“Throw him off the train, is what,” says Earl definitively. “Now, if he was one of the animals . . .”
I ponder this for only a moment before realizing he’s right. “Okay. I’ll arrange for a doctor myself.”
“How? You got money?”
“Uh, well, no,” I say, embarrassed. “Does he?”
“If he had any money, do you think he’d be drinking jake and canned heat? Aw, come on, won’t you at least have a look? The old feller went out of his way to help you.”
“I know that, Earl, I know that,” I say quickly. “But I don’t know what you expect me to do.”
“You’re the doctor. Just have a look.”
In the distance, a whistle blows.
“Come on,” says Earl. “That’s the five-minute whistle. We gotta move.”
I follow him to the car that carries the big top. The wedge horses are already in place, and all over the Flying Squadron men are lifting ramps, climbing aboard, and sliding doors shut.
“Hey, Camel,” Earl shouts into the open door. “I brought the doc.”
“Jacob?” croaks a voice from inside.
I jump up. It takes me a moment to adjust to the darkness. When I do, I make out Camel’s figure in the corner, huddled on a pile of feed sacks. I walk over and kneel down. “What’s up, Camel?”
“I don’t rightly know, Jacob. I woke up a few days ago and my feet was all floppy. Jes’ can’t feel ’em right.”
“Can you walk?”
“A bit. But I have to lift my knees real high ’cuz my feet are so floppy.” His voice drops to a whisper. “It ain’t just that, though,” he says. “It’s other stuff, too.”
“What other stuff?”
His eyes grow wide and fearful. “Man’s stuff. I can’t feel nothing . . . in front.”
The train jolts forward, slowly, lurching as the couplings tighten.
“We’re pulling out. You gotta get off now,” says Earl, tapping me on the shoulder. He moves to the open door and waves me toward him.
“I’ll ride this leg with you,” I say.
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone’ll hear you been fraternizing with roustabouts and chuck you—or more likely these guys—off this thing,” he says.
“Well damn, Earl, aren’t you security? Tell them to get lost.”
“I’m on the main train. This here’s Blackie’s territory,” he says, waving with increasing urgency. “Come on!”
I look into Camel’s eyes. They’re fearful, pleading. “I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ll catch up with you in Dubuque. You’ll be okay. We’ll get you to a doctor.”
“I ain’t got no money.”
“It’s okay. We’ll find a way.”
“Come on!” shouts Earl.
I lay a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We’ll figure something out.
Okay?”
Camel’s rheumy eyes flicker.
“Okay?”
He nods. Just once.
I rise from my haunches and walk to the doorway. “Damn,” I say, gazing out on the fast-moving scenery. “The train picked up speed faster than I thought.”
“And it ain’t gonna get any slower,” says Earl, placing a hand square in the middle of my back and shoving me out the door.
“What the hell!” I shout, flailing my arms like a windmill. I hit the gravel and roll onto my side. There’s a thunk as another body hits behind me.
“See?” Earl says, getting up and wiping off his backside. “I told you he was bad.”
I stare in amazement.
“What?” he says, looking baffled.
“Nothing,” I say. I get up and brush the dust and gravel from my clothes.
“Come on. You better get back before anyone sees you up here.”
“Just tell them I was checking out the baggage stock.”
“Oh. Good one. Yeah. Guess that’s why you’re the doc and I’m not, huh?”
My head swivels, but his expression is completely without guile. I give up and start walking toward the main train.
“What’s the matter?” Earl calls after me. “Why are you shaking your head, Doc?”
“WHAT WAS ALL that about?” says Walter as I walk in the door.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Yeah, right. I was here for most of it. Spill the beans, ‘Doc.’”
I hesitate. “It’s one of the guys from the Flying Squadron. He’s in a bad way.”
“Well, that much was obvious. How did he seem to you?”
“Scared. And quite frankly, I don’t blame him. I want to get him to a doctor, but I’m flat broke and so is he.”
“You won’t be for long. Tomorrow’s payday. But what are his symptoms?”
“Loss of feeling in his legs and arms, and . . . well, other stuff, too.”
“What other stuff?”
I glance downward. “You know . . .”
“Aw, shit,” says Walter. He sits upright. “That’s what I thought. You don’t need a doctor. He’s got jake leg.”
“He’s got what?”
“Jake leg. Jake walk. Limber leg. Whatever—it’s all the same thing.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Someone made a big batch of bad jake—put plasticizers in it or something. It went out all over the country. One bad bottle, and you’re done for.”
“What do you mean, ‘done for’?”