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.
“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.”
“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.