Northern Borders by Howard Frank Mosher Page A

White said. “It’s dangerous to the public safety, Austen.”
    â€œClear out of the way now,” Mr. Hill said to the growing crowd. He began putting shells in his rifle. I noticed that his hands were shaking.
    â€œYou fellas listen to me now,” my grandfather said. “Hermie asked for what he got. He provoked the animal, nearly put out its eye.”
    â€œA fine not exceeding the damages incurred or forfeiture of the animal or both. That’s the written law,” Mr. Pierce intoned.
    â€œGive me three days,” Show implored. “I’ll raise the money from elephant rides.”
    â€œWho’s going to ride your elephant after what he did to young

Hermie?” Sheriff White said. “You won’t be any closer to raising that money three days from now than you are today. You didn’t have a single customer this afternoon once word about Hermie got out.”
    More fairgoers were pouring in from the midway. News of the elephant’s impending execution had evidently spread to the entire grounds and everyone seemed eager to be present. Mr. Hill was still fumbling to get his shells into his gun. Sheriff White was directing the crowd away from the line of fire. I felt as though I was about to witness a murder I was helpless to prevent. Show was frantic, running here, there, everywhere.
    â€œSimmer down,” my grandfather told Show. “Can’t you get your carny cronies down on the lot to pony up that hundred dollars for you?”
    â€œThey ain’t my cronies,” Show said. “They hate my guts. I’m circus, they’re carnival.”
    â€œThat’s the Jesus truth, mister,” Mrs. Twist said. “For once in his life the runt’s told the truth. Carnies ain’t like circus folks. With carnies, it’s dog eat dog, except maybe they gang up on some rubes with their billies and such.”
    â€œPreston,” my grandfather said, “you seem to be having some trouble loading that gun. You sure you want to go big-game hunting here tonight? You hit old Hannibal in the wrong place, he’s going to trample you before you can shoot again.”
    Mr. Hill hesitated. He looked warily at Hannibal. “Put him back in the truck,” he said to Show. “We’ll shoot him through the slats.”
    â€œGod Almighty,” Sheriff White said. “I don’t know about that. Shooting a helpless animal inside a truck?”
    â€œCome on,” a man in the crowd said. “Shoot him. We footed it clear up here from the girlie shows to see an elephant shot. Now blast him, goddamn it.”
    â€œAusten’s right,” Kip Pierce said with all the magisterial deliberation of a Supreme Court justice. “Do you good folks have any idea what mayhem this animal is capable of wreaking if Preston here don’t put the first bullet in its brain? Do you want a wounded rogue bull elephant loose on the midway? I don’t believe so. We’ll put him in the truck and drive it out to the town gravel pit on the river road and fill it full of holes.”
    â€œYes!” Preston said. “Now you’re talking.”
    â€œLet’s get to it, then,” a drunk yelled, and some other men growled in assent. In the dusky glare from the midway the faces of the nighttime fairgoers were hard and unyielding. Mrs. Twist sobbed and ran to Hannibal and put her arms around his trunk.
    In that moment a sense of collective hesitation seemed to fall over the entire fairgrounds, broken only by the faraway noise of the midway and the creaking of the truck springs as Hannibal, oblivious to his fate, once again began to rock to the distant music.
    Then my grandfather spoke, breaking the spell. “Kip, I’ll pay your one-hundred-dollar fine and take personal responsibility for the elephant. I’ll guarantee the public safety if that’s what you’re worried about.”
    â€œHow can you do that,