“I prefer trout,” Regan snipped.
“What does he know? He likes the Yankees. And a red chili pepper is a little slice from heaven’s hearth – that’s what my dad used to say. We’ve got a bunch of them hanging outside the door.”
“That’s what those are. I’ve been meaning to ask. They’re everywhere.”
“That’s because food’s depressing without ‘em. Watch out, though. They’re known to have a little kick.”
“Well, whatever it is, it smells great.”
“Wait ‘til you taste it,” said Tiffin. “Mom learned to cook Mexican from the Pentecostals.”
“Pentecostals are good cooks?”
“If they’re Hispanic, they are,” Tiffin asserted. “Every year the Assemblies of God from all over – New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Arizona – all over, get together at a campground down by the river and have a Hallelujah for a week or so.”
“A Hallelujah?”
“That’s what the people in Chama call it. ‘Course, they’re mostly Catholic and Catholics frown on pretty much anything that moves during a church service.”
“Tiffin!” Becky admonished from the next room. “Don’t forget your Mima’s Catholic. And so was Gramps.”
“Same as Baptists,” said Regan.
“Anyway, it’s a camp meeting, revival, whatever,” said Tiffin. “They make a lot of noise, play a lot of music, jump up and down and shout in tongues.”
“I went to one of their meetings last summer,” said Regan. “Just to check it out.” The mention brought to mind the pungent, aromatic recipe of fresh pine sawdust mixed with the perfume of holly grapes, wallflowers, puccoons, senecios, and cinquefoils, overlaid with the more prosaic smells of the outhouse and human sweat. “Quite an experience for a Midwestern pew-filler like myself. There was this guy playing two trumpets at once, harmony and melody. I’m not sure what’s God’s taste in music, but it was pretty impressive. Very entertaining.”
“I’ve heard people talking about Penitentes,” said Maryellen. “Is that . . . ”
“Oh, no!” Regan and Tiffin chorused.
“The other side of the coin,” Tiffin explained. “Penitentes are Catholics.”
Regan took up the thread. “They’re a sect, really. Their churches are called moradas.”
Becky came out of the kitchen, tossing a towel over her shoulder. She sat on the edge of the sofa. “They sing beautifully.”
“Alabados,” said Regan. “Part chant, part ballad, very ethereal sounding, a little atonal. Anyway, they practice self-flagellation . . . ”
“Pethos,” Tiffin interjected, sniggering boyishly.
Becky snapped him with a towel. “That’s enough of that.”
“Pethos?” Maryellen repeated.
Tiffin snickered again, and Becky snapped him again. “You’re bad.”
“Flagellation,” said Regan, joining in the joke. “Not flatulation.”
“I’m missing something,” said Maryellen.
“That’s because you’re an adult,” said Becky. She got up and went back into the kitchen. “You have to remember, dealing with these two – Tiffin especially – they’re little boys with beards.”
“I shaved this morning!” Tiffin objected, stroking his chin.
Regan protested being lumped in with Tiffin. “I didn’t say anything!”
“No, but you were thinking it,” Becky called from the kitchen.
Maryellen sighed and waited. Regan finally spoke. “Pethos is Spanish for . . . breaking wind. Flagellation, flatulation, that’s Tiffin’s idea of humor. Ha, ha.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Conllan!” Maryellen said loudly. “They’re children.”
“Hey! How come I get painted with the same brush?”
“You encourage him.”
“I . . . nevermind,” said Regan, trying to be serious. “You know what flagellation is?”
“Isn’t that, like, when someone beats themselves with a whip or something?”
“Exactly.”
“I saw something about it in National Geographic once.”
“Well, that’s what the Penitentes do certain times of the year – up in the hills around here – during Lent or Holy Week, then they reenact the crucifixion on Good Friday.”
“With real nails,” said Tiffin, suddenly serious.
Maryellen winced and unconsciously rubbed her palms.
“So you can see, they don’t have a whole lot in common with the Hallelujahs.”
“None of which has anything to do with your mother’s . . . flat bread.”
“Tortillas,” said Tiffin. “Well, one of the Pentecostals was her boyfriend . . . ”
“Just a friend,” Becky called.
“Right, mom. She had this friend,” he used his fingers to bracket the word with quotes, “a Spanish kid whose mother made the best tortillas in New Mexico. She taught her how.”
Maryellen got up and walked to the kitchen, where she leaned against the doorframe. “How did you happen to strike up a friendship with a Pentecostal Spanish boy, Mrs. Conllan? There’s got to be a story there.”
“No story at all, whatever some gossips might say. Simple fact is, every year the Assemblies of God would hire a few of us Chama girls to help out in the kitchen. That’s where I met Romero and his mother and yes, she did make the best tortillas in the state, and yes, she did teach me how to make them and . . . ”
“And what did Romero teach you, Ma?” Tiffin teased from the living room.
“Ignore him, if you can. Lord knows, I’ve been trying for twenty-three years now.”
“I’m twenty-four, mom!”
“You were bearable that first year.” Becky lowered her voice and looked at Maryellen over her glasses. “Been downhill ever since.”
Maryellen returned to the living room. “Well, I can’t wait to try them.”
Regan had been studying Thomas’s notes.
“So, back to the journal, finally. What happens next?”
“Well, Tiffin was clearly the writer in the family. Thomas’ journal is pretty much ‘Walked seven miles. Ate bread. Slept in barn.’ He definitely didn’t have the flair for color and drama that his brother had. So, it may not be very scholarly, but if you don’t mind my paraphrasing . . . ”
“I don’t,” said Maryellen.
“Speaking as a scholar, I can’t stand paraphrases myself,” Tiffin cracked, “but I suppose if you must, you must.”
Regan replied with a courtly nod. “Thank you so much. I’m sorry to offend your academic sensitivities.”
Tiffin gave a royal wave. “Proceed.”
“Somehow they had become close with this family called the Orchards,” he began.
Mention of the name brought Becky to the doorway, where she stood flipping a soft tortilla from hand to hand. “As in Sadie Orchard?”
“Doesn’t make sense, does it?” said Regan.
“Who’s Sadie Orchard?” Maryellen wanted to know.
“That’s Thomas’ Sadie,” Becky replied. “She ended up marrying a man named James Orchard, down in Hillsboro.”
“You mean, after she arrived in Chama . . . ”
“That’s right.”
“Then, this Orchard family in Pennsylvania is just a coincidence?”
“Must be,” said Becky. “She met James in Colorado Springs, soon after they got there. Then they went their separate ways for a while.” She looked at Regan. “Orchards in Pennsylvania, you say?”
“Thomas says,” said Regan, tapping the journal.
“I’m ashamed,” said Becky, hastening to add, “nobody in the family ever took the time to read that journal all these years. We all knew it was in that old tin box. I’m thankful that you made me dig it out, Regan.”
“You offered,” Regan reminded.
“That may be. Still, if not for you . . . It’s just a shame. I mean, here’s the life story of the man who’s the head of the whole Conllan clan and we, none of us, took the time to dust off the book he wrote an
d read it.”
Regan wasn’t sure if she was leading up to something. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Stop? No! Please. Read on.”
“ ‘kay.” Regan bent over the page. “According to this, the Orchards were a family of three. The man’s name was Roland, his wife was Patrice, and they had a son whose name was Matthew or Adam. Thomas seems to refer to him by either name. Sometimes M.A. Anyway, Roland came down with some disease – there’s no mention of what it was – so Thomas pretty much ran the show.”
“What did a seventeen-or eighteen-year-old Irish boy know about canal boats?” Becky asked, rhetorically.
Regan shrugged. “That’s part that’s missing. There’s a lot missing. But he must have known what he was doing, because they got their cargo to the Ohio River in Pittsburgh.”
“What was it?” Tiffin asked.
“Coal. Anthracite coal. Roland must have been on his last legs by that time, ‘cause he died within two days, which doesn’t seem to have come as a shock to anyone. He was buried . . . mmm” he scanned the manuscript, “here it is. He was buried in St. John's Lutheran Cemetery on Spring Hill. This would have been early November of 1879.
“Now, here’s something interesting, Thomas says: ‘Patrice and Matt have no where to go. Sadie and I have asked them to come with us an maybe we can find Roland’s brother in Colorado Springs. P says okay, they will. Sadie says we’re crazy and I guess she’s right.’ ”
“Colorado Springs!” said Maryellen. “The brother he’s talking about must be James Orchard!”
“Things are starting to make sense,” said Becky, returning to her preparations. “Read on, and speak up so I can hear you over the frying pan!”
Regan spoke up. “With the proceeds of the sales, they settled up with the coal merchant, and with some of what was left, bought passage down the Ohio and Mississippi to St. Louis. They arrived at least by November seventeenth ‘cause there’s an entry on that day that says: ‘S.L. is a big town full of folks going every which way. This is where the train leaves from, but we daren’t take it, for Patrice saw that damn poster in the station. Why are they after us so hard? I wonder if Sadie told me everything that happened that night?’ ”
He read on a bit in silence. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
“What?”
“He says he had Mrs. Orchard, Patrice, pick up their belongings at the train station in St. Louis.”
“What belongings?”
“That’s a good, suspenseful stopping place,” said Becky, emerging from the kitchen. “Supper’s on. We can get back to the journal afterwards.” She grabbed Tiffin as he rushed by. “Wash your hands.”
“Of course, mother. When have I ever come to dinner without washing my hands?”
He winked at Maryellen.
She liked his wink.
Regan knew he’d better reel his heart back in. Some girl would want it some day, and he didn’t want to give it to her bruised.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Within five minutes of sitting down to supper, Maryellen had fallen head-over-heels in love, and she didn’t care who knew it.
“Mrs. C, these are incredible!” She wiped a little rivulet of butter from her chin with a soft end of her tortilla and popped it in her mouth. “That fish was the lightest, freshest, most sumptuous I’ve ever tasted. And those chilis . . . ”
“Oh! You hear that boys? ‘Sumptuous’ she says. All I ever get out of you two is ‘Good grub. Got’ny more?’”
“Guy talk for the same thing,” said Tiffin.
“You can thank Mrs. Rodriguez . . . Romero’s mom.” Becky began collecting plates, and Maryellen got up to help. “No, no. You go on in the other room and read some more of that journal.”
“But . . . ”
“Go on. There’s hardly anything to clean up.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Shoo. Outta my kitchen, woman!”
By the time the trio convened at the living room table, Regan had lit his pipe and was bending intently over the journal.
“So?” said Maryellen, seating herself. “What were these belongings they were talking about?”
“Seems to be Uncle Theo’s gun, Tiffin’s belongings, maybe the saddlebag, and a bunch of other things he doesn’t name.”
“They didn’t have those things with them?”
“Apparently not.”
“I wonder why. And how could they have afforded to ship them?”
“These unnamed items . . . he says he and Sadie fought over them. Apparently she wanted to keep them, and he wanted to leave them at the train station.”
“But what were they?” Maryellen demanded.
“Where’d they come from?” Tiffin wanted to know.
“Who won?” said Becky. She lowered herself onto the arm of Regan’s chair. “Thomas did. With the exception of a whip, which he let her keep.”
Maryellen was alarmed. “A whip?”
Tiffin and his mother exchanged a knowing look.
“What?” said Regan.
Both the Conllans began to speak at once. “Sadie Orchard was . . . ”
“You go,” laughed Becky.
“No. Go ahead. You know the story better anyway.”
“Sadie Orchard was kind of an enigma to folks around here. One of her first jobs was driving teams up to Pagosa Springs. Folks laughed at the notion at first, and the women were no better than the men ‘til they saw what she could do with that great long whip she always carried. I’d love to hear the story behind that.”
Junction City, Missouri
November 27th, 1879
“Ow! Bleedin’ ‘ell!
Sadie’s first attempt at wielding the whip was not successful. Within seconds, a large welt formed across her right calf. She pulled up her pants leg and looked at it. “Lookit that! Bleedin’, bloody, stew my . . . ”
“Sadie!” With a jerk of his head, Thomas reminded Sadie they were in the presence of a lady and a child.
“Stap my vitals!” she amended at the last second. “That hurts!”
“I told you, it’s not a woman’s weapon,” said the saddler. He’d shown her how to hold it and snapped it underhanded a couple of times himself, quite effectively – much to the discomfort of nearby horses – but seeing and doing are two different things.
“It come alive an’ bit me!”
Thomas leaned close. “That’s what you get for stealin’ it in the first place.”
A wicked smile spread across Sadie’s face. “What d’you s’pose ‘ol Sting is callin’ hisself these days? Stingless?” She fliddled the whip so it unraveled on the floor beside her. “Everybody bes’ stand out the way.”
“Includin’ you,” said the saddler, a man named Jenkins with whom Thomas had been dickering to stable Pinch for the winter. He hunched behind a stable door. “Have at it, but more wrist and less arm. Don’t go swingin’ at it like a Sunday boxer. Straight out, then a flick of the wrist, like I showed ya.”
The second attempt, while not aimed at anything in particular, produced a sharp crack!
“Aha! D’you ‘ear that!”
Everyone applauded as Sadie tugged the twisted rawhide back for another go. Patrice was balancing Matthew, whom Sadie had dubbed M.A., atop the door of an empty stall. He was so impressed and agitated by the result, he would have fallen backward had his mother not caught him at the last second. It was the reflex born of experience, as she saved his life in a similar manner at least five times a day.
“You wait,” said Sadie. “Come spring, I’ll be flickin’ the balls off a fly at forty paces! Oops! Sorry, Patty.”
Patrice had become so accustomed to Sadie’s colorful turns of phrase that she had ceased to blanch at them. Most of them, at any rate. She was glad, however, that M.A. hadn’t reached the stage where every new expression had to be explained.
Sadie took a long stride and positioned herself to try again. She was facing the open door, and just as she drew back, a long shadow advanced throu
gh the opening, freezing her in mid-motion. The whip went limp.
The man startled at the sight that confronted him. “I surrender,” he said, holding up his hands. Jenkins found this funny, and the amusement quickly spread from one to the other. Sadie, however, realizing how close she’d come to lashing the innocent man, was unable to choke down a blast of profanities that had Patrice slapping her hands over M.A.’s ears, and the newcomer stunned and blinking as if he’d been struck in the face with something cold and wet.
“Just the man!” said Jenkins who, in their brief acquaintance, had learned to ignore Sadie’s language. “Lou, this young . . . lady . . . wants to learn how to use that thing.”
“So I see,” said the man. He advanced toward Sadie with his hand out, and reluctantly, she surrendered the whip to him. With a few expert motions, it was coiled in his hand. “Though I think her tongue might have the greater sting.”
“Sorry ‘bout that,” said Sadie sheepishly. “It’s got a life on its own.” She shrugged. “You know ‘ow t’use that thing?”
What happened next left everyone but Jenkins agog. With a lightning flash of the man’s arm, the whip lashed across the staging pen, and with a bullet-like ‘thwack’ stung the cork from a bottle sitting on a post a full twenty feet away. Another fluid motion and the whip was coiled in his hand, and he was holding it out to Sadie. “Seems I remember.”
“‘ow’d you do that!?” she demanded.
“Pretty well, I’d say . . . for an old fellow.”
“C’n you teach me?”
Jenkins found this funny. He snorted and spit and nudged his hand-rolled cigarette to the talking side of his mouth with his tongue. “This here’s L.H. Gerrard. If he can’t teach you how to handle a whip, or a gun – or a bow’n arrer, come to that – then you’re beyon’ teachin’.” He leaned forward a little as if about to impart a great secret. “He’s the one taught the sharp-shooters and whip-handlers with the Buffalo Bill Combination!”
The hyperbole was lost on Thomas and Sadie, who responded with blank looks, but Patrice knew them well. “Buffalo Bill was one of our great frontiersmen,” she explained. “An Indian fighter, hunter, adventurer. These days, he has a traveling western show called the Buffalo Bill Combination, with riders, and gunmen, and Indians, and all kinds of specialists in the western arts.”
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