by Gwen Moffat
Birdie looked up at Jo and pressed closer. ‘You go an’ talk to her,’ she pleaded.
Debbie tapped Miss Pink’s knee to gain her attention. ‘How old were you when you started to ride?’
She thought about it. ‘I don’t remember being on a pony before I was nine.’
‘I started when I was three. Birdie was riding before she could walk properly.’
Emotions flitted across Birdie’s tough little face: surprise – quickly suppressed, an assumption of arrogance – then suddenly all feeling was gone, the eyes widened and turned stony. A child on a bicycle was crossing the Olsons’ pasture: Shawn Brenner.
‘We’ve got a full crew of field-hands this morning,’ Jo observed.
Again there was an odd silence, full of unspoken thoughts. Miss Pink did not like it and she expressed a wish to see the garden. Debbie said it was a mess but she would show her all the same, meanwhile Shawn arrived, dropped his bicycle on the ground and came to the porch, his face as blank as Birdie’s.
‘Can I help in the garden?’ he asked Jo.
‘We’re not riding till after dinner,’ Debbie told him.
He ignored her and kept his eyes on Jo. Birdie squirmed closer to the woman and sucked her thumb.
‘We’ll find a job for you,’ Jo said.
Debbie turned to Miss Pink and spoke in a very grown-up voice. ‘I want you to meet my dad.’
‘I would like to.’
‘After dinner? I’ll take you. Mom, Miss Pink wants to meet Dad. I can take her after dinner.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Jo hesitated. ‘I’ll go along,’ Jen said.
‘Yes,’ Jo told the little girl. ‘I guess you can do that.’
Miss Pink saw that Debbie had neatly engineered what was almost certainly an ‘adult’ expedition, and that Jen had taken it upon herself to supervise the trip. She saw that Birdie and Shawn were staring at each other. Birdie looked up at Jo. ‘I want to go with them.’
Shawn tensed, hanging on the response.
‘The others are going to have a rodeo,’ Jo said.
‘Oh, no!’ It was a wail from Birdie, then: ‘I’m going ’ome, get my horse. I’ll kill anyone tries to stop me.’
Shawn’s jaw dropped. Suddenly he was just a disappointed little boy. Jo said calmly: ‘There’ll be horses for everybody. You can only compete one or two at a time.’
‘But Tommy’s best!’ Birdie cried. ‘I can beat everyone.’
A look of fury showed in Shawn’s eyes, and was gone. Jo said to Birdie: ‘Maybe if your mom knows we’re having a rodeo, if you promise not to run, we’ll see if we can go get Tommy.’
Birdie’s face softened. She pushed her head into the big breasts, while behind her Shawn turned and stared across the creek to the Crimson Cliffs. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets and even through the stuff of his jeans it was obvious that his fists were tightly clenched.
‘You certainly lead exciting lives,’ Miss Pink observed. ‘How many girls of your age would have a choice of competing in a rodeo or exploring a canyon on a Saturday afternoon?’
They were riding abreast up the track behind the Forset ranch, Debbie bareback on a small black pony, Jen on a sorrel. The little girl gave the observation serious thought.
‘My pony needs exercise,’ she said at length. ‘And I can’t do a lot of the things the others do in a rodeo. I can’t rope without a saddle. Anyways, I’m too small to rope.’
Jen rode silently, staring at her horse’s ears. Miss Pink was reminded of the girl’s mother, who let the little ones do the talking. ‘What can you do?’ she asked Debbie.
The child took a deep breath and glanced at her sister. ‘Not very much,’ she confessed. ‘I can try but it don’t get me nowheres.’
‘ “Doesn’t”,’ Jen murmured. ‘ “Doesn’t get me anywhere.” ’
‘So what does Birdie do at a rodeo?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘Well, she’s got a saddle,’ Debbie conceded quickly, ‘so she can do lots of things I can’t. ’Sides, she’s six, and there’s only one of her. She’s spoiled.’ It would appear that sometimes she repeated other people’s words.
‘And Shawn?’
There was no answer. Miss Pink glanced sideways but the child was well below her level, and the cute little cowboy hat obscured her face.
‘Shawn wouldn’t want to be left out of anything,’ Jen supplied drily, ‘but he’s not all that good at the trick stuff. He hasn’t ridden as much as the rest of us.’
Debbie asked politely: ‘When Mr Forset said Dad was “up the top” did he mean the top of the canyon or the top of the mesa?’
‘The canyon. There’s no fence on the mesa, ’cept at the bottom of the talus.’
‘That’s what I thought he meant. I think we ought to let them out a bit.’
The pony broke into a springy lope. The big horses ignored it and continued to amble in the rear.
‘Are you ever bothered about her becoming an infant prodigy?’ Miss Pink asked, aware that the tense was wrong. Debbie was a prodigy.
Jen laughed. ‘She’s a caution, isn’t she? We try not to encourage her and if she starts to show off we squash her flat. And no one spoils her – I mean the neighbours don’t.’ She considered that. ‘People who might try to spoil her – or who could take offence at some of the things she says – them, she hasn’t got time for.’
Miss Pink murmured a response, thinking of Myrtle and Maxine, of Paula Estwick. ‘I haven’t met Paula,’ she said. ‘I’ve met Sam Estwick but not his wife.’
Jen sketched a nod but made no comment. Debbie came back, jogging, riding like an Indian.
‘How old do you have to be to get a saddle?’ Miss Pink asked as the pony ranged alongside.
‘When I’m old enough for a horse as’ll fit a big saddle. Small kids always ride bareback; there’s no money for little saddles. Mom says it was the same with shoes until sneakers came along. Kids had to go barefoot ’cause they grew out of shoes too quick.’ Solemn eyes were turned up to Miss Pink. ‘I wouldn’t like that; think of all the prickly pear and stuff! ’Course, it wouldn’t never have happened in our family, everything’s handed down.’
‘I was wondering where you got the pretty blouse.’
‘This old thing? It was Tracy’s. Mom said it made her look like an old movie star, so she gave it to me and Jen made it over. Did you meet Tracy yet?’
‘No. Let’s see: seven of you today – so I haven’t met three: the three eldest.’
‘I’m the third eldest,’ Jen said. ‘Tracy’s eighteen and Sandy’s seventeen. They were working for the Grays this morning; they run a maid service. Mike, he’s thirteen, he’s up at the Duvals’, pulling fence.’
‘This fence is in poor shape,’ Debbie said critically. ‘Dad’s got his work cut out. He ought to be up in this old canyon full-time, just mending fence.’
‘Mr Forset can’t afford to pay him full-time.’
Debbie sighed. ‘It’s not fair. Everyone’s poor these days.’
‘Not much money,’ Jen corrected. ‘We’re not poor.’
‘So how come Mr Plummer’s got so much money he don’t know what to do with it? He could give some to Mr Forset.’
‘It doesn’t work that way.’
‘Why not? Why can’t he— ’
‘Be your age, Debbie. It’s economics, and I’m not a teacher. You want to know, ask Mom, get her to explain so’s you’ll understand.’
But Debbie had lost interest. They were coming to the end of the flat land that they called Mormon Pasture and the canyon walls were closing in. This was a box canyon with no way out at the headwall; only about a quarter-mile from the end, a trail left the track they were following to climb the talus below the cliffs of Calamity Mesa. In response to her query they told Miss Pink that the trail came out on top of Calamity and a ride across the plateau to the north rim would give them a view of the Colorado. They were standing at the fork in the track when a man on a mule came down from the dir
ection of the headwall. Debbie shouted delighted greetings and Miss Pink turned her horse to meet Erik Olson.
The initial impression was sombre: a man in dark clothing on a dark mule. Even his hat and chaps were black, his shirt grey, but when he went to wipe the sweat from his forehead he exposed hair as pale as Debbie’s, and light Scandinavian eyes. He acknowledged Miss Pink’s presence gravely, accepted a bag of cookies from his daughter and attended to her chatter. ‘Calamity,’ he repeated, with speculation. ‘Did you ask if Miss Pink’d feel happy on that trail riding a strange horse?’
‘He’s not strange to her. She took him up Rustler yesterday.’ Debbie turned, her eyes anxious. ‘You’re quite happy on this old trail, aren’t you, ma’am?’
‘That old trail,’ Jen said. ‘It goes up.’
Debbie was mouthing: please! ‘This horse is very surefooted,’ Miss Pink told Olson. ‘I think we can cope.’
He nodded, evidently satisfied. ‘So what time d’you expect to be down?’ he asked Jen.
‘Long before dark.’
‘Right, I’ll be watching for you. I’m packing it in and going home; I need to fix that old chicken-house in the orchard before a skunk gets in after them young chicks. You take care now.’ He looked hard at Debbie. ‘Remember?’
She nodded vehemently. ‘Yessir!’
She explained the emphasis to Miss Pink as they started up the trail. ‘Dad says accidents are always the rider’s fault. Whatever happens: if your horse goes over the edge, or puts his foot in a hole, or gets bit by a rattler, it’s your fault ’cause you’re cleverer than the horse.’
‘It’s like, anticipating events,’ Jen put in. ‘There are exceptions, I guess, but that’s the general rule.’
‘A good one to live by in this country,’ Miss Pink said, thinking of the cliffs above.
In fact they looked more imposing than they turned out to be, and from underneath the ledges had not been visible. Unlike the Twist below Rustler Park, this trail was open and there was no slickrock. For several hundred feet it slanted diagonally upwards to the foot of the cliffs where there was a gully so wide that the path could zigzag without putting undue strain on the horses. In any case, as Jen remarked cheerfully, the exercise was good for them; they had all grown too fat on spring grass.
Miss Pink was bothered about the heat. The sun beat full into the gully and the air was stifling. Far to the south-west, beyond the big mountains, clouds were piling up ominously, their tops like silvered cauliflowers.
They came over the lip of the gully and halted. A thousand feet below the green pastures gleamed, in striking contrast to the rosy screes. The slanting route had brought them way out to the east so that they had an uninterrupted view up Salvation Creek to the narrows. Three miles away, a bright yellow speck in the pinyons could be part of an A-frame, while from close below their perch came the whine of a chainsaw. ‘Sounds like fall,’ Jen said: ‘Mr Forset cutting logs.’ Miss Pink could distinguish her jeep standing outside the ranch house, full in the sun. The sun was glaring. She glanced to her right and saw a monstrous anvil-shape, smudgy white and shadowless, looming above the mountains.
‘That’s nice,’ Jen said. ‘We may get some rain.’
‘We don’t want to be on top in a storm,’ Miss Pink pointed out.
‘Race you to the Stone Man!’ The black pony leapt away.
‘No!’ Jen shouted. Debbie slowed and came round to wait for them. ‘No racing,’ Jen told her. ‘This isn’t the home pasture – just remember that, miss. We take it steady to the rim; you keep with us.’
For over a mile they jogged across the high tableland towards a tall cairn which evidently marked the highest point of a mesa that otherwise looked level. As they drew nearer Miss Pink saw that, a mile or two beyond, an escarpment curved gently across their line. They could see about a thousand feet of rock but its base was blocked from sight by the near rim of the mesa. They came to the cairn and below their feet an abyss gaped like a wound in the crust of the earth.
The cliffs opposite dropped to talus that ran down to the lip of a lower cliff and then plunged, smooth as a diver, into the brown ribbon that was the Colorado. There were pale specks on the surface of the water and, once the horses were standing quietly, the riders could hear the whisper of the cataracts.
Swallows, their backs iridescent in purple and emerald, flicked along the rim, a hawk screamed; far below an eagle floated in the sunshine.
Thunder muttered behind them and wonder was superseded by alarm. ‘Come on,’ Jen called and, to Miss Pink’s surprise, the girl set off westward along the rim. The mouth of Salvation Creek lay below to the east.
She was somewhat reassured when she caught sight of a trail below the cliffs. She did not mind rain, just so long as they were not on a high point when the storm struck. She glanced round at Debbie, thinking that the child should be in the middle, an older and more experienced person bringing up the rear, as would be the case if they were on foot, then Yaller stumbled, she grasped the horn – and thought grimly that the order was correct; the least able rider was in the middle.
Jen stopped and waited. Miss Pink came up and saw that they were at the top of the trail. She saw too that going down, with the drop visible and yawning all the way, was going to be a very different matter from an ascent over easy gradients when all the attention was directed upwards and the drop was hidden, except on the hairpins, and then one did not have to look. She wanted to ask: ‘Will Debbie be all right?’ and she looked back at the child who smiled and said: ‘Just let Yaller see where he’s going; he won’t fall.’
‘Thank you,’ she said acidly, and followed Jen’s sorrel over the edge.
The clouds came up and the thunder rolled. The sorrel stepped out in a hurry and Yaller followed, the black pony sometimes trotting to keep up. Occasionally, at a steepening, there were zigzags, which the horses skittered round impatiently, kicking stones over the edge. Halfway down, lightning flashed and the thunder followed like an explosion. The animals jerked their heads but they did not falter. From behind Miss Pink came a cry of delight: ‘Wow! That was close!’ The others said nothing.
They were not far above the river when lightning struck again, but this time, when the thunder exploded and should have rolled away in echoing waves through the mighty canyon, the crashes continued and grew louder, bumping.
Jen stopped and looked back, panic in her eyes. ‘Wait,’ Miss Pink ordered. ‘Try to locate it.’
‘There it is!’ Debbie yelled, pointing.
Rocks were bounding down the talus on the other side of the river, rocks so large that even a mile away they were easily distinguishable. Debbie was saying: ‘They won’t— They can’t— ’
‘We’re safe here.’ Miss Pink was trying to keep her voice steady. ‘They’re going to make a big splash, though.’
Jen was silent. Miss Pink thought: we must get out of here; we’re sitting ducks if the lightning strikes the rim on this side.
The leading rocks leapt the edge of the lower cliff. For a moment they saw great shapes against the sky and heard the rending tear of their passage through the air. Miss Pink thought of chipmunks and hawks, of the wind through pinions, then the rocks hit the river and the gorge was filled with a liquid roaring, and the sound of a huge volume of water falling back on water from a height.
Subsidiary falls came chattering in the wake of the titans and even when it was all over they could hear faint trickles and eerie bumps as the unstable slopes shed poised stones that had been left behind.
By that time the riders had reached a grassy bench by the river where they broke into a steady lope. As they approached the mouth of Salvation Creek, hidden in thickets of willow, they saw a wall of rain advancing down the home canyon. They turned up Gospel Bottom and the black pony went streaking ahead, the horses following at a hand gallop. They met the rain and in a moment were drenched. ‘See you!’ Miss Pink shouted as they reached the Forset road-end and Yaller swerved without breaking stride.
‘In this weather!’
‘She’ll take no harm from a drop of rain. Trouble is, the pinto’s come home. So Paula’s a bit bothered. She’s always worried, but this time could be different, the pony coming back. Thought I’d go up, have a look round.’
‘I’ll come too, just as soon as I’ve changed.’
Chapter 6
Paula Estwick appeared ungainly and sexless, slumped on a kitchen chair in the dark cabin. Her hair was clubbed short and she wore clothes which looked as if they belonged to her husband, from the Big Mack shirt to the worn boots. With her reputation for hysteria it was surprising to discover her that Saturday evening so still as to appear cataleptic.
Jo Olson came to the door as Miss Pink drew up outside the cabin. ‘She won’t move, or even speak,’ she whispered. ‘What would you do?’
The evening was gloomy after the rain and the lights were switched on in the cabin. The door was open for a breath of air, but for all that the interior was stuffy. There was a smell of fried meat, but if Paula had prepared supper, someone had cleared away. The stove was alight and she sat beside it, staring at nothing. Her eyes did not focus as Miss Pink entered. Jo looked a question, received a nod, and she performed introductions as if the situation were normal. Paula’s face did not change. Miss Pink sat down as far from the stove as possible.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she said loudly, looking at Jo, who hesitated, then collected herself.
‘I’d gone up to the Duvals’ to collect Sandy and Tracy in the truck,’ she said. ‘They were baking at Wind Whistle— ’
‘The Duvals don’t cook?’
Jo was startled by such an interruption but she got the point after a moment: Paula might be aroused by domestic trivia. ‘They don’t have the time,’ she went on. ‘The girls do them a big bake every few weeks, freeze most of the stuff … ’ She sighed, unable to keep it up. ‘She was there in our meadow when I started out … Birdie … ’ There was a flicker of movement from the side of the stove. ‘I shouted to the kids that they should pack up, there was a big storm coming, and then I went on to Wind Whistle. I visited with Bob Duval for a while and when we came home the rain had started. The kids were in the barn. They said Birdie went home when they left the meadow.’
