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I plunged after Merlini’s flying figure, regardless now of guy ropes, stakes, or deep ruts the animal trucks had left in the springy turf underfoot. We ran the length of the menagerie top and turned right toward the back yard and the big top — the big top that for one bewildering moment seemed to have vanished completely. Then, against the stars, I saw its black silhouette loom out. Where the lighted expanse of canvas top and side walls should have been was only darkness — the dark and a low, deep crowd noise, a vast uneasy rumble of sound that was ominous and afraid. The music of the band beat at it frantically, trying to stave off panic.

I swerved abruptly and avoided disaster by inches.

The few lighted windows of the trailers along the left gave just enough light so that I made out the ponderous, lumbering shapes of the elephants a bare second before it was too late.

A woman’s voice in the darkness, hard and unyielding, swore at them. “Elsie! Back, dammit, back! Steady, Modoc! Steady, Rubber! Hold it, girl!”

Just ahead now, by the performer’s entrance, there was a hurried, confused movement of flashlights and a shouted tangle of commands. One deep voice rose above the others, hard with authority. “The cars! Get those headlights on, somebody! Hurry it!”

Someone else had already had the thought and acted on it. The roar of a starting motor came from near the end of the line of trailers and cars; and then, in a moment, two bright headlights swung around and rushed down at us. Dark figures scattered before the light, and a frightened horse reared wildly. The shapeless figure of a clown, his white face tense, jumped for the bridle, got it, and hung, pulling down hard as the frightened animal bucked. The car turned, aiming its lights at the arena entrance. Another clown, a red-nosed, baggy-trousered tramp, stood there and swung a beckoning arm.

“Get that car inside!” He vanished within the tent, and three other white-suited, grotesquely painted figures ran after him, their large clumsy shoes flopping; but they ran for once with a direct, sure-footed purpose.

I followed the car as it moved in and saw the long beam of its lights cut across the arena, throwing the dark shadows of the center poles and the intricate rigging onto the white faces of the banked crowd beyond.

The clowns tumbled into the center ring, and several prop men lifted and bore aside the long, limber white pole that had lain there, one end projecting out beyond the ring curb. There, between the two rings, where several overturned pieces of apparatus waited, two men knelt above something on the ground. One was a muscular gymnast in blue tights; the other, the lanky, hatless figure of Tex Mayo. Now, as the car lights came, the latter made a swift lifting movement and stood upright.

He turned quickly and came toward the light, half running, the limp figure of Pauline in his arms. Her head hung far back, mouth open, and the dark blood that welled from along her cheek ran down across her forehead, a dripping smear of red on the white face. The excited murmuring of the crowd was stilled suddenly as if someone had pulled a switch; then, as Tex moved past and was lost in the darkness behind the lights, it broke out again, a high, nervous gabble of sound.

Out in the ring the clowns swung quickly into a fast rough-and-tumble slapstick routine, trying to catch and hold the attention of the audience. Their somersaulting figures in the low light from the car threw weirdly distorted, monstrous shadows on the big top overhead.

Then a figure ran past me, leaped to the bandstand, and grabbed the mike. The bandmaster saw him, jerked his arms high, and brought the music to a crashing halt. Keith’s voice, strident and hollow in the amplifiers, filled the tent.

“Everybody keep your seats! Please! The lights will be on again in just a moment. If there is a doctor here, will he come this way, please.” The music swelled again.

I turned and followed the cowboy. Outside the headlights of another car now cut the darkness. Several figures converged quickly on Tex, as if to help, but he pushed past. His voice was a harsh rasp, almost a snarl.

“Get that trailer door open!”

The acrobat darted ahead of him, and in à moment a yellow oblong of light opened in the side of one of the trailers. Tex stood outlined in it for a second as he carefully swung his burden through the door.

And just as that happened, the lights within the big top flickered uncertainly and then came on. The excited hum of the crowd rose instantly, and the tension that had filled the darkness broke and began to fade.

The car within the tent began to back out, and Mac Wiley with another man jumped to the running board.

“Swing it around,” Mac ordered the driver. “Stay in it and keep the motor running. We may have to take her into town.”

His companion, a beefy red-faced man, added, “My car’s out front. Police siren. Give you an escort.”

Mac nodded, stepped down, and let the car move on.

“I hope to hell there’s a doctor—” He stopped, seeing Keith run from the tent, followed by an elderly little man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a professional goatee.

“Where’d they go?” Keith asked.

“Trailer,” I told him, pointing. “That one.”

They ran for it, disappeared inside, and then, as Mac, the Sheriff, and I moved toward it, the acrobat came out and approached us.

“Is it bad, Steve?” Mac asked him.

The man wiped his forehead with his arm. “Afraid so. She landed smack in that mess of props for the seal’s act, that table, those metal steps, and some dead men. I felt the pole start in that direction and tried to swing it sideways, but I couldn’t make it. She was just going into her headstand when the lights — Say, what the devil went wrong, anyway? That never happened before!” (Dead men are anchors that hold a piece of rigging taut.)

“I don’t know,” Mac scowled. “But somebody’s going to catch merry hell.” Mac was no longer the smiling, enthusiastic person who had met us at the front door. His voice had a snappish, worried tone; and, as his eyes happened just then to rest on me, his scowl grew even darker. “Come on, Sheriff,” he added hastily.

I watched them go toward the trailer, suspecting now that Mac hadn’t given the Sheriff Pauline’s message, and wondering where Merlini had gone to. I had last seen him inside the tent, on the arena track, watching Tex as he lifted Pauline’s body. I half decided to go look for him, but changed my mind, realizing that what I wanted to know now more than anything else was the result of the doctor’s examination. Was or was not Pauline going to be able to amplify those cryptic statements she had made? I lit a cigarette, puffed impatiently at it a moment, and then moved to join the group that stood near the trailer door talking in low but excited voices. I saw Farmer Jack, one of the cooch dancers from the side show, and then Stuart Towne hurry up and attach themselves to the group, full of questions.

“Hey, you!” someone yelled, and I looked back to see a workingman pointing at me. “Watch it, Bud. The bulls!”

I wheeled quickly and then backed hastily. A ponderous moving wall of gray swept across the spot where I had stood. Three other elephants followed in single file, trunks grasping tails. The elephant boss, a short, bulky little man in an ill-fitting uniform coat, steered the leader with an elephant goad hooked behind his ear; and on the great beast’s head a woman sat, swaying easily. Her straight, almost youthful figure was encased in a tight-fitting scarlet and gold military uniform, resplendent with brass buttons and gold braid. She, likewise, held an elephant hook. Her face had a hard, bony look that the heavy mascara and grease paint could not conceal. The procession halted for a moment just outside the tent, waited until a shrill whistle came from within, and, as the music changed and the clowns poured from the exit, moved swiftly in.