Stretch shook his head. "Back where I come from, thirteen is a little over the hill."
"I bet Waxy'd have a little something to say about that." Fisty Bill looked up at Goofy Joe. "What's Waxy doin' now?"
"After Mange trimmed off Waxy's wing, Waxy wanted to get back to working harness. Warts got to him first."
"The route book man?"
Goofy Joe nodded. "Warts's gettin' someone from each of the cars to keep records. Who's alive, who's dead, who gets born, who owns what. Since he's doin' it for Warts, Mange has Waxy keeping records on the horses, too. Wants to keep track of the nag... pop... population 'e says."
Fisty snorted. "Talk about your one-armed paper hangers."
They continued in silence for a moment, passing a newly opened jug. Packy finished a blast, passed on the jug, and looked at Stretch. "Stretch, what's goin' to happen to them?"
"Who?"
Packy waved a hand in the general direction of Little Will and Shiner Pete. "Them. Romeo and Juliet. All the show kids."
"Damned if I know." Stretch shook his head. "I keep waiting for something—a ship in the sky, a call on the radio. The route man could keep plugging and get us out of here. Maybe. Maybe somebody or something will see Number Ten circling around out there. Most everybody's hoping something of the sort." He rubbed his chin. "But the kids're different. They'll just get on with it."
"On with what?"
"Life. Living. For the real young ones, this is home."
Fisty Bill looked down and shook his head. "Sonofabitch. Can't believe we're just goin' to roll over and die like this. I mean... dammit, Stretch, when you think of the things we've gone through."
"Arnheim's ghost's got us by the short hairs, for sure."
"I don't want to ever hear that damned name again!"
"Nobody does, Fisty."
Stretch thought for a moment. "Fisty, when you come right down to it, what good are most of us here? I'm the advance car boss, but there's nothing to advertise, no place to hang the banners, no rubes to read 'em. You boss the opposition brigade, but you got no opposition."
He pointed a finger. "Packy and his bullhands have something to do, but it's timbering and roadganging. Anyway, all those bulls are females. What happens when the last of those dies off? What are the bullhands then? A show without an audience just ain't no show."
Goofy Joe nodded. "Down in Tarzak we got a lot of canvasmen with no canvas. They're turnin' into a bunch of bricklayers. Damned sorry bunch of hod-carriers they make, too."
Fisty Bill reached out his hand and took the jug. After a long pull, he passed it along and looked toward the far wall of the gorge. The sound of the river seemed far away. "Sometimes I think Waco and Fireball had the right idea. Just wander off in the jungle and say the hell with it all."
Goofy Joe held up his hands. "Laydeeeezzz an' gen'men. Step right up'n see the great show stick its finger up its nose, roll over'n die." He laughed as he dropped his hands into his lap. "Boys, down in Tarzak you should see Warts. The route book man's tryin' to keep a show goin'. A show would you believe?" He pointed a finger at his circle of sodden listeners. "You know that right after the Tarzak cars went down—couldn't of been an hour after—that damned Pendiian'd talked everybody into holdin' a parade? A parade. Do you believe that?"
Packy frowned at the canvasman. "A parade?"
Goofy Joe nodded. "Damned right. We did it, too. Right there with nothin', in the middle of nowhere, in front of nobody. A flipping damned parade."
"A parade." Packy pushed himself to his feet and stood weaving before the fire. He looked past the string of Percherons to where the bulls were standing quietly. "A parade." Packy looked down, rubbed his eyes, and began stumbling toward his bedroll.
"I wish we'd a done that."
Four days later it was a somber sort of parade that made its way from the Snake Mountain Gap, across the Push River Bridge, into the town of Miira. The bulls, horses, bullhands, and hostlers were stained the same ochre yellow as the dust that rose from the road. Before putting the bulls into the kraal for the night, Packy Dern led the bulls to the shallows of Table Lake, just below the trench grave they called the Big Lot, to allow the bullhands to wash themselves and their pachyderms.
Grass and small flowers of yellow and blue covered the graves from the original burying where Pony Red Miira had kicked in the first clod of dirt. Now there was fresh soil in the trench. Pony Red was holding up some of it; the rest was supported by the eleven troupers from Number Three that had died building the Dcona-Tarzak Road.
The bulls secured in the kraal and fed, Little Will and Packy went to their house to complete it. When they arrived, the plank walls were washed white with chalk and clay, the thatched roof had been replaced with one of shingles, and the dirt floor inside had been covered with wood. They both stood in the doorway staring at the low wooden table and the stuffed cushions that served both as chairs and beds.
"Well, how about it?"
They turned to see Waxy Adnelli, the left sleeve of his tattered shirt tied into a knot. Packy pointed with his thumb toward the interior of the one-roomed structure. "What the hell happened?"
Waxy grinned and swept his right arm about indicating the many finished white houses of Miira. "A big crew of canvas-men and razorbacks were sent here from Tarzak to get lumber. I worked a little deal."
Little Will looked back inside. "It's beautiful," She pulled on Packy's arm. "Isn't it, Packy? Just look."
Packy looked back inside. First his frown relaxed into an expression of resignation, then his shoulders slumped. "It's pretty. Pretty as hell. A regular damned mansion." He tossed his bullhook inside, turned, and walked toward the lake.
Little Will looked at Waxy. "What's the matter?"
Waxy scratched his chin, shrugged, spat on the ground, then looked at Packy's receding back. "Stupid, stupid me. I guess I never thought it out too clear." He looked back at the house. "As long as we were holed up in shacks and the caves, we were just making do until help arrived."
He pointed at the house. "This just told Packy that no help is coming; we're dug in here for the long haul." Waxy stared at the house until his eyes began to glisten. "Yeah. I guess that's what it means." He turned and walked the small path that wound among Miira's new houses.
Little Will ran from the door and headed toward the lake. By the time she had caught up with Packy, the boss elephant man was seated upon the sand, staring across the water. She knelt beside him. "Packy, it's a nice house."
Packy nodded, half-smiled, and patted her shoulder. "Sure it is, kid. Sure." He looked at his hands, cut and scarred from the endless days of work cutting through the Snake Mountain Gap. He clasped his hands, let out a brief laugh, and nodded again. "I guess we were doing the same thing building a damned road. I just never thought about it." He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Damn, but I miss the show. Damn, but I miss it."
"We all do. But it isn't dead yet, Packy."
The boss elephant man held his hands out toward the waters of Table Lake. "John J. O'Hara himself could walk across that water and tell me that, and you know what I'd tell him? I'd say, that's one helluva water-walking act you got there, Mr. John, but where's your goddamned audience?"
He stood and pointed toward the water. "Where's your star-ship but a whiff of ashes around some lump of nowhere? Where's your center ring but tossed out into freezing damned space along with the white tops and dead bulls? Where's your clowns? You know where they are? They're in damned Tarzak, clearing roads, digging up roots, building damned houses out of damned mud!"
Little Will stood next to Packy and took his hand as he lowered it. "Don't talk like that about Mr. John. He was a good man."