12

PATSY WAS GLAD that Jim had elected to stay at the party. Though it disconcerted her a little to see him drunk, she had the notion that drunkenness was good for him. It seemed to her that if he was really going to try and be some kind of artist he probably ought to live a little more wildly than he did. Him getting drunk was fine, but she had no desire to stay around being the responsible wife of a drunken man. She couldn’t imagine anything bad happening to him, or him doing anything bad, and was sure he would wander in in an hour or two, voluble, contrite, and secretly pleased with himself.

She discovered after it was too late that she would have liked to dance more, but the only man there she had wanted to dance with was Mr. Percy, and she was not sure how long he would have held up. She put on her green gown and got in bed to read. They had a bedraggled paperback copy of The Sot-Weed Factor that she had been whimsically picking her way through for weeks. She read a page or two and put it down and went to the book box to dig out Gibbon. They had an old three-volume Modern Library edition that one of Jim’s teachers had given him in high school. Patsy had been reading it intermittently ever since they had married and was almost through Volume II. She dug it out, but after a page or two of it she concluded she was not in a reading mood and got a pen and some paper and began a letter to her friend Emma Horton. Frequently in their letters to each other she and Emma adopted the pretense that they were the heroines of epistolary novels. In their junior year they had both taken a course in the English novel and had read Pamela together. Their letters were usually full of all sorts of sophomoric literary showing-off, and they both enjoyed them immensely. Emma was married to a graduate student in English. She was fat and rather slovenly but very bright and sweet and kind of heart, and she had two children already, both boys.

Dear Em,

I’m too tired to write long sentences. I just got home from a wicked party. Why people sleep with the people they seem to sleep with is beyond me. Why anyone sleeps with anyone is sort of a puzzle, actually.

The party was given by Mr. Sonny Shanks, World’s Champion Cowboy. He’s the one who sat me down on the bed where he had just done it, as you’ll recall. I met his mistress—at least I assume she is. Eleanor Guthrie, who owns the big ranch. Very lovely—she could do much better than him. Jim was stunned and is still there getting smashed. She made me feel underweight. I was the second-most-ogled, though. I met a real screen writer who used real dirty words. It was a very worldly party. There was even a pusher there, very sinister. I think it was William Burroughs.

We’re going to Utah next—god knows how long that will take, or where I’ll be stuck. I’ll be glad when we get back to Houston. We can exchange secrets, if either of us have any by then.

She paused, and was debating whether to go into a description of the Tatums, or the Tatums-to-be, when she heard a car drive up outside. After a moment there was a gentle knock at the door.

“Jim?”

“Me.” It was Shanks’s voice. “Just making a delivery.”

“Oh, okay,” she said. “One minute.” She went to the closet and got her terry-cloth robe, a little surprised that Jim had passed out so soon. Usually when he drank he drank for hours, getting more and more voluble as the night progressed. She belted the robe around her so that as little of her nightgown showed as possible.

But when she opened the door there was no sign of Jim, just Sonny standing there smiling at her cheerfully. He was just as he had been at the beginning of the party, in the red shirt and Levi’s and still barefooted. His heavy black hair was tousled and still a little wet from his swim. He strolled in and looked around the room with interest.

“This is how the pore half lives, ain’t it?” he said. “You-all ain’t poor, what are you doin’ here? I wish I had a dollar for ever crappy little motel room I’ve stayed in.”

Patsy’s heart was pounding. He had walked in so quickly that she couldn’t think. She merely stood where she was, her hand on the doorknob.

“Where’s my husband?” She saw the hearse outside and felt a momentary relief. Jim was probably in it, somewhere.

“He’s probably about ready to fall over in Eleanor’s lap, if he ain’t already. I come right on as soon as you left, but I had to run an errand or two on the way.”

“Please get out,” she said. “I thought you were bringing my husband. I didn’t invite you here.”

Sonny waved a hand at her as if what she said was only a joke between friends. He sat down on the bed, picked up the volume of Gibbon, and looked at it curiously.

“Wonder why I’ve taken to women who read in my old age,” he said. “First forty or fifty I went with couldn’t read the directions on a mousetrap.”

“Would you get off my bed and get out,” Patsy said, anger replacing her fear. She flung the door back so hard that the doorknob made a dent in the cheap plaster, and she stood clenching and unclenching her fists, waiting for him to be gone.

Sonny put the book down, peered for a moment at her letter, which was on the bed, and got up and moved toward the door. Just as she was ready to slam it behind him and start crying, Patsy realized he wasn’t going out. His moves were always surprises—she was never quite up with him. He came right to her, before she realized that was where he was coming, and took her and scooped her off her feet. She stiffened, but his surprises had a kind of paralyzing effect; they all but stopped her heart. Sonny nudged the door shut with his heel and crossed the room and laid Patsy on the bed, taking some care not to mash her letter. The paralysis wore off when he put her down and she began to cry, very confused and expecting instant rape. But Sonny brought a box of Kleenex and kept handing them to her until her crying fit passed and she could see him again. She lay as stiffly as possible, trying to stop her mouth from quivering and her chest from heaving.

“Calm down,” he said. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

“Then what are you doing?” she asked weakly. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you at your own party?”

“Well, you seen what kind of party it was. I mostly got it up hoping you’d come.”

“What do you mean?” she said. “Hoping I’d come. Mrs. Guthrie was there. Why bother me?”

“Miss Guthrie,” he said. “She’s one of those folks that are so rich they don’t change their names when they get married. One reason I ain’t never married her. She don’t want to be named Shanks and I sure ain’t gonna change my name.”

“Oh, anyway,” Patsy said. “It doesn’t affect what I meant. This is all absurd.”

“It ain’t,” Sonny said. “You got looks all your own. I just wanted to get you by yourself a few minutes to see if you might not turn out to like me. If you do, we can sort of take it from there.”

“To hell with that,” Patsy said. “I could have started liking you at the party if I was going to. I’m not going to start liking you now, and I certainly don’t like you barging in on me with some subterfuge and then refusing to leave when I asked you to. I’m married! Don’t cowboys understand marriage at all?”

“Understand what about it?”

“Oh, please, just go away,” she said. “I don’t want to argue with you and it makes me very uncomfortable for you to be sitting on my bed. I’m married, that’s all, and you and I are not going to take anything from anywhere. Just go away. You scare me in here.”

Sonny regarded her with an air of friendly and tolerant amusement.

“Well, that’s a start, anyway,” he said.

“It’s not a start! Don’t twist my words favorably. I’m not going to suddenly stop being scared of you and throw myself in your arms. Just get out. Please get out!”

“How long you been married?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “No conversation. I don’t want to talk to you. If you want to know anything send me a questionnaire and I’ll answer it in detail. I don’t want to talk any more.”

“Well, I just hope I ain’t fallin’ in love with you,” he said with light sarcasm and put his hand on her calf. Patsy rolled off the bed and clenched her fists.

“I knew you’d try something,” she said. “Go back to your party, you stupid slob. I’m going to call the police unless you leave right now.”

But she was not accustomed to men who could really move, and as she turned to go to the phone Sonny caught her and scooped her up in his arms again. His face was a few inches from hers, and the genuinely amused look he had when he came in had been replaced by the hard varnished smile he had worn at the party.

“I hate to be called stupid,” he said. “Specially by young bitches who don’t know up from down. You could learn more from me than you’ll learn from your goddamn books.” The Gibbon had been knocked on the floor and with a single kick Sonny sent it flying across the room. He was holding her so tightly in his arms that she could feel his muscles, as hard and ungiving as wood. With no further ado he carried her to the door, lowered her a bit so he could open it and carried her out.

“I ain’t kidnaping you,” he said. “You ain’t in no danger unless you yell and if you yell I’ll break your goddamn jaw.”

The set of his face and his wooden muscles convinced her that he meant it. She had never been close to real violence in her life and was scared almost breathless. He would certainly hit her if he felt moved to, and the thought was terrifying. He boosted her abruptly into the back end of the hearse and shoved her toward the bed where she had sat once before. Then he climbed in after her and pulled the doors shut.

“Let’s go, Coon,” he said. Patsy looked around and saw that the sullen young cowboy who had been at the party was in the driver’s seat. He looked back at her, still sullen.

“Oh, please, I apologize,” she said. “I’m sorry I called you stupid. Don’t take me anywhere, just let me go back in.”

Sonny seemed to have recovered some of his earlier good humor. He stretched out one leg and propped his foot on the mattress where she sat. “Nope,” he said. “You got to take the consequences of being insulting. That’s Coon Carter driving. Coon, Mrs. Carpenter.”

“Mr. Shanks, please,” Patsy said. “You know you didn’t have any right to be in my room. I apologize again. Please let me go back.”

But Sonny waved Coon on and the hearse pulled out of the courtyard. Patsy looked back sadly at the Ford and tried to straighten her hair. She felt too numb to cry.

“You didn’t even shut the door to my room,” she said. “Suppose people go in and steal us blind? I have things I don’t want stolen. What kind of person are you?”

Sonny reached his bare foot in the direction of her calf, but she avoided it by scooting back on the mattress. She enveloped herself as totally as possible in her bathrobe.

“Where we goin’?” Coon asked. His voice was husky, like the voice of a child just awakened from sleep.

“Oh, the rodeo grounds, I guess. I didn’t have nothing definite in mind. I just thought we ought to get Mrs. Carpenter away from her books for a while.”

Patsy felt she disliked him more than any person she had ever known. He was arrogant and irritating when he was being pleasant, but when he was being unpleasant, even slightly, he was terrifying. She felt she had rather eat a fair amount of crow than risk making him angry again.

“Arizona ain’t got many crooks,” he said. “Nothin’ much’ll get stolen.”

He seemed to derive a great deal of amusement from the way she huddled over her knees clutching her bathrobe. He drew his foot back and rubbed his other shin with it.

“Hurt my toe, kicking that book,” he said.

“I’m glad. This strange farce is all your doing and I’m glad you aren’t going to come out of it completely unscathed.”

“Ain’t the kind of scar I was hoping for,” he said. They passed his motel, the colored waters still spurting high behind the ornamental palms. Soon they were approaching the darkened rodeo grounds.

“Everybody here’s probably asleep,” Sonny said. “Let’s go out in the arena.”

“I find this exceedingly bizarre,” Patsy said.

The young man named Coon got out and opened a gate and got back in and drove them through the entranceway to the arena. He seemed to find it bizarre too, and a little nerve-racking. He cut off his lights and kept glancing at the bleachers. They proceeded slowly out into the arena, lit only by the desert moonlight. The bleachers were dark bulks. Patsy was feeling scared again; her legs were trembling and she hugged her knees to keep them still Sonny was fumbling in the pile of junk, clothes, and equipment that littered one side of the hearse. When they reached the middle of the arena Coon stopped the hearse.

“Turn on the goddamn lights,” Sonny said. “The inside lights. We ain’t botherin’ nobody but Patsy, and we got her too buffaloed to yell.”

“You better be polite,” she said. “I’m not too friendly with you just now and I may yell any second.”

“When you start yelling, that’s when we’ll be leaving,” Sonny said. “Knew I had a piggin’ string here somewhere. This hearse is like Fibber McGee’s closet. Let’s get out and stretch our legs.”

He opened the doors and got out, an old towel and a short piece of rope in his hand. “I don’t want to get out,” Patsy said, still hugging her knees. “This is not my idea of a good place to be this time of night.”

“Aw, come on,” he said. “I don’t want to drag you out. It would just embarrass you and Coon both.”

Patsy changed her mind. He sounded good-tempered, but it was clear he meant for her to get out, and he had handled her twice already, as easily as an experienced mother handles a child that doesn’t want to be diapered. Her best bet was to keep him in a good humor, she decided.

“Okay,” she said. “If you insist, Mr. Shanks.”

She kept the bathrobe tucked about her, and he helped her down. “Just stay in the car, Coon,” he said and walked a few steps away from the hearse and squatted down. “If you’ll just have a seat this won’t take a minute,” he said.

“You’re really out of your mind,” Patsy said. “Have a seat where?”

“Right here on god’s earth,” Sonny said.

Patsy sighed and squatted down a little distance from him, but she was nervous and lost her balance and sat down. When she did Sonny grabbed her ankles, scaring her out of her wits again. She would have screamed if she hadn’t remembered what he had said about breaking her jaw. But Sonny was talking soothingly, as he might to a frightened animal.

“Just take it easy now,” he said. “Not what you think at all.” He crossed her ankles and began to wrap the old towel around them. Patsy was shaking, but she didn’t say anything. She felt quite speechless. When he had wrapped the towel around her ankles he wrapped the short rope around them too, over the towel, pulled it tight, and tied it.

“I brought the towel so you wouldn’t get no rope burn,” he explained.

“Thanks,” Patsy said. She was becoming not quite so scared as it dawned on her that what he had in mind was not ravishment but something in the nature of a crude practical joke. Sitting in the sandy arena made her feel very undignified, but better indignity than a broken jaw.

“Now,” Sonny said, squatting in front of her. “You know what this demonstrates, honey?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” she said in a shaky voice.

“Quit shaking,” he said. “I told you not to be scared. Ain’t nothing more gonna happen. I’m just gonna drive off and leave you here. Probably be the last we’ll see of one another for a while.”

“I must say I hope so,” Patsy said.

Sonny chuckled good-naturedly. “Yeah, I bet you do hope so,” he said. “What it demonstrates is that you can’t never tell what might happen. I bet when you was primping for the party you never thought you’d finish off the evenin’ hogtied in the rodeo pens.”

“No,” Patsy said. “The possibility never occurred to me.” Sonny leaned down and pulled at the knot again and she smelled bourbon on his breath.

“Never occurred to me, neither,” he said. “I was really kinda countin’ on making up to you, if you want to know the truth. We might have had a fling, if we’d gone about things right. But one of us screwed up, don’t matter which one, and now we ain’t never gonna have a fling, I don’t guess.”

“Pity,” she said, tense, wishing he would just go.

“Sure is a pity,” he said. “I could get killed any old year now and that’ll be one beautiful memory won’t neither of us ever have. I’m kinda sweet to girls, when I want to be. And I always figure the more you have, the more you have, you know.”

“I thought you were going,” Patsy said.

Sonny laughed a quick deep laugh. “I am,” he said, and as he stepped past, ruffled her hair playfully.

“If you can’t get that knot untied, just yell,” he said. “Lots of folks sleeping around here. Somebody’ll untie you and see you get home.”

In a moment she heard the hearse’s doors shut and a warm puff of exhaust blew over her, followed by a small cloud of dust as Coon shot the hearse forward too quickly in the loose dirt. It became very quiet, no sound but that of the departing car. Then she heard the clank of the aluminum gate as Coon shut it, and then the sound of the hearse accelerating as it left the grounds. Then no sound at all. If there were animals around they were apparently asleep. Patsy bent forward and discovered to her chagrin that she simply could not untie the rope from around her ankles. She couldn’t see it, to begin with, and Shanks had pulled the knot so hard that the rope felt as hard and tight as iron. She tried to wiggle her feet out, but it didn’t work and just got her gritty. There was nothing to do but yell—only what to yell? It was going to be humiliating to be found like she was. The arena was huge and dark, though the sky overhead was bright with moon. The thought of a sudden noise was frightening, even though she was going to be the one to make it. There might be bulls sleeping nearby, for all she knew. It was both vexing and scary.

“Help,” she said, so hesitantly and quietly that she could barely hear it herself. No answer. “Oh, shit!” she said, feeling like crying. Then, struck with inspiration, she yelled—not “Oh, shit!” but “Oh, hell!” as loudly as she could bring herself to. It was not very loud, but it was adequate. Almost immediately a flashlight began to bob around near the entrance to the arena.

“It’s me,” she yelled, encouraged. “Over here.”

Soon the flashlight began a cautious approach. “Here, here,” she said, to give its owner confidence. It approached to within several yards, flickered nervously over her, and quickly withdrew, to shine incongruously into the dirt several yards away.

“Who-all’s there?” a man’s voice asked.

“Just me,” Patsy said. “Please don’t be scared. I’m a very harmless maiden in distress. A sort of maniac brought me here and tied me up. It would be very Christian of you to untie me.”

The flashlight zeroed in on her again and then came nearer, followed by the man who held it, a young bulldogger from Idaho. His name was Clint Brink and he was accompanied by his properly pajamaed sweetheart, also from Idaho. They had been spending the night in a sleeping bag in one of the bucking chutes.

“I know I’m a surprising sight,” Patsy said, “but don’t worry. I’m not a trap or anything.”

“Goddamn,” the boy said. “How come you to be out here?”

“I doubt I could make it very clear to you. Could you just untie me? Sonny Shanks tied me up more or less on a whim. I believe he’s a well-known cowboy.”

“Oh,” the young man said, as if that made the phenomenon quite comprehensible.

“Hon, I’m scared,” the girl friend said, peeking hostilely at Patsy from over his shoulder.

Clint Brink squatted down at her ankles, very conscious that Patsy’s legs were bare and that his girl was with him. He pointed the flashlight irrelevantly out into the arena and peered through the darkness at the rope.

“Couldn’t you just cut it?” Patsy asked, but as she asked he jerked expertly a time or two and the knot came loose.

“No use ruining a good piggin’ string,” he said, happy to be able to be practical in such a situation.

Patsy got up and straightened her gown and robe, brushing off as much sand as possible. It occurred to her that Pete and Boots must be somewhere around, and when she asked Clint Brink he seemed relieved that she knew them and said they would show her the way to the trailer. His girl hung on to his arm as they walked out of the arena. Patsy kept well back, walking on tiptoe most of the way, worried that she might step on broken glass.

At the chutes the young man courteously pointed her to the trailer and handed her the flashlight. “I’ll get it from Pete,” he said.

She thanked him profusely and he and his girl went back to their sleeping bag, speculating in whispers about it all.

When she got to the trailer it was quite dark and she tapped gently on the door. “Pete,” she said. She had to rap very loudly before he answered.

“Yeah?”

“I’m afraid it’s me. Patsy Carpenter.”

In a minute the inside door opened and Pete appeared behind the screen, holding a sheet bunched in front of him.

“My lord,” he said.

“I’m so sorry. I hate to wake people. I got into a strange predicament and thought maybe you could help me get home.”

“Minute,” he said. “I’ll get dressed.”

“Please don’t wake Boots, if I haven’t already. I’m very embarrassed to be such a bother.”

“Boots ain’t very wakable,” he said and shut the door.

She sat down on the narrow aluminum steps, feeling very foolish and out of place. In a moment the door pressed against her back—it was Pete coming out. He stepped down and stretched, his shirt on but not buttoned.

“I know this is incredible,” she said. “I really don’t fit in the rodeo world.”

“If I was to guess,” he said, “I’d guess all this come about because you went to Sonny’s party.”

“Right. If you understand it or him I’d appreciate an explanation. I went to the party and he followed me home and sort of made a pass. I suppose that’s reasonably clear, but then when I got mad at him he simply carried me off. He didn’t really hurt me, but he tied my feet with some kind of rope and left me out there in the middle of the arena. A young man named Brink untied me. Does that make sense to you?”

“Well, it sounds like Sonny. Hop in the Thunderbird. I’ll run you home.”

She was glad to be in the car, hidden from people. There was an empty beer can on the floorboard under her feet, and she nervously rolled it back and forth with one foot. The inside of the car smelled of beer and leather and dried horse sweat, from the bridles and halters Boots kept in the back. Pete had difficulty fitting himself under the wheel.

“It’s like driving a sardine can,” he said.

“I would get a taxi, if there were a place where I could call one.”

“No, I’ll run you home. Sonny might still be lurking around. Where’s Jim?”

“I left him at the party. I guess that was my mistake.

“Eleanor Guthrie was there,” she added. “That’s why Jim was so eager to stay. What in god’s name does she see in that man?”

Pete shrugged. He was driving slowly, his face still a little puffy from sleep. “Don’t know the lady,” he said. “I guess women see something in him.”

There was a note of flat undisguised sadness in the way he said the last sentence, a sadness so noticeable that it made Patsy look at him more closely than she had. He wore a long-sleeved shirt and had not got one of the sleeves buttoned, so that the cuff hung awkwardly off his wrist. She wished he would button it and had an impulse to reach over and do it for him, but she didn’t.

He glanced at her sharply, as if he had realized he had said too much. Patsy was huddled in the seat in her bathrobe, like a child that was up past her bedtime. Her look was so open that he relaxed a little.

“My first wife seen somethin’ in him,” he said. “That’s the story of me and Sonny, but don’t go spreadin’ it around. She wasn’t no more the type to take to him than you’d think Eleanor Guthrie would be. Even less. Women are hard to tell about.”

He stopped talking, as though to close off a morass of memories that he had floundered in too many times. Patsy was disappointed but didn’t show it. She had begun to feel secure and comfortable and a little lightheaded and would have liked to chatter about Sonny and probe his psychology, but it was clearly not the sort of thing that Pete would enjoy.

“I’m sandy,” she said. “Another thing he did that infuriated me was that he drove off and left the door to our motel room open. I was afraid to blast him for it. He acted as if he might hit me.

“Do you think he would have?” she asked. “I don’t know anything about such men.”

“Sonny? Sure.”

There was no hearse at the motel, and the door to their room was still open. “Please come in a minute, until I see if anything’s gone,” she said.

Pete got out and followed her into the room, but he was nervous. The sight of her made him nervous—the flash of her calves as she went through the door, and the way she tossed her hair back from her face. He didn’t like being susceptible to anyone but Boots and knew that Patsy was someone he would do just as well to avoid.

“The bastard,” she said, going over to pick up the Gibbon. “Now my book’s all crumpled.”

Pete stood awkwardly, just inside the door, watching her as she moved rapidly around the room. She peered vaguely at things, as if to try and remember what should be where.

“It was kind of black humor, you know,” she said, looking with relief at Jim’s pile of cameras. But then she looked at Pete and realized he didn’t know. It was on her tongue to mention novelists’ names, but he wouldn’t know them either and her remark suddenly made her feel shallow and inconsiderate. He had got out of bed to bring her home, and what right had she to go talking over his head?

“I guess I’m still nervous,” she said, peeping in the closet. “This sort of thing doesn’t happen to me every night. In fact, nothing remotely like this has ever happened to me. You don’t suppose he’ll come back, do you?”

“No, he probably went on back to the party,” Pete said. “Might have been someone else there he was interested in.”

“No, just me,” Patsy said and blushed immediately when she realized how vain it sounded.

Pete sighed and moved restlessly in the doorway, neither coming in nor going out. “I guess I could go by and beat hell out of him,” he said.

“What?” Patsy said, very surprised. “What do you mean? There’s no need to do that. He didn’t really hurt me.”

“No, but he’s got it coming,” Pete said. He was clearly on the horns of a dilemma, and his restlessness was beginning to make Patsy uncomfortable.

“Please don’t,” she said. “I don’t like things like that. Fighting. There’s no point in beating him up just because he’s slightly crazy. It’s like those people hitting Jim. Besides, it’s nothing to do with you—”

She stopped, confused. She had been going to remind him that it was not his place, that Jim was the one who would be obliged to defend her honor, if it came to that. But Jim fighting Sonny was inconceivable. Not that he lacked courage—it was just inconceivable. Pete fighting him was conceivable. It was frightening to think of, but it was conceivable. What she knew for certain was that she didn’t want to be involved in it in any way.

“No point tonight, I guess,” he said. “I’m too sleepy and he’s probably pilled up a mile high. I better get home.”

She followed him out and thanked him again, and he turned and rested his elbows on the open door of the Thunderbird for a minute, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

“Poor man,” she said. “You seem to be my guardian angel lately. I’m afraid I’m a very inconvenient person to guard.”

Pete looked up at her. She was standing on the sidewalk, her hands in the pockets of the white bathrobe, with a foot of green nightgown showing underneath it. She looked a little moody, but she did not look like an inconvenient or difficult person to guard. She looked lovely. He told her to be careful, eased back under the wheel, and missed her a little as he drove home.

Patsy showered the grit off herself, feeling very keyed up and wide awake. She had begun to worry a little about Jim and contemplated calling the party, but that would merely announce that she was back again, easy prey. It was not really likely that Jim would come to harm, so she didn’t call. She made sure the door was really locked and turned off the light and pulled the bedsheet up under her chin. It had been an incredible evening. Grown men had looked at her, and that was very unusual. She was used to being ogled at student parties, but grown men were different. Mr. Percy, in his friendly way, had clearly admired her—so had Sonny, although it was strictly a disadvantage to be admired as he admired. And Pete Tatum had looked at her very strangely, particularly as he was about to leave, when he was leaning on the car door. She had no experience at reading looks, but his had made her uncertain. The evening had made her uncertain. She wanted to go away and be by herself. It was all she could do to cope with being wanted by Jim, her own husband. She looked out the window at the pale light on the street, wishing she were in Houston.

In Houston it was clear to everyone that she belonged to Jim. Rodeo people did not seem to see that clearly. Pete saw it, but she could not be sure that he really liked it. Sonny Shanks quite refused to recognize it, as had Ed Boggs. Civilized admiration, such as Mr. Percy had given her, was one thing—it was acceptable, it was even her due for being pretty. But uncivilized or ambiguous admiration was quite disturbing. Lying awake, wide-eyed, it occurred to her for the first time how terrible and complicated life would be if she didn’t belong to Jim—if that simple truth weren’t true, or weren’t all-covering. What if Jim didn’t absolutely and automatically belong to her? What if Eleanor Guthrie wanted him, as Sonny had seemed to want her?

Suddenly she wished very much that Jim were back with her, so she could hold him, touch him, get it all clear again. She felt like crying, from confusion. But she didn’t cry and in time felt better. Perhaps it was only that she was getting older, or getting presence enough that grown men would naturally notice her.

Only the thought of Pete Tatum continued to trouble her. He seemed always vaguely troubled himself, and she could not help wanting to know why. He was really the only interesting person that rodeo had turned up and it was frustrating not to be able to really talk to him. She would have liked to know what made him look the way he did, at once confident and a little melancholy. She would have liked to know about his first wife, and why he had married Boots. But she didn’t expect to. He did not seem like a man who talked much, and there was no reason why he should talk to her about such things.

Jim could talk to her, if he would only come home. They could have talked over the whole evening and gotten it all clear. But Jim didn’t come. Patsy turned for a while, restless, neither unhappy nor content, and then switched on the bed light and got the volume of Gibbon. Its pages were badly wrinkled, but she straightened them as best she could and read until daylight.