Demon of the Prairie

By Lincoln Reed

Clowns. Dudley Keene dismounted from his sorrel and cursed. He unsheathed his Winchester rifle from its saddle scabbard and pumped the lever. I hate clowns.

His dirt-stained boots plodded through tall grass until he reached an island of wreckage in the sea of prairie. An abandoned carriage stood idle beside a caravan of upturned covered wagons and a caged cart. The horses had vanished, perhaps stolen, perhaps given free range. A torn banner sported the painted face of a smiling entertainer from whose lips floated a bubble with the words: Gregorio’s Circus Troupe, Greatest Show West of the Mississippi.

Dudley’s mustache crinkled at the sight of numerous arrows protruding from the prostrate forms of unfortunate carnival workers. Blank eyes gazed at an indifferent, cloudless sky. Flies danced atop bare skulls free of hair and hats. Other dismembered bodies lacked an arm or a leg as if bitten and chewed. The scent of blood and urine stagnated in the air.

Dudley spat tobacco juice and mumbled a silent petition. He may have despised circus performers, but not even these souls deserved such a fate.

Hinges squealed and the iron-barred door edged open. A round face, decorated in streaks of white and blue, poked out from within the carriage that resembled a prison cell more than a means of civil transportation. The stranger motioned with frantic energy as if urging Dudley closer. “H-Hey, y-you! Qu-Quick!”

Dudley yanked the rifle to his shoulder.

The clown caught his breath. “H-He’s… It’s l-loose!”

Dudley leaned his head and spat again. The sorrel let out a frightened whinny. Dudley rotated his shoulders as the mare took off at a gallop, running a hundred yards before easing to a slow trot. Dudley whistled for the horse to return, but the effort proved useless. He glared at the clown and shook his head.

The jester pointed behind the rambler, the words seeming to clog in his throat.

Incessant wind rustled brown grass. Dudley stepped toward the clown. “Now, listen, fella. Lord knows you been through an ordeal, and you done scared my horse, but I ain’t here to kill you—”

Dudley sniffed. Musky.

From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a large form rising from the stoic landscape like the shades of an illustration emerging through a static portrait. An auburn mane adorned sleek shoulder blades. Golden eyes glistened.

“M-Magnus!” the clown’s voice stuttered.

Dudley grimaced. “What in tarnation?”

He had never witnessed a lion in the flesh, no less a male with shameless hunger in its gaze. Dudley knew of mountain cats, but this beast was of a different sort, resembling those in sketches from newspaper articles and circus advertisements. The lion’s ability to camouflage itself awed him. It had lurked next to Dudley during the entire exchange with the clown, maybe twenty yards away, and he hadn’t seen it.

He pulled the trigger, but his unsteady aim sent the bullet awry.

“R-Run!” the clown yelled.

Dudley didn’t need to be told. He was already sprinting when claws slashed through his duster coat and pulled him to the ground. Dudley wriggled free as an excruciating pain burned into his shoulder. The rambler swung the rifle butt, smacking the lion’s nose. The predator snarled and released Dudley long enough for him to crawl into the hovel with the clown. The pair shut the iron door with a clang. Outside, the lion paced back and forth, a guttural growl rumbling from its throat.

To Dudley’s surprise, the clown tore his own shirt and used it to bandage the wounded shoulder. The rambler inserted a new pinch of chewing tobacco into his cheek and considered how he may have misjudged clowns and their creepy ilk.

“You got a name, friend?”

“Topper.”

“That your lion, Topper?”

The clown made a theatrical gesture. “M-Magnus the M-Magnificent.”

“Magnus the Maneater, more like it.”

“When we was raided, they stole our horses. Set the lion f-free.”

Dudley studied Topper’s forlorn expression and sighed. “Way I see it, a bear that eats a man, it never forgets. Figure it’s the same with cats. For these beasts, there ain’t no taste like it. Your Magnus, he’s hooked, forever a glutton for man’s blood. I’d pity him if he hadn’t snuck up on me.”

“Wh-What d’we do?”

“Pray he don’t eat my horse.”

“Maybe someone else—”

“Ain’t nobody coming to rescue. Not out here. Only found you cause I’m unlucky. In this plain, we’re like a raft in the ocean.”

“S-Smoke signal?”

“And set the whole prairie aflame? I won’t be charred steak for Magnus.”

Topper’s shoulders slumped.

“There now, buck up! We’ve still got a chance, Top. Need your courage if we’re to see another sunrise.”

“Wh-What’s the plan?”

Dudley feigned a bold smile. “You ever play possum?”

After the lion grew bored and disappeared once more in the prairie, the conspirators snuck from their hiding place. Topper huddled on the ground while Dudley positioned himself on the carriage roof, lying on his stomach, gun ready against his healthy shoulder. He loaded cartridges into the lever gate and aimed into the hazy landscape of eternal pasture.

 Wind sifted. Topper stifled a whimper.

Behind the clown, a crouching figure parted the thick grass. Dudley pivoted the rifle and unloaded the Winchester’s fury, pumping the lever again and again until empty. Topper, hands pressed against his ears, retreated into the carriage and slammed the door.

At dusk, the sorrel returned. Dudley eased himself off the roof, patted the horse’s neck, and weighed his options. Leave the castaway or saddle up with a clown?

When Topper exited the carriage, Dudley swigged from a canteen and tossed the vessel to the jester. “You done good, Top.”

“Wh-Where you going?”

“I figure Magnus will keep hunting settlers. Follow him, we might just get doctoring, and a lion pelt to boot.”

“Y-You mean I can—?”

“Depends.” Dudley smirked. “On one condition.”

Topper straightened. “Anything!”

“Wash off that paint.” Dudley pointed to the canteen. “I don’t ride with clowns.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a writer, filmmaker, and professor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than 45 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

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