And Condors Danced (2 page)

Halfway out the door she turned and ran back. Putting her hand on Lila’s arm, she waited until the dreamy eyes turned away from the window. “Good-bye, Lila,” Carly said, trying to make her voice ordinary and matter-of-fact while her eyes spoke volumes. “I’m going to Aunt M.’s, with Arthur. Do you want us to say hello to anyone for you? I mean anyone we might meet on the road?”

Lila’s smile was vague and lovely. “No,” she said. “No. I don’t think so.”

A
RTHUR AND COMET
were waiting impatiently in the shade of the walnut tree in the backyard. Arthur was frowning and slapping his quirt against his booted leg, and Comet was tossing his head and pawing the ground. At the sight of them Carly instantly forgot the dimly lit parlor and Dickens and poor little Petey and even lovely Lila’s sad secret.

“It’s all right,” she said, bouncing with excitement. “I can go.” She grabbed for the saddle horn and was jumping on one foot, trying to reach the stirrup with the other, when Tiger appeared out of nowhere and almost knocked the other leg out from under her.

Tiger was Carly’s dog and dearest friend, next of course to her family and Aunt M. and Woo Ying. He was small and white with brown spots and funny brown eyebrows, with a hint of Scotch terrier in his appearance and feisty disposition. Next to Carly and food, he loved going places, and at the moment he was obviously planning to go wherever Arthur and Carly were going.

“Uh-oh,” Carly said, recovering her balance. “We can’t let him follow. I promised Aunt M. I wouldn’t bring him next time I came. Woo Ying is mad at him for digging up his petunias. I’ll tie him up.”

“I’ll do it,” Arthur said. “It’ll take you forever. Here! Hold the reins.” He grabbed Tiger’s collar and pulled him toward the doghouse. For a moment Carly watched, sharing Tiger’s bitter disappointment as he skidded over the ground, his feet braced in a hopeless attempt to avoid the hated tether. But then she turned her attention to the high-strung colt and forgot about poor Tiger.

Holding the reins tightly, she crooned a soothing hymn of praise and admiration, while the powerful dark bay colt sidled around her and rolled his bit, testing the authority of the hands that held him. Completely focused on her exciting task, she was only vaguely aware of Tiger’s whimpers as he was tied to the doghouse, and of Nellie and Arthur’s conversation. But, a minute later, as she was being boosted up onto Comet’s back, she began to hear what Nellie was saying.

“Just don’t let her ride astride again with her skirt hiked up halfway to her waist,” Nellie said. “You remember what Father said last time.”

“But, Nellie,” Carly said, “it’s a lot safer that way. It’s so hard to keep your balance riding sidesaddle.”

“I know. But you’re a big girl now and if you’re going to ride horses you must learn to ride like a lady. And you’ll be safe enough if Arthur keeps Comet down to a walk.”

Carly knew there was no point in saying that that wasn’t the kind of ride she had in mind. So she kept quiet and sat sideways on the saddle skirt, hanging on to Arthur’s belt with both hands. It was true that Father had ruled that Carly was too old to ride astride in public places, but Carly knew from experience that Arthur never took rules too seriously, not even Father’s. And, sure enough, once out on the valley road she was able to talk her brother into not only allowing her to sit astride, but also into letting the fretting, sidestepping Comet stretch his legs in a quick gallop.

It was wonderful; the wind in her face, her hair flying, the smell of the dusty road and the sweating horse, and the smooth rhythmical surge as the ground flew beneath them. Down the long, flat stretch of road between tall rows of Carlton walnut trees, and then up the slow rise to the foothills of the Mupu Ridge, they raced in only a few wonderful minutes. But suddenly it ended. As they topped the slope, Arthur pulled Comet to a quick stop. “Buggy coming,” he said. “Be quick now. As you were, Infant.”

Going from sidesaddle to astride and back again was a risky operation, but one at which Carly was well practiced. It involved a quick push backward and then a daring leg over while balanced near the horse’s tail. By the time the Hamiltons’ sorrel mare trotted past with Mrs. Hamilton peering out and waving, Carly was seated properly with her skirt and pinafore down below her knees.

In front of Greenwood, Aunt Mehitabel’s big house on the edge of town, Arthur pulled Comet to a stop, reached back for Carly’s hand, and swung her to the ground. The horse was fretting again, wanting to run, and the moment Arthur loosened the reins he leapt forward—and Carly remembered and yelled, “The cookies!”

Arthur pulled up so sharply that Comet reared. His black mane flying, his hooves pawed the air before he came down to dance sideways across the road. Controlling the prancing horse with one hand, Arthur pulled the package of cookies from the saddlebag and tossed them to Carly with a grin. A moment later horse and rider were off toward town in a cloud of dust. Clutching the cookies in both arms, Carly watched and let her mind race with the racing horse.

Arthur of the Pony Express—Arthur the handsome young Pony Express rider on his powerful dark steed pursued by a war party of Indians—Indians everywhere—but they’ll never catch him—not on his wonderful horse—the fastest horse in the whole world.

It wasn’t until the dust cloud had entirely faded away that the dream faded too. Carly sighed deeply, gathered up imaginary reins, and galloped toward Greenwood.

Carly Hartwick, Pony Express rider, galloped through dangerous Indian territory on her beautiful black stallion, her right hand holding the reins while her left clutched the mail pouch against her chest. The mail pouch smelled like molasses cookies.

The smell reminded her of the cookies in her pocket. Pulling her spirited steed to a rearing, prancing stop, she glanced quickly around her. No Indians in sight. She dismounted and tied the reins to a nearby sagebrush—actually one of Woo Ying’s flowering plums, but in Indian territory it would most likely be sagebrush.

Fishing in her pocket, the Pony Express rider found that her food ration for the long dangerous ride had been reduced to crumbs. No doubt struck by the arrow that had grazed her leg. A bad wound, but not fatal. She’d made it. The ride was over and the mail had gone through. Her mission had been accomplished.

She limped, favoring the wounded leg, to the garden bench next to the petunia bed, sat down, and gave her full attention to the contents of her pocket. Nothing but crumbs, all right. She must have bounced on them while Comet was galloping. She sighed. After a moment she pulled her pinafore pocket up to her mouth and stuck her tongue in among the cookie crumbs. Suddenly she was the black stallion, enjoying his nosebag of oats at the Pony Express rest stop. She nickered contentedly and munched molasses-flavored oats.

“You sick, Miss Carly?”

Carly sat up with a start and pulled down her pinafore. It was only Woo Ying. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” she said sternly. “You scared me.”

“Missy sick?” Woo Ying asked again. “Why apron over face?”

Carly giggled. “I’m fine,” she said, brushing cookie crumbs off her chin. “Look. I brought Auntie some cookies.”

Woo Ying took the package and shook it gently. “You make?” he asked, and suddenly his wrinkled face became a mask of terror. “You try poison Woo Ying again?”

Carly laughed. She laughed so hard she choked on cookie crumbs. Woo Ying was always teasing and lately his favorite tease was about the cake she’d baked for him and Aunt M. a few weeks ago. Woo Ying had been down with the lumbago and Aunt M. had been trying to cook, and making a mess of it as usual, so Carly had offered to make a lemon cake. Lemon cake was one of Nellie’s specialties and Carly had watched her make it many times. Hers would have been just as good as Nellie’s, too, if Aunt M. hadn’t been trying to reorganize Woo Ying’s kitchen.

“I didn’t try to poison you, Woo Ying,” Carly was finally able to gasp. “You know I didn’t. It was Aunt M. who put the salt in the sugar bin. It wasn’t my fault.”

“Don’t know.” Woo Ying shook his head slowly, his face a caricature of suspicion. “Think you try poison poor Woo Ying.” Suddenly he stopped playing. “Come on in house now, missy. See poor Auntie.”

A
S THE OLD
man in his soft black slippers shuffled down the brick path through the beautifully tended garden, Carly skipped beside him.

“Poor Auntie?” she asked. “Is Aunt M. sick?”

“No. No sick. Lonely. Aunt M. miss you. Why missy not come Greenwood? School all done. Got lots of time. When missy not come Aunt M. very sad. When Aunt M. sad—very cross. Yell at poor Woo Ying all time.”

Carly giggled. “And you yell right back,” she said. “I’m sorry. Really I am. It’s just been so hot. It’s a long way to walk when it’s so hot. But I’m here now, so don’t be cross.”

Woo Ying glared angrily at her and she giggled again. That terribly fierce scowl had been a joke between them ever since she could remember. Nothing went back farther in her memory than the games she played with Woo Ying. She could even remember when she’d been so small that he put her on a chair beside him while he made dinner, so she could play at cooking. That must have been before her fifth birthday when she was still living at Greenwood.

She knew her fifth birthday had been after she’d gone to live with the rest of the Hartwicks. She would always remember how she had cried on that day because Woo Ying wasn’t there for her cake and presents. She’d always remembered how sad she’d been on that birthday. But the next day had been wonderful. Aunt M. and Woo Ying had come to bring another present. And the present had been the best one Carly had ever received—a fat white puppy with funny brown eyebrows who was fiercely Tigerish even then, when he still walked with a puppy wobble.

Aunt M. was not in the parlor, dining room, or in the library. In the library Carly stopped for a moment to inspect a recently opened book packet on the desk near the windows. Just as she suspected, it was from Sears, Roebuck, and it contained several new Bertha Clay romances. Carly and Aunt M. loved Bertha Clay romances. Aunt M. said that romances were their secret vice, hers and Carly’s—a secret that was not to be shared with such persnickety people as the members of the Santa Luisa Ladies’ Literary Society or, of course, Carly’s father.

“Trash, I know,” Aunt M. said, about Mrs. Clay’s exciting stories. “But harmless enough, and it’s my opinion that one needs a little relief from edification now and again.”

Carly agreed. At least she loved Mrs. Clay’s beautiful romantic heroines and dashing heroes and all their terrible tragic problems followed by comfortably reliable happy endings. She hoped Aunt M. would hurry and read this bunch so she could borrow them. The top book in the packet,
Love’s Chain Broken
, looked fascinating, and Carly was skimming the first page when Woo Ying called her.

“You come, missy? Woo Ying find Auntie M.”

Mehitabel Carlton, Carly’s great-aunt, was working in the greenhouse. Wearing a loose gardening smock over her green dimity, she was watering ferns with a long-necked watering can. Her back was toward them, but when she heard the squeak of the greenhouse door she began to shout without even bothering to turn around. “Where have you been, you lazy Chinaman? I’ve been calling and calling.”

“No hear you call,” Woo Ying shouted back. “Tell Woo Ying work in garden, Woo Ying work in garden. More better stop yelling, old woman. Got company.”

“Company?” Aunt Mehitabel turned quickly. “Carly, you good-for-nothing child. Where have you been?” She held out her arms and Carly ran into them and was enfolded in a violent hug and the combined odors of lavender and household ammonia.

They finished the watering together, with Aunt M. wielding the watering can while Carly and Woo Ying followed along behind—talking. Carly talked and Woo Ying talked and sometimes they both talked at once. Carly told about the picnic on the last day of school and the new batch of ducklings and other news from the ranch house, while Woo Ying pointed out plants that had been forgotten and scolded about others that had been given too much or too little water. Finally Aunt M. shoved the can into his hands. “All right!” she said. “Do it yourself, you tiresome old wretch. Carly and I are going into the parlor. When you’ve finished, you can come in and make us some tea.”

As Aunt M. led her out of the greenhouse, Carly looked back over her shoulder and grinned at Woo Ying. “In the kitchen,” she said to Aunt M. “Let’s have tea in the kitchen.” Having tea in the kitchen was always a lot more fun because Woo Ying would sit down and join them. In any other room of the house he insisted on behaving like a proper servant, standing at attention near the door while they ate and drank.

Woo Ying liked everything to be proper, and he’d always had very definite ideas about what was proper and what wasn’t. But standing at the door like a proper servant had never kept him from shouting and yelling. And since he couldn’t hear too well from across the room, the things he shouted didn’t always make much sense.

“Why say Woo Ying telling lies,” he’d yelled once when Aunt M. was telling about the wonderful fly trap he’d invented. “Woo Ying not ever telling lies.”

“Killing flies, you crazy Chinaman,” Aunt M. had yelled back. “I said you’ve been killing flies.”

Carly had to run to Woo Ying to explain, and then they had all laughed. Carly always laughed at the shouting and yelling at Aunt M.’s, even though some people thought it was disgraceful and embarrassing. Carly had tried once to explain it to her mother, to make Mama understand how there were different kinds of shouting and how the kind that Aunt M. and Woo Ying did wasn’t at all embarrassing. “Do you mean because they don’t really mean it?” Carly’s mother had asked. “Oh, they mean it.” Carly grinned. “They mean it, all right. It just isn’t—serious.” Mama had shaken her head with sad disapproval, and Carly said stubbornly, “Well, I like it, anyway.”

But even more entertaining than the shouting was the conversation when the three of them sat around the kitchen table. Sometimes when they were sitting together Carly could get the two of them to tell about the olden days. There was nothing that she liked better than hearing Aunt M. and Woo Ying talk about the olden days in Santa Luisa, and the even more olden days when Aunt M. was growing up in Maine and Woo Ying in China.