However, having quartered the ground ahead, he came up empty. So with the Marksman at the ready, Capelli left the protection of the trees and returned to the highway. The sun was past its zenith by then, so his shadow pointed east, and an intermittent breeze ruffled the grass to either side of the road as Capelli approached the body.
The little girl looked scared, but also determined to remain right where she was. She had black hair worn in a bowl cut, a grimy face, and was dressed in raggedy clothes. “Is that your mother?” Capelli asked as he came to a stop.
The girl said, “Yes,” Rowdy growled, and Capelli saw motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned in that direction as a man rose from his hiding place. He was wearing a hat made out of freshly cut grass and a burlap bag to which more green stuff was attached. The apparition had already raised his weapon, and Capelli was still bringing his rifle to bear when the scarecrow fired on him.
The oncoming bolt looked like a black dot at first. Capelli was formulating a plan to duck beneath it, when the ball-tipped missile hit him in the forehead. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet and dumped him onto his back. Capelli caught a glimpse of blue sky, and felt a brief moment of pain, before the voice had its say. Hey, Capelli… What happened to rule six? “Mind your own business?” Then a tidal wave of blackness rolled him under.
Capelli was somewhere a long way off when the bucket of water hit his face. The voice sounded as if it were coming to him through a tunnel. “Get up.”
Capelli’s eyelids felt like they were glued shut. He forced them open. The face hanging over him was blurry. He blinked and it came into focus. The man’s forehead and cheeks were covered with tattoos. When he smiled, Capelli saw that his teeth had been filed down into points.
“Aha,” the man said, “there you are. There’s a bump on your forehead, but you’ll survive. Now get up.”
Capelli felt dirt under his right hand, turned, and attempted to stand. Metal rattled, something brought him up short, and he fell. The tattooed man laughed, and Capelli felt a humiliating mix of shame and fear. That was when Capelli realized that he was wearing a metal collar to which a chain was attached. And, with the exception of his clothing, his possessions were missing. Including Locke’s money belt. All taken from him so effortlessly that it was embarrassing.
“They call me Inkskin,” the man said. In addition to his face, almost every inch of the man’s bare torso was covered with tattoos. “What’s your name?”
“Capelli.”
“Well, Capelli… It’s time to get up off your ass.” Inkskin had a Bullseye Mark III, which he used as a pointer.
Capelli swore, lurched to his feet, and swayed uncertainly. His head hurt, blood pounded in his ears, and the late afternoon sun felt hot. He was standing in what looked like a gravel pit. That impression was reinforced by the presence of a downward-slanting chute, an ancient road grader, and an old shack. All of which were a fit.
What looked odd was the open-sided circus wagon parked about thirty feet away. The brightly colored paint was faded, but he could read the name “Zenda Brothers Circus” painted across the side of it, and could see the creature within. But it wasn’t a lion, tiger, or bear. It was a Steelhead!
“Meet El Diablo,” Inkskin said, “but don’t get too close. He’s hungry.”
As if to emphasize the point, the Chimera made a horrible screeching sound and rattled the bars. The Steelhead had a hairless skull, six golden eyes, and a powerful physique. It was dressed in scraps of Chimeran armor, and Capelli could smell the creature from thirty feet away.
“That’s enough gawking,” Inkskin said. “You can get acquainted with El Diablo later! Who knows? Maybe you’ll get to dance with him!”
Apparently the guard thought that was funny, because he laughed as he gave the leash a vicious jerk, and led Capelli away. The runner searched his surroundings for Rowdy, but saw no sign of him, and wondered what that meant. Had the dog been able to escape? Or had he been shot? He had no way of knowing.
Inkskin led Capelli past the wagon into a messy campsite. Boxes, trunks, and bags were scattered all around a central fire pit. The “dead” woman was seated on a camp chair, combing the little girl’s hair as Capelli walked past. Neither one of them so much as glanced his way.
A group of raggedy-looking men were seated in the shadow thrown by the shed. All wore neck collars and sat to either side of a heavy chain. Some of the prisoners were asleep, but the rest regarded Capelli with dull-eyed interest.
“Meet your new friends!” Inkskin said cheerfully, as he padlocked Capelli’s leash to a heavy chain. A second guard was watching over the prisoners. He was wearing an orange wig, white face paint, and a red nose. An inverted mouth made it appear that the clown was permanently sad. “Get some rest,” Inkskin advised, as Capelli took his place on the ground. “You’re going to need it.” The loose gravel made a crunching sound as he walked away.
“He’s right about that,” the man sitting opposite Capelli said. “My name is Escobar—but most people call me Bar.”
Bar had short black hair, brown eyes, and high cheekbones. Like the rest of the prisoners, he was unshaven. Chains rattled as they shook hands.
“My name is Capelli. What’s with the circus thing?”
Bar shrugged. “You’re looking at what remains of a family-owned circus. Back before the stinks came it employed about fifty people. They had a dozen exotic animals in those days, plus twenty vehicles, and all sorts of equipment. Now they’re down to the single wagon. Ain’t that right, Bam-Bam?”
The clown nodded. “That’s right, donkey.”
Capelli looked around. “So how do they move the wagon? With horses?”
Bar shook his head. “Hell, no… Horses are expensive. We haul the wagon. That’s why they call us donkeys.”
“And you’d better do your share,” a man sitting nearby said. He had black hair, penetrating eyes, and dark skin.
“Loomis don’t like slackers,” Bar observed. “But his bark is worse than his bite. The ugly-looking piece of work next to him is Askin. Then there’s Valova, Omata, Nix, Kilner, and Ganson…” And so it went until Bar had named twenty-two men other than himself.
“So,” the man named Omata said, “which scam did they run on you? The woman who blackjacks you in the middle of the night? The woman lying in the middle of the road? Or the woman with the sick child?”
“The woman lying in the middle of the road.”
Omata nodded soberly. “Alfonso is pretty good with that crossbow, isn’t he?”
“He’s very good,” Capelli conceded.
“And he’s a crack shot with a rifle and pistol, too,” Bar added. “The woman’s name is Leena. She’s Alfonso’s wife, and the little girl is their daughter.”
“Damn the little bitch to hell,” Nix put in bitterly.
“He fell for the sick daughter routine,” Bar explained. “Leena blackjacked me in the middle of the night. But the two of us had a very good time first. I’ll bet she didn’t mention that to Alfonso!”
“And you’d better hope she doesn’t,” Bam-Bam put in darkly. “He’d put a bullet in your head. Then we’d have to find some other idiot to replace you.”
“Which brings us to the Steelhead,” Capelli said. “How did they capture it?”
“Same way they got you,” Bar replied. “Leena was lying in the middle of the road, the stink comes strolling down the highway, and pow! Alfonso bags the sonofabitch.”
“Of course, that was before our time,” Ganson said. “All of the donkeys from back in those days are dead.”
Capelli frowned. “Two dozen men? How come the mortality rate is so high?”