by Judy Alter
He looked at her for a long minute, and then said with deliberate slowness, "I don't need no girl dressed like a cowboy to tell me I'm proud of my daughter."
She wore the britches and leather chaps in which she'd ridden, and the Stetson still rode large on her head. But Rose's face was purely feminine, and so was her anger at Papa. "You don't need to insult me, Mr. Burns. I know who I am." And she whirled her horse away, but not before she got off a wink to me.
"Papa! How could you?" I was at a loss for words.
"She'll not be telling you what to do," he thundered. "I'm your father, and I'll decide what you do."
I looked at Papa and realized that if I gave in now, Papa would be telling me what to do for the next twenty years. And Colonel Zack Miller and others would let him—they'd go to him for every decision about what: I did.
"Papa," I said, "go home. I'm about to be a famous roper, and I won't be letting you tell me what to do anymore."
He opened his mouth wide in protest, but I spurred Sam away before Papa could answer, and much as it cost me, I never looked back over my shoulder.
Rose found me in our room, sitting staring out over the prairie. "Your pa left," she said. "I heard him tell Colonel Miller that he guessed he could take as good care of you now, and he was turning you over to him. Did you know he was leaving?"
I barely shook my head to answer no before the tears poured down my cheeks. Head buried in one of Mrs. Miller's best down pillows, I sobbed brokenheartedly. My papa was gone, I was on my own, and I hadn't even told him good-bye.
"Good-bye, Papa," I whispered. From the window, way off in the distance, I could see a solitary figure riding west, sitting straight and tall in the saddle. Papa never crumbled before defeat.
* * *
Dinner that night was to be festive, a celebration for all the editors and performers. Mrs. Miller told us, "Put on your best clothes, girls. The exhibition's a success, and we're going to throw a party tonight."
I dressed in the soft brown split skirt and white ruffled shirt Louise had sent. With my straw Stetson and a brown scarf at my neck, my outfit was, I thought, very western and very tasteful.
Rose outdid me. She wore pink bloomer-like pants, tucked into pale cream boots, a pink shirt, of a paler shade than the pants, and a cream Stetson that matched her boots. She looked, I thought, like strawberries and cream. Those red curls escaping under the Stetson added an almost devilish note, as though she could not only ride a horse standing up but do almost anything anyone dared her to.
"Come on, Tommy Jo," she said, linking her arm in mine, "we're gonna make some men look twice at us tonight."
Not to be outdone, I smiled as brightly as I could and tried to avoid clutching at her arm as we started downstairs.
To my everlasting surprise, Louise stood at the foot of the stairs, next to Colonel Zack Miller. When she saw me, her eyes lit up and she blew a kiss upward. By the time I reached the bottom step, my arm now unlinked from Rose's, Louise came forward with her arms open for a hug.
For just a moment, I froze. Then I hugged her, with that distant way you can hug when you're not sure about the reception. "Louise?" My voice asked why she was here, what she had seen, what she knew.
"No," she said, "I haven't seen your father, but yes, I saw you rope—and you were wonderful!" She spread her arms wide again, and this time I returned her hug with enthusiasm. She turned to the colonel. "I told you she was good!"
"That you did, Louise," he said, smiling at her with a proprietary air, "that you did." And then in that booming voice of his, he told not just Louise but everyone around, "This little lady was the hit of the celebration. Tommy Jo Burns, folks, the best girl roper in the entire United States of America!"
Blushing, I sidled up to Louise. It was wonderful that Colonel Miller thought I was that good, but I wished he'd be a little more quiet about it. Every eye seemed turned on me. And besides my embarrassment, my mind was whirling as I tried to figure out Louise's relationship to the colonel, in light of what I thought I knew about her relationship to my father. "Papa?" I said softly, looking at her.
She pulled me aside. "I heard. I'll do what I can. But Tommy Jo, you did what's important to you. You roped in an exhibition! Now let's go meet all these folks."
Festive was hardly the word for that celebration. Buffalo steaks, beans, biscuits fresh from the Dutch oven over the campfire—I ate until I thought I'd burst, and surely never mount a horse again. Fiddle players plucked out old familiar tunes, and some folks started a dance. Then several of the Indians began a chant, and old Geronimo got out in the middle of a circle and did a shuffling dance—none of us understood his movements, but not a one of us was left unmoved by the emotion that went with his dancing and chanting.
"That's a man who killed a lot of white men." John Mason, the cowboy I roped in the arena, came up behind me. "Can't believe he's here, dancing as though we were all friends." He shook his head.
"Aren't we now?" I asked, looking at him. Not much distinguished John Mason from most cowboys—maybe his round face, which gave him a babyish look that didn't fit with the toughness of his body. He was blond, and in the firelight I couldn't see the color of his eyes but I bet on blue.
Mason scowled, furrowing faintly defined eyebrows together. "Lost some family to Indians in Texas years ago," he said. "Don't suppose I can ever think of a red man as my brother." Then his face brightened, a grin taking over. "Why are we talking about hate and enemies? I came over here to tell you how impressed I was with your roping."
"Thanks," I said, looking down at the ground. I was unused to compliments, especially from young men my age, and I wasn't sure how to handle it.
"Never thought a girl could rope better than the poorest man," he said.
I bristled and glanced sideways at him to see if he was joking. He wasn't. "Why should a girl be any different?" I asked. Prairie Rose stood nearby, and I was sure, from the smile on her face, that she had heard the conversation.
"You know," he said as though surely I understood, "they're not as strong and all that."
"Strong doesn't have anything to do with it," I replied, primed now for an argument.
He threw his hands in the air, just as he'd done when I roped him. "I give in. No contest. Let's take a walk and get away from this noise."
Vaguely I saw Prairie Rose cast a sharp glance in my direction, but by then I'd nodded in agreement, and John Mason put his arm around my shoulders. We walked away from the singing and dancing, the gathered crowd with their whispers of conversation, their murmurs of approval at the dancing. His arm seemed heavy on my shoulders, although I was unnaturally aware of it. Suddenly, we were totally alone, beyond the shadows of the firelight, the eyes of the crowd.
"Tommy Jo," he whispered, "you can sure rope. And I bet there are other things you can do." The arm around my shoulders turned me toward him, and his mouth came down on mine, not soft and gentle like Billy's kiss, but strong and tough—and unpleasant. I tried to pull back, but he held me tightly with one hand, while the other explored my breasts, then yanked at my shirt to pull it out of my waist.
"Stop!" I muttered, my mouth still smashed by his.
"You'll like it, Tommy Jo," he promised, moving his lips from mine just a shade. "Just relax. You'll like it."
"Let me go!" I demanded, louder this time.
John Mason simply laughed, but he stopped laughing when the toe of my boot connected with his shinbone. I aimed high, above his boot top, and I kicked hard. His cry mixed pain and anger, and I was sure everyone within five miles heard it, including all those editors who were chewing their buffalo steaks and dancing like fools. It would serve John Mason right if every one of them wrote a story about cowboys and impropriety.
By the time he straightened up again, one hand clutching his leg, I was gone. Behind me, a threat floated on the air: "You'll be sorry."
I ran and ran, my booted feet complaining, until I reached the big house. Grateful that the house was empty and e
veryone was still at the celebration, I ran to my bedroom, closed the door, and flung myself on the bed, but not to cry. If I'd expected a flood of tears, I was surprised by my dry eyes. I was equally surprised by the intensity of my anger. John Mason was lucky he wasn't in front of me right then, for a kick in the shins would have seemed mild.
I was still up and pacing when Rose came in, laughing and calling good night over her shoulder. She sobered when she saw me. I'd forgotten that I must look a mess, my hair wild, my blouse wrinkled and pulled out. "What happened?"
When I briefly described the scene, she grinned a moment. "Serves him right." Then she sobered again. "I—I should have stopped you. I knew you shouldn't have gone with him." She set her hat carefully on the bureau and then plunked down on the bed. "You have some lessons to learn."
"Lessons?"
"About men."
I supposed that was true, and right then I believed she was the most qualified to teach me. "How would I have known what he'd turn out like? He was funny when I roped him in the arena, and I thought he'd be—well, like Billy." Of course, she didn't know Billy, and I had to explain all about him.
"That's the difference," she said. "You don't have any instinct about which ones are Billys and which ones are Masons." She shook her head despairingly, and the red curls bounced as though emphasizing what she said.
"And how do I develop that instinct?" I stood before her, hands indignantly on my hips.
"I guess like you develop an instinct about horses," she said.
I didn't think that was a whole lot of help. I didn't know how I knew about horses—I just knew. And just as strongly, I knew nothing about men, except maybe Papa.
Chapter 5
"I looked for you last night," Louise said at breakfast, eyeing me suspiciously.
"I didn't feel well," I faltered, toying with my scrambled eggs. "I went to bed early."
"Didn't feel well?" she echoed softly. "You can think of a better excuse, Tommy Jo." She picked up her plate and rose, saying, "Let's go for a walk."
I expected anger when she heard the story, anger at me for having been so dumb, anger at John Mason for what he tried. Instead, that deep laughter came first. We were walking toward the arena, where men were bustling about getting ready for the day's exhibition. Colonel Miller stood near one gate, gesturing wildly to men who didn't appear to understand him.
"It happens to most girls at least once," Louise said, still smiling. "And there was no permanent damage."
"Rose says I need to develop an instinct about men," I ventured.
Louise laughed again. "I suspect you began to develop it real fast last night."
That comforting thought hadn't occurred to me. We stopped and stared into a pasture where several horses, Sam among them, were grazing. There was one I would have been real cautious of, just because he had that look in his eye. I tried to remember the look in John Mason's eye. "Will you tell Papa?"
"It's not my business," she said, looking straight at me. "Will you tell him?"
"Probably not." It wasn't that I was afraid Papa would take after John Mason—though he might have felt obliged to do that. No, it was more that I couldn't run to Papa with my troubles, and I couldn't let him think that he had to rescue me or look out for me. If he did that, then he could still tell me where to go, what to do.
"That's probably good," Louise said, and I knew she understood my reasoning.
* * *
The exhibition that day was much like the one the previous day, but the Indians didn't chase a buffalo. The bronc riding was fast and exciting, and I was delighted that John Mason was pitched off his horse. As he limped away, I wondered if the limp came from the fall or my boot.
Rose was dramatic and impressive in her tricks again, and then it was my turn. I was much calmer this time, more sure of myself, and the loops I threw showed it. Oh, the editors and townsfolk watching didn't know, but I did.
I was taking my final bow when the crowd began to cheer anew, and I sensed their attention was on something behind me. Turning, I saw Geronimo walking slowly into the arena. Behind him came a line of solemn Indians. Still several yards from me, he stopped, pointed at me, and then made circling motions around his body. He wanted me to rope him!
The other Indians stopped and stood impassively, watching while I built my loop. Nerves had come to attack me again—what if I hit him with the rope? With great deliberation, I built the speed of my rope and then threw it. The loop sailed over Geronimo, who stood there grinning. The crowd was shouting and clapping.
I dropped the loop, and he stepped out of it, bowing to the crowd. While he bowed, I laid out a new, bigger loop behind me. Then I motioned Geronimo toward me and whispered to him. He backed off, started walking toward me, and at the right moment I threw that new loop. With great dignity and a huge smile, he walked through it. The crowd went wild again.
Later that day, Geronimo came up to the veranda where I sat with Louise, gently swaying on the swing. He was carrying a beautifully beaded vest, which he handed to me. "For you," he said. "Thank you."
My mouth was open to say I couldn't accept this gift, when Louise gave me a nudge. "Thank you," I said. "I'll treasure this." The vest was richly patterned in pale blue, red, yellow, and white beads in a design I didn't understand at all, but it fit perfectly, and I whirled once to model it. Geronimo clapped his hands in pleasure and then vanished.
"You will treasure that," Louise said. "Not many girls can claim a gift from Geronimo." She paused and stared off into the distance, but her eyes were not seeing the people who were packing to leave, the men who were working around the arena. "When are you going home?"
Home! I hadn't thought beyond my nose, certainly not about where or what I was going to do next. But of course, after two days the exhibition was over—hadn't the editors already boarded trains?—and I couldn't stay at the 101 forever. "I don't know," I mumbled.
"Maybe this is the time for you to come back to Guthrie with me. I'm leaving the day after tomorrow. Zack invited me to stay an extra day, and I'm sure you'll be welcome. We'll help them kind of wind down after all the excitement."
"Thanks" was all I could say. And then, "I'll write Mama."
That night twelve of us gathered at Mrs. Miller's dinner table. Colonel Zack was in high spirits, as he dished out beef and beans, cabbage salad with creamy dressing, fresh biscuits, and a blueberry cobbler for dessert. "A success," he said, "a roaring success. Liked it so well, I think I'll do it all over again next year." With his hat off, you could see that the colonel was balding and combed some stray hairs over the top of his head to camouflage the condition. Now as he talked, light from the gas fixture overhead gleamed on his head.
Someone clapped, and someone else suggested, "You ought to take the show on the road."
A piece of bread, buttered and covered with beans, in his hand, Colonel Zack stopped dead and raised his eyes heavenward, as though thanking the Lord. "On the road! Of course! Instead of a Wild West show like Buffalo Bill, we'll do a ranch exhibition. True ranching skills—with some showmanship thrown in, of course." He put down the bread, rubbed his hands, and began to talk rapidly of what he'd have in his show, how many horses, what kinds of acts.
I was spellbound, not only by the plan but by his enthusiasm. If I couldn't be with Buffalo Bill, Colonel Zack's show would be a sure second best. I sat waiting, I think, for an instant invitation to join.
As suddenly as he'd taken up the idea, the colonel sobered and said, "I'll think on that. It's one hell of a good idea."
My spirits fell dramatically. It was Guthrie for me.
* * *
That night as Rose and I lay in bed, talking about the possibilities of the Miller 101 road show, I said suddenly, "I want to learn how you do it."
"Do what?" she asked lazily. "Tell about men?"
"No, goose. Tricks on horseback. Can you teach me?"
"Not in one day," she said, more awake now. "But I guess I can show you some things to practic
e. You'll have to train your horse, too, not just you."
I hadn't thought of that. Poor Sam! If I tried to stand up, he'd wonder what on earth I was doing. I had a vision of him shying in confusion and me flying through the air. "Show me tomorrow," I demanded.
"I promise, if you'll let me go to sleep now."
Next morning I dragged poor Rose out to the arena straight from the breakfast table. She pulled on pants—"I always wear them to practice"—and I was downright jealous, even though I was wearing a practical denim split skirt. First bloomers, and now outright pants, like the cowboys wore! Sometimes I wished I could be Rose.
We caught our horses in the pasture beyond the house—Sam came willingly, and so did Rose's pinto, which she called Poor Babe. "Poor I guess because he has to put up with my shenanigans," she shrugged, "and Babe because he's my baby." As we rode up and down the road to warm the horses up, Rose warned me, "This isn't easy. I've been practicin' since I was ten."
"Who taught you?"
"Lady named Bertha Kendrick. She rode in the first Frontier Days in Cheyenne in 1897. She lived not far from us when I was a kid, and she said she saw right away I had an instinct for horses. My pa wasn't too sure he wanted me to learn this fancy stuff, but he's gone along with it."
"Must have," I muttered, "to have sent you down here. Who's the cowboy that came with you?"
"Oh," she said airily, "just one of Papa's hands. He's been busy helping Colonel Miller with the stock." Then, spurring Poor Babe to a gallop, she tossed over her shoulder as an afterthought, "I'm probably going to marry him."
Urging Sam to catch up with them, I shook my head. I couldn't figure Prairie Rose out at all, but I surely did like her.
"Demonstration first," she said when we got to the arena. "You got to teach the horse to accept different distributions of your weight. So you start by leaning out of the saddle." She rode slowly in a wide circle in front of me, leaning her upper body to the left until it was almost parallel to the ground. Poor Babe never missed a step, even when she swung quickly from one side to the other. "Start slowly," she said. "You don't have to lean that far the first time. And don't switch sides like that—I was showing off." She giggled.