by Jim Tully
Once on the lot, he would gather a bundle of “laying out pins,” wire needles about a quarter of an inch in diameter and two feet long. The eyes of the needles were about an inch in circumference. To each was tied a piece of red flannel. Dugan would throw these needles in the ground with exact precision at the point where a stake was to be driven.
A canvas boss of the old school, he hated all advance men, those fellows who traveled ahead of the circus. He blamed them for rough lots, inclement weather, poor business and bad food.
Once while hurrying about the lot he stumbled over a pile of manure. “The God damn advance man’s fault,” he yelled, unmindful of the fact that the advance man had no control over local horses.
Two men had been his lieutenants during the years he spent with Cameron. One was Gorilla Haley, so named because he looked like a gorilla and moved slower than the sands of time.
The other man was called “The Ghost.” He was more like shadow than reality, a shambling watery man with uneven shoulders, a crooked mouth and a hare lip. He was a man who never did anything right. Clumsy and filthy, a human nearly as low in the mental scale as an animal, he worshipped Silver Moon Dugan as a god. That was his chief value in the world. Dugan had carried “The Ghost” with one circus or another for eleven years.
Dugan never smiled. The right corner of his mouth would merely twist in a leer when he was amused. Judging him from the memory of adolescence, I am certain he had no sense of humor. Rather did he have a sense of the atrociously ridiculous. The right corner of his mouth was seen to twist several times when he heard Goosey hitting Gleason with the bull hook.
Dugan hired many romantic young men who wished to see the world. “I’ll show ’em the world,” he used to say, “at the end of a sledge.”
Two weeks before he had come across a young fellow who was anxious to travel. Dugan observed his clothes and watch. He agreed to give the young man twenty-five dollars per week and a chance “to work himself up,” after he discovered he could bring a few hundred dollars with him.
He told the young fellow, who was a railroader, that it would be necessary to bring a good watch so as to be on time for work each morning. “Promptness is a jewel,” were his words. He also told him to bring several suits, two pairs of shoes, a good pistol and all the money possible, as the first month’s salary was held back.
The youth reported to Dugan with two suitcases full of clothes, three hundred dollars in money and an expensive watch. The next day Dugan told him to put on overalls and save his good clothes for the larger towns. Clothes, watch and money were left in Dugan’s care.
The young fellow was now huddled in the car with Dugan, Blackie, The Ghost, Gorilla Haley, myself and several others.
At the next stop, Cameron and Slug Finnerty crawled into the car and talked over details of the next day with Silver Moon Dugan. The train started before they could get off and go to their own section.
“It’s only a sixty-mile run now to ———, and not a stop. We’ll make it in a couple of hours,” said Silver Moon as Cameron and Finnerty resigned themselves to their environment.
The rain rattled heavily on the roof of the car. The late season was making business even poorer. Everyone was in an evil mood.
The heavy sopping pieces of canvas had been rolled into huge bundles and put at one end of the car. “We’ve paraffined ’em till they cracks but they don’t hold off water no more. It soaks right through,” said Dugan to Cameron.
The car was lighted with smoky kerosene lamps such as were used in old-fashioned railway cars. The kerosene smoke, the odor of bad liquor and filthy bodies, the reek of the wet and muddy canvas filled the air. Combined with the rainy and gloomy night it all seemed unreal to my tired brain, the haunted fragment of an ugly dream. A few men played cards with a dirty deck. The Ghost smoked the butts of cigars he had collected under the seats in the big tent after the show.
There were no bunks in the car. Every canvasman slept in a dirty blanket in wet weather, or on the rolls of canvas in hot, in any spot which he could keep hold by right of might.
The romance of circus life had fast faded from the young fellow as he looked for a spot upon which to stretch his shivering body. No man talked. We lay like stunned animals on soggy ground. The young man had seen neither clothes, money nor watch since joining the show.
He looked about at the dreary assemblage and then looked up at the roof upon which the rain pounded heavily.
“Gee, I wish I had a nice clean bed and a warm bath,” he whined. The card players paused for a moment and frowned at the boy. The Ghost held the butt of his cigar and looked at the young fellow a moment, then put the bad-smelling tobacco rope in his mouth and resumed gazing at his feet. Blackie held his pipe tightly.
I looked across the car at him and wondered. He was not one of us. But what was he? He made of silence a drama.
He now rubbed his beaked nose with the stem of his crooked pipe. Gorilla Haley, with arms spread out, snored like a grand opera singer. Silver Moon Dugan lay on a roll of dry flags of many nations. They had not been used on the main tent that day on account of rain. He breathed heavily with asthma.
Cameron and Finnerty, oblivious of surroundings, sat on a bundle of wet canvas and talked.
The old car rattled, swayed and creaked over the rough roadbed. Thick sprays of rain blew in through the cracks of the side doors.
Silver Moon Dugan buttoned his red flannel shirt and, rising to his feet, made his way quickly over piles of canvas and stacks of poles and seats.
Accustomed to dirt, and the squalor of the circus, the corner of his mouth twisted at the young fellow’s desire for a bed and a bath.
He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“So it’s a bath and a bed you want, my lad,” he said, not unkindly, as he opened the door about two feet. “See if you can see any red lights ahead.” The young fellow looked out and answered, “No.”
“All right,” jeered Dugan, “there’s a nice roadbed down there, an’ a whole damn sky full of bath.” He kicked the young adventure searcher out of the car.
XVI: Surprise
XVI: Surprise
NO man moved. The boss canvasman pushed the door shut quickly. Cameron and Finnerty, momentarily disturbed, resumed talking. The card players were soon quarreling again over the game.
“I took it with my ace,” insisted one.
“You did like hell, you mean you took an ace from underneath,” scowled the other.
Silver Moon Dugan joined Cameron and Finnerty.
Gorilla Haley rose, his jaws swollen with tobacco juice. He rushed to the door and swung it open.
“God Almighty, Gorilla, it’s wet enough outside. Do you wanta flood the state?” the Ghost asked.
“Shut your trap,” flared Gorilla, shambling back to his place.
My worn brain would not allow me to sleep.
I thought once of crawling over the train to the horse car. One of the horses had been ill that day and I knew that Jock would travel with him. It suddenly dawned on me that the car had no end exits, out of which I might have muscled myself onto the roof of the next car.
Blackie, still holding his pipe, rose indifferently and walked to the end of the car. He stood still for a moment, legs spread apart, head down. In another second he laid his pipe on a wet piece of canvas, then turned, facing us.
“Everybody stand up!” He whipped out the words sharply. In his extended right hand a blue steel gun. It looked to me as long as a railroad tie.
We all rose like soldiers standing at attention. Cameron was the most obedient. Silver Moon hesitated.
“Work fast, you lame bastard. I just want an excuse to send you to hell.” He took one step forward. “I’ll put a hole through you so big you can pound a stake in it.” Silver Moon’s lip curled, as he hesitated about putting up his hands.
For a paralyzing second I thought Blackie would shoot. He held the gun on a level with Dugan’s heart and moved nearer. I closed my eyes a
s if to shut out the noise of the explosion. Then Blackie’s voice went on. “What a dirty bunch of sons of bitches you all are.” Then, looking straight at Dugan, Cameron and Finnerty—“Throw your gats down. And let me hear them fall hard. Come on.” Finnerty and Dugan threw revolvers on the floor.
“Now throw your money down—fast—every God damn one of you.” Pocketbooks followed the guns. I threw a twenty-five cent piece.
Blackie half-grinned as it lit near a revolver.
He turned to me. “Open that door, kid.” Obedient at once, I slid the door backward its full length of six feet.
The noise of the rushing train increased. The rain swished across the car.
“Now everybody turn around. Walk to the door—and jump. The guy that turns gets a bullet through his dome.”
Cameron looked at Blackie appealingly. Blackie laughed.
“You crooked old hypocrite, you can’t talk your way outta this.” He lunged forward with the gun and shouted, “JUMP!”
Being second to no man in the art of catching a flying train, I jumped swiftly and with supreme confidence. The rest of the men followed me.
Before I could gain my balance on the soggy ground, a car had passed. There were two more to come. I knew every iron ladder and every portion of the train by heart. I could see the forms of the other men, some stretched out, others scrambling to their feet on the ground. I heard an unearthly screech. A gun went off.
My brain, long trained in hobo lore, functioned fast. I sized up the ground to make sure of my footing and looked ahead to make sure I would crash into no bridge while running swiftly with the train.
When one more car whirled by me, I started running.
If I missed the end of the last car I at least would not be thrown under the train. Running full speed, my brain racing with my feet, I knew that to grab was one thing, to grab and not to miss was another, and to cling like frozen death once my hands went round the iron rung of the ladder. I knew that I must race with the train, else if I grabbed it while I stood still, my arms might be jerked out of their sockets.
My cap was gone. The rain slashed across my face. When about to grab, my right foot slipped, and I was thrown off my balance for a second.
With muscles suddenly taut, then loosened like a springing tiger’s, I sprang upward. My hands clung to the iron rung. My body was jerked toward the train. Thinking quickly, I buried my jaw in my left shoulder, pugilist fashion. It saved me from being knocked out by the impact of my jaw with the side of the car. I finally got my left foot on the bottom of the ladder, my right leg dangling.
The car passed the group who had been redlighted with me. A man grabbed at my right foot. I kicked desperately, and felt for an instant my foot against the flesh of his face. My arms ached as though they were being severed from my shoulders with a razor blade. A numbness crept over me. My brain throbbed in unison with my heart. Drilled in primitive endurance of the road for four long years, I was to face the supreme test.
I had no love for the red-lighted men. Rather, I admired Blackie more. Neither did I blame him for red-lighting me. A man had once trusted another in my world. He was betrayed.
I had the young road kid’s terrible aversion against walking the track for any man. My law was—to stay with the train, to allow no man to “ditch” me.
When the numbness left me I crawled up the ladder. Blinded by the rain, my hair plastered to my head in spite of the wind that roared round the train, I lay, face downward, and clawed with tired hands at the roof of the smooth wet car.
Sometime afterward, whether a minute or an hour, I do not know, I tried to rise. My arms bent. I lay flat again.
My mania had been to tell Jock. It suddenly dawned on me to tell anybody I saw. But how could I see anyone while the train lurched through the wind-driven and rain-washed night?
I cried in the intensity of emotion. Pulling myself together, I dragged my body to the end of the first car, about sixty feet. Reaching there, I had not the strength to muscle my body to the next car. After a seemingly endless exertion I pulled myself across the three-foot chasm between the two cars. Beneath me the wheels clicked with fierce revolutions on the rails. The wind blew the rain in heavy gusts through the chasm.
With the aid of the chain which ran from the wheel at the top of the car to the brake beneath, I worked my body around to the ladder, and crawled laboriously to the top of the second car. My muscles throbbed with pain at the armpits. I wondered if I had dislocated my arms. I tried to crawl on my hands and knees, and gave it up. Finally I succeeded in dragging myself across the second car. My heart pounded as though it would jump from my breast.
I leaned out from my position between the cars. The light still gleamed in the open door of the car from which we had been red-lighted.
Blackie was standing in the doorway. His shadow was thrown far across the ground. The running train gave it a weird dancing effect. It pumped over the rough earth and cut through telegraph poles and fences as the rain splashed upon it.
The engine whistled loud and long. My heart jumped with glee. It was going to stop. Suddenly the train gained momentum and the engine whistled twice. This meant: straight through. We passed a few red and green lights, and later some that were yellowish white.
The whistle shrieked again, a low moaning dismal effort like a whistle being blown under water. I sensed a long run for the train. The fireman’s hand lay heavily on the bell rope. It became light as day each time he opened the fire-box to shovel in coal.
The rain still slashed downward with blinding fury. In spite of everything my eyes became heavy. Knowing the folly of going to sleep and falling between the cars, I opened my coat and held my body close to the iron rod which held the brake. I then buttoned the coat around it. While being forced to stand as rigid as one in a straight jacket, it would nevertheless save me from being dashed under the wheels.
After many wet miles the train slowed at the edge of a railroad yard. Lights from engines blended with white steam and made the yards light as early day.
I looked across the yards and saw Blackie making for the open road.
We gained speed for a few minutes and then ran slower, at last coming to a stop in the yards.
I hurried to the horse car and found Jock. He was sitting on some straw near Jerry, the sick horse. I gasped out the story of the red-lighting to him.
Jock said without energy, “It was a tough break for you, kid,” and shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll tell the Baby Buzzard.” He frowned. “We’ll have to go back after them, I guess.”
He studied for another moment. “It would be a great stunt to let ’em walk in. They deserve it. But no. I guess it’s best for you to come and tell the Baby Buzzard. We’ll be all finished in a week and you’d lose your wages if you ducked now and didn’t tell.”
“Yeah, Jock, you’re right,” I said. And then, “I saw Blackie beatin’ it across the yards about a mile back.”
“Well,” exclaimed Jock, “say nothin’ about it, kid. A guy that kin pull a stunt like that deserves to go free. I don’t think he meant you no harm. He had to red-light you, too.”
“Gosh! I wonder what he’d think if he knew I made the train again.”
“He wouldn’t be surprised. He’d have made it if you’d of red-lighted him. He’s just a hell of a guy, that’s all.”
Jock put on his soft grease-stained hat. “We’d better go an’ tell the Baby Buzzard together, kid, but don’t mention seein’ Blackie. Let him make his getaway. I wouldn’t turn a dog over to the law.”
“All right, Jock,” I muttered, and followed him out of the car.
XVII: A Railroad Order
XVII: A Railroad Order
THE misty morning at last turned clear. The sun shone bright. We walked toward the Baby Buzzard’s car. In a few words I told my story. The Baby Buzzard’s eyes narrowed.
“Who’d you say red-lighted ’em?”
I told her again.
“What become of him?” she asked.
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“That don’t matter,” answered Jock, “it’s what’ll become of them if we don’t get ’em. Maybe they’re hurt, or even killed.”
The Baby Buzzard sneered. “Killed hell. No sich luck for some of ’em.” Then quickly, “Come with me.”
We followed her toward the engine. The fireman leaned out of the left window and watched the engineer oil the large drive wheels.
The Baby Buzzard approached him and asked, “Are you a runnin’ this here train?”
“I was, till it stopped,” he answered with irritation.
The engineer’s answer angered the Baby Buzzard.
“Well, would you mind runnin’ your damn train back about fifty mile an’ pickin’ up my husban’ and some more of his men that got red-lighted with the kid here.”
“Not me, lady. I’m all through. I’ve been smellin’ this circus long enough. You’ll have to tell your troubles to the trainmaster. He’s right over in that corner of the round house.”
We walked across the tracks in the direction of the round house, a place in which the engines were kept like so many automobiles in a huge round garage. The Baby Buzzard hobbled along with us, delivering a scathing remark toward the engineer, which ran, “The nerve o’ that devil. No wonder poor people git no wheres in this world. They’re too damn saucy.”
The trainmaster had one arm and a happy smile. His hair was sandy, his face the color of an overripe mulberry. He telephoned the chief train despatcher and asked, “What’s due out of ———? Boss of the circus and some other fellows made to walk the plank.”
Turning to me—“You say it was about fifty miles out? No towns between of any size?”
“No sir.”
The despatcher made answer!
“Then Number Four’ll ketch ’em if they’ve stayed close to the track. All right—tell conductor Number Four to be on lookout for them—bring ’em on in here.”
