“I write almost every day,” Minnie said. “I just add a paragraph or so—or one of the other girls does. Or Ma. When we get a few pages, we send it off.”
“And have you told her I’m staying out here?”
Minnie shook her head. “No, ma’am. That’s not for any of us to tell.”
Willa smiled. “When you send off the next letter, would you tell her that you and I had tea and that Momma sends her love.”
CHAPTER 16
DO NOT BE DECEIVED, GOD IS NOT MOCKED; FOR
WHATEVER A MAN SOWS, THIS HE WILL ALSO REAP.
Galatians 6:7 NASB
At first she thought it was only her imagination, but within a week of Belle’s setting foot in the wardrobe tent, things began to change. One of the surlier wranglers nodded and almost smiled when Belle walked by. The waiter in the dining tent refilled her coffee without her asking. The head trainer, Cy Matthews, showed her how to make an easy trick look more impressive. He even commiserated with her about Blaze’s fate, although he insisted the mare was too flighty for regular arena work. More troupe members began to drift past the corral when she was practicing and to shout encouragement. Best of all, Belle began to be included in the inside jokes and banter about everything from tough beef to ignorant guests. She wasn’t performing in the arena yet, but she was definitely beginning to be accepted as more than a visitor.
She wrote Minnie about how some folks returned to the show so often that troupe members began to call them by their first name.
You should have seen the look on Jack’s face (remember the little boy who sat next to me at our first show?), when Shep called him “pardner” one day.
If I were Orrin Knox and writing an article for the Register, here’s what I’d want people to know about the Wild West: The Wild West is the sweet scent of fresh hay and the not-so-sweet smells when the thermometer climbs and the crowds press in and the performers give their all and come out of the arena drenched in sweat. It’s the smell of gunpowder wafting across the arena and the aroma of popcorn popping on the midway. It’s the cowboy band striking up “The Star Spangled Banner” and the whinnies and whickers of the horses waiting to enter the arena. It’s cowboy clowns and bucking broncos, buffalo hunts and horse races, trick roping and sharp shooting—and Bill Cody commands it all with such elegance and grace the ladies fairly swoon when he walks by.
It’s nearly heaven—and if not exactly heaven, what with the mountains of manure and all, it’s near enough to heaven that I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Belle wrote of looking forward to the October parade in New York and performing at Madison Square Garden and of sailing for England the following spring.
She began to write home, too, although her letters to Momma and Daddy struck a different note. In these, Belle spoke of the work ethic required to be a success, the opportunities she had had to meet interesting people, and the time she spent in the company of Ma Clemmons, who was a devout Christian woman admired by all. She recounted Sunday Joe’s sermons and did her best to paint the Wild West with hues designed to convince Momma that things with Irmagard Friedrich were, indeed, all right.
But still, she did not hear from Momma.
Helen and Belle readied their tent and its contents for moving between the afternoon and evening performances on May 17, their last day in St. Louis.
“Just set your trunk outside the tent flap,” Helen directed. “Bedding atop the trunk. The boys’ll load the tent and table onto another car since we won’t be needing them again until New York.” She reached up and took the cowbell down from where it had hung at the top of the tent pole. “What about this?” she said with a smile.
Belle grinned. “I hope you’ve noticed that once or twice I have actually managed to get up before the cook clangs that annoying triangle.” She reached for the cowbell. “But let’s keep this as a memento. I’ll pack it with my things.”
“I’m not sure about packing it away,” Helen joked. “You get too big for your britches and a clang of that bell just might be the thing that brings you back to earth quick. Remindin’ you of your roots and all.” She mooed.
Belle laughed and mooed back. While Helen, Dora, and Mabel headed off to mount up for the last performance, Belle picked her way through the hordes of workers hurrying to dismantle everything on the back lot. She found Ma Clemmons busily folding up worktables and putting away bolts of cloth and sewing tools while performers changed into their costumes and staff members loaded Ma’s equipment onto a wagon. Every department had its own wagons, and each wagon was specially designed to hold equipment. “A place for everything and everything in its place,” Ma said.
“The wagons we’ll need first at the next stop get loaded on the first car and so on down the line. I know it looks like chaos right now,” Ma said, gesturing at the frenetic activity on the lot, “but it’s not.” She waved Belle toward the train. “You should go see how it all works while you got the chance,” she said. “We’ve done what we can here until the Final Salute’s over.”
Belle made her way through the crowd and along the row of equipment wagons waiting to be loaded. Fascinated, Belle watched as, using a clever rigging of ropes and pulleys, the pull-up team walking alongside the train pulled the next equipment wagon up a long ramp and down the row of flat cars—connected into one long flat surface by the placing of iron plates across the gaps between cars. Once a wagon moved into place, the train crew put chock blocks before and behind the wagon wheels. And the process was repeated again for the next equipment wagon and the next.
Once Ma’s equipment wagon was loaded, Belle went to check on Diamond. This time, when she offered to help with the animals, she was put right to work. Cy Matthews, the trainer who’d been watching her sessions, seemed to go out of his way to explain how things would work. “I know it looks like they’re packed awful tight,” he said, “but between that and the fact we load ’em in sideways, they help each other stay on their feet as the train moves.” He let Belle lead Diamond up the gangplank herself, and when Ned Bishop grabbed Blaze’s halter and went to haul her aboard and Blaze balked, Matthews sent Ned to do something else and then motioned for Belle to help. “See if you can calm her down,” he said. Belle did, and in a few minutes Belle had loaded the “flighty” mare as if she’d been doing it all her life.
After the last performance, Belle helped the other cowgirls get their show animals ready for travel. When she and Helen finally climbed aboard the Pullman coach they would share with Dora Spurgeon and Mabel Douglas, Helen grabbed her stack of bedding and claimed a top bunk. “I expect you aren’t used to a narrow berth on a moving train,” she teased. “And if you was to fall out, it’d wake me up.”
“Thanks,” Belle laughed. “I appreciate your concern.” When the train whistle finally blew its warning for everyone to climb aboard, Belle peered out the windows at the darkened and now empty fairgrounds. The eleven acres that had only hours ago been a slice of the Wild West was once again an expanse of grass and shade trees and an unimpressive empty grandstand.
The train headed east through the sleeping city of St. Louis and then across the Mississippi River by way of the Eads Bridge. Daddy had been impressed by the bridge, Belle remembered, calling it a marvel of engineering. As the train rattled along, the three cowgirls who’d performed that day fell asleep. But the rocking of the train car and the sound of the rails combined with other thoughts and worries to keep Belle awake far into the night. She didn’t understand why she hadn’t heard more from Daddy. She’d told him exactly how to address letters to the Wild West. And what was Momma thinking these days? Minnie had written that they had tea and that Momma said to send her love. That was something, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted Momma to write.
Belle’s mind wandered away from her parents and back to the Wild West. She wondered if Monte realized that Dora Spurgeon cared for him. Would Ned Bishop ever get over being mad at her? Did Shep know that Mabel Douglas watched his every move? Shep . . . Shep . . . She
p. His name was in her head so often lately. Something would have to be done about that. As Liberty Belle, she needed to be thinking more about perfecting an impressive act and less about Shep Sterling’s smile. And much less about when he might kiss her again. With a sigh, Belle turned over. But she did not sleep.
Happiness could wear mighty thin when a person was forced to live in cramped quarters with someone who didn’t like them. It seemed to Belle that when Mabel wasn’t teasing Dora about Monte or her stutter, she was making sly remarks about Belle and Shep. Mabel Douglas just wasn’t in the least bit friendly and it was getting increasingly hard to ignore.
Letters from home were very short. One of Daddy’s recent notes was postmarked Denver. That helped some. Clearly Daddy was traveling for business. But Momma’s wall of silence loomed ever higher. Belle’s own letters home became less frequent. What was there to say, anyway? She helped unload. She sewed. She groomed horses. She helped pack up. And as far as she could tell she wasn’t any nearer to actually performing. Shep kept saying she would ride Diamond in the parade in Washington, D.C., but that was weeks away. Weeks.
Willa was hoeing beans one morning when a rider approached from the direction of town. Laura, who had been thinning the dozen or so hills of squash at the far end of the garden, stood up and peered at the rider, then walked over and said, “Do you want me to send him away?”
With a sigh, Willa shook her head. “I have to face him sometime. It might as well be today.” She reached for Laura’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Would you say a prayer for me?” Leaving the garden behind, she headed for her cabin even as she telegraphed a protest toward heaven. She did not want to see Otto today. It was too soon. But here he was, hitching his black gelding to a corral post next to the barn and striding toward her. Willa waited just beneath the overhang that created a small porch running the length of the rustic cabin.
“What’s this?” Otto said abruptly, motioning at the cabin.
“Didn’t Charlie mention this when he told you I’d be staying here?” Willa gestured around her. “The girls helped me clean it out.”
He swiped an open hand over his mustache and goatee. “You can come home, Willa.” He looked away. “I’ve already moved out.
I’m living at the hotel now.”
“I never wanted that house,” Willa said. “A grandiose house was always your idea.”
“I wanted you to have something nice.”
She shook her head. “No you didn’t. You wanted the biggest house in town. You wanted to impress everyone. If you’d wanted to give me something nice, you would have listened to what I wanted. We’d have built a smaller house and had money for gardens. And trees.” She sighed. “But you never listened to me, and it doesn’t really matter anymore. Irmagard is gone and there’s no reason for me to live there.” She gestured at the freshly turned earth that ran along the front of the porch. “I’m very content here. I’ve planted flowers. Daisies and larkspur. Charlie says they won’t grow, but I’ll keep them watered, and I bet he’ll be surprised.”
“Whatever you think you read in that letter,” Otto blurted out, “I haven’t betrayed you again. It isn’t what you think.”
“Really? How else should I have interpreted a letter from another woman that begins My Dear Otto, and goes on to express concern about a ‘stipend’ that hasn’t arrived and then mentions how faithful you’ve been over the years.” Willa glared at him. “Exactly how many ways are there to think about a letter like that, Otto?”
He ran his hand over his mustache and goatee. “I am not keeping another woman. That money makes it possible for a promising young man to go to school.”
Willa folded her arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “And I suppose your relationship with the young man’s mother is platonic?”
He looked away. Shook his head. “It wasn’t at one time. But it has been for a long time. In fact, it isn’t really even a relationship. I rarely see her.” He gestured toward the cabin. “Could we please go inside?” When Willa hesitated, he reached into his coat and pulled out a bundle of letters. “From Irma,” he said. “But there’s something else I have to say, and I’d like to say it without several pairs of Mason eyes boring holes in me. Imaginary or not, I seem to sense that you and I are being watched.”
Willa led him inside. Never had she seen Otto so flustered. He laid Irmagard’s letters on the little kitchen table. “She’s doing well,” he said.
“I don’t doubt that,” Willa said. She was planning to visit Irmagard in New York, but it wasn’t something she cared to discuss with him.
Otto took his hat off and set it on the table. He looked around him. “Please, Willa,” he said. “I love you. I want you to come home.” He took a deep breath. “You have to understand. It happened a long time ago. But I couldn’t simply turn my back on my obligations. I couldn’t just walk away and pretend he doesn’t exist.” He tugged on his goatee. “It would be different with a girl. A girl could make a good marriage and be all right. But a boy—a boy needs schooling. It isn’t his fault the way he started out. Don’t you see? He deserves a chance.
“His mother moved to Denver when he was little, and as far as everyone there is concerned, she’s a widow. But I couldn’t just turn my back on him. So I’ve sent money to a trustee. She never gets any of it. It’s only for the boy.” He sank onto the one chair in the tiny room and sat, fiddling with the stack of Irmagard’s letters. Clearing his throat, he finally looked up at Willa. “He’s twelve years old. And it was the last time I did anything like that. Do you hear me, Willa? It was the last time.
“I did a despicable thing to you, and I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had left with Philip. But you didn’t. You stayed with me. And we’ve built a good life together. I promised to be faithful to you if you’d stay, and I have kept that promise. With God as my witness, I have kept that promise. I love you, Willa. You and only you.”
“He’s twelve years old.” As the reality of what Otto was confessing sunk in, Willa stopped listening. She lost the awareness of her surroundings, and when she regained her senses, she was sitting on the cot in the adjoining room trying to catch her breath—and trying not to vomit. Otto was still sitting at the kitchen table with his back to her and his head in his hands. If she hadn’t known him better, she would have thought he was crying from the way his shoulders shook.
It seemed to take hours for him to finally reach for his hat and turn around. He stood up and came to the doorway.
“Is there anything I can say, anything I can do that will convince you to forgive me and to come home?” His voice broke. “I am so sorry, Willa. So very sorry. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Just tell me what to do.”
“Get out,” Willa said. She was aware of him moving away from the door, but she didn’t look at him. She heard the sound of his footsteps and then the squeaking of a hinge and the click of the latch as he pushed the screened door closed behind him. Finally the cadence of hoofbeats sounded as the great black horse took its rider away.
On the late-May morning when the Wild West set up in Hagerstown, Maryland, the sky was heavy with dark, billowing clouds. Thunder sounded in the distance as canvasmen and seat teams hurried to erect the grandstand. By the time the audience began to trickle in for the afternoon show, a fine mist had settled over the grounds.
Bill Cody had been confined to his parlor car ever since injuring his foot during the reenactment of his duel with Yellow Hand in Wheeling. Thanks to medicinal whiskey, Cody was managing to ride in the Grand Entry and at the head of the band of cowboys rescuing homesteaders from Indians on the warpath. Still, crowds were less than happy when they realized Cody wouldn’t be presenting his famous target-shooting act, and they had ways of letting it be known. While Shep Sterling and Annie Oakley had received their usual ovations at the previous stop, when Cody rode out, things quieted down to what one reporter labeled, “merely polite.” Things like that affected everyone’s mood, and the gloomy weather was no help.
Belle excused herself and ducked into the wardrobe tent. Other than an occasional click of a belt buckle or the thud of a work boot dropping to the ground, the only sound in the tent was the patter of raindrops on the canvas overhead. When, with a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning, it began to rain in earnest, a collective moan went up.
For the first time since joining the Wild West, Belle was consciously grateful for Dr. Miller’s presence with the troupe. She was also glad she wasn’t performing. Riders would be soaked to the skin moments after shedding their slickers, and the arena would be a morass of slippery mud. Any act depending on quick maneuvers would take on an entirely new level of danger. Belle began to worry. She cared about these people and didn’t want any of them getting hurt. Bill Cody might be calling his injured foot a “slight inconvenience,” but it had sent ripples through the entire troupe and inspired a round of storytelling about past accidents. Shep said most of the tales were exaggerated. Belle hoped he was right.
The Grand Entry was finished before Belle donned her own slicker and headed toward the arena. The rules that forbade lingering backstage were strict, but surely no one would take issue with her being there to hold her friends’ slickers while they were in the arena. That wasn’t loitering. It was helping out.
Thunder rumbled and rolled across the sky just as Helen, Dora, and Mabel were getting ready to shrug out of their slickers and hand them over. Belle flattened herself against the false wall that blocked off the open end of the grandstand to get out of the way of Dora’s roan as the horse did a little sideways crow hop. Even Helen’s dependable pinto shook his head and danced about. Suddenly a bolt of lightning streaked out of the sky and hit a tree on the opposite side of the lot. With a tremendous pop the tree exploded into a ball of flames. Helen’s pinto reared, striking out with his front hooves. For a fraction of a second, both horse and rider were outlined against the stormy sky. An expert horsewoman, Helen stayed with her mount, but the rain had dampened her saddle, and when the pinto slipped in the mud, Helen lost her seat and landed with a sickening thud.
Unbridled Dreams Page 20
