Free Walking Wolf by Nancy A. Collins

wagon while I go find you some clothes. We can’t have you walkin’ about with your johnson hangin’ out.”
    The Professor disappeared into the back of the wagon, where I could hear him shifting things about. I noticed there was what looked to be a cage of some kind fixed to the wagon, balancing out the barrels of fresh water and supplies strapped to the other side. The cage was roughly four by four feet, protected from both the rays of the sun and prying eyes by a carefully draped tarp. Curious, I reached out and flipped back the canvas. I don’t know what I was expecting to find, but I was definitely not prepared for what I saw.
    There was a little man about the size of a five-year-old child in the cage. He wore a rag over his loins, and his twisted and stunted limbs were as filthy as any creature could possibly be without being all dirt. He had a large, long nose that connected with the top of his small skull without the interruption of a brow, making it look as if his head actually came to a point. This effect was magnified by his skull being shaved except for a patch about two inches in diameter at the top, which was bound into a tiny knot with a piece of red yarn. The little man looked at me with permanently crossed eyes and smiled like an imbecile. I had never seen anything like it before in my life. If a child was born with such deformities amongst the Comanche, it was immediately put to death, as their way of life did not make allowances for those incapable of providing for themselves.
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked, pointing at the little man in the cage.
    â€œThat’s it exactly,” he smiled.
    â€œThat’s what?”
    â€œHis name. ‘Whatisit’. He’s my side attraction, in case no one’s interested in a medicine show. I display him for a nickel a peek.” He shoved an armload of old clothes at me. “Here, I found you some duds. Used t’belong to old Jack, rest his soul.”
    As I struggled into his late partner’s clothing, I couldn’t take my eyes away from the creature in the cage. Praetorius opened up one of the provision coffers and took out some bread and an apple and passed it through the bars to Whatisit, who chewed them with the complacency of livestock.
    â€œIs it human?” I asked.
    â€œWell, in the lecture I give the rubes, he’s a man-monkey.” Praetorius’s voice suddenly took on a surprisingly deep, authoritative timbre as he launched into his spiel. “‘A most singular animal, which though it has many of the features and characteristics of both human and beast, is not, apparently, either, but in appearance, a mixture of both—the connecting link between human and brute creation.’”
    â€œIs that true?”
    â€œHell no!” he snorted. “But you can’t tell people, ‘Now I’ve got this idiot in a box here; take a good look at ’im.’ That’s bad for business. People want something exotic and mysterious for their nickel.”
    â€œHe’s not dangerous is he?”
    â€œPoor Whatisit don’t have the brainpower to be mean,” chuckled Praetorius, reaching between the bars to give the pinhead a scratch behind the ears. “Ain’t that so, old fellow?”
    Whatisit giggled and, as if in answer, hurled a handful of shit at me, dirtying the front of my new shirt and splattering my chin.
    â€œI thought you said he was harmless!” I snapped, brushing the idiot dung from my face.
    â€œNo. I said he wasn’t dangerous. There’s a difference. ’Sides, tossin’ turds is his only vice. I can’t deprive a man of his solitary pleasure, can I?”
    And on that auspicious note, I began my tenure as a full partner in Professor Praetorius’ Hard Luck Elixir Traveling Show.
    It turned out the Professor was as crazy, in his own way, as the Reverend, but I liked him a whole lot better. Where the Reverend had been