Part 14 (1/2)

MacAloon and her coterie had, and she liked to laugh, liked to play, liked to live, and not exist in a humdrum way ever over washtubs and a cook stove--though, all credit to her who hadn't been used to them, she never s.h.i.+rked one nor the other. The women's ideas about circuses and circus performers were, putting it mildly, puritanical; but the men liked Daisy MacQueen--and took no pains to hide it. They cl.u.s.tered around her, and, before long, she ruled them all imperially with a nod of her pretty head; and, as a result, the women's ideas from puritanical became more so--which is human nature, Big Cloud or anywhere else.

At first, Flannagan was proud of the little wife he had brought to Big Cloud--proud of her for the very att.i.tude adopted toward her by his mates; but, as the months went by, gradually the wagging tongues got in their work, gradually Flannagan began to listen, and the jealousy that was his by nature above the jealousy of most men commenced to smolder into flame. Just a rankling jealousy, directed against no one in particular--just jealousy. Things up at the little house off Main Street where the Flannagans lived weren't as harmonious as they had been.

In the beginning, Daisy, not treating the matter seriously, answered Flannagan with a laugh; finally, she answered him not at all. And that stage, unfortunately far from unique in other homes than Flannagan's the world over, was reached where only some one act, word or deed was needed to bring matters to a head.

Perhaps, after all, there was poetic justice in Flannagan's cursing of the circus, for it was the circus that supplied that one thing needed.

Not that the circus came back to town--it didn't--but a certain round, little, ferret-eyed, short, pompadour-haired, waxed-mustached, perfumed Signor Ferraringi, the ringmaster, did.

Ferraringi was a scoundrel--what he got he deserved, there was never any doubt about that; but that night Flannagan, when he walked into the house, saw only Ferraringi on his knees before Daisy, heard only impa.s.sioned, flowery words, and, in the blind fury that transformed him from man to beast, the scorn, contempt and horror in Daisy's eyes, the significance of the rigid little figure with tight-clenched hands, was lost. Ferraringi had been in love with Daisy. Flannagan knew that, and his seething brain remembered that. The circus people had told him so; Daisy had told him so; Ferraringi had told him so with a snarl and a threat--and he had laughed--_then_.

One instant Flannagan hung upon the threshold. He was not a pretty sight. Back from a wreck, he was still in his overalls, and these were smeared with blood--four carloads of steers had gone into premature shambles in the ditch. One instant Flannagan hung there, his face working convulsively--and then he jumped. His left hand locked into the collar of the ringmaster's coat, his arm straightened like the tautening chains of his own derrick crane, and, as the other came off his knees and upright from the yank, Flannagan's right swung a terrific full-arm smash that, landing a little above the jaw, plastered one side of that tonsorial work of art, the waxed and curled mustache, flat into Ferraringi's cheek.

Ferraringi's answer, as he wriggled free, was a torrent of malediction--and a blinding flash. Daisy screamed. The shot missed, but the powder singed Flannagan's face.

It was the only shot that Ferraringi fired! With a roar, high-pitched like the maddened trumpeting of an elephant amuck, Flannagan with a single blow sent the revolver sailing ceiling high--then his arms, like steel piston rods, worked in and out, and his fists drummed an awful, merciless tattoo upon the ringmaster.

The smoke from the shot filled the room with pungent odor. Chairs and furniture, overturned, broken, crashed to the floor. Daisy, wild-eyed, with parted lips, dumb with terror, crouched against the wall, her hands clasped to her breast--but before Flannagan's eyes all was red--_red_.

A battered, bruised, reeling, staggering form before him curled up suddenly and slid in a heap at his feet. Flannagan, with groping hands and twitching fingers, reached for it--and then, with a rush, other forms, many of them, came between him and what was on the floor.

It was very good for Ferraringi, very good, for that was all that saved him--Flannagan was seeing only red.

The neighbors lifted the stunned ringmaster, limp as rags, to his feet.

Flannagan brushed his great fist once across his eyes in a half-dazed way, and glared at the roomful of people. Suddenly, he heaved forward, pus.h.i.+ng those nearest him violently toward the door.

”Get out of here!” he bellowed hoa.r.s.ely. ”Get out, curse you, d'ye hear! Get out!”

There were men in that little crowd, men besides the three or four women, Mrs. MacAloon amongst them; men not reckoned overfaint of spirit in Big Cloud by those who knew, but _they_ knew Flannagan, and they went--went, half carrying, half dragging the ringmaster, oiled and perfumed now in a fas.h.i.+on grimly different than before.

”Get out!” roared Flannagan again to hurry them, and, as the last one disappeared, he whirled on Daisy. ”And you, too!” he snarled. ”Get out!”

Terrified, shaken by the scene as she was, his words, their implication, their injustice, whipped her into scorn and anger.

White-lipped, she stared at him for an instant.

”You dare,” she burst out, ”you dare to----”

”_Get out!_” Flannagan's voice in his pa.s.sion was a thick, stumbling, guttural whisper. ”Get out! Go back to your circus--go where you like! Get out!” His hand dove into his pocket, and its contents, bills and coins, what there was of them, he flung upon the table. ”Get out--as far as all I've got will take you!”

Daisy MacQueen was proud--perhaps, though, not above the pride of other women. The blood was hot in her cheeks; her big, brown eyes had a light in them near to that light with which she had faced Ferraringi but a short time before; her breath came in short, hard, little gasps.

For a full minute she did not speak--and then the words came cold as death.

”Some day--some day, Michael Flannagan, you'll get what you deserve.”

”That's what I'm gettin' now--what I deserve,” he flung back; then, halting in the doorway: ”You understand, eh? Get out! I'm lettin' you down easy. Get out of Big Cloud! Get out before I'm back. Number Fifteen 'll be in in an hour--you'd better take her.”

Flannagan stepped out on the street. A curious little group had collected two houses down in front of Mrs. MacAloon's. Flannagan glanced at them, muttered a curse; and then, head down between his shoulders, clenched fists rammed in his pockets, he headed in the other direction toward Main Street. Five minutes later, he pushed the swinging doors of the Blazing Star open, and walked down the length of the room to where Pete MacGuire, the proprietor, lounged across the bar.

”Pete”--he jerked out his words hoa.r.s.ely--”next Tuesday's pay day--is my face good till then?”

MacGuire looked at him curiously. The news of the fracas had not yet reached the Blazing Star.