Читать книгу Wild Paradise - Kenneth Taylor Perkins - Страница 4

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You would not call it a circus anywhere north or east of Cobb’s Coulee, but down there it was the Greatest Show on Earth—just as advertised. It was composed of an alkali-covered elephant, a zebra lathered by the heat and its own nervousness, a half-bald camel with patches of dead wool clinging to its withers, a wheel-cage or two of big cats, and a troupe of performing horses.

In those days the Santa Fe in Arizona was called the Atlantic and Pacific. Southward from the main branch toward the Coyotero Desert went a spur which was built primarily for the transportation of beef. At the end-of-track, which might have been anywhere in those cañons and sage plains, the usual gambling town grew to what is now Cobb’s Coulee.

Cobb’s Coulee is unimportant historically. In fact, the event I am about to chronicle is more memorable than any rodeo or Apache raid that the oldest present inhabitant can remember. It was, in a word, the coming of the Vasto Circus.

The elephant shambled down the streets, a lumbering mountain of corrugated, gunmetal hide, of little coyote eyes, of a back the size of a small mesa. A spieler preceded him, riding a burro and howling through a megaphone:

“This aft at two o’clock, ladies and gents! The big show! One bone to see this here bull stand on his head!”

“What bull?” the town horse doctor asked in a rather belligerent voice. He was not going to be fooled by any of these circus con men.

“This here giant bull—with the tushes and the Hindu howdah! One bone—and see the sword swallower and the——”

“That ain’t a bull; it’s an elephant.”

“Don’t argue with him, doc,” the sheriff pleaded. “He’s a circus man which he ought to know what’s an elephant and what ain’t.”

“I’ve been a cow-puncher,” the veterinarian announced, “and I know what’s a bull and what ain’t.”

“The doc’s right,” said the town barber. “That ain’t a bull. And it ain’t an elephant, either. It’s a giraft.”

The mesa of black flesh swung past, leaving the line of stockmen and miners gaping and snorting in the cloud of dust.

“Sure it’s a giraft,” said an old herder. “Can’t you see his long trunk?”

“Any one who calls that elephant a giraft is a fool!” the veterinarian shouted. “I know a giraft as well as a bull or an elephant.”

The sheriff wanted to placate the crowd. “All right, doc. I’ll agree you know what a bull is, and thar ain’t no doubt in my mind about that thar animule bein’ an elephant. Seen pictures of ’em many a time. The circus hombre is wrong, and you’re right.”

“But what I’d like to know,” said the old herder, “is, how come it has a trunk if it ain’t a giraft?”

“A giraft hasn’t a trunk,” the veterinarian asserted hotly. “It’s got a head like a mule deer, same as you’ll see up in the Sierra, only it’s got a long neck——”

“How long?”

“Oh, about as long as that tent pole.”

“Did you ever see one, doc?” asked the sheriff dubiously.

“I sure have. And it’s got legs three times as long as a race horse’s, and it has horns sort of like a snail, and its hide is colored in yellow and black spots same as a Gila monster.”

“Wow! That’s a good one!”

“A mule deer with a neck two stories high!” the old herder exclaimed. “And a hide like a Gila monster, and snail’s horns. Just when did you see that thar animule, Rufe?”

A sheepman who was holding himself up by a snubbing post, gave answer: “I seen one last night—when I had the D. T.’s; and I’m glad the doc here knows what it is. And it’s just exactly like what Rufe describes. And what he says is allus right, so help me!”

The argument was interrupted by gasps, by oaths of amazement, by cries of joy, from the row of stockherders, miners, barkeeps, and gamblers lining the board sidewalk. Compared to what they now saw, the rest of the parade dwindled into insignificance. All else was hideous and grotesque.

Their eyes widened. They were like the eyes of small boys reflecting the light of candles on a wondrous birthday cake. They saw a white stallion with gilded hoofs and flowing mane and tail. There can be no doubt that never before or since had a creature so beautiful been seen in the cañons or cow towns of the Cobb’s Coulee country.

The veterinarian and his companions were too dazzled by the sunlight shining upon that lustrous coat to make any inventory of the horse’s perfections. An inventory would have been too long, for everything they saw was perfect; the sleek neck, the keen throttle, the thin withers. But as the horse passed, a change came over the crowd. The gait of an ordinary horse would have blended all these perfections into a harmony. Performance is a good percentage of the points of a winner at a horse show.

A gorgeous steed like this should prance. His ears should be erect, his neck arched, his gilded hoofs plunging. But no! A dead silence fell on the crowd. The high spirit of even an ordinary range-fed mustang was lacking.

They saw the most beautiful bit of horseflesh in the world housing the spirit of a jackass! Ears drooping, golden hoofs shuffling, eyes dull. A plodding stock horse, dragging a cultivator, could not have been more spiritless.

Only once, when a change of wind brought the sage scent of the desert into the crowded street, did the stallion lift his weary head. He sniffed, his superbly chiseled nostrils quivering, his perfect ears standing up. His eyes flashed fire. The crowd saw a momentary vision of a desert king prancing—and then it faded. Again the incarnate jackass.

The man at the silver-studded bridle must have felt that current of ecstasy gripping the horse. For he looked up, startled, and yanked at his mouth. The beast shied, flattened his ears, rolled his eyes. He seemed intent at forestriking at that hated thing in silk top hat and riding boots and kid gloves torturing his mouth.

“Looks like he’s a killer!” the vet exclaimed.

“He’s got it in for that hombre with the stovepipe sombrero,” said the barber.

“The hombre’s pinchin’ him.”

“He’s holdin’ his under lip with a tournkay.”

“He’s torturin’ him.”

“If he didn’t, the hoss would kill him.”

“I’d like to take a pot at that stovepipe with a six-gun. Kin I, sheriff?” It was the horse doctor who spoke.

“You keep that holster flap of yourn buttoned down, doc,” the sheriff said. “I agreed with the management there wouldn’t be no fightin’.”

“Who-all’s the management?” asked the doc.

“That gent who’s plaguin’ the hoss.”

The “management” occupied the attention of the crowd for a moment. And it was their opinion that in comparison with the beautiful animal he was torturing he was the ugliest thing in the world.

When I say ugly I do not mean ugly in the physical sense. The man in the stovepipe was actually a handsome individual, of fine proportion, with long black ringlets falling over his shoulders, and with jet brows beetling over dreamy eyes. A diamond horseshoe winked in his checkered cravat.

There was, in fact, only one hideous thing about him, and that was his mouth. It was uneven, curling up on one side when he snarled at the horse, drooping on the other where customarily he held a cigar stub. His teeth were yellow, his under lip stained.

The glorious Pegasus and all the townsfolk of Cobb’s Coulee had one passion in common: they hated this man with an intense and consuming hatred.

The horse had reared again. He tensed and shook his head free. The ringmaster turned upon him. The horse champed as if enjoying the sudden freedom given to his tortured lip. Then a long black whip cracked through the air and cut down across his face, wrapping itself about the sleek, glistening neck.

“You will, will you?” the ringmaster growled. “I’ll show you if I can’t lead you, you old hell-dog!”

Again the crack of the whip. The horse shied off and stood docile, with ripples of silver trembling across the satin of his withers and barrel.

“Still and all, it ain’t the way to handle a fine hoss like that,” a bystander remarked.

“ ’Tain’t a hoss—it’s a thing they calls a ‘steed’ from the Arabian desert. Didn’t you-all see the red and yaller posters advertisin’ same?”

The crowd looked on in displeasure—but it was an aloof displeasure. Unquestionably this critter had to be handled with a strong hand.

Perhaps it wasn’t a horse at all. Golden hoofs and silken mane and glossy, silvery hide was something new to the stockmen of the Cobb’s Coulee ranges. It might be something entirely different from a horse—as for instance that grotesque, striped jackass, the zebra, shuffling along behind an alkali-covered Mississippi Hindu.

But right then the man in the silk top hat cracked his whip, and it came down cruelly on the magnificent silver flanks. The stallion cringed and became again a figure of trembling and pitiable majesty. From the lines of ranchers and herders on the board sidewalk arose a growl, like the growl of a nervous herd. The sheriff immediately recognized the warning.

“Hold your shirts on now, pards!” he cried. “This here gent knows what he’s doin’.”

“He’s scairt!” the veterinarian declared. “He’s treatin’ it like it was a range outlaw, which it ain’t.”

“It’s a circus hoss, and he’s a circus man. He knows. ’Tain’t a bunchgrasser like you gents can handle. No fightin’ now. Let him manage his own critter.”

The murmur seemed to die down. The sheriff was right. It was a circus horse—and it would take a circus man to hold him.

But some one seemed to take a different view of the matter.

“If it’s a horse, it’s a horse, and a circus man better learn our ways.”

The sheriff, knowing perfectly well by the sound of that voice that a bomb had been thrown into the peace of Cobb’s Coulee, turned around.

He saw a tall youth—a prospector who seemed “all bone and shank and patchy meat,” with a high-peaked sombrero, black woolen shirt, and rawhide vest. He was a stranger, and there was a pale glint in his sun-faded eyes which made Sheriff Flapjohn tremble for the peace of Cobb’s Coulee—as well as for the personal safety of every man connected with the Vasto Circus & Rodeo Co.

“Put that quirt down, you yaller-livered skunk!”

The man in the top hat looked about. The parade had stopped. The mounted performers who followed drew rein. The gilded wardrobe wagon and the cage-wagon jolted to a halt with squeaking brakes. On both sidewalks the breeds, Mexicans and miners made a circle about the leader and his trembling horse.

The ringmaster was a big man. He had once, so they said, added three inches to his height with jackboots, and substituted in a side show for a sick giant.

“Are you talking to me, Mr. Yokel?” he said, turning upon the rangy young man who had stepped down into the street.

“I am. Lay down your quirt and leave off torturing that horse.”

“I’ll lay it down around your neck, kid. So get out of here before I call that there bull to toss you out of town.”

The prospector threw away his cigarette and hitched up his wampum belt.

“Stay out of this—all my men,” the sheriff called. “This here stranger kin fight the whole damn circus if he wants; but we stay out.”

The circus leader, hearing this welcome news, lashed his horsewhip as the lanky youth stepped toward him. The black rawhide cracked, and flipped in two coils about the stranger’s neck, splitting his wind-burned skin. The pain and the choking coils must have given him a pretty good surprise, for he staggered back, his mouth open, his gray eyes widening in astonishment.

“Shoot off his stovepipe, the measly coyote!” the stockmen yelled in anger. “Why don’t you throw on him stranger?”

“No gun-throwin’, or I’ll step in!” shouted the sheriff.

“Don’t let him draw!” an old clown cried, elbowing his way back through the crowd. “We won’t draw. ’Tain’t the circus way. Leave ’em fight it out—with sticks and whips and fists.”

“Light into him thar, stranger!” from a cowboy.

“Break his neck. You kin do it!” from another.

The prospector had already regained his balance. He swung a wild but bone-crushing blow toward the other’s chin. It caught the ringmaster on the side of his jaw and sent him hurtling his full length into the sand of the street. He struggled up, leaped back, the crowd giving way to him, and again cracked his whip.

The prospector lunged in, and felt the rawhide twine itself in one stinging crack about his neck. The circus man appeared to be an expert at this business, for the end of his whip flipped around itself in a half hitch.

A powerful yank drew the young mucker’s head forward. A blow on the chin dropped him.

“The hell of a way to fight!” the crowd jeered.

“Leave us git in and finish this, chief. Kill the dirty rattler! Come on, chief!”

“It’s the circus way!” the wrinkled clown shouted. He was a commanding figure in his domino and his great red diamond eyes and glaring white face. “Everything but guns. Vasto’s fightin’ fair.”

The prospector lifted himself to his knees. The hot dust under him, which his fists clutched, was blazing like the sand of the Coyotero Desert. It shimmered and swept in circles about him, like the mirage of a whirlpool.

Just above were the blazing red blankets of Hopis, the leather chaps of herders, the black and white domino of the clown, the radiant vision of a horse. He clutched at the rattlesnake coils about his neck and pulled a huge demon of a man toward him who was pommeling with fists and kicking him with riding boots.

A terrific din was in the stranger’s ears as he staggered to his feet. He saw the faces now—the breeds, the bronzed jaws of Mexicans under sombreros, the cowboys yelling, the ghastly face of the clown, and the one square, brutal, pale face of his enemy. It was bobbing up and down, hurling blows as if from a dozen arms.

He swung for it, and his fist felt the comfort of a hard jaw. He swung again. The head had stopped bobbing. It just hovered there with glazed eyes. Again the prospector’s knuckles split against breaking teeth. The face sank forward, falling into another terrific blow.

“That’s the way, pard! Claw into him! You’ve busted his jaw! You’ve caved in his face! He cain’t swing no whip now! No, and he won’t for a good long time! There you go agin! Biff! Bang!”

In the dust lay the horsewhip—like a sleeping blacksnake. Off under the spurs and cowboy boots near the sidewalk was the crushed top hat. Stretched out in the warm sand of Cobb’s Coulee was the motionless figure of the owner of Vasto’s Circus & Rodeo Co.

Sheriff Flapjohn stepped between the prone and broken giant and the victor.

“Look here, stranger, you started this, and you better shag out of town. This here is a peaceable town, but you ain’t a peaceable man. So git.”

He turned to the crowd. “Gents and ladies and Mexes and circus folk—the show will go on as usual. And they won’t be no more fightin’. I’ll give my word to that. This bird which I don’t know who he is, don’t belong here, and he’s going to vamose. So pitch your tents and start the bally-hoo!”

When the stranger had wiped the blood and sweat out of his eyes he found himself staring down into what he thought was the loveliest picture the eye of man had ever seen. The loveliest, that is to say, except for the golden-hoofed stallion.

It was a girl with cheeks finely powdered and tinted to faint carnelian shades. Her arms gleamed snow white under the Arizona sun, and her bodice of tinsel, her white throat and bare shoulders were so dazzling that the prospector blinked as if he had not yet recovered from that first numbing blow of his adversary.

The stranger wiped his mouth, which was open. He judged he was a terrible-looking spectacle. Welts were on his throat, and blood trickled down into the hair of his chest where the whip had cut him.

He took a swig of the cold water which this radiant vision proffered him. A voice that was melodious with childish accents was laughing:

“You sure walloped that gentleman, and they’re havin’ a lulu of a time bringing him to.”

The stranger gulped. The nightmare of whirling color began to focus down to clear and glorious hues: the red of Hopi blankets, the polka dots of the clown, the gold hoofs of the Arabian steed, the purple mesa in the background, and the blue desert sky. Yes, and the halo of gold hair which fell down in curls over the dazzling shoulders of that circus girl who was wiping his face.

“Who in the world are you, anyway?” he asked.

“I’m the one who rides that horse you fought for,” she replied.