by Denise Dietz
He hadn’t touched her since that night, and yet he felt guilt-ridden. Bridgida was no plaything. A movie hero would have searched out the preacher straightaway.
I will not father Luke’s child. I will not wed Bridgida.
Cat shook his head to nullify memories. He eyed Ruthie, who followed the caller’s chant as if she were a thirsty steer on a trail drive. She was already four sheets to the wind. Cat reeled her in by her waist and she giggled.
At least she’d stopped complaining about their swift flight from the ranch. After kissing Dimity-Jane good-bye, Cat had saddled the two tired horses, collected his duds, and grudgingly accepted a money stake from Black Percy. With Ruthie mounted on the paint and Bridgida behind him atop Dorado, Cat had ridden away from his mother’s words.
In Colorado Springs they rented a room at the Plaza Hotel for a dollar-fifty a night. Only then had Cat collapsed, giving in to his illness. Ruthie bawled, but Bridgida nursed him capably through his cough and fever. Upon recovering, he had thumbed through the newspaper and discovered a write-up about an annual event called the Shan Kive.
“It says here they’ll build up a ‘trail’ consisting of various kinds of shows, a camp of one hundred Indians, and five hundred cowboys,” Cat told his two girls.
“Five hundred cowboys? Eyewash!”
“It’s a big show, Ruthie, bringing together rodeo stars from all over the state.”
He had signed up for a few events, but still somewhat collywobbled, he didn’t have much success, and Percy’s stake was running low.
“Take a chew of tobacco and spit on the wall,” the caller chanted. “First gent balance to the second couple. Swing the girl with the possum jaw. And don’t forget your taw. Everybody, swing.”
With that, the dance ended. Walking toward Bridgida, Cat reached for the whiskey flask inside his jacket pocket.
“Me, too,” Ruthie said. “Thirsty.”
When she returned the flask, he shook it. Empty. Where was he supposed to find money for more whiskey? If Ruthie didn’t down a shot upon awakening tomorrow morning, she’d have headaches all day long. Truthfully, he no longer cared if his pretty charm found herself another protector and would gladly hand her over to one of the rodeo cowboys who envied Cat his two concubinas. But it was Bridgida who had caught the eye of a young bronc rider, Tom Callahan, after Cat had drunkenly confessed her circumstances.
“If you let me have her, I’ll treat her good,” Callahan had said during a private moment at the Watering Hole Saloon. “I travel the circuit, so there’s none to know it ain’t my loaf in her oven.”
At age twenty, Tom’s arms were corded with muscles and scarred from rodeo tumbles. His eyes were Colorado-sky-blue, his hair a bright red-orange. Which was why, he told Cat, he’d bronc-bust rather than dog the bulls.
“I’m not Bridgida’s pa,” Cat had said. “If she wants to go with you, I can’t stop her.”
“That ain’t true. She won’t leave unless you say so.”
“Why would she want to stay? We share a room at the Plaza and eat Boston Baked Beans from Burgess at two bits a quart. Damn, I need another drink.”
“I aim to win the five-hundred-dollar purse for bronc-busting at the Festival of Mountain and Plain.” Tom opened a new bottle of mescal. “That could be a stake for me and Bridgida. What do you say?”
“I say you’re drunk. Want to wager the purse on who drains this bottle and reaches the worm first?”
“No. Will you talk to Bridgida?”
Before Cat could reply, Ruthie slid her body across his lap and placed his hand beneath her skirt, cussing in between her giggles. She had taken to cussing the way a duck takes to water.
His father’s blood coursed through his veins as Cat carried her behind the saloon, pinched her mouth open with his fingers, and poured mescal down her throat until she gagged on the live worm. He thought she might leave him after that, but she continued to stick, like nettles stuck in a cactus. Maybe she was the cactus rather than its nettles, tough on the outside, soft and sweet inside. Maybe she drank so much because she was so unhappy.
“Come on, Ruthie,” he said. “Let’s show everybody how they dance in the movies.”
She said “Dizzy,” and pitched forward. Cat caught her before she hit the ground. With Bridgida in his wake and Ruthie’s limp body draped across his arms, he ducked his head, trying to avoid the moths that seemed drawn to his glittering green eyes.
*****
Cat emptied his sack of groceries on the bed.
Naked as a jaybird, Ruthie sat on a cane-backed chair. “Did you buy whiskey, Cat?”
“Don’t call me Cat! A black cat’s bad luck and some rodeo cowboys won’t perform in a building with any cat at all.”
“Pardon me all to hell, John Chinook. Did you buy whiskey?”
“I bought soap, tooth powder and food. Three pounds of pig’s feet for two bits. Our Bridgida fancies peach butter and ginger snaps. There’s also pork and beans, but at five cents, they only allowed one can to a customer. Later, you two can visit Hall and Sons Grocery and buy one can each. Then we can wait a while and do it again. That’ll give us six cans. We’ve got the fixings for a salad — green onions, lettuce and asparagus. Our Bridgida fancies asparagus.”
“I’m tired of hearing ’bout what our Bridgida fancies.”
“Get dressed, Ruthie.”
“Did you buy whiskey?”
“No. The groceries cost two dollars and thirty-four cents. I didn’t have enough left—”
“How much was the asparagus?”
“Twelve cents.” Cat nodded toward the bed. “There’s some white Borax soap. Why don’t you walk down the hall and try a bar?”
“I want to die.”
“Take a bath first.”
“I hate this stinking Indian rodeo.”
“I suppose it’s my fault you stink from whiskey.”
“I never drank till I met you. I was an actress till you jackscrewed me inside Mrs. Tuttle’s parlor and got us both fired.”
“What? You couldn’t wait to spread your legs and—”
“Madre de Dios, lower your voices.” Tears streamed down Bridgida’s face.
“Don’t cry, querida. Soon we’ll head for Denver and I’ll win lots of money. Then we can find the Dick Stanley Wild West Show.”
“Another rodeo,” Ruthie wailed.
“Dick Stanley’s cowboys perform a rehearsed show. If I’m not hired for my riding and roping tricks, I’ll bulldog a damn steer with my teeth.”
“I want to die!”
“Then go ahead and die!”
“I’ll kill myself and you’ll be sorry.” Ruthie ran to the clothes rack, retrieved Cat’s six-shooter from his holster, placed the gun’s barrel inside her mouth, and cocked its hammer.
“Gato, stop her!”
“Hell, no, I want to see if she’ll really pull the trigger.”
“Are you loco?”
“Hush, Bridgida. Don’t get upset. It’s not good for the baby. Here, have a ginger snap.”
“I knew it.” Ruthie lowered her arm. “You don’t care if I live or die.”
Cat snatched the gun away and returned it to his holster. “Next time,” he said, “check for bullets.”
Crumpling to the floor, Ruthie covered her face with her hands.
Cat hunkered by her side. “Stop your bawling. That was mean and I’m sorry. Shan Kive cowboys say Dick Stanley’s on his way to California.”
“California,” she breathed, turning her face toward Bridgida. “That’s where they make movies. That’s where Mary Pickford lives.”
“Get washed and dressed,” said Cat, “so we can buy those special beans for five cents. After I talk to Colonel Selig, we’ll eat steak every night. Denver’s Festival of Mountain and Plain should change our luck. It’s a big show. Tom Callahan told me about it.”
“May I ride in the show, Gato?”
“You miss your riding, don’t you, sweetheart? I wired Percy for money, so
I’ll buy you both new duds and maybe we’ll stay at a fancy Denver hotel.”
“New clothes? Peachy!”
“Does this rodeo have lady riders, Gato?”
“It does now. Callahan says the festival was first held in 1895, but they only had parades, Indian races and a masked ball.”
“Do they still have the ball?” Ruthie’s eyes bugged.
“If they do, we can’t go. It’s for the socially prominent and rich.”
“But how are they to know you’re not rich? You can prove you’re John McDonald’s oldest boy and—”
“No!”
“Well, pardon me all to hell.”
“Parades and a dance,” said Bridgida. “It does not sound like it will bring prize money.”
“They added a bronc-busting contest in nineteen hundred. First prize was won by a big bay mare named Peggy.” Cat grinned. “The way your baby kicks, Bridgida, we should call it Peggy. Callahan says that in 1903 they added exhibition riding, a cowgirls’ race, other money events, and a Grande Finale.”
“What is that, Gato?”
“Most rodeos have one, Bridgida. They had a ripsnorting finale at New York’s Madison Square Garden.”
“Here we go again. Tell Bridgida ’bout your bulldogging, Cat. Tell her how Tom Mix saved your worthless hide.”
“Don’t call me Cat!”
“Bridgida calls you Gato. That means Cat, don’t it?”
“Sure, but Gato sounds different. Callahan says Denver’s Grande Finale has a parade and a stampede, followed by a pretend battle between cowboys, cavalry and Indians. If you’re real careful, Bridgida, you can ride in the parade.”
*****
Ruthie entered their Denver hotel room, her heels clicking. She had spent her clothes money, and Bridgida’s as well, on high-heeled pumps, a white silk blouse and a long red skirt. The skirt was so tight Cat could see the outline of her saucy rump.
Tossing his Stetson toward the bed, she wriggled onto the cushion of a stuffed armchair.
“Don’t do that!” Cat shouted.
“Do what? Your hat? But it was in my way.”
“Are you plumb loco? It’s bad luck to put a cowboy’s hat on the bed.”
“I didn’t put it. I threw it. Hellfire! We can’t call you Cat because cats are bad luck. We can’t eat peanuts because peanuts are bad luck. You wear the same smelly clothes—”
“Only when I win.”
“—and Bridgida and I have to wear the same clothes, too. Anyway, the events are over, except for the wild-bronc contest this afternoon. And the finale. Can I really ride in the parade?”
“Sure.” Removing his Stetson from the bed, he placed it on the bureau. “Callahan’s found a pony for Bridgida, so you can ride the paint.”
“Did you win enough money to join the show that’s headed for California?”
“Yes. But if I win this afternoon, we’ll skip Stanley’s show and travel to California by rail. The purse just hit a thousand dollars.”
*****
Cat drew a bronc named Tipperary. The horse had never been ridden successfully before.
“Bad luck,” said Tom Callahan.
“Your bronc, Old Cyclone, ain’t much better.”
“Bridgida says she’ll wed up with me if you say the word, Chinook.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to marry her.”
“We talked about it one night during Shan Kive, remember?”
“Yep, but we were both drunk.”
For the first time, Cat saw Callahan’s anger.
“Do you want me to pay for Bridgida? Name your price, Chinook. I’ll even hand over my rodeo belt.”
“It’s not yours yet!”
Still fuming, Tom turned to watch the horses being prodded into their chutes.
Cat scowled. Bridgida belonged to him. Why shouldn’t the son of Cherokee Bill have two concubinas?
*****
Released from the restrictions of his chute, Tipperary plunged, kicked and bit at Cat’s boots. As Cat desperately tried to hold on, the wild bronc snorted, twisted and whirled.
Cat smelled the dust before he landed. He heard cheers turn to gasps, just before he staggered upright and brushed off the seat of his pants.
Tom Callahan won the purse.
Ruthie and Bridgida were waiting outside the chutes. Bridgida had tears in her dark eyes. “Are you all right, Gato? I was so frightened, and do not tell me to name my baby Tipperary.”
“I won’t. I never want to hear that name again.”
“It’s my fault,” Ruthie wailed. “I threw your hat on the bed.”
“It’s nobody’s fault. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” Cat strolled over to Callahan. “Well done, amigo. I’ll talk to Bridgida. If she wants to marry you, I won’t say no.”
“Thanks, Chinook. Here’s my money belt.”
“Keep the damn purse. Call it my wedding gift.”
Returning to the chute gates, Cat saw that Ruthie was some fifty feet away, flirting with the peanut vender. She chewed nuts like a cow chewing its cud. Hadn’t he told her it was bad luck to eat peanuts during a show? So what? Except for the finale, the show was played out.
Bridgida wore a fringed deerskin dress, and her long black braids were intertwined with colorful beads. Brusquely, Cat said, “Callahan wants to marry you.”
She nodded. “Tomás spoke of marriage at the Shan Kive.”
“If you want to wed Tom, it’s fine with me.”
“De verdad, Gato?”
“Sure. Do you think it’s easy sleeping three to a room? Falling in the dirt so I can put food on the table?”
“Oh, I did not think—”
“I didn’t mean that, little bird. If you don’t love Callahan, we’ll stick together.”
“Gracias, Gato, but Tomás is good and kind and he will be papa to my baby.”
Cat forced a cheerfulness he didn’t feel into his voice. “Then it’s settled. Let’s saddle up our horses for the finale.”
“My pony does not need a saddle.”
The Grande Finale was delayed for thirty minutes, due to a brief but violent rainstorm that turned the arena’s top layer of dust to mud. Cat wondered if Bridgida should ride in all that sticky goo, but she insisted her pony was sure-footed.
“He’s mostly quarter horse,” she said, “what Tomás calls a short horse. My pony is smart and can turn quickly.”
“I should have said no from the start, sweetheart. You could hurt yourself. Or the baby.”
“The baby sleeps inside my belly and cannot get out. My mother rode until the day I was born. Perhaps that is why I love horses so much. Por favor, Gato?”
Reluctantly he said yes, then watched her join the group of “Indians” while he adjusted Dorado’s girth.
Circling the arena, he waved his hat toward the stands. He had been told to rope steers during the stampede. Ruthie and Bridgida were riding with the Indians. Tom Callahan was a cavalry officer, armed with the traditional sword of command.
Music sounded from the grandstand. The trick riders drew loud cheers. Cowboys twirled their riatas. Clothed in cavalry-blue tunics, several riders wielded their swords at the crowd.
Then came the Indians. Most, like Ruthie, had blankets over their saddles. Bridgida rode bareback.
Dorado’s golden coat shined in the glow from a brilliant sunset as Cat spun his lasso. It had been a rip-roaring show. He’d won enough to keep them going until he located Dick Stanley. Not them. Bridgida would join Callahan tonight. Why was she in such a rush to get hooked up with that tomfool bronc-buster? Hell, she deserved some happiness. Why hadn’t he bowed to Dimity’s will and married the girl himself? Because of Cherokee Bill?
If Ruthie found out Cat was the son of a murderer, she’d find herself another protector, but Bridgida would soothe his soul the same way she’d nursed his sick body. She’d be sweet and gentle and wise — like Tonna.
Cat felt as if lightning had struck his noggin.
Callahan lov
ed Bridgida, but Cat did too. He loved her in a hundred different ways. He loved her tiny body, her soft black eyes, and her dusky skin that flushed pink when she laughed. Her laughter was the music of bells.
He thought about the night he’d played “movie hero” and comforted her. He hadn’t been acting. He’d never behaved so with a woman before, holding back, concerned with her pleasure.
You were right, Percy. Bridgida smiles when I kiss her.
With his brave little bird by his side, he could put to rest his demons. He could be the son of John McDonald, not Cherokee Bill.
Why hadn’t he recognized his feelings sooner? He had taken Bridgida’s sweetness for granted and now he’d lost her. Suppose he hadn’t lost her? Suppose he told her how he felt and let her choose? If she wanted Callahan, so be it. If not, Cat would marry her tomorrow, tonight, this very minute. There had to be a minister in that vast crowd. What a grand Grande Finale — a wedding ceremony between a cowboy and an Indian!
Kicking Dorado’s flanks, Cat rode away from the cowboys, toward the Indians. He ached to tell Bridgida he wanted to marry her. He couldn’t wait. To hell with Callahan! To hell with the rodeo! He maneuvered Dorado against the tide of horses and riders, grinning like a lovesick fool at the surprise on their faces. The signal for battle was to be a bugle blast from the stands. Only then were the cowboys, Cavalry and Indians supposed to stage their pretend war.
Other riders broke ranks, following Cat, shooting their guns at the sky. Indians whooped and hollered and nudged their ponies into a gallop. Callahan joined Bridgida, “stabbing” several Indians along the way.
Cat urged Dorado toward Callahan and Bridgida. Ruthie had been swallowed up in the confusion. “Bridgida, I must talk to you.”
“Gato, is this not fun?” She smiled and waved.
“I love you. Did you hear me? I love—Bridgida, watch out!”
With horror, Cat saw Callahan’s horse stumble against Bridgida’s pony. She tried to right her pony by tugging hard on the reins, but lost control when the pony folded to its knees.
Callahan kicked his boots free from the stirrups. He had the presence of mind to forcefully spike his sword so he’d avoid falling with it.
The sword’s sharp, curved hilt stuck deep in the spongy ground.