THE show was working its way to New York, to embark for England. All day the wardrobe woman and her assistants worked over new costumes, to make the British drop their h's plumb onto the ground. And in the mess tent there was much joking about sea-sickness.
"Say, you better fill up while you can keep it!"
"Who, me? I'm going to swallow a handful of buck shot after every meal. That oughta hold it down."
Outside of these preparations, there was not much change. They drew into a town, unloaded, paraded, played a day or two and moved on. But there was more interest now in where they were.
"Where are we now anyhow? Ithaca?"
"Syracuse, ain't it? Hey, boy, what town's this?"
Tom himself took no particular notice. One town was the same as another to him. He did his work efficiently but grimly, loaded and unloaded his big teams, was largely his own veterinarian, worked hard all day and at night dropped into a berth that was too short for him, to sleep because he did not care to think.
Now and then he watched the performance, but not often. Arizona saw him one day, and looked after him when he turned on his heel and limped away. His shoulders were sagging, his head down. But there was nothing he could do. Tom fiercely repulsed any attempt at sympathy.
"They tell me you used to be some rider," a new cowboy said to him once, with a hint of patronage.
"Yes," Tom drawled. "They used to have some good riders in this show. Now they've got a lot of kindergarten kids that lose control of themselves the minute some poor old skate gives a crow-hop or two."
Only "lose control" was not what Tom said.
Now and then he was quarrelsome. The colored hostlers and grooms stood in deadly terror of him.
"Here, you Jefferson, what you doing with that team?"
"The feed pile man, he sade"
"To hell with the feed pile man. Bring it here."
But he had no time for violence. He was the first man up in the morning, the last man to board the train at night. Under the lot superintendent, it was his men who moved the show to and from the track. The train pulled in, the great baggage teams were unloaded, the enormous red and gold wagons and trucks were rolled down from their cars; then rocking and swaying, carrying their heavy loads of poles, of canvas and of collapsible seats, they started for the lot. At night of the last day the process reversed.
Tom did not mind the work. In a way it suited him. He had little time to think, no time for vain regrets. He had no friends. Murphy had left the organization, and he no longer joined the crowd for craps or poker. His weekly salary he sent, with practically no deductions, to the bank at Ursula. He was very shabby; when his clothing got too bad he put on overalls, and let the Boss Hostler be the gentleman of the outfit and the Ringmaster its dandy.
But now and then, mostly during meal times, he would limp into the long tent where the saddle horses munched their hay, and walk the length of it. He cared well for his own big horses, but it was the saddle stock that he loved. Sometimes, but not often, he thought of the Miller.
When he found he was in Kay's city it scarcely roused him. With the canvas set, however, he wandered around to the men's dressing tent and stood staring at it somberly. That was where she was standing when he first saw her, and over there was the place where she had sat on a box, after they were married, and waited for him.
He went over. There was a box there now, an old box; it might have been the very one.
"All right, girl?"
"Fine."
"And happy?"
"Terribly happy."
During that afternoon he had a visitor, a well-dressed dapper little man whom he did not know at first. It was the little Cossack, Murphy.
"Ha! Tom! You remember me?"
"Murphy, you son of a gun! And all dressed up like a plush horse. Don't you kiss me, Murph!"
For the Russian, in his excitement, had almost done so.
Murphy, it appeared, had done well. He had found friends, was in the foreign department of a bank, was learning English rapidly. One lady had been very kind to him; she was not young, but she had a Russian soul. Tom listened, his eyes twinkling, his worries momentarily forgotten.
But there was a suppressed excitement about Murphy. He could not stand still. He darted about here and there, shook hands with his old friends, came back to Tom.
"You will be here tonight?" he asked, in his precise English.
"Sure will. Are you bringing the lady with the Russian disposition?"
"I bring a lady," said Murphy. "Not that one. Another. A very nice lady. I have but just met her, at luncheon today. We shall come tonight."
Tom looked after him as he went rapidly away. So Murphy had forgotten his lady of the circus after all! That was the thing to do, forget them. They came along and played hell with a man's life, and his only course was to forget them.
Out of sheer perversity he kept on his overalls that night. Let the cowboys pull their stuff; him, he was a hostler, a sort of head groom. He was a stable-man. Let Murphy bring his girl, a dozen girls. Girls made no difference in his life. Let them see him as he was.
And it was literally as he was that Kay saw him that night, sitting on an overturned pail behind a tent and rolling a cigarette.
She stood still, looking at him. The little Russian had tactfully disappeared.
"Tom," she said quietly, "aren't you going to speak to me?"
He got up, peering into the semi-darkness.
"Who is it?"
"It's Kay, Tom."
He stood very still, still holding his cigarette.
"What is there to speak about?" he said, after a pause. "You and I—we got talked out a long time ago."
"Do you really feel that way, Tom? Because if you do"
"It's not a question of how I feel, is it? You showed me plain enough when you left me."
"You're still angry, then?"
"Angry! God, no. Angry's not the word. What's there to be angry about? You got out in good time, that's all. I've had some bad luck, but that wouldn't interest you."
She had not known what she had expected, but not this. Certainly not this. She felt half sick, defeated. She tried again.
"In that letter, Tom, I told you I'd come back if you wanted me. When you didn't even answer it, what was I to think?"
"I swore I'd never send for you; you knew it when you wrote that letter."
She could see him better now. He was standing with his arms folded. She could see his overalls, his unshaven chin, the set lines of his face. Her heart sank, but she felt a yearning pity for him, too. He looked like some trapped wild creature.
"Tom," she said desperately, "I came to you once before, right here. Why do you think I did that?"
He gave a short bitter laugh.
"Why?" he said. "Because you didn't know me then, that's why. You thought all a cowboy had to do was to ride around and look handsome. When you found out different, good night!"
"If I ever did think that"
"You've had a chance to learn better! What's the use of talking, anyhow? I haven't got anything. I've lost my cattle. I've lost everything. Hi, Joe! Bring that lantern over here."
He took it from the negro boy, and held it up. "Look at me," he said. "Do I look like anything you want to waste your time on? I do not, and you know it."
"You look like my own dear Tom," she said, her voice breaking.
He put down the lantern, not too steadily.
"You run on home, girl, and be comfortable and happy. Don't be sorry for me. I'm getting on fine, and I'm paying my notes, too. If you ever hear different, it's a lie."
"You don't want me, do you?"
"I haven't said that." He moved, looked around. "Sorry," he said awkwardly. "I'll have to get busy. We're leaving tonight." He hesitated, took off his hat, and suddenly she saw that he was holding out his hand.
"Well, good-bye, girl," he said. "I'm sure glad I saw you again."
She did not take the hand.
"And that's all?"
"What else is there?" he asked, smiling down at her. "You've got your life to live, and I've got mine. You said that to me once, a good while ago."
He looked down at his rejected hand, dropped it, put on his hat.
"So long, girl. Good luck."
He was going. Incredibly, uncompromisingly, he was going. She had made her gesture and been rejected. He was the same Tom; nothing had changed him, nothing ever would change him. If she went back to him it would be on his terms, not hers. But she could not even go back to him. He would not have her. He needed her, but he would not have her.
"Tom!" she said desperately.
He stopped.
"I won't be sent away like this, Tom. I've come back to you, don't you understand? I was going West tonight. Look here," she fumbled feverishly in her purse, "here is my ticket. My bags are out there in the car. Read it, if you don't believe me. I can't go on without you, Tom. I think I'll die if I have to. Feel my wrist, how thin I am!"
She was shaking violently.
Inside the arena the cowboy band stopped playing. There was the sound of galloping horses, the shouts of Indians, the sharp fusillade of their blank cartridges as the prairie schooner was attacked. Only this time all the casualties got up cheerfully and walked off, and there was no little Cossack to run out and hold up his hands.
"Suddenly Tom came back to her, stood over her.
"That's the truth, is it, girl?"
"You know it's the truth, Tom. It always has been, it always will be."
Then, and only then, did he take her into his arms.
"I've been through hell, girl."
"It's all over now. We won't think about it. If only you love me as I love you, Tom"
"Love? What does a little thing like you know about love? I'm the fellow that can tell you. This li'l old heart of mine's been just about busted."
He was himself once more. The sag had gone out his shoulders. There was a ring of pure happiness in his voice. When he released her he jerked on his hat at its old rakish angle, and looked down ruefully at his clothes. But he brightened when he remembered that over in the car, in the drawer under his berth, lay the bright blue suit, neatly folded, the straw hat, the yellow shoes.
"You mean it? You're coming right along?"
"Wherever you go, Tom."
Moved by an impulse, he left her for a moment. When he came back he had a weather-beaten old soap box in his hand. He stood eying it for a moment, then he placed it on the ground.
"You're sitting on that, Mrs. McNair, until I come back. I'm a working man, and I've got a job to do. But I'm not trusting my luck any. You stay right here."
She sat down. The elephants were plodding past, each clutching the absurd tail of the one ahead with his trunk, the trainers with their prod sticks running alongside. In the darkness their great gray bodies looked like houses walking. She looked at them. For a little time, this, perhaps. But soon, please God
Like the stockmen and the wheat growers, sitting there in the dust she too made her small inarticulate prayer; for love and peace in the back country, for the sun, for rain in season, for all the growing things; for the scent of the sage at dawn, and the mountains turning purple after sunset; for the women who sat with their hands folded, resting after the heat of the day; for the men who brought in their tired horses at night, led by the lights of home.
Suddenly Tom dropped down onto the ground beside her, and putting his arms around her, dropped his head onto her knees.
"Oh, girl, girl!" he said. "It's been hell all right. But here we are!"
Long after he had gone she sat as he had left her. Time enough to think later, to make plans. They would go back and start again, but this time they would have a fairer chance. She would never change him; as he was he would always be. But it was as he was that she loved him. He was Tom, her lover, her sweetheart and her child.
When he came back to her the performance was over, and the cowboys were riding their horses to the cars. Once again she heard the slow tired movement of horses' feet in darkness, the rustle of chaps on leather, the faint jingle of bridles and buckles. The day's work was over. Soon the horses would be in the cars. A voice would call out:
"Jerry next."
"Jerry coming."
A shadowy horse would sniff at the runway, and then with a thunder of hoofs dash up and into the car. The loading would go on, and when it was finished there would be the "privilege" car, and then the night's rest.
So they moved on, and as they moved they sang. Tom's hand was on her shoulder; there was love and peace and understanding in the air.
I'm a poor lonesome cowboy,
I'm a poor lonesome cowboy,
And a long ways from home."
He stooped and kissed her.