The unexpected boon of a full afternoon holiday during Fiesta left Gin
somewhat embarrassed. She had nothing to do. The afternoon could have
been spent sleeping, for she had had little sleep the night before, what
with dancing in the streets around a bonfire; but she was too excited to
feel sleepy. Time for sleep when Santa Fé had stopped playing and the
town had taken off its costume and gaiety; plenty of time for sleep when
the carpenters would begin to tear down the platform in the corner of
the plaza, and the crepe paper ribbons would hang stretched and faded
from the trees. Now the platform was gay with flags and strewn with
confetti; last night had been a tango contest before the bonfire-dance,
and they were to use it again today for impromptu theatricals—Spanish
songs and Indian dances. All the shops were closed today; all the little
shopgirls, dressed in skimpy shawls and old family combs, filled the
streets to watch the parade. It was Pasatiempo, the day of the Pageant.
Gin strolled through the streets where she could and paused where she
must. She watched the parade of the Conquerors; tried to listen to the
oration but had to give it up because of inadequate Spanish, and looked
on for a long time at the burlesque polo game that the young bloods were
playing with burros, spurring the unhappy little beasts towards a huge
striped beach ball and catching themselves up on the long mallets.
Afterwards she wandered towards the apartment, half planning to bring
out her own cherished shawl before the evening, when it was to be worn
at the Ball. She thought somewhat of dressing up now, to vie with the
others; she wanted to paint her lips and walk around the plaza, round
and round, while the boys walked the other way and picked out their
maidens for the evening. But she knew that she was tired of standing and
weary of the plaza. She would go riding alone and look down at Santa Fé
from a mountain top.
She telephoned the stable. Tom was there, but, as he explained, he was
leaving to join the celebration.
“I didn’t count on no trade today,” he explained. “I’m meeting a boy
down at the Capitol, but I’ll tell you what we can do. I’ll leave your
saddle in the hay-box in case you come around here: if not there’ll be
no harm done. You catch yourself a horse. Take oats to ’em—Blanco or
the paint will come a-running for oats. Don’t let the fence down; just
pick your pony.”
“Thanks, Tom,” she said. “I’ll be along.”
She changed quickly and walked over to the stable, avoiding the plaza
with its crowd. Blanco fell for the oats: she led him out and tied him
up while she went for the saddle. It was heavy: she had to rest twice
while she carried it back to him. She slung the saddle over his back,
cinched it up and then cinched it tighter as he let his breath out, and
adjusted the bridle. The street had a more than Sunday quiet as she rode
out toward Sunmount: everyone was downtown playing.
Following the trail up Ferdinand, she raced with the shadow of a cloud.
There was a long smooth stretch that led up imperceptibly: she ran in
the shadow until Blanco looked warm, then she took it easy for a while.
The trail grew steeper and led through trees. She stopped to breathe the
horse, turning him and looking back. Already they were far up and Santa
Fé had begun to mark itself out in squares. She saw autos and trucks
hurrying towards the centre of town to be lost among the higher
buildings. Under the sun her face felt warm and salty; it was nice to be
up here alone.
She pulled the rein: Blanco ducked obediently and started to climb
again, stepping carefully in the loose rock. She stopped at intervals
that grew shorter as Blanco breathed louder: the horse smell increased
and so did the balsam scent. She let the reins fall slack, twisted
around the horn of the saddle, while she tied her necktie around her
hair to keep it from falling down. The air grew more clear and Blanco’s
footsteps sounded doggedly musical. It was lovely.
At the really steep part of the ascent she paused and looked at her
watch. It was too late to go on: already she had been out an hour and
the sun was starting to fall. She knew that sun and how it gained
momentum. She dismounted and lay down on the grass, holding Blanco’s
bridle and looking up at the sky. Long ago the cloud she had raced had
won and gone sailing away, but there were more. Their shadows crossed
her face and went on. Behind them the sky was a deep blue that had lost
its noon ferocity and mellowed. She stirred and rolled her head farther
back until Blanco’s head appeared grotesquely in the way, calm and
cowlike as he munched grass. A dribble of green froth barely missed her
head. She rolled away.
“You pig.”
Blanco stamped and leaned down for another mouthful, nosing her shoulder
out of his way.
“You’re a darling,” she said idly and comfortably. “Aren’t you an old
darling?” He blinked a huge eye and went on chewing.
“We’ve got to go. Do you know that?” she asked. She stood up and looked
down at the valley for a moment. It was streaked with yellow; patches of
yellow flowers that were much more glaring now in the slanting light,
unbleached. The sun was deepening to orange: Santa Fé was almost too
small to be noticed except as part of a great scheme of colour. A breeze
stirred the pine-branches and lifted her hair-ribbon. It smelled almost
salty, as if those misty stretches beyond Jemez were indeed the sea.
“Oh, it’s lovely.” She threw her arms around Blanco’s neck: he was
nearer than any tree, and as unprotesting. She slapped him on the flank,
climbed up, and dug him in the ribs to start him down the slope,
jouncing uncomfortably.
It was quite dark when she trotted into the stable yard. The streets
were quiet and lifeless. She tied up the horse and unsaddled him, then
turned him into the corral, where he shook himself and walked over to
the other side with a dignified, heavy gait. There was a light in the
living-room, so she stepped up to the screen door and peered in. Tom was
sitting on the cot with his head in his hands, and he didn’t look up
when she knocked. Somewhat mystified, she called him and he raised his
head.
“Come in,” he said, as if he did not recognize her.
It was very queer. Her clear sense of health and content evaporated. She
stepped in and glanced around, at the bottle on the table and the glass
on the floor next to his feet. Usually when Tom drank he grew jovial.
Was he sick?
“Have a drink?” he said, dutifully.
“Not now, thanks. Not just before dinner.” Unbidden, she sat down in a
hide chair and watched him curiously. “Say, what’s the matter with you?
Don’t you feel well?”
“Me? I’m all right.” He leaned over and took the bottle by the neck.
“I’m all right. I just got some private news, bad news, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry. Can I help?”
He shook his head. “Somebody’s dead.”
“Why? Do I know them?”
“No.” Holding the glass near the floor, he poured out most of the
contents of the bottle. “He was long before your time, Betty.”
“It’s not Betty,” she said. “It’s Gin.”
“Gin? I beg your pardon. I surely beg your pardon.” He added in a dull
tone, “Ginny, Wally’s dead.”
“What?” Her hand went up to her mouth. “Wally? Wally’s dead? You’re
kidding me.” He drooped his head again and she jumped up and shook his
arm. “Tom! Please answer me. Did you say that Wally was dead?”
“Sure he’s dead.” He looked at her with red-shot eyes. “He was shot.
Them damned Indians in Mexico must a done it. Down at the border: he was
missing a couple of days and his horse came home without the saddle.
They went out looking and found a Yaqui with his outfit—saddle and gun
and all. They couldn’t get anything out of him. He claimed he bought it.
Wally’s dead all right, and buried.”
“God.” Her eyes filled with tears, mechanical reactions. Inside her head
she did not feel ready for tears. She was only shocked and stunned; she
was inadequate. “I can’t believe it,” she said truthfully. “He can’t be
dead. Why, I knew him!”
“Why not? He had a good outfit and he was American.” He slumped down to
the cot again and sat in an attitude of maudlin grief, almost
theatrical. “Three weeks ago, I gave him hell for leaving Pinto tied by
a rope in his mouth. He was always forgetful. I said I’d skin him alive
if he did it again while I was anywheres around. Now he’s dead and
buried.”
Gin stood motionless, seeing Wally outlined in clay like the prehistoric
skeletons at the Museum. Fragments of coffin strewed the ground around
him and he lay stiff, with one arm above his head and his sunken eyes
closed and withered. She thought of his arms again. They were huge arms
that had often caught her as she jumped off her horse, they smelled of
horses and perspiration, and he was fond of a certain checked shirt that
he often wore. It was that same shirt that he was wearing now, buried in
the clay. No, he would not be wearing his shirt. The checked shirt was
in a Yaqui’s bundle now, flung into the corner of a hut in Mexico, with
a bloody hole in it. Wally was naked and dead and buried. Buried.
Tom had slipped down to the table; his head, clutched in his arms, was
sideways on the table and his eyes were closed. Asleep? She poured a
drink out for herself and swallowed it. She patted his head.
“You go to sleep,” she said. “I’m going home.”
It was only after she had walked three blocks that she began to know
Wally was dead; dead as everyone was dead that she read about in the
newspapers. It was not a new thing, after all. Wally was dead and Mother
was dead and Billy the Kid was dead. All of them, all dead and buried.
The weight of horror lifted a little and she began to think that she
would miss Wally. She could cry in earnest.
She reached the apartment: the door was locked and she had forgotten the
key. Sobbing with increasing vigour, she lifted the screen from the
front window, raised the sash, and climbed in. She found the sofa in the
dark and lay down.
Outside in the street an automobile passed, swishing by the wall.
Someone was carrying a Victrola in it and playing a record. She
remembered the Ball tonight and sat up, with her head throbbing. What
time was it? Had Harvey called before she got home? No, it couldn’t be
that late. She leaped up and turned on the light. Eight o’clock, and the
room was in a mess of cigarette stubs and clothes flung over all the
chairs. Flo must have put on her costume in a hurry.
The ’phone suddenly began to ring, and she picked it up.
“Gin?” It was Harvey. “I’ve been calling for hours: they said at the
office you were in town all afternoon. Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, I went riding.”
“Well, gosh, I thought you’d run out on me. Are you ready?”
“Listen, Harvey, I can’t go.” She paused, then repeated, “I can’t.”
“What? Why not? Are you sick? You sound sick. What——”
“No, but something terrible has happened.”
“What is it?”
“Wally’s dead.”
“Who’s dead?”
“Wally, down at the stable.”
“Oh, that’s a darned shame. That’s too bad. What killed him?”
“The Indians.”
“_What?_ Come off!”
“No, the Mexican Indians. Yaquis or something. They shot him for his
horse and saddle, and he’s dead.”
“That’s certainly a darned shame. I don’t think I ever knew him,
but——Well, why can’t you come out tonight, anyway?”
“Why, Harvey. I can’t. Don’t you see? I can’t go.”
“No, I don’t see.” He sounded very irritated. “You mean because this
cowboy is dead? What’s that got to do with you? Were you crazy about
this bird?”
“No, but....” she hesitated. It was hard to express. “Don’t you see,
he’s dead and buried and all that. I can’t go on a party. I knew him. I
used to go riding with him, and now he’s——”
“Say,” he said flatly, “I don’t see that at all. You’re just worked up
over nothing. You’re alone down there, aren’t you?”
“Ye-es.” Her voice was uncertain.
“Now I tell you what you’d better do. You wash your face and get ready
and I’ll be right down, as soon as I get dressed. I’ve got to shave. Is
there anything to drink down there?”
“I don’t know.” She spoke humbly. She was beginning to feel very foolish
and useless.
“Well, you fix a drink and take it. That’ll help you. You’ve just got
the blues, that’s all. It’s a shame he’s dead, but you better take a
drink. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He was very comforting, but she wished that he hadn’t called just then.
She looked dolefully into the bathroom mirror, at her swollen streaked
face. Why did she always have to act so dramatic? She rubbed cold cream
into her cheeks and felt the tank. There was enough hot water for a
bath.
Harvey came before she was ready and she shouted through the door that
he must come in and wait. When she came out, wrapped in a bathrobe, he
was standing at the window with his pipe in his mouth, looking
masculine.
“I’m sorry I was so cuckoo,” she murmured, sincerely.
“That’s all right. I brought something over.” He waved towards the
couch, on which there were parcels—sandwiches and candy and a bunch of
red roses.
“Oh, Harvey: you’re a darling. I’ve been so nasty to you.”
She made him eat some chocolate and put a rose in his buttonhole. He was
not in costume, except that he had wrapped a red sash around his waist.
“Now you make me feel that I’d better not get dressed up,” she said.
“We’d look funny all different.”
“No, you go ahead. These affairs are given for the girls anyway. Go on:
I’ll wait.”
She dressed in the kitchen—bouffant black skirt and purple fringed
shawl, with a high comb and a mantilla. He was pleased with her when she
came out.
“You look swell,” he said. “Regular Señorita. Give us a kiss.”
She held up her face.
“That’s the kid,” he said. “Not sore at me any more?”
“No, You’ve been awfully sweet.”
They drove over to the theatre and although it was half an hour late,
nothing had started. A crowd of costumed people were in the lobby. Gin
paused at the door and looked around for Flo. She was over in the corner
with Russell and a party of friends.
“Wait a minute,” she told Harvey. “I’ve got to talk to Flo.”
Holding her roses carefully, she wedged a way through the crowd to
Russell and plucked at her roommate’s arm.
Russell turned and greeted her. “Golly, who’s your beau?” he asked.
“Flo, look at the flowers.”
Gin pulled Flo off a little way. “I’ve been dying to find you,” she
said. What was it she had to tell? Then she remembered Wally. Even now,
soon as it was after the catastrophe, she was shamedly conscious of a
sort of pleasant anticipation, the prospect of causing a sensation with
her news, the expression that she could foresee on Flo’s brightly
interested face.
“I heard about something this afternoon,” she went on. Again she was
swamped by the calamity and carried out of herself. The truth of it hit
her again, as it had on the road home.
Dead and buried. She pictured to herself his closed eyes and the clay.
She stopped smiling. The corners of her mouth dulled and her eyes grew
wide.
“You know Wally....”