His powerful form seems as if it were hewn out with an ax. He has all the features of a circus athlete, but so magnified that they make him noticeable; besides, his face is not handsome. Sometimes, when he raises his head, you can see his face, the lines of which are regular, perhaps too regular, and somewhat rigid, as if carved from marble. The low forehead, with the hair falling on it, like the mane of a horse, straight and black, inherited from his squaw mother, gives to his face a gloomy and threatening expression. He has a similarity to both the bull and the bear, and he personifies a terrible and somewhat evil force. He is not of a good disposition.
When Jenny passes by the horses, those gentle creatures turn their heads and look at her with intelligent eyes, and neigh and whinny, as if wishing to say: “How do you do, darling?” while at the sight of Orso they shudder with fear. He is a reticent and gloomy youth. Mr. Hirsch’s negroes, who are his hostlers, clowns, minstrels, and rope-walkers, do not like Orso and tease him as much as they dare, and because he is half-Indian they think nothing of him, and plague and mock him. Truly, the manager, who offers the hundred dollars to any one who can defeat him, does not risk much; he dislikes and fears him, as the tamer of the wild animals fears a lion, and whips him on the slightest provocation.
Mr. Hirsch feels that, if he does not keep the youth in subjection by constantly beating him, he will be beaten himself, and he follows the principle of the Creole woman, who considered beating a punishment, and no beating a reward.
Such was Orso. Recently he began to be less sullen, because little Jenny had a good influence over him. It happened about a year ago that when Orso, who was then the attendant of the wild animals, was cleaning the cage of the puma, the beast put its paws through the bars of the cage and wounded his head severely. Then he entered the cage, and after a terrible fight between them, he alone remained alive. But he was so badly hurt that he fainted from loss of blood. He was ill a long time, which was greatly aggravated by a severe whipping which the manager gave him for breaking the spine of the puma.
When he was ill Jenny took great care of him, and dressed his wounds, and when she had leisure, read the Bible to him. That is a “good book” which speaks of love, of forgiveness, of mercy—in a word, of things that are never mentioned in Mr. Hirsch’s circus. Orso, listening to this book, pondered long in his Indian head and at last came to the conclusion that if it would be as good in the circus as in this book, perhaps he would not be so bad. He thought also that then he would not be beaten so often, and some one would be found who would love him. But who? Not negroes and not Mr. Hirsch; little Jenny, whose voice sounded as sweetly in his ears as the voice of the mavis, might be the one.
One evening, under the influence of this thought, he began to weep and kiss the small hands of Jenny, and from this time on he loved her very much. During the performance in the evening, when Jenny was riding a horse, he was always in the ring and carefully watching over her to prevent any accident. When he held the paper hoops for her to jump through he smiled on her; when to the sound of the music be balanced her on the top of the high mast, and the audience was hushed with fright, he felt uneasy himself. He knew very well if she should fall that no one from the “good book” would be left in the circus; he never removed his eyes from her, and the evident caution and anxiety expressed in his movements added to the terror of the people. Then, when recalled into the ring by the storm of applause, they would run in together, he would push her forward, as if deserving of all the praise, and murmur from joy. This reticent youth spoke only to Jenny, and to her alone he opened his mind. He hated the circus and Mr. Hirsch, who was entirely different from the people in the “good book.” Something always attracted him to the edge of the horizon, to the woods and plains. When the circus troupe in their constant wanderings chanced to pass through wild, lonely spots, he heard voices awakening the instincts of a captive wolf, who sees the woods and plains for the first time. This propensity he inherited not only from his mother, but also from his father, who had been a frontiersman. He shared all his hopes with Jenny, and often narrated to her how fully and untrammeled live the people of the plains. Most of this he guessed or gleaned from the hunters of the prairies, who came to the circus with wild animals which they had captured for the menagerie, or to try their prowess for the hundred-dollar prize.
Little Jenny listened to these Indian visions, opening widely her blue eyes and falling into deep reveries. For Orso never spoke of going alone to the desert; she was always with him, and it was very good for them there. Every day they saw something new; they possessed all they needed, and it seemed right to make all their plans carefully.
So now they sit in this beam of light, talking to each other, instead of practicing and attempting new feats. The horse stands in the ring and feels lonely. Jenny leans on Orso’s arm, thoughtfully contemplating and looking with wistful, wondering eyes into the dim space, swinging her feet like a child and musing—how it will be on the plains, and asking questions from Orso.
“How do they live there?” says she, raising her eyes to the face of her friend.
“There is plenty of oaks. They take an ax and build a house.”