Guestward Ho! (15 page)

I knew something had to be done and so I suggested
riding—after all, that's what
most
people come to ranches
for. To my surprise, Miss Mouse rode beautifully, and
in a shirt and jeans and just one cameo, plus a riding hat
to cover that unfortunate coiffure, she looked a whole lot
less dowdy. Even tongue-tied Harry remarked on how well she sat a horse.

To my still greater surprise, Miss Ladydog fell in with
the idea, too. I'd considered her a purely indoor sport. But when she showed up at the corral in an emerald-
green riding suit with mascara to match, two horses shied
and Harry turned the color of a bowl of borsch and stayed that way.

Miss Ladydog claimed she didn't know much about
riding but she thought she could do fine with some nice
man like my Bill or Gale Collins to teach her. It didn't
take me long to catch on. "What a shame," I crooned, "they're already out. But I know you can catch up with
them as soon as Harry, here, teaches you the fundamentals." Harry got even redder when Miss Ladydog
turned her dazzling porcelain caps in his direction, and I
was about to suggest she do up the top seven or eight but
tons of her shirt so as to avoid getting her stomach too
sunburned when I was summoned to the telephone. When
I got back, they were gone.

But two of the gladiators were soon retired from the fray. That very afternoon Gale Collins was thrown from a horse and ended up with an arm in a sling—cracked elbow, terribly painful but not terribly serious.

The same day Bill, while busily loading the car, some
how rammed a case of Coca-Cola into his middle and
then, with a vile oath, dropped it onto his foot, conven
iently breaking one rib and one big toe.

Maxine Collins and I were of two minds about how lucky or unlucky we were to have husbands on the sick list. On one hand, it meant that two of Miss Ladydog's
prize stallions were put to pasture, so to speak. And al
though we loved our husbands, we were just as glad to have them out of the running while the menace stalked
the ranch. On the other hand, it also meant that Bill and
Gale were immobile and had no means of either escape or
self-defense if Miss Ladydog decided to turn into Florence
Nightingale. Which is exactly what she did.

Yet, a fortunate thing happened. Unable to do anything
strenuous, Bill and Gale sat in gloomy splendor in the
lounge working a vast jigsaw puzzle and feeling terribly
sorry for themselves. Miss Ladydog apparently felt even
sorrier for them and loved nothing quite so much as hang
ing over Gale's shoulder and delivering motherly words o
f encouragement and advice as to how to put the puzzle
together. But she made her fatal error when she thought
she saw a piece that would go nicely into a far corner. In
trying to fit it in, she leaned too far forward and fell
against Gale's bad elbow. With a bellow of agony, Gale
shot his foot out under the table, catching Bill's bad toe.
The roaring and raging that went on for the next fifteen minutes quite discouraged Miss Ladydog from messing
around with the sick and wounded any further. Maxine and I were delighted.

Dick, who was still in high school, would probably have
been her next victim, but since I didn't want a charge of
contributing to the delinquency of a minor leveled against
the ranch, I saw to it that he kept well out of her sight.

So the entire burden of entertaining the two manless
women fell upon me—
and
poor shy Harry. Since the kitchen and my cook had been put off limits to Miss Ladydog, and since all the other male guests were fifty
and better, with watchful wives in tow, Harry became her
target. We worked out an informal little pattern of ex
istence whereby Harry took Miss Mouse, Miss Ladydog,
and me out riding every morning. A sorrier quartette has
never been seen, what with Miss Ladydog flirting, Harry
blushing, Miss Mouse discussing timetables, and me yawn
ing. Since Miss Ladydog was a perfectly abominable rider—
worse than I was—Harry and Miss Mouse usually went
cantering out stylishly in the lead, with the two of us bringing up the rear. But that didn't satisfy Miss Ladydog for a minute, and she nearly broke her neck trying to get alongside poor Harry. She took some terrible
chances, and one day, to my delight, she got thrown. But
she even managed to turn that into an advantage. She insisted that her ankle was sprained, if not broken, and
made Harry carry her home on
his
horse. She whimpered
dramatically every step of the way and put her arms
around Harry's neck while he turned the color of a brick
but grinned like a fool and seemed not to mind a bit
Miss Mouse and I led the Ladydog's mount back to the
ranch.

Nor was Harry free of his harem after lunch. Since Bill was unable to drive, Harry had to chauffeur Miss
Mouse and Miss Ladydog around the countryside every afternoon with me along as chaperone. Miss Ladydog al
ways managed to park herself in the front seat next to
Harry while Miss Mouse and I sat in the rear.

Harry had worked around the Santa Fe area for so
long that he knew all the most interesting places to see.
We'd start off on lovely drives to Black Mesa or to the
primitive, inbred Spanish villages up in the hills. Or we'd
go to the Puye Indian Ruins or the waterfalls at Nambe or off to San Ildefonso to see the fascinating shop of
Popovi Da, son of the famous Maria, the potter of San
Ildefonso. These were all places I loved, but I certainly
didn't love them in the company I was keeping. I'd look
first at Miss Mouse and wonder just what had possessed
her to wear orange lipstick with that pink flowered dress—and then I'd wonder what evil influence had been at work
when she bought the dress in the first place. I finally had
to sit on my hands just to keep from getting at her pretty
hair and
doing
something with it.
Then
I'd lamp Miss
Ladydog with her beaded lashes, her stagey paint job,
her too-short shorts, her naked blouses in vibrant greens
and reds and blues, and I'd have to sit harder on my hands
to keep from tearing her limb from limb.

And the steady babble of opposing conversations would
really stagger you.

"Oh, Harry, darling, I just love the way you ride. You're so masterful with a horse. . ."

"Now the N.C. & St. L. has a very unusual schedule on Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays, Mrs. Hooton . . ."

"You ought to come out to the Coast and visit
me,
Harry. Why, with the way you ride, I could get you into
pictures just like that! . , ."

"The most terrible thing happened when the printer
made a mistake about the five-oh-four on the Missouri
Pacific summer timetable . . ."

"I know just
tons
of really famous Western stars,
Harry, and they always need doubles and stunt riders and
people of
your
caliber . . ."

"Instead of printing five-oh-four, he printed four-oh-
five, and all the people in the station were . . ."

"I have a darling little bungalow, Harry, and I could in
troduce you to . . ."

Harry just blushed on.

I seethed.

Both the ladies loved shopping, too, and while it was
good for Harry to be shut of Miss Ladydog's vampire act
and sit solemnly out in the car, it was just twice as hard on
me. Santa Fe has some heavenly shops where with taste
and discretion you can find beautiful things to wear that
are just as perfect for any other part of the country as
they are for the Southwest. (Please let me be the first to admit you can also wind up with some duds which, while
they look okay—and not much more—in New Mexico
give the distinct impression of either fancy dress or ec
centricity east of the Santa Fe city limits.) But Miss
Mouse had no taste and Miss Ladydog had neither taste
nor discretion, so that shopping with them became a
terrible emotional strain on me, and my tongue was swol
len from being held immobile by my teeth so that I wouldn't blurt out something true but tactless like "Oh, you
can't
be seen in that!"

Kay Stephens, for example, is a New York girl who
has come out West and made an enormous name for her
self with her lovely blouses and sportswear. Mostly hand
made, her things are expensive, but worth it because
they're so lovely. But it takes caution and discernment to mix even Kay's beautiful skirts and shirts and slacks and
shorts. Of course, they were too becoming for Miss Mouse
to be interested. But Miss Ladydog, having no discernment whatever, threw caution to the winds and spent like
a drunken sailor. She mixed and mismatched to her heart's content and I shuddered to see her couple a bold
red and white striped blouse with a violet skirt, a yellow belt, and a peacock blue shawl. Even Kay's saleswoman
was a little shaken, and she was used to headstrong shoppers.

At The Shop, which is run by Elinor Bedell and which
carries a little of everything, from Spanish antiques to the newest in modern furniture, Miss Mouse bought an
opal brooch to add to her cameos and called it quits. Not Miss Ladydog. She went in heavily for thong sandals,
Mexican shawls, lots of bright beads, and made a little scene when they didn't have a
rebozo
in cyclamen.

The Thunderbird deals in jewelry, all of it beautiful
and most of it extreme. But nothing was extreme enough
to suit Miss Ladydog, and after a long session of saying
"I'll take this and this and this and two of that," she
came clanking and jangling onto the street a-bobble with
exotic rings and bracelets and necklaces and drooping
earrings.

At Gan's and Santa Fe Western Wear she went out of
her way to choose six of the most garish squaw dresses
and fiesta dresses—and these really just do
not
go outside
the Southwest—I've ever seen. All in all, she looked ex
actly like a broken-down Mexican madam, and when she
forced poor Harry to escort her into Hotel La Fonda for
a drink, he was speechless with embarrassment and shuffled along the sidewalk about ten paces behind her, trying
in his naive way to give the impression that they had never met before. But still he grinned.

Miss Mouse, proud as punch of her new brooch, simply
sat out in the car and told me the entire schedule of the
defunct Denver and Rio Grande narrow-gauge railroad.

I was about at the end of my tether with Miss Mouse and Miss Ladydog, what with riding with them each
morning, shopping with them each afternoon, and chatting
with them each evening. However, as a wife, I had to protect other wives from Miss Ladydog and as a victim
of boredom I had to protect
everyone
from the railway
reminiscences of Miss Mouse. To make things worse,
there wasn't a single man expected until a full week after
their departure. I was about to call the USO to send around a dozen sailors or to call the state mental insti
tution to come and get me when someone—I can't re
member who it was—suggested a pack trip.

Bill always took pack trips out for one, two, or as many
as three full days and nights, but since he was immobilized
it was out of the question. I've never been on a pack trip
and never hope to go on one. Tents and sleeping bags and cooking over campfires have never appealed to me.
I love the great outdoors, but I prefer to spend my nights
on box springs under an eiderdown—just peculiar, I guess.
However, Harry was on hand to shepherd the flock of
hardier souls over the mountains and that suited me just
fine.

What suited me even better was that Miss Mouse was
quite willing to go, while Miss Ladydog was in a perfect
frenzy
to get moving. Two older couples were also in the
party and I foolishly thought that their presence would keep our man-chaser in check. I stayed up most of one
night preparing the pack boxes. (I forgot paper napkins.)
It was a terrible chore, but I loved every minute of it, because to me it meant three whole untrammeled days
and nights of being myself and not having to talk about
railroads or Hollywood or clothes or men.

The party got off to a late start, owing to the extensive
wardrobe of fiesta dresses and riding habits Miss Lady
dog felt would be essential to the call of the wild. But
finally they trotted off, and the last thing I saw was Miss
Ladydog's rather prominent rear end, made all the more
prominent in
turquoise
blue jeans, bouncing up and down
in the saddle as she tried to jockey her horse up next to
Harry.