The Devil's Tub by Edward Hoagland

Author:Edward Hoagland
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Arcade Publishing
Published: 2013-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Circus Dawn

THE HIGHWAY TEEMED with people and cars. More and more the town was waking up to the terrific fact it had a circus in its lap. Cars were stopping. Cars were pulling off the highway. Hardly any went by, unless to turn around at the gate of the amusement park. The convoys of circus trucks had to thread their wagon trains through a bottleneck of cars, something they were expert at. But every once in a while a big interstate diesel truck hove in sight cruising along on a schedule. The old electric horn would blaaaat, blaaaat and the air brakes f’ch-sssssssssss-f’ch! The driver’d be cursing, knowing if it wasn’t a million-dollar fire it must be a circus to jam up things at this hour of the morning.

The cars were from both directions, the fathers bending to the windshields as they drove and the rest of the family almost out the windows watching for the lot. The cookhouse they sighted first, since nothing else was up. Arms pointed. “There it is! There it is!” The cars eased cautiously onto the grass. The families piled out and clustered with neighbors from home to chat about how exciting it was, all the funny-shaped, colorful wagons, and how much land it took, and was that tent there (the cookhouse) the big top? Was this the whole circus? The parents joking about how long it had been since they were up so early and agreeing they should have brought rubbers and this was an experience children mustn’t miss. The kids tugged. “We’ll be late! They’re doing it all!” The parents lagged stodgily, still overcome with their virtue and accomplishment in getting even this far, and worrying about wet feet. . . .

Chief and Fiddler luckily were out of earshot. Just looking at a mass of townies, Fiddler could hear the chatter in his ears, from so many, many towns, always the same chat. It was better when the sun wasn’t up and they were mere silhouettes—a whole horizon dark sometimes with townies—or on a foggy morning when you’d have to figure out where voices came from, if you wanted to. These were precious minutes while the townies lingered near the highway. Soon they’d be everywhere, like gnats.

The Seat men and their buddies appeared on the edge of the lot by the highway. They must have walked from the diner. A single figure separated from them and strode to a parked jeep, jumped in, and barreled toward Chief and Fiddler. Chief chuckled, “Boss! It’s the Boss, boy!” which meant it was the Boss Chief, the Head Canvasman. The jeep was equipped with stake driving apparatus. The Boss Chief would put in the little clumps of stakes that anchored the big top’s center poles. White people called him “Chief” like any other Indian, but the Indians had named him “Boss” because he was the only one of them to reach a boss status and get paid like a boss. The Boss Chief was minus an ear.

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