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Authors: John Claude Bemis
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now and stop being so nervous. By the way,” Buck added in a louder voice, taking his hat from his bobbing head and gesturing across Nel’s shoulder. “The kid’s here.”
“The kid?” Nel turned around, his eyes momentarilywide with apprehension. Before Ray could duck back behind the boxcar, Nel called out. “Oh, my bear-rider. Ferreted me out,” he laughed awkwardly. “We were just discussing … some issues with the tonics. Nothing to concern yourself over. My, time’s escaping me and our shows are imminently approaching. We’ve got one in the afternoon and another in the evening.”
Nel smiled, striding toward Ray in his bandy-legged walk. Clasping a hand to Ray’s shoulder, the pitchman said, “If we arrest the first crowd properly with our heart-pounding performance, they’ll spread the word for a bigger evening arrival. Come, let’s discuss the nitty-gritty of the money collection.”
Ray looked back. Buck’s blind eyes could not have seen him, but he had somehow known that Ray was there. At that moment, the midday shadows cast Buck’s face in a strange light. With his hat removed and his long silver-streaked hair falling about his face, Ray realized he had seen Buck before.
Ray’s eyes fell to the silver pistols at Buck’s belts. The nightmare. Buck had been there, with the girl and the other man, running from the monstrous hound.
A S THE EVERETT MEN BEGAN PLAYING MUSIC, A CROWD gathered in the muggy shade beneath the worn old canvas tent. A bench was set at the back of the lower, center stage, where the three Everetts ripped through tune after tune. Mister Everett played a blond violin and Eddie a dark mahogany parlor guitar. Shacks rapped his fingers across a gut-string banjo.
At the front of the stage, Peg Leg Nel danced about, tapping his pegged leg in time with the beat and leading the melody on a harmonica. At times he’d release his hands from the harmonica, suck it entirely into his mouth as he continued to play it, and then spit it back out, never missing a note from the song. He would occasionally—and seemingly on a whim—jerk the harmonica from his lips and begin singing in a warbling tenor voice. Ray wonderedif these were the intended lyrics or if Nel just generated lines on the spot.
The side stages were empty for the moment, but as Ray had noticed earlier, they were strategically set up against the
Ballyhoo’s
sleeping car so that the performers could wait inside and come out the door at either end onto the two performance stages. Several displays of Nel’s various tonics were set up on the center stage.
Ray sat behind one display next to Shacks, his thoughts whirling. Buck had been in his dream! Ray shuddered. Did that mean that the nightmare was real?
“You ever worked a show before?” Shacks asked.
Shacks was older than Eddie, maybe nineteen or twenty, Ray guessed, judging from the scrap of hair sprouting from his chin and atop his lip. Like Eddie, he had Ma Everett’s small features but wore his father’s serious expression.
“No, never. Seen plenty in the city but never this … fancy,” Ray said. “You like working for the medicine show?”
Nel switched from a minstrel song about golden slippers to a rollicking version of “Arkansas Traveler.” Shacks looked over to note the key from the position of Eddie’s fingers and then turned back to Ray.
“Show life’s all right,” Shacks said, knocking his thumb rhythmically along his banjo strings. “Like picking music. But the train life, that’s for me.”
Ray turned his attention to the crowd. Men and boys,both black and white, in dirty farm clothes were clearly visitors in town for the cotton market. He saw families, most likely the citizenry of Hillsboro, who were out for the entertainment and the hope of buying something that would cure their varying ailments, both real and imagined. Men in ascot-stuffed vests and ulster coats and women in bustle dresses and bonnets seemed to be of more affluent
“The kid?” Nel turned around, his eyes momentarilywide with apprehension. Before Ray could duck back behind the boxcar, Nel called out. “Oh, my bear-rider. Ferreted me out,” he laughed awkwardly. “We were just discussing … some issues with the tonics. Nothing to concern yourself over. My, time’s escaping me and our shows are imminently approaching. We’ve got one in the afternoon and another in the evening.”
Nel smiled, striding toward Ray in his bandy-legged walk. Clasping a hand to Ray’s shoulder, the pitchman said, “If we arrest the first crowd properly with our heart-pounding performance, they’ll spread the word for a bigger evening arrival. Come, let’s discuss the nitty-gritty of the money collection.”
Ray looked back. Buck’s blind eyes could not have seen him, but he had somehow known that Ray was there. At that moment, the midday shadows cast Buck’s face in a strange light. With his hat removed and his long silver-streaked hair falling about his face, Ray realized he had seen Buck before.
Ray’s eyes fell to the silver pistols at Buck’s belts. The nightmare. Buck had been there, with the girl and the other man, running from the monstrous hound.
A S THE EVERETT MEN BEGAN PLAYING MUSIC, A CROWD gathered in the muggy shade beneath the worn old canvas tent. A bench was set at the back of the lower, center stage, where the three Everetts ripped through tune after tune. Mister Everett played a blond violin and Eddie a dark mahogany parlor guitar. Shacks rapped his fingers across a gut-string banjo.
At the front of the stage, Peg Leg Nel danced about, tapping his pegged leg in time with the beat and leading the melody on a harmonica. At times he’d release his hands from the harmonica, suck it entirely into his mouth as he continued to play it, and then spit it back out, never missing a note from the song. He would occasionally—and seemingly on a whim—jerk the harmonica from his lips and begin singing in a warbling tenor voice. Ray wonderedif these were the intended lyrics or if Nel just generated lines on the spot.
The side stages were empty for the moment, but as Ray had noticed earlier, they were strategically set up against the
Ballyhoo’s
sleeping car so that the performers could wait inside and come out the door at either end onto the two performance stages. Several displays of Nel’s various tonics were set up on the center stage.
Ray sat behind one display next to Shacks, his thoughts whirling. Buck had been in his dream! Ray shuddered. Did that mean that the nightmare was real?
“You ever worked a show before?” Shacks asked.
Shacks was older than Eddie, maybe nineteen or twenty, Ray guessed, judging from the scrap of hair sprouting from his chin and atop his lip. Like Eddie, he had Ma Everett’s small features but wore his father’s serious expression.
“No, never. Seen plenty in the city but never this … fancy,” Ray said. “You like working for the medicine show?”
Nel switched from a minstrel song about golden slippers to a rollicking version of “Arkansas Traveler.” Shacks looked over to note the key from the position of Eddie’s fingers and then turned back to Ray.
“Show life’s all right,” Shacks said, knocking his thumb rhythmically along his banjo strings. “Like picking music. But the train life, that’s for me.”
Ray turned his attention to the crowd. Men and boys,both black and white, in dirty farm clothes were clearly visitors in town for the cotton market. He saw families, most likely the citizenry of Hillsboro, who were out for the entertainment and the hope of buying something that would cure their varying ailments, both real and imagined. Men in ascot-stuffed vests and ulster coats and women in bustle dresses and bonnets seemed to be of more affluent
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