Rest and Be Thankful (45 page)

There ended the first block, and Ed Yonker, the under-sheriff, doing traffic duty for the day, waved them on against the lights. He gave them a broad smile, called, “Hello, Miss Bly! Going to enter for the bronc-riding?” and went back to his own conversation with three friends who were grouped round him.

In the second block in Main Street Bill’s Drug Store said, “
WE WELCOME YOU
!” And Mrs. Bill, of the Zenith Beauty Shop upstairs, had a commendable placard saying, “us Too!” The Methodist Church welcomed all and everyone. Vic Matteotti, Boots Soled and Bought, had an outsize American flag. Cas Morawski, of the Elk Café, had two flags. The Evangelical Lutheran welcomed one and all. The office of
The Sweetwater Sentinel
had its welcome (“
WELCOME
!”) framed in the flags of the United Nations. This idea had almost caused the staff, who had worked all night in the best newspaper tradition, to have nervous prostration deciding which flag was upside down and which wasn’t, even if it looked as if it were.

Young Bill, son of Bill of Bill’s Drug Store (and of Mrs. Bill) was doing his job of traffic-directing towards the third block in grand style. He had been a traffic M.P. at Remagen Bridge, and his short, efficient gestures were so unmistakably clear and commanding, even to the most frenzied farmer’s wife in a car packed with swarming children, that his admiring audience on the sidewalk all said it was no wonder Bradley got across the Rhine so damned quick. Young Bill was doing such good business that J. Huff Top Quality Groceries must have wondered why he had spent so much time on a window display. Still, for those who cared to turn round, it was a sight worth seeing: an artistic Empire State Building, worked out in cans of Sheridan Export from one of J. Huff’s postal-card collection. Next door a large banner in red letters told you, “
PETE KENNEDY’S MEN’S WEAR BIDS YOU WELCOME
!” The window of Mat Billings, Meat Market, was quite filled by the head of a buffalo with a formidable frown and a curly forelock. Henry Adelbert, apothecary, had a stuffed rattlesnake fighting it out with a ruffled eagle (suspended by wires), which also helped—trust Henry—to emphasise his window display on antidote for snakebites. Bartlett’s Billiards had washed its windows. The Bank was closing its doors. And Joe’s Barber Shop, overflowing with last-minute customers who wanted a haircut to set off their best hats, had produced a genuine wooden Indian, which two Iropshaws and a Flatfeet were studying with interest.

“Or
do
you say a Flatfeet?” Mrs. Peel wondered aloud, as the car stopped at a clear space on the sidewalk.

Prender Atherton Jones, about to deliver his farewell, touching lightly (but surely) on the self-sacrifice he had volunteered to make, looked at Mrs. Peel in bewilderment.

“One Flatfoot, surely,” she said, convinced she was making everything clear. “Oh, Prender, do look at these pioneer children on horseback, and that frontier girl riding side-saddle. Why, the costumes are authentic 1870... And look, there’s a covered wagon, and two Indian guides, and a crowd of trappers. They must all be starting to gather for the parade. Do stay, Prender. You’ll still have plenty of time to reach Three Springs for luncheon at the inn: unless you care to join us at Bill’s Drug Store or the Elk Café?”

Sally saw him flinch this time. “Everything is going to be so crowded,” she said gaily, “that we’ll probably eat at a hot-dog stand in the rodeo grounds. Won’t you stay, Prender?”

Prender could not bear the word “hot-dog,” far less eat the object. He flinched for all to see. He looked at the growing crowds now beginning to jam the sidewalks, at the cars bringing people from all over Upshot County and beyond. Then he looked back at the interested faces of Margaret Peel and Sally Bly, so delighted with what was happening around them that they scarcely noticed him now. Earl Grubbock, standing on the running-board of the car to get a better view of the faces that passed him, had forgotten everything else.

“Look!” Mrs. Peel cried again, for a group of men on magnificent horses with elaborately worked saddles and silver-decorated bridles were riding past towards the starting-point of the parade. The horses almost outshone the men, and that was something Mrs. Peel had thought impossible. She looked round her, watching the pretty girls in gay Western clothes or bright cotton dresses, watching the sun-tanned men in their handsomest shirts and best boots and newest hats, watching the excited children with well-polished cheeks and healthy bodies, watching the quiet content of the old people, watching the laughing faces and the eyes that looked at her so candidly. “Why, Prender,” she said, suddenly noticing him again, “you aren’t looking at anything.”

“Not my line,” Prender said, gazing intently at the giant banner swaying lightly in a touch of breeze. “
WELCOME, STRANGER, TO THE SWEETWATER STAMPEDE
!”

“There are the Indians!” Mrs. Peel cried.

“And there are Bert and Ned and Jim on horseback,” Sally said. “Flying Tail Ranch is looking very grand today. Where have they been keeping all these clothes?” But there was a smile of pride on her face—the same smile that was on all the faces around her as they identified their friends and neighbours.

“Are these Iropshaws?” Mrs. Peel was asking. “Flatfeet have circles of tail-feathers. And there are our Indians! There’s Hubert Slow-to-Move. And he knew us! Prender, did you see that? He straightened an eyebrow. And look at his daughters today—white buckskin, beads, pink silk scarves and shawls. Why, I never saw so much shocking pink outside of Schiaparelli’s showrooms.”

“Hello, Miss Bly,” said the Sheriff, on horseback. “And this is Mrs. Peel? Glad to see you, Mrs. Peel. Well, we’re kind of trying to clear the cars off the street now. Got to get the parade started.”

“The car’s just leaving,” Sally said.

“No hurry. Just thought I’d drop the word.” He saluted and rode off.

“That’s much the nicest parking ticket we’ve ever been given,” Mrs. Peel told Jackson, who only looked back at her pleadingly. If I don’t get this car to Three Springs I’ll miss all the fun here, he seemed to say. He had worn his new black hat, too, and his equally new silver belt.

“Goodbye, Prender,” Mrs. Peel said quickly, and startled him, although he had been trying to leave for the last five minutes.

“Goodbye.” He didn’t make his speech. He didn’t feel he was making any sacrifice at the moment. He wouldn’t have stayed here unless he had been tied down with chains.

“Goodbye,” Sally said, as Jackson ground the car into first gear warningly.

Grubbock jumped off the running-board in time, and yelled a belated goodbye after the departing car. He watched it negotiate the last difficult stretch of Main Street, and smiled as it was chased down the Three Springs road by a chorus of cowboy yells. That’s Ned and Bert, he thought. “By the way,” he asked, “did I hear anyone say thank you?”

“Prender never actually does, you know,” Mrs. Peel said.

“It’s not his line either?”

Sally said, “If this had been the annual festival in a little town in Mexico or the South of France he would have stood for hours and applauded. He would have talked about it for months afterwards. Authentic folk art. The Colour of the Soil.” Blast him, she thought; he’d almost spoiled her day.

“Temper, temper,” Earl Grubbock said, watching her face, but he gave a sympathetic smile. “Does he have to stiffen quite so artistically when a hot-dog is mentioned?”

“Prender’s trouble is that he has never been really hungry in all his life,” Mrs. Peel said unexpectedly. “If he had stayed in Paris as we did for part of the War he would have had wild dreams about all the food he had ever refused. But that was naughty of you, Sally. You know how he feels about sausages.”

“I only brought up the humble hot-dog to correspond to something like tamales. He wouldn’t have refused them at a Mexican fiesta. And he missed the whole point why you and I are so happy... Doesn’t he know the joy of seeing ordinary hard-working people looking so prosperous and proud of their lives? Doesn’t that tell him anything?”

But Earl Grubbock, his eyes once more searching the sidewalk, wasn’t listening.

“Perhaps she is on the other side of the street,” Sally suggested.

He smiled then. “I’ve been trying to watch both sides,” he confessed, “but—” His voice changed. It became very matter-of-fact. “There she is,” he said, and he stared angrily at three handsome young men who were escorting Norah through the crowd. He didn’t move towards them, didn’t even let them see him. He just stood there, watching Norah.

At that moment a dazzling white hat struggled in Mrs. Peel’s direction. “Hello, Miss Whikkleton! How are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for twenty minutes. Want you to meet some of the folks. Make you feel right at home. Big day today for this little old cow-town. Sure is.” Milt Jerks looked round with pride on his adopted realm.

“Mr. Jerks,” Sally said, trying not to look at the blue embroidery on the white satin shirt, “who are those boys over there, standing in front of the wooden Indian?”

“You mean the Brebner boys?”

“Brebner?” Sally smiled at Earl. “Then they must be Norah’s brothers.” Or cousins... In Wyoming people had so many cousins.

“Sure. One’s studying to be a doctor somewhere in Michigan. And one’s managing the Bee Ex Bar Ranch down in Montana—a big outfit, they tell me. And the youngest, he’s still at school, going to be a lawyer, I hear. Come all the way for the Sweetwater Stampede. Yes, sir, none of these young fellows miss it if they can help it.”

You would have thought Milt Jerks had lived here all his life, Sally thought, and she found his enthusiasm touching. Then she noticed that Chuck and his friend Cheesit Bridger had moved up to this part of Main Street too. They had made no attempt to come forward, but had propped their backs comfortably against the rattlesnake window, and were keeping a seemingly casual eye on everything.

“Now, Miss Whittleton,” Milt Jerks was saying, grabbing hold of passing arms, “let me present my old friends John Jackson, of the Tee Bar You, and Judd James, of the Double Ex Gee. Hey, Mrs. Christie, want you to meet my friend Miss Elizabeth Whifferton. Mrs. Christie’s the wife of our banker, Bob Christie. And here’s Miss Snodgrass, of the telephone exchange, and Mrs. Bill Buell, of the Zenith Beauty Shop. All the shops closing now? Getting ready to begin, eh? Half an hour late, Sweetwater time, eh?”

As Milt Jerks made himself master of ceremonies Sally was watching Earl Grubbock. “It looks as if Margaret and I are going to be well taken care of,” she suggested. “And I notice that Mimi and Carla and Robert and Karl are standing across the street, so everyone is safely here. We’ll meet you at the rodeo.”

“Fine,” Earl Grubbock said, gave her a half-embarrassed smile, and left as quickly as possible. Sally wondered if people in love were always so obvious to other people, sometimes even more obvious than they were to themselves. She kept wondering about that, and she was suddenly as embarrassed as Earl Grubbock had been. Fortunately Milt Jerks was still introducing people. He managed a slight variation on Whiffleton at every try. Once, towards the end, Sally was sure she heard “Whittington.”

Chuck and Cheesit Bridger looked as if they wondered whether things were getting out of hand, whether any action had to be taken. But the group that Milt Jerks had created swallowed him up, and Mrs. Christie and Mrs. Bill and Judd James and Miss Snodgrass formed a quiet phalanx round Margaret Peel as if they had been reading her mind. Chuck and Cheesit Bridger gave Sally a smile and went on their way.

The last children were allowed through the waiting crowd (the smallest ones were passed overhead) to find a good view and a seat at the edge of the sidewalk. A silence fell, and all heads were turned to look along Main Street in the direction of a sudden blast of music.

“That’s the school band,” Mrs. Christie explained. “There’s my Tommy, see, with the trumpet!” She pointed to a ten-year-old blowing manfully. She forgot all the agonies she had endured, this last month of practising, and she clapped as delightedly as all the other mothers were clapping their musicians.

“That’s my niece with the flute,” Miss Snodgrass said, waving to a fair-haired girl no more than eight. “And there’s Young Bill’s boy with the drum. My! How he’s grown since last year. He’s almost as big as it is now.” And she turned to congratulate his proud grandmother on Little Bill, who might not be keeping very good step, but certainly could keep up the right bangs.

Bands, Mrs. Peel thought, always make me cry, especially if they play
My Country, ’tis of thee,
just a touch off key, and march so determinedly out of step. She looked quickly away, blinking in the bright sunlight, towards the rest of the parade.

The prettiest girl in the whole of Upshot County came first, riding the noblest horse. “Her dad runs a small ranch just out of Sweetwater a piece,” Miss Snodgrass explained. “Getting married next month. Look, there’s her boy. He’s riding with the men from the ranches, just behind her. My! Isn’t she pretty in her Western clothes? Milt Jerks wanted her to wear white satin, but we soon put a stop to that.”

The crowd cheered the groups in turn—the men from the ranches; the men who had come from Montana and Colorado and Idaho to take part in the rodeo; the cowgirls; the old-timers, still able to sit a horse even if they were reaching ninety. Cheesit Bridger was in this group, but Chuck wasn’t old enough to qualify seemingly. As she looked at them Sally thought that if they had vied with each other when young, in being quick on the draw, in loving fast women and beautiful horses, in holding ten gallons of raw liquor, in shooting bears and bison and any Indian that didn’t seem to appreciate the white man’s westward march, they now had a rivalry between each other to see who’d last longest. Old-timers didn’t die, they only faded away.

Then the children came riding along, all the way from the kindergarten on Shetland ponies to the bareback riders in the Eighth Grade. One very small boy almost fell off his nervous pony, but a business-man of the town (identifiable, although he wore cowboy clothes, by his more expansive waistline) wheeled his horse to dash to the rescue and raised a cheer. “Nearly fell off yourself, Bob,” a man’s voice called. “Turned so darned quick you just about left your horse standing.” Bob, trying not to look too proud, rode back to his place at the side of the parade. He wiped his brow and said he’d given his old saddle a right good coating of glue that morning, so they all could stop worrying.