Pecos Valley Revival

by Alice Duncan

  Kenny put on quite a performance with his steer, eventually winning that part of the competition, too. I hate to admit it, but I was glad, because it meant that Esther Strickland might continue gushing over him and not return her attention to Phil. Or she might not. I wasn’t used to femmes fatales, so I wasn’t sure what to expect from that quarter, although I was sure that, whatever it was, it would be nothing good.

  After the steer wrestling, the competition was over for the evening. The rodeo’s competitive events were scheduled to start again on Friday a little after noon, including a demonstration by some of the ranch women, who would compete in something they called “barrel racing.” I wasn’t sure what that was, because I generally didn’t pay much attention when the ladies competed. I think that’s because I felt left out, since I could no more race a barrel than I could wrestle a steer.

  However, even though the competition was over, there was more fun ahead for us that evening. Every day of the rodeo, after the events ended, we all gathered around a huge campfire and sang songs and ate cookies and toasted marshmallows. I guess that sounds kind of tame, but that’s only because you didn’t live in Rosedale, New Mexico, in 1923. For us, it was the epitome of entertainment.

  So I helped Myrtle down from the fence (she snagged a good pair of cotton stockings, by the way, on a rough board, which points out another argument in favor of girls wearing trousers if they’re going to be climbing wooden fences), and we made our way to the campfire circle, along with most everybody else in town. Hannah and Zilpha walked a few feet behind us, still chatting.

  As we moseyed along, I espied Josephine Contreras again. This time she was with Kenny Sawyer, who seemed to be paying her a good deal of attention. And that meant Phil was probably in the clutches of Esther Strickland. Rats! Looking around, I spotted them, together as I’d feared. Esther was clutching Phil’s arm as if she was afraid he’d get away if she let him go. She wasn’t looking at Phil, however, but at Josephine and Kenny. Her beautiful face seemed totally blank, as if any expression had been erased. I thought that was kind of strange.

  Stranger still was the fact that the determined duo, Charles and Edward, walked up at that moment and said something to Phil and Esther. Esther said something back, and then she walked off with the two men whom I’d begun to think of as her keepers. What was that all about, anyhow? Did Reverend Strickland have a couple of goons specifically assigned to keep his sister out of mischief? Now that would be really strange. Especially since, although I hated to admit it, Esther seemed quite pleasant. And it didn’t look to me as if she were suffering from some malady. I mean, she didn’t look as if she was going to faint or anything. Or run away. Or have a tantrum. Since I couldn’t figure out Esther and her keepers, I turned back to Josephine and Kenny.

  As I observed the pair, Josephine’s husband Armando arrived upon the scene. Armando was known all over town as a rather jealous sort, and he didn’t appear pleased when he took Josephine’s arm and led her away from Kenny. Really, it was more of a yank than a lead. And then Sarah Molina showed up, and Kenny put his arm around her shoulder.

  Curious to see what Esther Strickland might make of the Kenny-and-Sarah team, I glanced at Esther and her two bodyguards, trying not to be obvious. The holy strumpet’s expression was easier to read this time. She was annoyed. And it wasn’t with her brother, was my guess. Was she angry because Kenny was showing affection to the woman with whom he was supposed to be in love and not to the gorgeous Esther? Hmm.

  Well, well, well. What did it all mean? I hadn’t a clue, although I was glad that Kenny had finally decided to pay some attention to his purported fiancée.

  Would that I could have said the same thing about my own personal special gentleman friend who, the next time I sneaked a peak, seemed to have vanished along with Miss Strickland, Charles and Edward. I imagined her slipping away from Charles and Edward—sort of like in a fairy tale when the oppressed princess finally escapes from her imprisoning tower—and seeking out Phil, the handsome knight whom she hopes will rescue her from her travail. Then I imagined her and Phil in all sorts of compromising situations. I told myself that I was overreacting a trifle. Myself didn’t believe it.

  And myself turned out to be right, too, although I don’t suppose the situation in which I discovered the two of them was exactly compromising. Myrtle and I had just followed the fence around the corner of the pasture and were headed out to where the fire pit had been laid with lots of logs and rocks surrounding it for seats, when I saw Phil. He was taller than most folks, so his head stuck up out of a crowd. And he was with Esther, who evidently had escaped from her keepers. I felt as if somebody had socked me in the solar plexus.

  They weren’t alone, though. As I watched, while pretending not to, I saw Kenny and Sarah walk up to the two of them. And then Esther said something to Sarah with one of her ingenuous smiles. Sarah looked shocked for a moment. Then Kenny said something to Phil, Phil said something back to him, Sarah looked more shocked, and then Phil and Kenny exchanged a few more heated words, and Sarah turned tail and ran off.

  With one parting word—probably a nasty one—for Phil, Kenny turned and went after her.

  Hmm, thought I to myself. Esther Strickland might possibly be as poisonous as Libby. But she’s more dangerous, because she’s subtle. Also, she only seems to instigate stuff. She doesn’t just come out and batter you with mean words like Libby does, but she digs and jibes and pokes and prods, all the while looking and sounding blameless and naïve and absolutely innocent, and she makes other people do her dirty work for her.

  I’d have loved to say this aloud to someone, preferably Myrtle, since she’s my best friend, but because it concerned a woman of whom I was frightfully jealous, I didn’t dare. I already had people sympathizing with me—or needling me—about losing Phil to the evangelist’s sister. If I said anything negative about her, they’d surely think my words were motivated by sour grapes. But I didn’t think they were. Maybe a fraction of my opinion was born of sour grapes. Maybe twenty-five percent.

  Oh, very well. It was probably more like seventy-five percent. Still, just because I was jealous and hurt didn’t mean I was wrong in my opinion, did it? No, it did not.

  I did have to admit, only to myself (again), that I was perhaps being too hard on Esther Strickland. After all, I didn’t know what she’d just said to Sarah Molina that had sent her—or seemed to send her—running off. And she hadn’t actually said anything bad about Blue’s Dry Goods. She’d called the store precious and implied we Blues were old-fashioned bumpkins, but I couldn’t pinpoint anything truly negative that she’d said.

  Pooh. I was confusing myself.

  Deciding not to think any more about Esther Strickland or Phil Gunderson or anything else of a disturbing nature, I found a seat on a log next to Myrtle and prepared to enjoy the rest of the evening.

  And I did enjoy myself. The campfire and sing-along were fun. And Phil came and sat beside me for most of it, so maybe all wasn’t lost yet. We’d see, I reckon.

  There was a slight disruption in the jollity, after about a half hour. As we were singing “She’ll Be Coming Around the Mountain,” I heard a scuffling sound behind me. When I turned my head, I saw that Kenny Sawyer and Armando Contreras were having some kind of altercation. They were a few yards off, and I couldn’t hear what either of them said, but I did see Kenny push Armando pretty hard, making him stumble backwards and almost lose his balance. When Armando regained his balance, he tried to lunge at Kenny, who was ready for him with his fists up, but another man (I think it was one of Armando’s brothers) caught Armando by the arm and hauled him off, struggling.

  Boy, that Kenny could make more people angry in one evening than anybody else I’d ever met.

  Well, except for Esther Strickland.

  The next day, Friday, we were going to close the store at noon so that the whole family could enjoy the second day of the rodeo. I had to work in the morning, though, and it seemed to me as if everybody in th
e entire town of Rosedale visited Blue’s. Some folks came to stock up on goods, but most wanted to chatter excitedly about the rodeo. We all loved the rodeo, although I must admit that I’d loved it a lot more in prior years, but my lack of enthusiasm had nothing to do with the competition. At least not the competition going on in the pasture.

  “It looks as if that Sawyer feller’s gonna take it all again this year,” said Mr. John O’Dell, the closest thing Rosedale had to a rich man. He dealt in real estate, primarily farming and ranching land. I’d suspected him of dire dealings a couple of months earlier, but he’d been proved innocent. Or, if not entirely innocent, at least not guilty of the particular crime of which I’d suspected him. Since I’d misjudged him once, however, I made it a point to be extra nice to him every time I saw him.

  “He sure did a good job last night,” I said, thinking of Phil. Phil had also done a good job, but I didn’t dare say so.

  What a stupid situation to be in! And what was worse was that I couldn’t figure out if it was all in my head or if I really had something to worry about. But there I was, supposedly almost betrothed to Phil Gunderson, and afraid to talk to anyone about him for fear people would look at each other and shake their heads, as if to say, “poor Annabelle.” And this befuddlement on my part was all because a snake had slithered into Eden. Okay, so Rosedale, New Mexico, wasn’t exactly Eden, being more in the nature of an Arabian desert than a lush garden. Still. . . .

  “He’s an alley cat, though,” said Mr. O’Dell, shaking his head. “He don’t know how to treat his woman.”

  “Oh, boy, isn’t that the truth? I don’t think he’s very nice to Sarah, and they’re supposed to be engaged. And I guess he and Mr. Contreras had a scuffle, too.”

  “I seen ’em.” Mr. O’Dell put a can of pomade on the counter and started digging in his trouser pockets for money. “Fool thing to do, getting into a fistfight at the rodeo.”

  “Well, somebody—I think it was one of Mr. Contreras’s brothers—separated them before it could come to that.”

  “I reckon.” Mr. O’Dell counted out sixty-three cents and shoved it at me. I took it and shoved the pomade at him. “And that young feller of yours showed himself right proud, too,” went on Mr. O’Dell. Neither his tone of voice nor his words implied anything other than what he’d said, and I appreciated him for it. Of course, since he was a man and therefore blind to everything that went on around him unless it directly affected him or created a fistfight, he probably hadn’t noticed my “young feller” and Esther Strickland being cozy together.

  Nevertheless, I smiled and said, “He did a darned good job.” I rang up Mr. O’Dell’s sale on our lovely old Nelson cash register. I liked the way it chinked.

  “He’s getting better every year. I expect he’ll be winnin’ it all come next May.”

  “I’m sure we all hope so.” After all, Phil was a local boy. Well, Kenny was a local boy, in that he’d been born in Rosedale, but he didn’t live here any longer. My comment couldn’t be taken as anything but a general wish for success in the community and certainly not in any way a lament for a lost love, no matter who was listening.

  See what I mean about Esther Strickland having complicated my life? Darn her!

  Mr. O’Dell left, and I went over to a pyramid of Franco-American Spaghetti that looked a little shaky. My obnoxious brother Jack is supposed to see to it that the displays are maintained in good order, but he usually doesn’t.

  I’d just straightened the display and wondered if I should pep it up with a couple of cans of Campbell’s Tomato Soup (I don’t know why I remembered this, but the Joseph Campbell Company had acquired the Franco-American Company a few years earlier, and I thought that was interesting enough to be noted in our displays) when Myrtle and Sarah came in. Myrtle must have been on a break from her job at Pruitt’s drugstore. I’m not sure what Sarah was doing in town.

  Myrtle rushed over to me. “I’ve decided you’re right, Annabelle. I’m going to wear my old blue jeans to the rodeo today. I don’t want to go against God, or anything, but I don’t want to ruin another pair of stockings, either.”

  “Good idea. I’m positive that God doesn’t care what you wear to the rodeo, Myrtle. Maybe you could get Reverend Strickland to pray over the pair of stockings that got snagged last night and get God to heal them.” I was only joking, but Myrtle didn’t like my comment anyway.

  “Annabelle, it’s just wrong to say things like that!”

  With a sigh, I said, “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just teasing.”

  “You should watch your tongue, though, because other people might take the things you say wrong.”

  She was right, so I didn’t argue. Sarah appeared to be a little blue and droopy that morning. Fearing the answer but figuring it would be friendly to ask, I said, “Hey, Sarah. How are you today? Kenny did swell yesterday. He pretty much won everything.”

  I didn’t know whether to roll my eyes in annoyance or rush to hug her when tears started rolling down her face. “I hate that Esther Strickland,” Sarah said, her words shaking with emotion. “She’s a hussy and a man-stealer!”

  Myrtle gasped. “Oh, Sarah, no!”

  Huh. If Myrtle had a gentleman friend to steal, she might not be so shocked by Sarah’s words. I’m sure she’d be ever so shocked by Esther Strickland, though. I entirely agreed with Sarah. However, since I didn’t want anybody—especially not Myrtle or my family—to know how much Phil’s maybe-defection was hurting me, I patted Sarah on the back and spoke soothingly at her. “I’m sure that’s not so, Sarah. Miss Strickland is . . . um . . . very friendly.” That was one word for it. “She seems quite nice. Sweet, really.”

  “Friendly? Sweet? Nice?” Sarah, trembling with hurt and indignation, fumbled in her handbag for a handkerchief. She wiped her face and blew her nose, then said, “It’s not being friendly or nice or sweet to try to steal another woman’s man.”

  Boy, wasn’t that the truth! Nevertheless, I said in a consoling tone, “She won’t be here long, Sarah, and then you won’t have anything to worry about.” Except Kenny, who was, as Mr. O’Dell had pointed out, kind of an alley cat, but she didn’t need to hear that assessment of her beloved at the moment. I wondered if Sarah had noticed the altercation between Kenny and Armando Contreras the evening before but didn’t ask. I can be discreet sometimes, when my brain works faster than my mouth. Some people would say that’s not very often. Heck, even I admit that’s not very often. “And she actually does seem quite . . . charming.” It almost killed me to say that, but when I mentally looked over my interactions with Miss Strickland, I had to admit it was true. “She can’t help being pretty and . . . um . . . appealing.” And blonde and tiny and gorgeous and all that other stuff that made me want to choke her.

  “Huh,” said Sarah, which pretty much summed up my own thinking on the matter of Esther Strickland.

  “I’m sure you’re wrong about Miss Strickland, Sarah,” Myrtle said, taking over for me. This was a good thing, since she meant what she said in favor of Miss Demon Strickland, and I wasn’t altogether sure I did. In fact, I knew I didn’t. “She’s awfully pretty, and she told me the rodeo is all new to her, so naturally she’s curious. She told me she’s never been to a rodeo before and she finds it all fascinating. Really, Sarah, she’s a good Christian woman who helps her brother with his mission. She’s only interested in the rodeo, is all.”

  “She’s only interested in the men,” Sarah said stubbornly. “Including Phil.”

  For once when I didn’t know what to say, I kept my stupid mouth shut.

  “Oh, Sarah, no!” Myrtle looked at me. I looked back at her, endeavoring to keep my expression neutral. After all, it had been Myrtle who’d been offering me sympathy yesterday because Phil had showed up with Esther. I wondered how she was going to work her way out of this paradox. If Esther Strickland wasn’t a man-stealer, what was she doing with so many other women’s men? Answer that, Myrtle Howell! She didn’t. Instead, she said, “Wh
y, that’s not so. Phil sat with Annabelle at the sing-along last night. And didn’t Kenny sit with you?”

  Still faintly sniffling, Sarah said, “Yes, but he kept looking at her.”

  “Where was she?” I said, genuinely interested since I hadn’t bothered to locate her in the crowd around the campfire. I must admit, however, that I’d been pleased to see her drive off with her brother and her keepers before my family and I left to go home. I didn’t want to think of her loose on the Gunderson ranch without Charles and Edward or the citizens of Rosedale there to monitor her behavior. Overnight. With Phil around.

  “She sat with Reverend Strickland and some of his group,” said Myrtle. “Across the fire from where we were sitting.”

  “Ah.” So, I wondered, had Phil been looking at her, too? I hadn’t noticed in particular, but I’d been having fun singing the old camp songs and hadn’t paid a whole lot of attention. Maybe I’d better start keeping a better eye on Phil.

  No! I’d be darned if I was going to play the fool for a man. Any man. Including Phil Gunderson, the philandering so-and-so!

  I didn’t mean that.

  Or maybe I did.

  I was obviously still confused.

  And then, as if he’d been waiting until that particular moment to make his entrance, Phil walked into the store. The three of us girls must have stared or jumped or something, because he halted, looked nervous, and said, “Oh. Hey, Annabelle. Hey, Sarah and Myrtle.”

  “Hey, Phil,” we chorused.

  After a second or two of silence, Myrtle asked brightly, “Are you going to be in the bronc riding and the bull riding today, Phil?”

  He came out of his embarrassment-induced stupor and walked toward us, removing his Stetson as he did so. He’s such a gentleman. His boots made a clomp-clomp sound on the scarred wooden floor of our store, but so did everybody else’s. We live in a cow town, for Pete’s sake. Clomping boots go with the territory. “Yeah. Both of those. Mr. Baldwin and Mr. Hanks and Mr. Molina are bringing bulls, so there should be some lively competition.”