Loomis glanced over at Bam-Bam and saw that the guard had stepped away to take a leak. He was careful to keep his voice down. “Malnutrition and disease. But every time Ringmaster Jack can assemble an audience, he selects one of the donkeys to fight El Diablo.”
“And El Diablo always wins,” Bar observed darkly. “That’s how the stink gets most of its meat.”
Capelli remembered Inkskin’s comment. Something about dancing with El Diablo. Now it made sense. “Has anyone ever escaped?”
Bam-Bam had returned by then. “No,” the guard said. “No one ain’t never escaped. But feel free to try if you want to. I could use the target practice.”
Bar smiled. His teeth were yellow. “Welcome to the circus.”
Three long, hard nights had passed since Capelli had been captured by members of the Zenda Brothers Circus. Ringmaster Jack, who was generally referred to as “Master Jack,” wanted to rack up at least fifteen miles per day. In order to maintain that pace it was necessary for the donkeys to work extremely hard.
Not only was the circus wagon heavy in and of itself, but Capelli figured that El Diablo, the corpulent Ringmaster, Leena, her daughter, and all the luggage tied to the wagon’s roof represented at least a ton of additional weight. All of which made it difficult to drag the wagon up even a gentle slope.
But with Master Jack wielding a long, thin whip from his seat at the front of the wagon, plus Bam-Bam the clown and Inkskin pacing along to either side, the slaves had no choice but to throw themselves against the four-man crosspieces. So each night seemed like an eternity of strenuous effort, punctuated by the sting of Master Jack’s whip and occasional blows from the guards. Cold rations were served at about one in the morning.
That was when Capelli thought about Rowdy. The big mix was dead. That was what Bam-Bam claimed, anyway. But Capelli wasn’t so sure. Some kind of dog had been nosing around the camp the previous day and Inkskin had taken a shot at it. All Capelli could do was hope. And more than that, plan. Because even if no one had ever escaped from the Zenda Brothers Circus, that didn’t mean it was impossible.
Meanwhile, as the donkeys slaved, Alfonso ranged well ahead of the wagon. He was mounted on a golden palomino and had taken to carrying Capelli’s Marksman rifle in a fancy buckskin scabbard. The sharpshooter’s job was to act as a scout and drum up business. A mostly hit-or-miss process that relied on word of mouth, posters tacked to message trees, and a certain amount of luck. Like arriving in a tiny town called Hamley, Kansas, just as a revival meeting was about to take place. Such an event could easily pull in a hundred people from the surrounding countryside, most of whom were starved for entertainment.
In order to take advantage of the opportunity, the donkeys had been forced to work through the night and well into the next afternoon. The plan was to stay in Hamley for two days, so long as the Chimera left the town alone. Something the exhausted slaves would have welcomed had it not been for the high price that one of them was going to pay. A stop meant that one of them would be forced to fight El Diablo—and everybody knew how that would turn out.
So the mood was somber as chains rattled, wood creaked, and the raggedly dressed donkeys pulled the wagon through the center of town. Master Jack was wearing a fancy black suit, Leena was practically naked, and a brightly attired Bam-Bam was working the crowd on the right side of the street. A stripped-down Inkskin had responsibility for those on the left. Both had pieces of hard candy for the wide-eyed children and were mouthing a spiel prepared by Alfonso.
“Come see us when the revival is over, folks,” Bam-Bam said. “There will be juggling and fire eating! But that’s not all. One of our brave warriors will fight El Diablo!” A pitch made all the more effective when the Steelhead rattled the bars on its cage and screeched loudly.
And so it went as the men pulled the wagon to the point where Alfonso was waiting for them. He was dressed as a cowboy, complete with a ten-gallon hat, a western-style red shirt, pearl-handled Colt revolvers, leather chaps, and high-heeled boots. His horse whinnied loudly and reared up onto its hind legs as Alfonso removed his hat and waved it at the crowd. That got cheers and applause as Capelli and the rest of the prisoners towed the wagon into the parking lot next to the feed store.
The revival tent was set up only a block away, and the locals were drifting in that direction, as Master Jack began to shout orders. First a couple of slaves had to dig a hole for the twelve-foot-long section of telephone pole that they had been forced to cut. The rest of the donkeys were split into two groups and sent out to bring back anything and everything that could be used as seats. Capelli wondered if the chore would offer a chance of escape. But all such hopes were dashed by the fact that he was chained to the other men in his work party and Inkskin was sent to accompany them.
Once the wooden benches, bales of hay, and the bleachers taken from the high school were set in place, the whole area was roped off. The idea was to herd the locals past Leena so she could collect an admission fee from each spectator. Food and ammo being the preferred medium of exchange.
Finally, when everything was ready, or as ready as it would ever be, the donkeys were chained to a telephone pole located at the edge of the roped-off area. All of the slaves were frightened, and for good reason, since there was no way to know which one of them would be forced to fight El Diablo.
They had theories, of course, such as the one that held that Bam-Bam didn’t like Loomis. But from what Capelli had been able to pick up over the last few days, there had been very little rhyme or reason to many of the previous choices that Master Jack and his performers had made. So as the paying customers began to filter into the arena, he felt a horrible emptiness invade the pit of his stomach. The others must have felt the same way, because all of the slaves were unusually quiet as they sat at the edge of the roped-off ring.
Master Jack’s booming voice could be heard far and wide as he strode into the arena, and welcomed the steadily growing crowd to what he claimed was “the biggest little show on Earth.”
Then Bam-Bam appeared. First he juggled two red-and-white-striped clubs. That was followed by four and six. The crowd started to applaud as the clown put eight clubs in the air, began to catch them behind his back, and hurried to get them airborne again. Then he missed, or that was the way it appeared, and a club fell on his head. Something at least part of the crowd thought was hilariously funny.
He shook the blow off, and still juggling, the seemingly dizzy clown walked into the thick center post and knocked himself unconscious. It was supposed to be funny but garnered only halfhearted applause as Master Jack and a scantily clad Leena came in to drag Bam-Bam away.
That was when Inkskin took over. The light had started to fade. But thanks to the fact that he was wearing nothing more than a loincloth, the audience could see all of Inkskin’s colorful tattoos. A likeness of an openmouthed Hybrid lurked in the spot between his prominent shoulder blades and appeared to glare at the audience. With a dramatic flare of light, Inkskin set afire a specially designed sword and waved the flaming weapon over his head.
But Capelli and the rest of the donkeys weren’t paying any attention to Inkskin as Alfonso appeared in front of them. “So,” the sharpshooter said, as he scanned the faces before him. “Who’s it going to be? Hmmm! I know. Let’s give the runt a shot.”
Capelli followed Alfonso’s pointing finger to a small man named Nix. He had sandy-colored hair, even features, and was known for his dead-on John Wayne impression. And as Capelli saw the look of hopelessness come over Nix’s face, he felt a sense of relief, followed by shame. Because his good fortune was at the other man’s expense.