Fredric Brown - The Fredric Brown Collection

The carney owner glowered him to silence.

“Wait here,” he said, “and keep an eye on that bull. I’m going to shoot her before she kills anybody else.”

He strode off.

Pop patted the rough hide of Lil’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, old girl. He won’t find it.” He said it softly, so none of the other carneys would hear. He tried to make his voice cheerful, but he knew he’d given Lil only a stay of execution.

If Tepperman hadn’t found that gun by daylight, he could easily get another at one of the local stores.

Somebody called out, “Better stay away from that bull, Pop.”

It was Whitey Harper’s voice.

Pop said, “Nuts. Lil wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Then, so he wouldn’t have to yell, he walked over to where Whitey was standing at a safe distance from the bull. He said, “Whitey, what was it Shorty Martin was pinched for back in Brondale early this week?”

“Nothing. Suspicion, that’s all. They let him go right away.”

“Suspicion of what?”

“There was a snatch that the coppers were all excited about. They were picking up every stranger wandering down the stem. Lot of carneys got questioned.”

“They find the guy who got snatched?”

“It was a kid — the banker’s kid. Haven’t found him yet that I heard about. Why?”

“I dunno,” said Pop. He was trying to find a straw to grasp at, but he didn’t know how to explain that to Whitey. He asked, “Did Shorty have any enemies? On the lot, I mean.”

“Not that I know of, Pop. Unless it was Lil. And you.”

Pop grunted disgustedly, and went back to Lil. He said,

“Don’t worry, old girl,” quite unnecessarily. Lil didn’t seem to be worrying at all. But Pop Williams was.

Tepperman came back. Without the rifle.

He said, “Some blankety-blank stole my gun, Pop. Won’t be able to do anything till morning. Can you stay here and keep an eye on the bull?”

“Sure, Mr. Tepperman. But listen, do you got to—?”

“Yes, Pop, we got to. When a bull once kills it doesn’t pay to take any more chances. It wasn’t your fault though, Pop; you can stay on and help with canvas or—”

“Nope,” said Pop Williams. “Beckon I’m quitting, Mr. Tepperman. I’m strictly a bull man. I’m quitting.”

“But you’ll stay till tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” said Pop. “I’ll stay till tomorrow.” He watched Tepperman walk away.

Yeah, he’d stay till tomorrow all right. Just let anybody try to get him off the lot, while there was a chance to save the old gal. A Chinaman’s chance.

After that— Oh, hell, why worry about after that? The arcs on the midway were blurring a bit, and he wiped the back of his sleeve across his eyes. And then, because he knew Tepperman was right, and because he had to blame somebody he muttered, “That damn Shorty!” What business had Shorty to come monkeying around Lil when she was asleep for the night, and what had he done to her?

He turned to look at her, and she was sleeping as peacefully as a baby. Old Lil a killer?

Hey, wait! Maybe she wasn’t! He’d argued against it, but suddenly he realized that he’d really believed, down inside, that she had killed Shorty.

But would she have? Lil had a temper, all right. But when she got mad, she trumpeted. She hadn’t let out a yip tonight. Drunk or sober, asleep or awake, he’d have heard her.

He said, “Lil, didn’t you—?”

She opened her little red eyes sleepily and then closed them again. Damn, if she could only talk.

Who’d found Shorty’s body, and where had Shorty been before that and what had he been doing? Maybe the answers to those questions could be important. Nobody else was asking them, either. Everybody else was going on — what did the coppers call it? — circumstantial evidence. Pop looked around for someone to ask those questions of, and there wasn’t anybody there. He was alone, with Lil.

Somewhere a clock struck two.

He took a look at Lil’s leg chain and at the stake it was fastened to. They were all right.

Walking softly, so as not to waken her, he picked his way through the dimness, around the Dip-a-Whirl and into the midway. On the soggy shavings of the path, he headed for the cookhouse.

Half a dozen carneys were sitting at tables or at the counter.

Whitey was there, and Whitey said, “Hi, Pop. Have cuppa Java?”

Pop nodded and sat down. He found he was sitting gingerly, as though the seat were hot, and realized it was because he was afraid Tepperman would see him here, when he’d promised to stay by the bull. But what if the boss did see him? This was his last night anyway, wasn’t it? You can’t fire a man who’s already quit.

He made himself relax, and the hot coffee helped. He asked, “Anybody see what happened back there? I mean, what Shorty was doin’ to the bull, or how come he went over there in the first place?”

“Nope,” said Whitey Harper. “Shorty was in the freak-show top just after you left. That was the last I saw of him.”

“Did he get in the game?” Pop asked. “Nope. Just watched a few minutes. Let’s see; I came up here and borrowed a buck and went back. Shorty was there then, and left a few minutes later, somewhere around midnight. I dunno where he went from there.”

One of the ride-boys at the counter said, “That must’ve been when I seen him. Coming out of the freak-show top, and he went over toward the Ferris wheel. Pete Boucher was working on the diesel. I guess maybe he was going to talk to Pete.”

“Was he sober?”

“Far as I could see,” said the ride-boy. And Whitey nodded.

Pop finished his coffee and shambled out to look for Pete Boucher. He had no trouble finding him; Pete was still working on the recalcitrant engine.

“Hi, Pop,” he said. “They gonna shoot the bull?”

“I guess so,” said Pop. “Tepperman can’t find his rifle, or he woulda done it tonight. Shorty stopped to talk to you a little after midnight, didn’t he, Pete?”

“Yeah. Guess it was about then.”

“Did he say anything about the bull, or about going over there?”

Boucher shook his head. “We just talked about tomorrow, whether it’s going to be a good day or not. He wasn’t here long. A few minutes.”

“Say where he was going, maybe?”

“Nope. But I happened to notice. He went on across the midway and cut in between the dog stand and the geek show.

Valenti’s trailer’s over there, back of the geek show. I guess he was maybe heading for Valenti’s trailer.”

Pop nodded. Getting close, he thought. From the trailer, Shorty must have gone direct to Lil, and no one would have seen him make that last lap of the journey. He’d have gone around the curve at the end of the midway, probably, in the darkness back of the tents.

He said, “I can’t figure out why Lil — Pete, what kind of mood was Shorty in when he was talkin’ to you?”

“Cheerful. Kidding around. Said he was going to be rich tomorrow.”

“He didn’t… uh… sound like he meant anything by it, did he?”

“Naw. What th’ hell could he mean? Say, Pop, what are you gonna do after they shoot Lil?”

“I dunno, Pete. I dunno.”

Pop strolled on across the soggy midway, past the big tank and the eighty-foot tower from which Valenti dived once an evening. Pop didn’t look up at the tower. He had a touch of acrophobia — fear of heights. Enough to give him the willies at the thought of that dive.

He went back past the dog stand toward Valenti’s trailer.

It was dark, and he hesitated. Maybe Valenti and Bill Gruber, his partner, had both turned in and were asleep. Must be after two-thirty by now.

The trailer itself was a black shadow in the darkness.

Pop stood at the door, wondering whether he dared call out or knock. Maybe they weren’t asleep yet.