Primal Spillane Page 5

  In his belt was a gun. It served only to frighten the tawny beasts, for it had blank cartridges. Never would Mark take the chance of killing anything so valuable. His only protection against the sudden charges was the men outside the cage armed with hoses that were ready to spit a powerful stream of water at the cats if they started to attack him.

  ALL the performers in the circus were ready to admit that Mark’s was the most dangerous act of the group. None envied him the chance to match his wits against the fury and cunning of the death that paced violently in the cage. They would watch the daily work-outs before the show started with as much anxiety as did the paid customers, for it was during the actual training that the cats were most dangerous. In the evenings, the spotlights would hit the cage with their beams, blinding the animals into submission. Then, too, they were always held back by the roaring of the many strange voices.

  It was during a workout nearly two months ago that it happened. Mark had entered the cage, with the confidence of a king. An attendant handed him the whip and chair, shut the steel door after him, then pulled up the gate of the chute that led to the cages. Swiftly, the soft padding of many feet came down the wooden runway, and eight huge cats entered the great cage.

  Rex came first, a great dark-maned lion that fairly shouted that he was the leader of the pack. He trotted out, bunched his muscles for a leap, then jumped to the high perch that was his. Keena was next, a young male tiger that snarled at anything in his path. Keena was new in the circus, and hated everything about it.

  This day he was mad. He braked swiftly when he ran out of the chute, and faced Mark, defiance in his little eyes. The hair on his striped back rose slowly as he measured the distance for a leap at the trainer. Mark brought the whip up. A swift snap, and it lashed across Keena’s face. The cat howled, turned … and jumped up next to Rex.

  Immediately the Kings’ paw went out and cuffed him sharply. The next instant the cage was a maze of flying fur and the furious growls of the fighters. Without hesitation Mark went in. The chair battered into the cats’ faces while the whip whistled through the air, and cracked time after time! A jet of water hit them both, throwing them to the side of the cage.

  THAT stopped the fight, but the fury was still in Keena’s eyes. The tiger’s shackles rose every time Mark came near. Then the act began. Responding neatly to every command, the lions jumped over their striped partners. They hopped on barrels and rolled them around the barred arena. Gradually the act went on faster and faster, until it came time for the cats to walk the tight-rope.

  They were half way across when the performers outside the cage began to cheer. Mark turned his head to acknowledge the applause … and Keena jumped! The snarling, spitting demon landed on Mark’s back. Claws raked through his shirt and sharp teeth sunk into his shoulder. Bones crunched under the mighty jaws. Before anyone could move, a yellow flash whipped across space, and the body of the king of the pack hit the tiger.

  Then the king tore into the other cat. The tiger was young, but he didn’t stand a chance against the unleashed fury of the lion. Outside, the men manned the powerful water hoses and the fight broke up. The cats retired into the chute. An attendant ran to the cage, picked up the torn body of the trainer and sped him to a hospital.

  For two months he laid on his hospital cot, his feverish brain continually brooding over the fateful day. His nerve was gone, he was sure of that! When he returned to the lot he quivered at the thought of having to again enter the cage with the cats. Mark hated himself for his cowardice. He realized that if he could only force himself to enter the empty cage, he also would be able to face the cats once more.

  So while everyone slept in the wagons, he crept softly into the Big Top. He nervously carried his whip and chair. Every part of his body shook with fear. Why? The cage was empty! Surely nothing could happen now! He reached the cage door, opened it and stepped inside. The clang made him jump … for he had forgotten that it was securely shut now. The lock could only be opened from the outside! Beads of perspiration grew on his wrinkled forehead!

  IN his cage not far away, Keena sniffed the air. His back arched with hate, for he again scented his enemy. The cat was a wary one. He padded to the sliding gate at the end of his cage. For a minute he toyed with it, then a claw went under it and the gate rose. Keena’s nose went into it, pushed, and his body squeezed into the chute! Silently, he crawled to the other end.

  An inner sense turned Mark around. There, staring at him from the chute at the door which someone had carelessly neglected to close was a pair of green, devilish eyes. Mark froze, his blood ran cold! Then the cat charged. Mark’s instinct saved him. The whip spilt the air and the chair rammed into the tiger. The weight of the cat knocked him over, but Mark scrambled to his feet.

  Like a cat himself, he set himself to meet the next rush. Keena crouched, then sprang! Mark ducked under the attack. As the tiger passed over him he rammed the chair into its belly. That hurt. Keena was more cautious this time. He didn’t set to jump again … instead, he quietly stalked the trainer. With muscles rippling under his coat, the cat circled Mark, coming closer each time.

  Mark cracked the whip in front of him, waving the chair about. The four legs confused the cat. He reared up on his hind legs and pawed at them. Mark brought the blunt butt-end of the whip down across Keena’s nose. Keena recoiled, spitting his hate. Then Mark became the aggressor. With his flimsy weapons he forced the tiger into a corner.

  That was a mistake! With a new and sudden fury Keena charged. He hit the chair and knocked Mark over backwards, his claws raking the air desperately. Before Mark could rise, the cat was on him. His fear was forgotten … Mark was furious. He kicked out with all he newfound strength and swung a blow at the tiger’s head. Keena rolled off.

  IN an instant Mark was on his feet, chair and whip forgotten! He went after Keena with his feet and hands. He kicked, and his boot “thocked” under Keena’s chin. With a sharp snarl, the cat rose on his hind legs and pawed the air, his sharp claws flashing in the dim light from the single bulb overhead. This was nothing new to Mark. He feinted one way, then came in like a boxer with a fist to the exposed underside of the tiger. Keena dropped to his feet and backed off.

  Mark had forgotten that minutes before he had shivered with fear when he went to enter an empty cage. Now he faced one of the most dangerous of jungle beasts with a quiver. Again and again he came in on the cat. This was something new to Keena, and the tiger was confused. Keens lashed out at the boot that was tormenting him, but each time Mark ducked the savage claws.

  Suddenly the place was a bedlam of shouts. The circus attendant ran into the place expecting to find the mangled remains of the trainer under the teeth of the tiger. They were astounded, for the big cat lay in a corner, scared stiff by the fury of the man. Mark went over to him ignored the bared teeth, then bent down and cuffed the hairy face with a backhanded slap. This time Mark turned to receive the acclaim of his friends. He nodded his head at their applause, but even though he was the indisputable master once more, he kept the shaking form of the cat well covered out of the corner of his eye!

  ***

  Jinx Heap

  A S Slim Hines rolled the midget racer onto the track, the crowd in the bowl let out a roar of laughter.

  “Jinx!” a raucous voice called.

  “Say your prayers, kid!” someone else yelled. “It’s a coffin on wheels!”

  Slim gulped. He was new to the midget racing game and hadn’t know what he was letting himself in for until a short time ago. That afternoon he had ridden to the dusty track on his old motorcycle and drawn up alongside a funny-looking job with a circle “12” on its tail, and a grimy, disgusted-looking fellow bending over the motor. The man looked up and pushed his hat back.

  “Brother,” he said to Slim, “I’d trade this heap for anything with a workable engine.”

  “Fooling?” Slim grinned.

  “Nope!”

  “Mister, you’ve made a trade!”

&
nbsp; Slim understood now, why the man had smiled so broadly when he said slowly, “I sure have!”

  And the transaction was made on the spot. Before he drove away, the fellow looked back. “By the way, this is an outlaw track. You can drive anything, anytime here.”

  His ability to make “anything” run was Slim’s pride and joy, but it took him nearly six hours to get even a cough out of the Circle 12, and when he’d finally gotten it running, more or less steadily, it was nearly race time!

  Then the wisecracks had started.

  “Big John” Purcell, the ace of drivers, came over. “Well, well, look what we have here! The last time this load got in a race it took a week-end to locate all the parts!”

  The group of drivers had gathered around, snickered.

  “Remember the time the bailing wire broke and the motor buried itself in the track?” One guy laughed, “That was rich!”

  “Yeah,” said another, “once over in Gurfield, the gears slipped into reverse when they were starting her and kick-back jammed up a whole line and broke a pusher’s arm.”

  Seeing the Slim was annoyed by this time, Big John turned to the others. “Let’s leave him to his troubles, boys, and tune up. We go on in ten minutes!”

  By this time, Slim had the motor purring nicely, and he asked a couple of local lads to help him push.

  “Sure,” one answered, “if you don’t think it’ll come apart before it reaches the track.”

  Slim stepped back and looked at the car. Light blue in color — the chromium trim was a little rusty — a fan-tail gave it a smooth look, and the Circle 12 on the blunt snout might make anyone think it was a class “A” job.

  “Say, what is the matter with this buggy anyway?” One of the boys looked at him strangely.

  “Well, nothing exactly, ’cepting it always comes apart! Seems like a crackpot, who works for a junkyard, made it out of a couple dozen wrecks he picked up around the tracks.”

  “That ain’t all,” the other lad put in. “She’s a contrary cuss. When she stays together she won’t go, and when she goes she won’t stay together!”

  “WELL,” Slim sighed, “let’s go out and get the trials over with.”

  They pushed the car on the runway and ran it out. The other drivers, who waited to take the trial run, laughed with the crowd.

  Big John, leaning on the pit rail, sneered. “Keep outa my way, bum, or I’ll run over you!”

  That was all Slim needed. “Listen, pipsqueak,” he snapped, “one funny move from you and I’ll climb this jalopy right over your frame! Maybe you’re the big apple around here, but, I don’t know about it … so, if you have any brains left in that big head of yours, stay on your own side of the track!” The crowd in the stands heard this, and never having taken to Purcell because of his nasty driving, gave Slim a big hand.

  “That’s cleaning his plow for him,” one spectator shouted. “Tell him where to get off!” Billy, one of Slim’s pushers, took him by the arm.

  “Listen, mister, Big John’s gonna go for you out there, sure as shootin’, so watch your step! Nobody can tell him off like that without him getting it back!”

  “Thanks, Billy, I’ll be watching.”

  How he got through the trials, Slim never knew. Twice, he almost went through the rail, and once, in the backstretch, he skidded completely around. But, his nerve carried him in, and he made the main event by a tenth of a second.

  The announcer was calling for places. Slim found himself fifth, on the inside. He crawled into the tiny bucket and, like a huge snake, the line crawled off. One by one, the engines coughed into life and so did the engine of the circle 12. The cars idled around the track twice, and then the starter’s flag came down.

  The race was on!

  BIG JOHN, who was on the rail, jumped ahead, and through the dust and smoke at the first turn, Slim found himself in seventh place. For, in the mad swirl around the first turn, three cars had skidded to the outside and had gone through the rail! He held his position for two laps when, without warning, his radiator fell off!

  “Well,” Slim thought, “I won’t have to worry about my cooling system now!”

  But on the next lap the wind got under the hood and, before he knew it, Slim saw his hood go sailing into the infield. The driver on his outside seemed a bit anxious, wondering whether or not it was safe to take a chance and pass. Slim, by this time, was plenty disgusted; he was getting nowhere fast, and, losing his racer piece by piece!

  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eyes, Slim spied Big John pulling up alongside of him, and his disgust turned to anger.

  “Doggone if that guy’ll pass me!”

  He jammed his foot down hard on the gas and fairly flew into the turn! When he came out of it, he looked behind and almost fell out of his seat — half his tail assembly was missing, and Big John was still alongside of him. He saw Big John’s front wheel pulling in dangerously close, and he knew Big John was trying to run him off the track. Down went his foot on the gas again, this time all the way. Twice he was bumped by Big John, and each time his luck held. He saw Big John pulling in to hit him again, and the car, as if suddenly finding itself, shot ahead! At the same time, he heard a wrenching sound. He gave a quick look around, saw with a start that Big John’s last bump had knocked off the remaining part of his trail, but Big John went through the rail, himself, and piled up for the day!

  FROM the grandstand it looked as though Slim had suddenly gone speed-crazy. He whipped around the turns like a madman, and flew down the stretches. Slowly, he caught up to the leader and skidded around him. In the final stretch he ripped by like a house afire. His crazy jalopy was humming a new song of power. Ridiculous as he looked, sitting strapped in an almost bodyless motor on wheels, he was first when the checkered flag came down!

  He made his extra lap as did all the rest of the cars, but for some reason or other, made ten more before he finally slowed up and stopped in the backstretch. A crowd of pitmen rushed over to greet him. After the handshakes, one looked at him quizzically.

  “But why all the extra laps, bud?”

  Slim grinned, “Well, the last time I was bumped, the gas throttle stuck and the breaks no longer worked, so I had to let it rip until I ran out of juice!”

  “How come you didn’t throw the switch, mister?” someone asked.

  “OH—never thought of that!” Slim grinned — sheepishly!

  ***

  Jap Trap

  BLINKING its ghostly owl-eye in the still darkness of the night, the lightship Wells tugged gently at her anchor, and rolled lazily in the swell of the sea. For nine months the boat had been in this one spot, save to resume position when she dragged anchor.

  Jerry Crain, the first mate, sweated in the sultry air of the summer night and stared disgustedly at the lights in New York City. Coming to his side, Captain Crisman nodded to the distant glow, “Pretty, eh?”

  “Bah!” Jerry said, wrinkling his nose. “I’m sick of it! No action except eating and fishing. Why, there’s a war going on, and what do we do but flop on this tub and watch the lights!”

  Captain Crisman glanced at him queerly. “It’s more important than you think! We’re part of New York’s defense! If it weren’t for us here to warn of the channel’s end, half the ships entering the harbor would run aground off Breezy Point or the Atlantic Highlands!”

  “I guess you’re right, Captain, but I sure wish I could get my teeth into some action!”

  “Who knows, Jerry? In the last war, the German cruiser Emden, flying a French flag, slipped into an Allied harbor and sunk a couple Russian warships! That might happen here!”

  “Naw, no such luck. The boys from Fort Tilden would pick them off before we could see them!”

  “Perhaps, but camouflage fools the best of us!”

  In the days that followed, Jerry often saw the lights of the great city wink out during blackout practice, but he scoffed at the sight. He just couldn’t picture any enemy getting this far, by air or sea. It seemed
ridiculous to even think of it.

  Jerry was sitting on the rail of the bridge when Captain Crisman came up. “Jerry, I’m being sent to Boston for a week or so, and you’re left in charge here. See that everything is kept shipshape, and I’ll see you soon.”

  The Captain departed in a motor launch and Jerry watched him go, wishing that something would pop up to send him off.

  SPITTING fire through its overheated exhaust pipes, the fishing boat came tearing out of the night! Its deck was a mass of wreckage, with gaping holes, like great eyes, in the hull. Huge bites were taken out of the pilot house, as if by an enormous mouth. The boat smacked against the side of the lightship, and the master came out of the wheelhouse, shouting at the top of his lungs.

  “Japs! A whole ship full of them! They shot me up and left me to sink, knowing that I had no radio. They’re flying the British flag and headed for the harbor under half-speed, that’s how I beat them here. You gotta do something, quick! It’s probably a suicide ship, a cruiser, I think!”

  “Holy smokes! Are you sure?”

  “Positive! And you’ll only have a few minutes to do something!”

  “Right! Beach your boat at Breezy Point. Then notify the coast artillery at Fort Tilden. I have an idea!”

  The power boat sped toward the shore. Jerry hoped that it would hold together long enough to reach. He didn’t dare radio, for fear of being intercepted.

  Staking everything on a mad gamble, he called the crew to their stations! Quickly they got the anchors up and the motor started. With the deck pulsating beneath them, the Wells moved closer to the shore, until she lay only a half mile off. Any ship that tried to skirt the lightship now would be hopelessly beached!