by Denise Dietz
“I haven’t been to Cripple Creek for months. Not since her party. Today my father sent me on an errand, so I thought I’d see how she’s fared.”
“I suppose you wanted an appointment to bed the girl.”
“Bed Fools Gold? She’s a child.”
“Did you want to marry her?”
Marry her? Cat shook his head.
“Did you plan to tote her home to your sainted mother? A new pet for your ranch?”
“No, Madam. I just—”
“Cat McDonald, you handsome devil. Where’ve you been?” Dee staggered through the parlor entrance and slumped against the wall. “Tell Washman to play a tune, Madam. Would you care to dance, Cat?” She tried to curtsy, lost her balance, slid down the wall.
Cat took a few steps forward. “Can I help, Madam?”
“Nobody can help.” Robin coughed into a handkerchief. “Dee’s drinking rotgut. She’s too sick for the cribs, so I’ll tend her as long as I’m able.”
“Make them go away!” Dee screamed.
“Hush, dear, you don’t want young McDonald—”
“Bugs!”
Cat felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
“She sees bugs sometimes,” said Robin.
Dee waved her hands frantically. “Spiders! Get them off me!”
Cat walked backwards until he left the parlor. Then he whirled around and raced through the hallway, toward the front door. Once outside, he took several deep breaths.
Should he continue down the row? Should he knock on doors? Did Fools Gold entertain gents in her own bedroom now?
No, she’s a child!
This morning he had decided to visit Cripple Creek and rescue Fools Gold, save her from a life of sin, just like the heroes did in his New York motion picture shows. He had planned to tell Dimity that Fools Gold was recently orphaned, the daughter of a minister. He’d devise a motion picture plot, or borrow one. Last month he’d seen Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Uncle Tom had fallen to one knee and “Aunt Sally” had bowed her head. Surely Dimity would bow her head when Cat recited the sad tale of the angel who’d carried Fool Gold’s mama up to heaven. Cat would fall to one knee, just like Uncle Tom. Fools Gold was smart. She could be taught to playact and — gone, Madam Robin had said. Gone where? Another parlor house?
Cat untied Dorado’s reins from the hitching post and swung into the saddle. Ignoring stirrups, nudging the palomino with his heels, he rode toward the wind. Maybe a gust would blow away his damnfool hero’s mantle.
Silently, he chastised himself, for in his head he knew that motion pictures were make-believe, but in his heart he wanted to believe they were real.
Seventeen
Divide, 1912
A dark-blotched, cream-colored bull snake eyed a pocket gopher. Slithering behind the McDonald barn, the snake wended its way toward a shady shadow.
Oven-like heat had overpowered instinct.
Fifteen feet above the bull snake, the barn’s loft was strewn with more than hay. A horse blanket lay crumpled against one corner. Orange peels and pie crumbs decorated the open pages of a popular novel, The Winning of Barbara Worth. Its author fictionalized rugged heroes, adventuresome stories and moral instructions.
Cat’s trousers and Maria’s blouse and skirt were heaped on the straw, next to Barbara Worth. So were Cat and Maria.
Cat sucked Maria’s breasts, teasing the nipples erect with his tongue, until he felt her back arch.
“Dios mío!” she cried.
He penetrated.
“Gato . . . Gato . . . te es muerte.”
Slowly, he withdrew then slid inside again. Maria wrapped her legs around his waist.
“Dios mío! Oooh . . .”
Untangling her legs, Cat rolled sideways and dabbed at his streaming brow with his shirttail.
She stared at him, her dark eyes lazy-lidded. “Why you stop, Gato? Maria’s turn?”
“No. It’s too damn hot. Be a good puss and hand me my pants.”
“Poose? Madre de Dios, Gato, you are the poose.”
She made Gato, Spanish for Cat, sound like a caress. “Hush!” He sat up. “Did you hear something?”
“I hear my heart.” Pushing him down, she straddled his hips.
Cat stifled a sigh. Maria was now twenty, and her passion had not lessened in their three years of meeting at the barn.
What’s more, she was a damned boomerang.
He was tired of her reaction to his touch. Press her belly and she spread her legs. Tongue a breast and she arched her back. Still, she was the ranch’s only diversion, except for her sister Bridgida, who was one year younger than Cat.
Until this spring, he had considered Bridgida a child, though he admired her skill with a horse — she rode like the wind. Then, without warning, the tiny girl had washed her dirty face, braided her knee-length hair, and grown breasts.
Aroused, Cat mapped his campaign as carefully as a cavalry soldier planning an Indian raid. Fastening Dorado’s reins to a fence post, he’d wait for Bridgida to ride along the trail. He’d lift her from her horse’s bare back and escort her to an old willow. There, they’d talk about the ranch. He treated her like a fine lady, aping Bronco Billy and Tom Mix, his favorite motion picture heroes. With an effort, Cat kept his hands from straying toward her soft curves.
Tonna had told him about a girl’s first time and the hurt it brought. If a girl was willing and loved a man with all her heart, Tonna said, the hurt was less. Cat didn’t understood Tonna’s reasoning — why would it hurt less if love was involved? — but he could wait. After all, he had never experienced an inexperienced girl. Not Maria. Not the parlor girls along Myers Avenue.
Cat visited Cripple Creek’s tenderloin district twice a week. The girls clustered around him, draping themselves across his broad shoulders, sitting in his lap, weaving their fingers through his thick hair. He had even heard that one girl had tried to kill herself with chloroform after what the Madam called “a Cat fight with a rival.”
Little Heaven was closed, its doors and windows nailed shut with boards. Two years ago, Papa had interrupted Cat’s riata twirling. “Listen to this newspaper story, son. ‘Mrs. Robin, for some time an inmate of Heaven, attempted to take her life with a dose of carbolic acid and is now between life and death at Sisters Hospital. Another inmate, Dee, was found dead in the same establishment. The cause of death is not known, and whether or not the woman committed suicide is a question. When found, the dead woman was in a crouched position on the floor.’ ”
“Did you say inmate of heaven, Papa?”
“That’s what it says here. I’m sure they meant Little Heaven.”
Poor Robin. Poor Dee. Poor Papa. He didn’t visit Cripple Creek anymore—
“Gato . . . oooh,” Maria moaned, rocking back and forth.
As if yanked by a pair of reins, Cat’s meandering thoughts receded and he yielded to the task at hand.
“Madre wants me to wed Rodolfo,” Maria said with a sigh, her needs fulfilled, at least for the moment. “Rodolfo has mucho dinero y muchos años.”
“Congratulations, sweetheart. You deserve an older man with lots of money.”
“You do not care?”
“Of course I care.”
“No. You think only of Bridgida, who will take Maria’s place. You make tease, Gato. How can you stomach Rodolfo doing what we do?”
“It breaks my heart, querida.”
“Truly, Gato? Oh! You make tease again. Hijo de puta!”
“For shame, sweetheart. If Rosita could hear—”
“My mother has heard worse.”
He laughed. “What happened to your pretty accent?”
“I lost my accent when I was still in nappies.”
“Hush!” Cat staggered to his feet. “That’s Dorado’s stall!” He stumbled toward the ladder.
“Gato, wait! Your trousers!”
“Toss them down. Hurry!”
Cat tucked his shirt inside his jeans, pulled his belt free, and
headed toward the corral. Spying his brother, he said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Luke?”
Though he stood on the mounting block, Lucas was only an inch taller than Cat. “I’m going for a ride,” he said.
“On my horse?”
“Maman says the horses belong to Papa. Maman said I can ride any horse I want.”
Cat scowled. Recently Dimity had insisted her children call her Maman, with the French inflection. She believed it sounded tonier. Luke used it like a religious litany.
“Not any horse, Luke. Dorado’s mine.”
“How dare you call our sainted mother a liar!”
“I didn’t say she lies. All the horses belong to Papa, but Dorado was a gift and Papa put my name on his papers. That means he’s legally mine.”
At the sound of Cat’s low voice, the palomino whinnied and pushed his nose against Cat’s shirt.
Luke jumped down from the mounting block and tugged at Dorado’s reins, jerking his head away from Cat. A steel bit nearly cut the stallion’s mouth.
Enraged, Cat hefted his belt but hesitated when he saw Luke cower. Dropping the belt, he attacked with his fists.
The fight was short-lived. Cat felt fingers grasp his shirt at the neck and pull him backwards. “Let me loose, Percy. You don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand how you’ll hit a boy half your size who can’t defend himself. Ain’t you shamed?”
“He’s twice as wide,” Cat mumbled, cooling when he saw his brother’s bloody nose.
“You’ll be sorry! Wait till I tell Maman.” Luke wiped his nose with his sleeve, saw the blood, and pitched forward. Percy caught him. “Cat tried to kill me,” Luke screeched.
Percy eased him to the ground. “It ain’t that bad. Wash off at the pump and find Tonna. She’ll clean the cut and give you a slice of new-baked rhubarb pie.”
“I didn’t try to kill him,” said Cat.
Luke scrambled to his feet. His shirt had popped its buttons, and his white belly heaved like a cow about to calve. “I’m telling Maman. She’ll have you whupped good.”
Cat watched Luke duckwalk toward the house. “I didn’t hardly burn one piece of kindling before you came along, Percy. Leastwise, I saved Dorado from Luke’s sharp spurs.” Removing the palomino’s saddle and bridle, Cat opened the corral gate and slapped Dorado lightly on the haunches, prodding him inside.
“Dimity will brand your soul with her words, boy.”
“Papa’s fair-minded. He won’t whup me.”
“Mac’s in Denver at the Cattleman’s Association. It wouldn’t surprise me if Dimity whupped you herself.”
“I’m too big.”
“You’re too big for your britches. Bein’ tall and strong and fightin’ with your little brother don’t make you a man.”
“I’m a man, Percy. If you don’t believe me, talk to Blanche over at the Bon Ton. Ask Maria.”
“I don’t have to ask. All the hands know ’bout that gal. Even Rosita suspects. That’s why she plans to hitch Maria up with Rodolfo.”
“Does Mother know?”
“Not unless somebody’s told. Better hide Dorado or Dimity will give him to Luke.”
“But Papa—”
“Can’t fight her. It’s more peaceable to let her have her own way.”
“What am I going to do?”
Percy nodded toward the tack. “Saddle Dorado. I’ll tell Dimity I sent you downrange to mend fences and chase mavericks.”
“I’ve a better idea.” Cat reached into his shirt pocket, retrieved a piece of newspaper, and smoothed the folds.
Percy looked down. “The Marines have landed in Cuba to protect American interests. You plan to join the Marines, boy?”
Cat turned the newspaper over. “It says here they’re making ‘movies’ in Canon City, near the Royal Gorge. A company called Selig Polyscope. They need cowboys who can ride and fall off a horse.”
“Fall off?”
“Remember the shoot-out I saw at the nickelodeon? Plenty fell. It says here these pictures are two-reels with Tom Mix, and I’d sure hanker to meet Mr. Mix. That Polyscope outfit plans to be here until autumn, so I reckon I’ll get me a job making movies.”
*****
The summer air was scented with Michaelmas daisies. In the far distance, junipers were scattered over canyon slopes. A red-spotted toad had strayed from the junipers. The toad found a rain pool, squatted in the shallow water, and issued forth his breeding call, a high ringing trill that lasted several seconds.
It was his death knell. A blackneck garter snake struck, yellowish stripes and keeled scales flashing in the sunlight.
As the snake assailed the toad, a tassel-eared squirrel scampered away, its bushy tail streaming like a banner, its paws narrowly avoiding the two figures who lay behind thick foliage.
My trousers spend more time off than on, thought Cat. My rump gets more sun than my face. Lowering his mouth, he found the tiny breasts of would-be actress Ruthie Adams.
She giggled.
Damn that gurgling laughter. Cat missed Maria’s Spanish litany. Ruthie was too ticklish.
Twisting her fingers in Cat’s hair, she pulled his mouth away from her breasts, pressed his head between her thighs, and threw her arms in the air.
Her motion brought to mind Black Percy’s bulldogging.
“Anybody see the McDonald kid?”
Ignoring the harsh male megaphonic voice, Cat worked faster with his tongue. He felt Ruthie’s body shudder as her head wove back and forth on the blanket of leaves. Finally, her spasms lessened and her legs relaxed.
Cat resisted the urge to glance toward an imaginary rodeo stand and receive his printed time from the judge’s card. Over Ruthie’s recumbent form, he peered through the brush and made out a pair of polished boots, ending at flared jodhpur knees.
The man who had boomed into a megaphone was only a few feet away, his boots firmly planted on the dirt path that circled the flowered glen.
“Sweetheart, keep quiet,” Cat warned in a whisper.
“I need a towel,” she whispered back. “I’m wet, and it’s all your fault.”
“Here, take this.” Cat unknotted his neckerchief and placed it between her legs.
She grabbed his hand, directed it toward her breasts, and giggled.
“Are you plumb loco?” He covered her mouth, his thumb and first finger forming a vee so that her small turned-up nose could breathe. “DuBois will fire the both of us.”
Her body jiggled with suppressed laughter, and her brown eyes teared.
“If we’re dismissed, we’ll never see each other again.”
He felt her nod and removed his hand. Damn, he couldn’t find his BVDs. On the ground, he wriggled into his trousers and stood up.
“McDonald!”
“I’m right here, Mr. DuBois. You don’t have to shout.”
“What are you doing here?” DuBois lowered his megaphone. “You’re supposed to be getting ready for your next scene.”
The bushes hid everything below Cat’s shoulders. He felt Ruthie reach into the open flap of his trousers.
“McDonald, answer me!”
“I came here to think over the next scene, sir, get in the mood you might say, and I guess I fell asleep.”
DuBois shook the spit from his megaphone. “Where’s your bandanna?”
Damn! Local cowboys were required to wear red, yellow or blue bandannas at all times. Since the cameras could only record black and white, the audience never realized the colorful code and it was easier than learning names. Unfortunately, DuBois knew Cat’s name all too well.
Ruthie pressed something damp against Cat’s palm. “I have it right here, sir.” Extending his arm, he showed DuBois the musky red material.
“It doesn’t do much good if it’s not tied round your neck. By the way, we’ve decided to shoot your Roman stunt tomorrow morning so you can get ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Colonel Selig wants to see you
perform that bull-dodging trick.”
“Bulldogging.” Cat felt Ruthie’s hand grope inside his trousers. “Stop it!”
“Can’t stop it now. Selig’s got a wild bull, and the fairground arena’s been cleared.”
“But I ain’t bulldogged in months, Mr. DuBois.”
“That’s not the way Lonnie Higgins and the others tell it. They say you performed your stunt recently, inside New York’s Madison Square Garden.”
“They heard wrong.” Cat gasped. “Stop it!”
“I told you, it can’t be stopped. Colonel Selig wants you at the arena as soon as you’re saddled up. Better find your hat and cool off. Your face is so full of sweat, it’s dripping onto your shirt.”
Cat watched the small man strut down the path. When the jodhpurs had rounded the bend, Cat grasped Ruthie’s wrist, pulled her hand away from his groin, and lifted her to her feet. “If you ever do that again,” he said, “I’ll wring your pretty neck.”
“Peachy. I love threats.” With a giggle, she handed him his BVDs.
“Here’s another one. If you don’t behave, I’ll bulldog you.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Cat smacked her backside. “It’s not fun, it’s dangerous.”
“I adore danger. I adore dark clouds gathering. Didn’t I leave my father’s house during a storm and join Selig’s crew? Pa had me engaged to a schoolmaster. Can you believe that cow flop?”
Cat felt no pity for the schoolmaster, who was much better off without Ruthie. She had a hankering for danger all right. She’d been buzzing around the assistant director when Cat first arrived in Canon City. Leaving Claude DuBois flat, she’d staked her new claim. DuBois was furious but she didn’t care.
Now Cat gazed fondly at the light-brown hair she curled in imitation of her idol, Mary Pickford. Ruthie had the boyish figure admired by movie audiences. She’d never have to bind her breasts for the cameras. In some ways she reminded him of the parlor house child, Fools Gold.
Except Ruthie Adams ain’t no child, he mused, watching her step into her blue skirt and thrust her head through the square opening of a white middy-blouse.
“I picked out my last name because Adam was the first man,” she’d told Cat. “I’m gonna be the best actress in the world. Number one, except for Mary Pickford, who’s best of all. I’d stand naked in front of the cameras if it would make me a star.”