We lead the camels and llamas down the tracks and tie them to the side of the train. Then we slosh buckets of water across the floorboards, using push brooms to sluice the resulting muck from the car. The stench is still overwhelming, but it’s the best we can do.
After we tend to the rest of the animals, I return to the ring stock car. Silver Star is lying on his side, and Marlena is kneeling next to him, still wearing the rose dress from the night before. I walk past the long line of open stall dividers and stand beside her.
Silver Star’s eyes are barely open. He flinches and grunts in reaction to some unseen stimulus.
“He’s worse,” Marlena says without looking at me.
After a moment I say, “Yes.”
“Is there any chance he’ll recover? Any chance at all?”
I hesitate, because what’s on the tip of my tongue is a lie and I find I can’t utter it.
“You can tell me the truth,” she says. “I need to know.”
“No. I’m afraid there’s no chance at all.”
She lays a hand on his neck, holding it there. “In that case, promise me it will be quick. I don’t want him to suffer.”
I understand what she’s asking me, and shut my eyes. “I promise.”
She rises and stands staring down at him. I’m marveling and not just a little unnerved at her stoic reaction when a strange noise rises from her throat. It’s followed by a moan, and next thing I know she’s bawling. She doesn’t even try to wipe the tears that slide down her cheeks, just stands hugging her arms with shoulders heaving, gasping for breath. She looks like she’s going to collapse in on herself.
I stare in horror. I have no sisters and my limited experience with comforting women has always been over something a hell of a lot less devastating than this. After a few moments of indecision, I lay a hand on her shoulder.
She turns and falls against me, pressing her wet cheek into my—August’s—tuxedo shirt. I rub her back, making shushing noises until her tears finally subside into jerky hiccups. Then she pulls away.
Her eyes and nose are swollen and pink, her face slick with mucus. She sniffs and wipes her lower lashes with the back of each hand, as though that will do any good. Then she straightens her shoulders and leaves without looking back, her high heels tapping down the length of the car.
“AUGUST,” I SAY, standing beside the bed and shaking his shoulder. He flops limply, as responsive as a corpse.
I lean and shout in his ear. “August!”
He grunts, irritated.
“August! Wake up!”
Finally he shifts, rolling and placing a hand over his eyes. “Oh God,” he says. “Oh God, I think my head is going to explode. Close the curtain, will you?”
“Do you have a gun?”
The hand drops from the eyes. He sits up.
“What?”
“I have to put Silver Star down.”
“You can’t.”
“I have to.”
“You heard Uncle Al. If anything happens to that horse, you’ll be redlighted.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
“Chucked from the train. When it’s moving. If you’re lucky, within sight of a train yard’s red lights so you can find your way to town. If you’re not, well, you’d just better hope they don’t open the door while the train’s crossing a trestle.”
Camel’s remark about having an appointment with Blackie suddenly makes sense—as do various comments from my first meeting with Uncle Al. “In that case I’ll take my chances and stay right here when the train pulls out. But either way, that horse needs putting down.”
August stares at me with black-ringed eyes.
“Shit,” he says finally. He swings his legs around so that he’s sitting at the edge of the bed. He rubs his stubbled cheeks. “Does Marlena know?” he asks, leaning over to scratch his black-socked toes.
“Yes.”
“Fuck,” he says, getting to his feet. He holds one hand to his head. “Al’s going to have a fit. Okay, meet me at the stock car in a few minutes. I’ll bring the gun.”
I turn to leave.
“Oh, Jacob?”
“Yes?” I say.
“Change out of my tux first, will you?”
WHEN I GET BACK to the stock car, the interior door is open. I poke my head in with more than a little trepidation, but Kinko is gone. I go inside and change into my regular clothes. A few minutes later, August shows up with a rifle.
“Here,” he says, climbing the ramp. He hands me the gun and drops two shells into my other palm.
I slip one into my pocket and hold the other one out. “I only need one.”
“What if you miss?”
“For crying out loud, August, I’m going to be standing right next to him.”
He stares at me, and then takes the extra shell. “Okay, fine. Take him a good ways from the train to do it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. He can’t walk.”
“You can’t do it here,” he says. “The other horses are right outside.”
I just look at him.
“Shit,” he says finally. He turns and leans against the wall, his fingers beating a tattoo against the slats. “Okay. Fine.”
He walks to the door. “Otis! Joe! Get the other horses out of here. Take them at least as far up as the second section.”
Someone outside mumbles.
“Yeah, I know,” says August. “But they’re just going to have to wait. Yeah, I know that. I’ll talk to Al and tell him we have a little . . . complication.”
He turns back to me. “I’m going to find Al.”
“You better find Marlena, too.”
“I thought you said she knew?”
“She does. But I don’t want her to be alone when she hears that shot. Do you?”
August stares at me long and hard. Then he clomps down the ramp, planting his feet with such force the boards bounce beneath him.
I WAIT A FULL fifteen minutes, both to give August time to find Uncle Al and Marlena and also to let the other men move the rest of the animals far enough away.
Finally I pick up the rifle, slide the shell into the chamber, and throw the bolt. Silver Star’s muzzle is pressed up against the end of his stall, his ears twitching. I lean over and run my fingers down his neck. Then I place the muzzle of the gun under his left ear and pull the trigger.
There’s an explosion of sound and the butt of the rifle bucks into my shoulder. Silver Star’s body seizes, his muscles responding to one last synaptical spasm before finally falling still. From far away, I hear a single desperate whinny.
My ears are ringing as I climb down from the stock car, but even so it seems to me that the scene is eerily silent. A small crowd of people has gathered. They stand motionless, their faces long. One man pulls his hat from his head and presses it to his chest.
I walk a few dozen yards from the train, climb the grassy bank, and sit rubbing my shoulder.
Otis, Pete, and Earl enter the stock car and then reappear, hauling Silver Star’s lifeless body down the ramp by a rope tied to his hind feet. Upside down his belly looks huge and vulnerable, a smooth expanse of snowy white dotted by black-skinned genitals. His lifeless head nods in agreement with each yank of the rope.
