Big Book Of Lesbian Horse Stories (12 page)

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Authors: Alisa Surkis

BOOK: Big Book Of Lesbian Horse Stories
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Tears blurred Oreola's vision as she read the letter, which was already hard enough to read, it was so stained and full of cross-outs. What on earth had prompted Ana Maria to accept this banker's daughter's perfidious proposition? And how could she think about selling El Cid? Oreola had always cherished the dream that one day she and Ana Maria and El Cid would make a home together. Over the years the dream had faded some, but now that it was threatened, Oreola realized how much she'd been counting on it.
“Them bankers ain't gonna git everything! I'm a-goin' to Austin to save Ana Maria and El Cid!” Oreola cried, forgetting, in her fervor, her newly acquired grammar. She stood still for a moment, thinking rapidly, part of her hearing Loula Mae running through the house shouting, “Orie is going to Austin!” Then she busied herself, putting a few necessaries and her only change of clothing, a flour sack dress, into an old flour sack. She'd finished packing by the time Ma came hurrying into the room.
“Land sakes, Orie, what's come over you?” she exclaimed.
“Ma, Ana Maria's in trouble and I got to go help her,” Oreola tried to explain.
“That little Mexican girl? Well, even if she is, likely as not there's nothing you can do. Show some sense, Orie. Wait till your pa comes home tonight and we'll ask him.”
“I can't wait!” cried Oreola, desperately pushing past her bewildered mother. “Wherever the bankers are trying to get their greedy claws on what don't belong to them, that's where I gotta go. Wherever—”
“Orie,” her mother interrupted, calling after her, “how you goin' to git to Texas when you ain't got no money?”
As Oreola hurried down the dirt road past the shanties that housed the pickers, she thought hard. There was only one way to get to Austin with no money, and that was by riding the rails. Maybe it was dangerous, but for Ana Maria and El Cid she'd risk anything.
In the train yard, Oreola hesitated, wondering what to do next. There were so many trains—which one would take her to Austin? A voice made her start.
“You lost, dearie?” A stout woman wearing several sweaters over her dress and a pair of men's pants under the skirt stood looking at Oreola with a kindly twinkle in her eye.
“I've got to get to Austin, but I never rode the rails before,” Oreola confessed.
“Why, you just follow along of us, and we'll start you on your way,” the woman assured her. She turned and gave a whistle and two more hobos slouched out from behind a boxcar. “This here is Peg Leg Al, and this feller goes by the name of Happy Joe,” she told Oreola. “You can call me Lady Lou.”
“Name's Oreola, but folks call me Orie,” said Oreola.
The three hobos exchanged pitying looks. It was bad enough that this girl didn't know a gandy dancer from a stew bum, but to be saddled with such an unimaginative nickname—the trio made an unspoken agreement to help her all they could.
“Well, now,” Lady Lou said, putting a protective arm around Oreola, “if it's riding the rails you want to do, I reckon we can teach you a few things.”
“First off, you gotta steer clear of the railroad bulls. Them fellers'll throw you off a moving train as soon as look at you and don't I know it,” said Peg Leg Al as he gestured toward the source of his name.
“And with you headin' to Austin, why, this is surely your lucky night,” offered Happy Joe with a big grin. “The Santa Fe Special is coming through in a few hours and even though it don't stop, it slows way down.”
With the trio talking her through the finer points of riding the rails, Oreola became quite adept at hopping on and off the slow-moving freight trains and staying one step ahead of the bulls. Lady Lou, Peg Leg Al, and Happy Joe even shared their food with Oreola, who had only packed a bit of bread soaked in drippings. They passed the long rides across Nevada and Arizona discussing the plight of the worker, FDR, and the fat-cat Eastern bankers.
By the time they crossed the New Mexico border, Oreola had confided in her new friends all about Ana Maria and El Cid and Mr. Pugh and the banker's daughter. When Oreola finished her story, Lady Lou patted her knee kindly and said, “Don't you worry, Orie, me and the boys will make sure you get to Austin on time. I'm sure once this Ana Maria sees you, you won't have to worry about no bankers or their daughters no more.”
Oreola smiled weakly. She hoped Lady Lou was right.
At the end of a long week, Oreola and her friends finally made it to Austin. Luckily, Peg Leg Al had spent some time in the city and was able to lead the gang straight to the fairgrounds, although it took all of Oreola's restraint to keep from telling him to move that peg leg of his a little faster. Finally, with her head in a whirl of fear, hope, and anxiety, Oreola spotted corrals full of livestock—the fairgrounds at last!
A young cowhand pointed Oreola to the barrel racing arena—a patch of fenced-in dirt with some stands set up on either side. The stands were crowded with people watching a barrel racer put a painted pony through his paces—doing figure eights around the barrels so rapidly it didn't seem to Oreola that anyone could go faster. Then she caught sight of a beautiful coal-black horse standing in the chute waiting for his turn. A woman held his halter, a sturdy compact woman with a long glossy-black braid down her back. Without thinking, Oreola began to run, and the cry “Ana Maria!” was torn from her throat.
Ana Maria turned and stared, first curiously, then with growing recognition. She dropped El Cid's halter strap and reached out over the fence rail to take Oreola's outstretched hands. “Oreola, is it really you? I can hardly believe that you are here.” When she spoke, her voice was no longer a high, piping little girl's voice, but the rich contralto of a fully developed woman.
“I had to come when I got your letter,” said Oreola, patting El Cid's velvety neck as he whinnied, happily. “Why did you write that about selling El Cid? What's happened to you, Ana Maria? Don't you want to be a horse trainer no more?”
Ana Maria's eyes filled with tears and she dropped Oreola's hand, turning away as she answered, “My family needs money. I must be practical now.”
Oreola bit her lip in frustration. “But what about our plans? Have you forgotten them? What about me? And El Cid?”
Ana Maria looked at her somberly. “No, I have not forgotten. To be a horse trainer was a child's dream. Do you still wish to be a nurse?”
Oreola had to admit that the intervening years had changed her plans as well. “It's true, I have decided that I could better serve the masses as a union organizer,” she admitted, but then she added, “but I still always planned on living with you. And El Cid.”
Ana Maria looked at Oreola searchingly, but as she opened her mouth to respond, she was interrupted by a shout. “Ana Maria! It's almost your turn!”
Oreola looked up at the girl waving from the stands. She was wearing jodhpurs and a crisp white shirt, and her blond hair was styled in one of those new permanent waves. Oreola felt awash with dislike for the girl. Only the rich could afford permanent waves.
“We will talk more after the race,” Ana Maria murmured, mounting El Cid.
“Ana Maria.” Oreola put a hand on Ana Maria's polished boot. “If I didn't know religion was an opiate, I'd be praying for you to win.”
Ana Maria hesitated a moment. “Oreola . . . I am glad you have come.”
Oreola and her hobo friends quickly rushed over and perched themselves on the fence outside the arena. Oreola concentrated all her attention on the black horse and his rider who stood in one corner. A shot rang out and like a whirlwind they were away. Oreola could hardly follow their movements as they flashed around the barrels in a complicated pattern. Then like a streak, they bolted for the finish line. The announcer's voice rang out, “Sixteen point two seconds! Ana Maria Ortiz and El Cid have set a new record for the Texas State Fair Barrel Racing Competition!” Tears of happiness streamed down Oreola's face as her friends whooped and hollered. They all watched Ana Maria standing on El Cid's back, waving her arms for joy as the horse circled the course with a slow, easy canter. Oreola waited until the final two riders took their turns and Ana Maria and El Cid were announced as the winners, then she and her friends went in search of Ana Maria.
In the corral behind the stands, horse and rider were surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers. With a stab of jealousy, Oreola saw that the woman with the permanent wave was standing next to Ana Maria. But when Ana Maria spotted Oreola, she ran to her and embraced her. “We did it, we did it!” she cried. “Just like we planned so many years ago!”
“I knew you could!” Oreola said. “And you too, El Cid! You certainly grew up to be a fine feller!”
As Oreola was petting the horse's nose, the permanent-wave girl joined them and put a proprietary arm around Ana Maria. “Ana Maria,” she said, pointedly ignoring Oreola. “Uncle Will is looking for you. He says you can name your price for El Cid.”
A shadow fell over Ana Maria's face. “Of course, Katherine.
Momentito.”
“Ana Maria!” Oreola exclaimed, “You cain't be serious!”
Katherine could ignore Oreola no longer. She turned toward Oreola and asked coldly, “And what business is this of yours?”
Ana Maria hastily intervened. “Katherine, this is my friend Oreola, about whom I have told you . . .” Her voice trailed off as Katherine incredulously looked Oreola up and down.
“So,
this
is the wonderful Oreola?” she asked, curling her lip. Her glance fell on Lady Lou, Peg Leg Al, and Happy Joe standing behind Oreola. “I see you brought the rest of your family,” she added cuttingly. Turning to Ana Maria, she said, “When you've finished with old-home week and have made your deal with Uncle Will, come find me. I'll drive us home.” She turned and walked away.
Oreola stared at Ana Maria, ignoring the retreating figure and the cries of “Git her! Git her!” and “Kick her in the pants!” erupting from her gang of footloose friends. Ana Maria kept her eyes averted from Oreola as she murmured, “I must go now,” then gathered up El Cid's reins and started after Katherine.
Impulsively, Oreola grabbed Ana Maria's arm. “Ana Maria, is she really what you want? It's not too late for us. We can still make a go of it. You can still get a job as a horse trainer.”
Now Ana Maria's eyes filled with tears. “No, Oreola, I can't. I must pay the bank loan and buy Mama's medicine. I must take care of my family. The job at the bank pays twice what any horse-training job would.”
“So you're just going to forget about me and go live with Katherine?” Oreola demanded.
Now Ana Maria's eyes were flashing with anger. “You are the one who has made so many new friends in California, and besides that, there are ideological differences between us that I do not think can be reconciled.”
“And El Cid?” Oreola asked accusingly.
“Mr. Pugh will pay more than two hundred dollars for El Cid. There is no other way,” Ana Maria replied with finality.
Oreola pleaded, “One thing I've learned during these hard times is that you don't sell out your friends and I expect that means you don't sell your friends either. Hasn't El Cid always been a good friend to you?”
“El Cid is a horse. He is livestock. A commodity,” replied Ana Maria, her throat catching on the last word.
“It's your kind of thinking that will lead to the workers' uprising,” Oreola cried out in frustration.
“It's your kind of thinking that keeps people from working their way to the American Dream,” shot back Ana Maria.
“You can can tomatoes, but you can't can the revolution,” shouted Oreola, now in an insurrectionist frenzy.
Before Ana Maria could reply, a voice called, “Excuse me, is this where the horse-trading takes place?”
Everyone turned. A woman in a smartly tailored linen suit was approaching, followed by a florid man wearing tasseled loafers, jodhpurs, a cowboy hat, and a pearl-buttoned shirt.
“I'm Marjorie Rumpelmayer and this is George Steadman. We're here from Oater Studios in Hollywood, California,” she said, shaking hands all around.
All the anger drained out of Oreola and Ana Maria. “Hollywood, California!” they repeated in rapturous unison.
“George here will be directing our next picture, Bandito
the Renegade Stallion,”
Marjorie continued efficiently, “and we've been looking everywhere for our Bandito.”
“And I'm pleased to say,” George continued, “that I think we've found not only our Bandito, but also Little Feather, the Indian princess, and Ellie Buckshot, the barmaid turned outlaw.” He beamed at Ana Maria and Oreola.
“But I am Mexican,” Ana Maria said, puzzled.
“That doesn't matter,” George assured her.
“Say, is there work for us?” asked Lady Lou hopefully. “I can be Chinese if you want.”

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