Cactus Flower

by Duncan, Alice

Eulalie made a gesture meant to imply indecision. “Well … I mean, Mr. Taggart said you might not view me as a respectable woman, since I sing at the Opera House.”

  “Bosh. Nicky was only funnin’ you, sweetie. Anybody can tell you’re a fine lady.”

  “Really?” How astonishing. It’s a good thing the few respectable ladies of Rio Peñasco couldn’t see her perform. A glance at her scandalous costumes would make them change their good opinion in a heartbeat. Which reminded her of something. “Mrs. Johnson, I should like to attend church on Sundays. Are there churches in Rio Peñasco?”

  “Why, bless you, child, of course there are!” Mrs. Johnson sounded surprised that Eulalie would even ask. Apparently she hadn’t read the same books Eulalie had. “My children and I attend the Baptist church down the road a piece, because there’s no Presbyterian church in town yet. But if you’re a Roman Catholic, there’s a Catholic church down the road in the other direction.” She spoke the words Roman Catholic as if she didn’t approve of them.

  “I would be happy to attend church with you, if I may,” Eulalie said demurely. If there was a piano or a choir or something, maybe she could even sing for the natives. She meant the congregation. She really wanted to be accepted by the good people of Rio Peñasco, primarily because she didn’t want Patsy to endure any more unhappiness if it could be prevented.

  The schoolhouse was a one-room affair, and Eulalie didn’t envy the schoolmaster, Mr. Chalmers, mainly because he was small and spindly and most of the boys he had to teach weren’t. His voice was kind of squeaky, too. Eulalie was of the opinion that a fellow built along the lines of Nick Taggart might be able to enforce discipline with more success than little Mr. Chalmers. She got the impression from the Johnson children that Mr. Chalmers needed help. However, from talking to Mrs. Johnson’s children, Eulalie gathered that they learned their lessons in spite of their teacher. This might, in part, have been due to the fact that the only entertainment for children in town was garnered from books, and Mr. Chalmers was the only person in town who could provide the children with books.

  Baths were something else again, and required heating water on the wood-burning stove and filling a huge tub. Mrs. Johnson made her children bathe once a week, on Saturday, and they all used the same water. Eulalie made do with bathing herself in her room, using a pitcher, basin, and washcloth. She stood on an oilcloth. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.

  The one feature of life in Rio Peñasco that threatened to undermine her confidence was something about which no one could do anything: the weather. More specifically, it was the wind and the dust that were anathema to Eulalie. She’d grown up in New York, where one could see a tree every now and then if one wished to do so. Evidently, God had seen fit to withhold trees from the Rio Peñasco area, except along the river that had given the town its name. On the banks of the Rio Peñasco, one could actually sit under a cottonwood if one were so inclined. Of course, one had to fight off the huge red ants, mosquitoes, and gnats that also enjoyed the moisture. While Eulalie knew God was supreme, she did question His wisdom in creating the southeastern area of New Mexico Territory.

  “It’s because it’s springtime,” Mrs. Johnson explained to her one day when, in spite of her vow to make the best of her circumstances, Eulalie had mentioned the dust problem. They were in the backyard, hanging up laundry. Mrs. Johnson had told Eulalie not to help her, but Eulalie had insisted. It wasn’t any fun, due to the aforementioned wind and dust. “We get real bad winds in the springtime.”

  “Ah. I see.” Rather wistfully, Eulalie recalled the spring flowers of her youth. And the color green. She missed green. She flapped out a shirt and pinned it to the clothesline. One of its sleeves retaliated and smacked her in the nose. Stupid wind.

  “Wait until the summertime. The winds will die down and we’ll get rain durned near every night.”

  “In the summertime?” How odd. “We used to get our rain in the fall and winter back East. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

  Mrs. Johnson laughed heartily. “Aw, go on and complain, sweetie. You won’t hurt my feelings any. Sometimes I get so homesick for Massachusetts, I just sit and cry.”

  Oddly enough, while she didn’t wish Mrs. Johnson heartache, her landlady’s confession made Eulalie feel slightly better. “I miss the grass,” Eulalie admitted. “And the trees.”

  “You’re sure not alone there. But Rio Peñasco’s coming along. One of these days we’ll have lots of trees.” She sounded confident as she pinned a pillowcase to the clothesline.

  “You really think so?” Eulalie dodged another sleeve and grabbed one of little Sarah’s dresses.

  “Oh, my, yes. Why, Nicky’s already sent away to back east to get me a couple of rosebushes and a magnolia tree.”

  “How nice of him.” She’d noticed before this that Nick Taggart seemed to be Rio Peñasco’s good angel. He certainly didn’t look much like one, but she supposed angels had to fit into their surroundings. “I’m curious about one thing, though.”

  “Only one?” Mrs. Johnson laughed again.

  Eulalie joined her, but pursued her original thought. “Water. Does all the water used in this town come from the river? It’s not … that is, it doesn’t seem … Oh, dear.”

  Mrs. Johnson patted her arm. “Don’t think a thing about it, Eulalie. Like I said, you won’t hurt my feelings. But I know what you mean. When you’re used to big rivers they have back east, this puny thing they call a river here is a real disappointment.”

  Eulalie wouldn’t have put it in those exact words, but she’d thought them a time or two.

  “But, you see, that river, along with everything else around here, is watered by underground streams. You have to dig down to get at it, but then you’ll have water for as long as the supply lasts, and God knows how long that’ll be. Artesian wells, is what they call ‘em.”

  “I’ve heard of Artesian wells, but I didn’t know what they were until now. Imagine that.”

  “Yup. That’s why we have all these windmills. With all that water underground, I still don’t know why we aren’t greener on top, but there you go.”

  “Ah, I see.” There were, indeed, a plethora of windmills in Rio Peñasco. They were among the first oddities Eulalie had noticed when she stepped off the stagecoach. She might have asked about them before now, but she’d been distracted by other things.

  “The good Lord knows, we have enough wind to keep the windmills pumping.”

  That was certainly true. “When do you think the rosebushes will arrive?”

  “Don’t rightly know, but I’m sure looking forward to planting them.”

  Although Eulalie hated to admit it, Nick Taggart, Rio Peñasco’s resident handyman and good angel, was also a huge help to her. And—this hurt her even more than admitting to Nick’s usefulness—his uncle Junius was a help, too. Both men appeared at the Peñasco Opera House every evening for two solid weeks in order to ensure rioting didn’t break out before, during, or after her act. They appeared periodically after that, too, and one of them generally walked her to work in the evening. Eulalie always felt safer on the nights they showed up to watch her act.

  Less helpful, but rather endearing, were Lieutenants Gabriel Fuller and Willoughby Nash, who also caught as many of her evening shows as they could. Eulalie wondered exactly what their duties entailed, that they were able to spend so much time away from the fort where they were stationed.

  Then there was Bernie Benson, owner and sole journalist for the Rio Peñasco Piper. Bernie came to all her shows, too, and wrote fulsomely complimentary articles about her. Eulalie wished he wouldn’t, since the publicity drew more people every day, and she was going to have to put on two shows a night pretty soon in order to accommodate all the lust-crazed cowboys, soldiers, drifters, and townsmen who flocked to see her. Perhaps if the Gibb Theatrical Company had someone like Bernie Benson in New York, their audiences would have been bigger. At this point in her life, however, Eulalie would just as soon dispense with
Bernie’s effusions. They were not only embarrassing, but they gave people the wrong idea.

  Two nights in a row, the entire Johnson family, not to mention Eulalie herself, had been awakened in the middle of the night by a drunken man demanding entry. Charles, Mrs. Johnson’s eldest son, had had the devil of a time convincing the man that Eulalie wasn’t available. The entire experience had been humiliating, although none of the Johnsons seemed to be holding it against her, which she appreciated more than she could say.

  However, other than the occasional rude suggestion, Eulalie was not finding her experience in Rio Peñasco as arduous as she’d feared it might be. Oddly enough, it seemed that many people actually came here on purpose from back East. According to Nick, the warm, dry air of the region was considered to be healthful for people suffering from consumption—a piece of information that made Eulalie’s heart ache painfully for a moment when she considered her dear Edward, who might have benefited from the atmosphere here.

  Another moment’s thought disabused her of this opinion. Poor Edward had been too fragile to exist in this rough place. His sensibilities had been exquisite. He would have suffered terribly.

  Unlike Nick Taggart, who thrived in the inhospitable clime of Rio Peñasco.

  Eulalie frowned and for a brief moment entertained the rebellious reflection that Edward had been quite the delicate flower and rather a whiner upon occasion. She mentally chastised herself severely for the thought.

  However wholesome the air of Rio Peñasco might be for consumptives, Eulalie had a hunch more people came here to escape their problems in the States than for their health. She also had a hunch those problems ranged from pesky wives and families to pending felonious charges. She knew for a fact that she’d never experienced some of the problems back East that she encountered in Rio Peñasco, although that might have had something to do with the fact that back East she was surrounded by a loving family. Here, she had to depend on the kindness of the Taggarts.

  After one show, as Junius waited at the foot of the stairs to ward off any fellows who were inclined to disregard Dooley Chivers’ warning that Miss Gibb was only a singer, and Nick waited outside her dressing-room door, in case Junius proved unsuccessful as guardian of the staircase, Eulalie called out to him from behind her dressing screen. “Do you believe that man named Dwight Singleton is really wanted by the law in Massachusetts and New York?” She’d heard a rumor to that effect earlier in the day.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me any. He’s pretty shifty.”

  Shifty. Eulalie liked that word. And she had to admit that it seemed to apply to Mr. Singleton. “Do you suppose that’s his real name?”

  “Doubt it,” Nick called back. “Sometimes I think Junius and I are the only folks in town who kept their birth names. Well, except for the Johnsons. And probably Chalmers.”

  “My goodness.” She unhooked the devices holding her costume together in front and sighed deeply when the garment fell away, allowing her to take a deep and unobstructed breath. These costumes, however much Eulalie appreciated them for other reasons, were torture devices. “I’m surprised that the two lieutenants are in town so often, Mr. Taggart. I should think their duties would keep them more closely attached to Fort Sumner.”

  “It’s a frontier fort, you know. Now that the Indians have all been sent to the Bosque, there’s not as much for the soldiers to do, I reckon.”

  Indians. Mercy. Eulalie hadn’t even considered the possibility of Indians when she and Patsy decided the West was their last, best option for escape. Of course, the Twentieth Century was almost upon them, and the eastern states hadn’t had an Indian problem—if it could be termed that. Eulalie suspected that white men had been far worse a problem for Indians than vice versa—for decades now. Why, New York, Boston and Chicago were as up-to-date and modern as London or Paris. The only reminders of the Indians were a few names of rivers and towns.

  Which still left Rio Peñasco sitting all by itself out here in the southeastern edge of the New Mexico Territory. Eulalie could hardly imagine a more desolate place, unless she and Patsy took it into their heads to hide out in the Gobi Desert, which sounded as if it might be moderately worse than Rio Peñasco.

  “I see. Er … what exactly do they do then?”

  “Who?”

  “The soldiers at the fort.”

  “Beats the hell out of me. Drill and target practice, I reckon. Every now and then I guess they have to quell a squabble in the town or between ranching factions.”

  “A range war,” Eulalie said, her head filling with brutal images of gunfights being carried out on horseback while wild cows, frightened by all the noise, stampeded in the background. Imagine that. A real range war.

  “I guess you could call it that. And there are rustlers, I reckon. Incursions from outlaw gangs from Mexico from time to time. There’s a fellow called Jesus Malverde who’s been causing some trouble along the border.”

  “I do believe I’ve read about him.”

  “Yeah. I hear he’s a real piece of work.”

  “I believe one of our newspapers back home called him a Mexican Robin Hood.”

  “He steals stuff, if that counts,” Nick said in something of a grunt. “I haven’t heard that he’s given any of his spoils to poor folks.”

  “Another one called him a lone eagle.” She’d thought at the time that the appellation was rather romantic, but she sensed that Nick wouldn’t agree.

  “More like a lone buzzard if you ask me,” he said, confirming her suspicion.

  She smiled behind her screen. As much as she’d tried to detest Nick Taggart, she couldn’t do it. They sparred verbally all the time. He still considered her a stuffy city girl and probably no better than she should be, and she knew full well that he was a rough-edged oaf, but she couldn’t help but like him.

  The same went for his uncle. Junius, who was probably around fifty years old, actually reminded her of her uncle Harry, who was one of the finest actors she’d ever known. Harry could wring tears out of an audience with the same ease with which he made them laugh. And entertaining? Goodness sakes, Eulalie would never forget some of the evenings the company had spent being regaled with stories by Harry. Aunt Florence, Harry’s sister, had often told Eulalie she dispared of Harry, but she always laughed at his stories along with everyone else.

  She missed her family like fire. But it wouldn’t be too much longer before she could send for Patsy. It didn’t take mail as long to get back and forth to Chicago as she’d feared it would, thanks to the stage lines and the railroad. Patsy claimed to be almost ready to make the arduous journey by train and stagecoach to Rio Peñasco. Eulalie needed to begin searching for lodgings for the both of them. Unlike most of the places she’d lived, there weren’t boarding houses or hotels on every corner. There were few corners, for that matter, in the town of Rio Peñasco proper—if such a term could be applied to so improper a place—consisting of one long main street. She sighed as she slipped into a modest blue dress, which was quite a pleasant change from the tight green monstrosity she’d worn for the show this evening.

  Nick, Junius, and she made it a habit to stop at Vernon’s chophouse for a meal before Nick and Junius deposited her at the Johnson place. Eulalie didn’t think it would be fair to Mrs. Johnson to make her prepare a meal in the middle of the night, which was when she left work. The fare was monotonous but nutritious, and the good Lord knew, there was plenty of it, and Eulalie didn’t mind too much. Once she and Patsy got settled in a house of their own somehow or other, they could fix their own meals.

  They had just left the chophouse and were making their way down the road to Mrs. Johnson’s house when Nick put a hand on her arm. “Just a minute. I hear something.”

  Eulalie wasn’t sure why hearing something required becoming alarmed—she heard things all the time—but she honored Nick’s request, having come to the conclusion that he knew more about life in the Wild West than she. Therefore, she stood still while Nick and his uncle hurried forwa
rd. When she listened harder, her brow furrowed and she understood Nick’s concern. It sounded like a scuffle to her. Oh, dear. She hoped it wasn’t about her.

  “Here!” Junius shouted. “Stop that!”

  “Dammit!” yelled Nick.

  Eulalie started to distinguish the noises coming to her out of the dark, Rio Peñasco being too unsophisticated to have acquired street lamps thus far in its existence. The only illumination available after dark was the faint light spilling from various doors and windows, and since it was after midnight, there wasn’t much of it available this night. Thumps, grunts and thuds smote her ears. When she heard a boy’s voice cry, “She ain’t there, I tell you!” her blood ran cold and her heart sank.

  That was Charles Johnson; she’d bet on it. She rushed toward the sounds, praying that some crazed cowboy wasn’t beating Charles to a pulp. “Charles!”

  “Izzat her?” a voice asked in the blackness.

  “You can’t have her!” Charles’s voice cried. His declaration ended in a grunt.

  A hand like a ham grabbed her arm, and Eulalie found herself jerked to a stop before she’d reached the scene of the fight. “Just a minute, girlie,” slurred a voice. “What you think you’re doin’?”

  “Unhand me!” she shrieked, kicking out at her attacker with the pointy toe of her shoe, connecting with a hard part of his anatomy. She assumed it was a shin or something.

  “Ow! Dammit, lady, that’s not nice.” And the fiend gave her a wallop to the face that would have sent her staggering if he hadn’t had a grip on her.

  Well, this was ridiculous. Not only was Eulalie now injured herself—she could taste blood in her mouth—but she feared for Charles’s safety, as well. That being the case, she reached into the pocket of her demure blue dress, withdrew her Colt Ladysmith, and shot the man who held her; she wasn’t sure where. He screamed and let her go, and all other sounds ceased, as if by magic.

  Because she’d been struggling before the ham-like hand released her, Eulalie reeled away and would have fallen to the ground had she not bumped into something as hard, if not as dirty, as the packed earth beneath her feet. She heard someone say, “Umph!” and decided it must have been Nick’s body that had broken her fall. She knew it for a fact when his hand, not unlike a ham itself, steadied her.