The room is totally silent now except for the furious beat of Mr. Dorian’s heels. Even the poker games have come to a standstill, all the cardsharps staring in frank admiration.
A jack of hearts, a queen, a king. Mr. Dorian’s arms flash in the air in ever more intricate patterns—and then with a flourish an ace of hearts appears in each hand, completing the full suite.
The room bursts into applause, but Mr. Dorian isn’t done yet. He throws his two sets of cards into the air, and they fan out in slow intersecting arcs, shuffling themselves in midair. The ringmaster stands observant, hands uplifted as if conducting them, urging them on as they spiral about one another.
“Enough!” he shouts to them, and they cascade back into his hands. He combines them into a single pile and starts to put them back into his trouser pocket. Then he changes his mind and hurls the cards into the audience—but they become two dozen white pigeons that soar up to the ceiling and disappear through the high windows.
The applause is redoubled, with floor stamping and whistling.
“Gentlemen and Ladies, I am Mr. Dorian, and this is Zirkus Dante.”
He has them now, completely, as he effortlessly takes them through several more feats and wonders. He hypnotizes a few members of the audience; he turns a man’s hair into a bat, and returns it to his head; he walks up six invisible steps.
Through the fug of cigarette and cigar smoke, Will sees a man shoulder his way to the bar. He throws a bill onto the counter and points at a bottle on the shelf. Will’s entire body tenses. Drink in hand, Brogan turns and watches Mr. Dorian.
“He didn’t drown,” Maren whispers, before Will can say a word.
And then to a great surge of applause, Mr. Dorian steps back behind the curtain.
“Brogan’s in the crowd,” Will tells him.
“Should we keep Will back?” Maren asks the ringmaster.
“He may leave before you go on,” he tells Will. “If not, we’ll keep you back.”
Mr. Dorian steps out to introduce Maren and help her rig her tightrope between the mezzanine railings. Wolf whistles rise up from the crowd.
Will stares at Brogan, who’s got his back to the bar. Beer in hand, he is watching Maren as she hops onto the tightrope. He looks pretty comfortable. Will doesn’t see him leaving anytime soon. When Maren finishes her first act and comes backstage, Brogan is still there, a fresh drink in hand.
“We’ll go straight to the finale,” Mr. Dorian tells them. He steps out before the audience.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. To conclude our performance, I welcome the Miraculous Maren once more.”
Maren is about to make her entrance, when from the audience someone cries, “Little Sultan!”
The breath catches in Will’s throat.
“Where’s the Little Sultan!” calls someone else.
“The brown boy who draws!”
“We want to see the Little Sultan!”
“Someone must have spread the word about you,” breathes Maren.
“I want me portrait done!” a woman with a terrifyingly loud voice shouts.
Mr. Dorian steps back behind the curtain and looks at Will. “There’s nothing to be done. Will you go out?”
Will’s throat is dry. He nods. He walks out to a cheer that does not seem altogether well-meaning. He avoids looking at Brogan but is aware of him staring his way, a hot spot in Will’s peripheral vision. After bowing, he turns his back on the audience. As Mr. Dorian makes his introductions, Maren appears with the scarf. The first volunteer is selected.
Seated on the stool, eyes covered, Will begins to draw the image reflected in Maren’s sequins. His mind feels scattered and his hand shakes. The drawing is a clumsy one, but Mr. Dorian whisks it away after the customary minute and holds it up for the audience and the subject. With relief Will hears the man say:
“Ain’t half-bad! That brown boy’s got a gift!”
Another cheer rises from the audience, this one sounding more genuine.
“He’s making asses of you all!” says a voice from the crowd.
Will does not need to see the speaker to know it’s Brogan.
“Is there a problem, good sir?” Mr. Dorian asks.
“None of this ‘sir’ nonsense, Mr. Dorian.” His voice is getting closer. “You and me, we’re old friends, ain’t we, Mr. Dorian?”
Reflected in Maren’s sequins, Will blurrily sees Brogan moving through the crowd toward the stage. He sits rigidly, trying to control his breathing. He wants to bolt.
He killed the guard—he could kill me.
“I got myself a feeling this boy of yours is a fraud, Mr. Dorian.”
“I assure you, sir, Amit is nothing of the sort.”
“I’d like a portrait done, then!”
“Very well, sir. I always enjoy making a believer from a nonbeliever. If you would stand here . . .”
“No, no,” Brogan says, and Will sees him pulling a black scarf from his neck. “Use this.”
There is a taut silence in the room, like a storm about to break. Why doesn’t the bartender do anything? And why doesn’t Samuel Steele come on his rounds?
“If you have any doubts,” Mr. Dorian says, “you are free to tie our scarf around your own face.”
“No, there’s some trick to it—that don’t fool me. You use mine.”
Will swallows.
“Very well,” Mr. Dorian says. “It has no effect on Amit’s abilities.”
“Well, allow me, then,” says Brogan snidely, thumping onto the stage.
Will’s head snaps back as the trick scarf is dragged from his head. He hasn’t felt such mortal danger since he was chased through the forest. He forces himself to meet Brogan’s gaze, praying that the man will not see the secret behind his eyes. His heart thrashes against his ribs.
Will looks at Mr. Dorian, who says something to him in Hindi for good measure. Will repeats one of the three phrases he’s learned, and Mr. Dorian nods.
The brakeman’s scarf reeks of tobacco and hair grease. Brogan ties it tightly. With difficulty Will swallows, but knows he must remain calm.
“That’s it,” he hears Brogan say. “Let’s see him draw!”
“A portrait of you, sir?” Mr. Dorian asks.
“Nah. He’s had a good look at me. Let’s see him do this lady here. Come on over, darling, and have your portrait done. Stand right here in the magic circle.”
A huge whoop rises from the bloodthirsty crowd, and laughter, too. They’re with Brogan now, wanting a good show.
A great wall of blackness separates Will from the world. Within him, panic cavorts up its spiral staircase.
“And get that girl away from him,” Will hears Brogan say behind him. “She’s probably telling him things.”
“Of course,” says Maren, and Will hears her come closer and press the pencil and sketchbook into his blind hands. Very quickly, with the point of the pencil, she traces something across his palm. Was it the letter B? B for Brogan?
Is it a trick, then? There’s no woman standing behind him, just Brogan himself? Will takes a breath. Even if he’s right, does he know Brogan’s face well enough? He tries to recall its details, but they’re all out of focus. Putting his pencil to the paper, he instantly feels calmer. His shoulders unclench. Blind, his hand travels more quickly than usual, the tip of the pencil never leaving the paper, following the conjured contours of lips, then nose, then eyes. With a flourish he rips the page from his book and holds it aloft. He feels Dorian take it from his fingers and hold it before the saloon.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, behold his psychic powers!”
Applause and mocking laughter roils from the crowd, as well as some jeering. Is it directed at him, or Brogan?
“The boy got you there!” he hears someone cry out. “He did you good!”
Will feels the sca
rf being gently unwound from his head, and is surprised to see Brogan before him, staring at him intently. In Brogan’s hand is the portrait. Will can’t help but take a quick peek at his own work—not half-bad. The brakeman forces a smile and pats Will on the head, his thumb rubbing hard across Will’s brow.
“That’s a good trick, lad,” he whispers. His breath smells like pickled eggs.
Will raises his eyebrows, feigning ignorance, but he worries his fear transmits itself through his pores.
“Is this man proving troublesome, Mr. Dorian?”
Will’s gaze snaps instantly to the imposing form of Samuel Steele, his scarlet uniform ablaze amidst the crowd. The Mountie’s eyes are fixed on Brogan. The brakeman stiffens at the sight of Steele, and then his eyes slink over to Mr. Dorian, awaiting the ringmaster’s reply.
It’s all Will can do to keep silent.
“No, Lieutenant Steele,” Mr. Dorian says cheerfully. “A circus always welcomes audience participation.”
“Very well, then,” the Mountie booms out to the crowd. “Comport yourselves in an orderly manner. Any damage to person or property will be dealt with very severely. Also any low moral behavior.” His eyes stray to the gallery, where the painted women smile down at him angelically.
Brogan retreats to the bar and sits watching the rest of the show with his back to the counter and an unnervingly serene look on his face. Samuel Steele remains in the saloon.
Will is glad to escape behind the curtain. For the finale Maren appears once more onstage, to whistles and kissing sounds, to perform the disappearing act. Mr. Dorian makes sure to choose a female volunteer to come and tighten the chains. But the cheeky miss can’t resist chatting up the audience and shaking her lacy pleated skirt. She strokes Maren’s bare shoulders and says, “Ooh-la-la, isn’t she a fresh young thing, gents?”
Will wishes Maren would disappear all the faster.
Mr. Dorian covers her with the scarf. “Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure performing for you here today. I hope that you will cherish fond memories of the Zirkus Dante, and when we next appear in your town, come and visit us properly, and you will see that the wonders you have sampled here today are but a flicker of the full flame.”
And when he whisks the scarf off Maren, she is gone.
“Will you ever tell me how it’s done?” Will asks when she appears behind him.
“You’d be disappointed,” she says. “Isn’t it better just to wonder about some things?”
“I don’t know,” says Will.
They put their coats on, pack up quickly, and leave the saloon, escorted by the gangly porter.
Samuel Steele nods at Will as he passes.
* * *
Will is glad when the heavy door to third class is bolted shut behind them, though he knows it won’t stop Brogan. He still feels the pressure of the brakeman’s calloused thumb across his temple. Did Brogan rub some of his face paint off? Will hasn’t had a chance to check himself in a mirror.
A short bustling porter escorts them through a carriage lined with crew berths and maintenance compartments. Then, to Will’s surprise, he opens the door to a blinding abundance of sunshine and sky. Men and women stand against the railings of a roofless flatbed carriage, taking in the view of the rolling prairies. Breathing deeply, Will smiles. After being inside for so long, it’s wonderful to feel a breeze against his face.
“Observation car?” Maren asks the porter.
“No, miss. This is the shooting gallery.”
Looking closer, Will now sees rifles in the hands of the passengers. At the far end of the car there is a large cabinet of more firearms. A man pays some money to a steward and selects one.
“What do they shoot?” asks Maren.
“Oh, sometimes they just like shooting off their guns,” says the porter. “Soothing to some folks, I suppose. We pass wildlife from time to time, and it’s good sport to see if they hit anything.”
Will looks to the far horizon. There is something hypnotic about it: nothing but grassland, showing the first signs of green after the long winter—and the tracks of the Boundless cutting through it like a scar. The blue sky sits atop it all like a dome.
“Do you hear something?” he asks Maren.
It’s difficult to tell above the din of the train, but he senses a deep earthly vibration, as much through the soles of his feet as in the air. And then they come. On the left side of the train, a dark wave crests a hill and swells toward them. Massive bundles of hair and brawny shoulders and horned heads. Their hoofs thunder on the ground.
“Looky here!” bellows one of the passengers, raising his rifle and taking aim. “We are goin’ buffalo huntin’!”
The prairie has become a dark roiling sea. For a moment Will wonders if the sheer force of them will capsize the Boundless, for they’re coming head-on. But at the last moment the animals veer off, charging alongside the train.
All the passengers push for position against the left railing now, firing shot after shot into the sea of buffalo. To Will it seems like the most senseless and unsportsmanlike thing he can imagine.
“I think I downed one!” a man shouts.
“Me too! Look at that!” another bellows.
Will sees one of the mighty beasts crumple at the front legs, plowing dust and earth before it. Other buffalo careen into it from behind.
Will glances at Mr. Dorian and sees, beyond the familiar calm of his expression, a pale fury.
“This is how you exterminate a people,” the ringmaster says bitterly. “You kill all their food.”
“Indians!” one of the passengers shouts.
Hard on the heels of the massive herd come dozens of Natives on horseback, some with rifles, others bows. They divide the herd expertly, shunting it in new directions. Will spots a young brave brandishing his rifle angrily at the train.
“We’d be wise to go inside now!” the steward shouts from the front of the carriage.
“Not when the hunting’s this good,” says a fellow, taking another shot.
“Damn redskins!” shouts another passenger with a flushed face and small close-set eyes. “They’re steering them away from us!”
In horror Will watches as the fellow takes aim at the closest Native and fires off a couple of shots.
Mr. Dorian steps forward and grabs the barrel of the rifle. “What are you doing, sir?” he shouts, his eyes blazing.
“Just a warning shot is all,” says the man belligerently. “What’s it to you?”
“They rely entirely on these hunts for food and hides.”
“Well, I’m not taking their buffalo, am I? I’m helping them!”
“Not by shooting at their hunters.”
“What’s one less Indian?” snorts the man just before an arrow buries itself in his heart. He staggers back, dead before he hits the ground.
“Or one less white man,” murmurs Mr. Dorian.
Panic breaks out across the car. Some men run for the exit, but most reload and start shooting at the Natives.
“Stop this!” shouts Mr. Dorian at the passengers. The ringmaster’s face has lost all composure; the color is high in his cheeks as he snatches one man’s rifle and cracks it across his knee. “Stop this, you fools!”
“Everyone inside!” shouts the steward again, in vain.
“Mr. Dorian, sir!” the porter calls out. “Come inside now!”
With a cacophony of gunfire the Natives converge on the train. Arrows slit the air. Will crouches low and grabs Maren’s hand. “Come on,” he says, pulling her through the panicking crowd toward the next car.
Will smells singed fabric and notices a tendril of smoke curling from his small suitcase, just inches from his chest. He looks up in alarm. Through the churning bodies he catches a glimpse of a man at the railing, a cap shadowing his face—his rifle trained on Will. Will tenses
at the sound of a dozen simultaneous shots, and suddenly Mr. Dorian is in front of him, his thick coat swirling before Will like a cape. A rifle bullet falls from the folds of the coat and dances across the floor.
“Run now!” Mr. Dorian shouts.
Will bolts after the ringmaster, trying to stay low. As Will nears the door, he sees a Native rider pull fearlessly alongside the carriage on an amazing black horse. Its speed is incredible, outpacing the Boundless, passing unscathed through the barrage of rifle fire. The hunter pulls back his bowstring and shoots one of the passengers, then pulls another arrow from his quiver and notches it. An instinct makes Will grab Maren and push her down. There is no sound as the arrow embeds itself in the wooden post behind where Maren stood seconds before. She looks at Will, eyes wide in astonishment.
Suddenly a voice—and Will never thought a voice could be so loud—carries above the shouts and rifle reports and train clatter.
“Put down your weapons at once!”
Will turns back to see the scarlet figure of Sam Steele striding across the platform, anvil-size pistol raised high. He fires off a warning shot.
“Weapons down, do you hear, or I will open fire upon you and mow you down!” He turns to the Native hunters. “And that goes for you, too! This ends now!”
The gunfire ceases at once, and then Will, panting, is being pushed inside the next car by their porter. A group of sweaty men talk jubilantly about their skirmish. Uniformed stewards are pushing through the crowd to assist the Mountie.
“You’ll need to hand over the rifles now, gentlemen,” one steward says, taking the guns from the reluctant hands of the passengers. “These are the property of the Boundless and for use only on the shooting car.”
“We showed those redskins!” one of the passengers whoops. “We showed ’em!”