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Updated: May 26, 2025
She stepped into the long, shed-like bunkhouse to speak to one of her acquaintances, and there, at the end of the plank table, partaking of a late supper that the cook had just served him, was no other than Dakota Joe Fenbrook, the erstwhile proprietor of the Wild West and Frontier Round-Up. Probably the ex-showman was not as surprised to see Ruth Fielding as she was to see him.
"Don't let her shoot me! Don't let her!" he begged. "Shut up!" commanded Mr. Hammond. "The gun only has blanks in it. We don't use loaded cartridges in this business. Why! hanged if it isn't Fenbrook." "Now you have busted me up!" groaned the ex-showman. "I got a broken leg. And I believe my arm's broken too. And that gal done it."
Woman throwed it onto the piazza and run. Reckon she waited her chance so't my wife would get holt of it. She did. She read it. And it's hell 'n' repeat on the Look premises." "Ditto and the same, word for word," said the Cap'n. "The handwritin' ain't much different," said the ex-showman, clutching Sproul's letter and comparing the two sheets.
And having made such progress during the day that his mind was free for other matters in the evening, he trudged over to Neighbor Hiram Look's to smoke with the ex-showman and detail to that wondering listener the astonishing death-claims of the returned Mr. Crymble.
"It needs a plug hat, a lemon, and a hunk of glass to run a circus," said the ex-showman. "Yes, men may say what they like, Mr. Look, the people expect certain things in the way of garb from those whom they honor with position. Er do you wear a silk hat officially, Captain Sproul, as selectman?" "Not by a never had one of the things on!" replied the Cap'n, moderating his first indignant outburst.
I'll watch him." To Ruth's mind it seemed that the ex-showman, in his anger, was likely to try to punish the Indian girl for leaving his show, or to do some harm to the picture-making so as to injure Mr. Hammond. Ruth did not expect a second attack upon herself. The next morning the really "great day" of the picture taking all at the camp were aroused by daybreak.
The drum corps came first, twenty strong, snares and basses rattling and booming, the fifers with arms akimbo and cheeks like bladders. Hiram Look, ex-showman and once proprietor of "Look's Leviathan Circus and Menagerie," came next, lonely in his grandeur. He wore his leather hat, with the huge shield-fin hanging down his back, the word "Foreman" newly lettered on its curved front.
The ex-showman was not a reassuring personality to meet shipwrecked mariners. His big handkerchief was knotted about his head in true buccaneer style. The horns of his huge mustache stuck out fiercely. Mr. Butts and his timid Portuguese shrank. "He's a whack-fired, jog-jiggered old sanup of a liar," bellowed this startling apparition, who might have been Blackbeard himself.
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