Carnival by William W. Johnstone Page A

slipped, high up on the skeletal frame of a ferris wheel. They watched in morbid fascination as he lost his one-handed hold and fell spinning to the ground. Suddenly, they were running to the site.
    They stopped at the same time, staring in disbelief.
    The man had picked himself up and was brushing the dust off his clothing.
    â€œAre you all right?” Martin ran to him.
    The man smiled. “Oh, yes. I landed just right, I suppose. Thanks for your concern.” He turned and began climbing back up the frame of the ride.
    â€œHe must have fallen fifty or sixty feet!” Joyce said. “I saw him hit. He bounced and then landed on his feet like nothing happened.”
    â€œThat’s impossible.” Susan summed it up. “Nobody falls that distance and just gets up and walks off. He fell at least three stories.”
    Nabo had watched it all through the flap of his Ten and One. He frowned. He’d have to tell his people to be more careful.
    * * *
    Lyle Steele stepped out of his house and looked over his holdings—that part of the ranch that he could see from his front porch. His spread extended all the way over into Wyoming. The Bar-S, one of the oldest ranches in the state. Only the Watson ranch, the Double-W, was older, and only by about a year or so. The Double-W bordered the Bar-S to the east, then cut north, meandering up into South Dakota.
    The screen door banged shut behind the man. He didn’t have to turn around. He knew who it was. His son, Karl. Had to be. Lyle’s wife had left him years back; said she couldn’t take anymore of her husband’s womanizing and brutality. Took the girl and split. Lyle didn’t know where they went. Didn’t care either.
    Without turning around, the father said, “You sure come in late last night, boy. Morning would be more like it.”
    â€œBig doings in town.” Karl sucked noisily at a mug of coffee. Sounded like a hog at the trough.
    â€œYeah?” Lyle asked without interest. He seldom went into Holland. Maybe once a year, tops. He did all his shopping over in Wyoming. Bought all his cars and trucks and farm and ranch equipment and supplies outside of Holland. Lyle hated the town of Holland. Hated to hear the name of Holland. Despised Martin Holland. Only thing he liked about Martin Holland was his wife. Fine-lookin’, classy woman. Uppity, though. Thought she was better than other folks.
    â€œWhat’s all the big doin’s in Holland, boy?”
    â€œThe carnival’s done come to town.”
    The man spun around so fast he startled the boy. The father’s eyes were buggy. “Carnival!” he shouted the word.
    â€œYeah. Carnival. Like in rides and stuff. What’s the matter with you? You look like you swallowed a bug.”
    â€œDon’t get too lippy with me, boy. I can still take you down and don’t you forget it.”
    The young man smiled at his father and set the coffee mug down on a wooden bench. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it’d be a tussle you’d not soon forget.”
    The father leaned up against the porch railing, his eyes taking in the size of his son. Both men were built like bulls, stocky and very strong. Both were quick, tough, and cruel men. Both were bullies.
    â€œYeah,” the father spoke softly, and with some degree of pride in his voice. “I reckon it would at that.”
    Neither father nor son possessed one ounce of anything that could remotely be described as a socially redeeming quality. Certainly nothing of moral value. The father took what he wanted, by any method he felt he could get away with. And so did his son. The father had been forced, on more than one occasion, to buy or threaten or coerce his son out of trouble—just as his father had done for him. All to protect the good name of the family, of course. Both father and son held women in contempt, something to be used and then discarded. There was not one ounce of compassion in