circus, Gunnie”
“Forty!” scoffed Gunstock. “More likely forty thousand.”
Just then they were jarred by a tremendous explosion. Gunstock arched his eyebrows at Winters and winked.
Exhibitions, Winters figured, had already started.
He saw an inconsequential fraction of what was occurring, for King Carnevale’s royal stand was miles farther on. But he did see a chopping block in performance of its ancient function. Hard-heads were lined up, possibly for a mile, and one by one were having their heads chopped off to be used for grindstones. Old fogies, fastened by long ropes behind wagons, were being pulled through slime ponds. Moss-backs were laid out on snowbanks and reindeer were grazing off their fungus. Explosions that multiplied in frequency and intensity suggested what was taking place five or six miles away.
Round a large race course, men with those horny eyes were running backwards, pursued by herds of wild horses. They lacked nothing of speed, but occasionally one stumbled backward and was tramped into nothingness. In a mile-square enclosure, bull-heads were arranging themselves in two opposing lines. At a signal they moved toward each other like projectiles. Impacts were attended by sounds of crunching bones and breaking horns as heads met in terrific crashes. Survivors took position again, and again as they went at each other. Winters looked for those called mule-heads. They were nowhere around, but eastward, swinging on across Alkali Flat, were elephants and more elephants. Also, there were those never-ending wagonloads of shoes. Winters caught glimpses of war chariots, too, and of fierce horsemen.
But then it was all over as swiftly as it had begun. Trumpets blared, drums rolled, swings, trapezes, ropes fell to earth; wagons, riders, performers, spectators flowed southwestward as a receding tide. Even Hannibal’s elephants and George Washington’s wagons of shoes were soon obscured by haze.
Winters and Gunstock remained, and after a while Winters discovered that four other men had stayed behind. Those four, dismounted, came forward. One of them carried a cage on his back.
Gunstock swung off his horse. “Get down, Winters, and meet my friends.”
Winters responded, though with misgiving. “Glad to meet any friends of yours, Gunstock.”
They had queer names, those fellows. Spartacus Jones. Horatius Turn. Persistent Maudie. He with a cage on his back— Phelinus Purr.
They all nodded coolly at Winters. Winters in consequence felt cold and sweaty.
“We’ve heard of you, Winters,” said one of them.
“Mighty sorry,” said Winters, “but you’re all strangers to me.”
“That’s of no consequence to us at all,” said Spartacus Jones curtly. “We hear you’re fast with a gun.”
Winters disliked braggarts. “Not at all,” he said. “Just lucky, maybe.” He observed that three of them had fancy shooting irons in side holsters.
Spartacus, a straight young fellow, came back relentlessly, “Not how we heard it, Winters. You’re said to be as quick as a cat.”
“Yeah, cat-quick,” sneered redheaded Horatius Turn.
Persistent Maudie was small, wiry, chilly, and badly disfigured. “You’re too modest, Winters. Cat-quick Lee Winters, you’re called.”
Colyer Gunstock stepped close to Winters. “What they want, Winters, is to see you prove it.”
Winters shuddered. There was menace in their eyes. “No,” he said. “I’m no gun-hand; they’ve got it all wrong.”
Gunstock’s voice dropped low. “They don’t want to have a shoot-out with you, Winters, though it might come to that.”
“I heard what was said there,” said Persistent Maudie. “But Gunstock is right. What we have is a cat.”
“Yeah,” said Spartacus Jones, “a cat.”
“He’s a trained cat,” said Horatius Turn.
Phelinus Purr unslung his cage and set it down. He turned its screened side toward Winters. “There he is, Winters. “
Purr’s cage imprisoned a large cat. Winters could not tell whether it was black with white stripes, or white with black stripes. But its black was as black as midnight, and its white was as white as snow. It looked at Winters, bared its teeth, growled and spat.
“His name is Socrates,” said Jones.
“He has eight lives,” said Horatius Turn.
“Huh!” scoffed Winters. “A cat is supposed to have nine lives.”
“Socrates lost one,” Phelinus explained. He glanced at Persistent Maudie, who squared his shoulders with pride.
Winters felt a rise of impatience. “I don’t see what a cat has got to do with it.”
“We’ll explain that,” said Phelinus Purr. “This cat is trained. I feed him essence of catnip. But if he disobeys my orders, he goes without food for a week. Now,” said Phelinus as he unfastened his cage door, “I’ll explain our game.”
* * * *
He started off. Socrates leaped out of his prison, growled and spat at Winters, then followed Phelinus. Sixty feet away they stopped and at a command, Socrates crouched, facing Winters. Phelinus backed thirty or forty feet to one side.
“This is how we test your speed, Winters,” Phelinus continued. “When I give a command to start, you draw and shoot at Socrates. Meanwhile, Socrates will be charging toward you. After I’ve given a starting signal, I shall instantly give a stop signal, so that if you miss him, Socrates will not harm you.”
“Looks like you’re giving me an unfair advantage,” said Winters; “I wouldn’t like that.”
Gunstock stepped up and whispered.
“Don’t argue, Winters. Your life depends upon your doing exactly what they tell you to. And don’t get a notion you could out-gun them.”
“You’ll find this to be fair,” Phelinus explained after an unpleasant scowl. “It’s true this cat is uncommonly slow. You should see some of my fastest ones. But Socrates—well, he’s a wampus. Mean, slow, lazy, shiftless. But even as a wampus cat, he is some faster than ordinary cats.” He paused. “Willing to take a try, Winters?”
Winters glanced at Gunstock
, who nodded vigorously. He glanced at Socrates. At a start of sixty feet, Winters thought he could make sausage of anything that ever moved. Socrates was crouched. His tail waved; his teeth were bared. Winters could hear his angry growl.
Winters stalled. “Must be a mighty cantankerous cat.”
“Winters!” snapped Gunstock, warning in his voice.
“He’s bad-tempered, ’tis true,” said Phelinus.
“He’s been shot at a heap,” said Persistent Maudie. “He especially doesn’t like me.”
Winters glanced around. Gunstock’s friends were waiting coldly. Winters moved his right hand back and forth across his sixgun. He got his bearings. “I’ll take a go at him.”
“Then are you ready?” asked Phelinus. Winters took a good breath. “Ready.” Phelinus gave a small clucking sound, and Socrates stilled, tensed, his eyes blazing like fire.
Phelinus yelled, “Go! Stop!”
Winters’ hand swept to his gun, but froze on its handle.
Socrates had leaped sideways, forward, sideways again, and once more forward. Before Winters could draw, Socrates had landed on his right shoulder.
He perched there, growling and spitting, his teeth an inch from Winters’ neck. “Down, Socrates,” Phelinus yelled. Socrates snarled fiercely, angry at having his fury stayed. Slowly he backed, screamed and leaped down. Winters looked at Gunstock and his friends. He was almost too ashamed and beat to look at their faces.
“That’s all right, Winters,” said Spartacus Jones. “We didn’t expect anything better. As for me, I gave up long ago.”
“So did I,” said Horatius Turn. “Persistent Maudie, however, still thinks he’s fast, and won’t quit.”
“You underestimated him, Winters,” said Maudie. “That fault has been fatal to many fast gunslingers here and yon. Suppose you let me take a try. I got him once; perhaps it will help you to watch me.”
“Sure would like to see you try him,” said Winters.
“Socrates!” yelled Phelinus. “Get set.” Socrates, snarling viciously, took his position. His hatred of Persistent Maudie was something a man could almost taste.
Persistent Maudie stood, his right foot a few inches forward, both hands in readiness. “Phelinus, you come this way, a few steps, so me and Sock will hear you, one as quick as another. You fudged on Winters, because your voice got to Socrates first.”
