Marcia Muller is the author of more than twenty novels and several dozen short stories, a number of which have Western themes. She shows her considerable talent in this field in “Sweet Cactus Wine,” one of the few Western stories about pioneer women and how they coped with the myriad problems of the frontier. Her other Western stories, including “The Time of the Wolves,” often feature strong, independent women making their own way in the West. In this wry-humored, ironic, and immensely satisfying story, we meet the widow Katy (or Kathryn, as she prefers to be called), a woman not to be trifled with. When a rejected suitor starts shooting up her cacti, why, she just naturally sets out to do something about it. Something very fitting, indeed …
The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, the way it always does in the Arizona desert. The torrent had burst from a near-cloudless sky, and now it was clear once more, the land nourished. I stood in the doorway of my house, watching the sun touch the stone wall, the old buckboard and the twisted arms of the giant saguaro cacti.
The suddenness of these downpours fascinated me, even though I’d lived in the desert for close to forty years, since the day I’d come here as Joe’s bride in 1866. They’d been good years, not exactly bountiful, but we’d lived here in quiet comfort. Joe had the instinct that helped him bring the crops—melons, corn, beans—from the parched soil, an instinct he shared with the Papago Indians who were our neighbors. I didn’t possess the knack, so now that he was gone I didn’t farm. I did share one gift with the Papagos, however—the ability to make sweet cactus wine from the fruit of the saguaro. That wine was my livelihood now—as well as, I must admit, a source of Saturday-night pleasure—and the giant cacti scattered around the ranch were my fortune.
I went inside to the big rough-hewn table where I’d been shelling peas when the downpour started. The bowl sat there half full, and I eyed the peas with distaste. Funny what age will do to you. For years I’d had an overly hearty appetite. Joe used to say, “Don’t worry, Katy. I like big women.” Lucky for him he did, because I’d carried around enough lard for two such admirers, and I didn’t believe in divorce anyway. Joe’d be surprised if he could see me now, though. I was tall, yes, still tall. But thin. I guess you’d call it gaunt. Food didn’t interest me any more.
I sat down and finished shelling the peas anyway. It was market day in Arroyo, and Hank Gardner, my neighbor five miles down the road, had taken to stopping in for supper on his way home from town. Hank was widowed too. Maybe it was his way of courting. I didn’t know and didn’t care. One man had been enough trouble for me and, anyway, I intended to live out my days on these parched but familiar acres.
Sure enough, right about suppertime Hank rode up on his old bay. He was a lean man, browned and weathered by the sun like folks get in these parts, and he rode stiffly. I watched him dismount, then went and got the whiskey bottle and poured him a tumblerful. If I knew Hank, he’d had a few drinks in town and would be wanting another. And a glassful sure wouldn’t be enough for old Hogsbreath Hank, as he was sometimes called.
He came in and sat at the table like he always did. I stirred the iron pot on the stove and sat down too. Hank was a man of few words, like my Joe had been. I’d heard tales that his drinking and temper had pushed his wife into an early grave. Sara Gardner had died of pneumonia, though, and no man’s temper ever gave that to you.
Tonight Hank seemed different, jumpy. He drummed his fingers on the table and drank his whiskey.
To put him at his ease, I said, “How’re things in town?”
“What?”
“Town. How was it?”
“Same as ever.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Why do you ask?” But he looked kind of furtive.
“No reason,” I said. “Nothing changes out here. I don’t know why I asked.” Then I went to dish up the stew. I set it and some corn bread on the table, poured more whiskey for Hank and a little cactus wine for me. Hank ate steadily and silently. I sort of picked at my food.
After supper I washed up the dishes and joined Hank on the front porch. He still seemed jumpy, but this time I didn’t try to find out why. I just sat there beside him, watching the sun spread its redness over the mountains in the distance. When Hank spoke, I’d almost forgotten he was there.
“Kathryn”—he never called me Katy; only Joe used that name—“Kathryn, I’ve been thinking. It’s time the two of us got married.”
So that was why he had the jitters. I turned to stare. “What put an idea like that into your head?”
He frowned. “It’s natural.”
“Natural?”
“Kathryn, we’re both alone. It’s foolish you living here and me living over there when our ranches sit next to each other. Since Joe went, you haven’t farmed the place. We could live at my house, let this one go, and I’d farm the land for you.”
Did he want me or the ranch? I know passion is supposed to die when you’re in your sixties, and as far as Hank was concerned mine had, but for form’s sake he could at least pretend to some.
“Hank,” I said firmly, “I’ve got no intention of marrying again—or of farming this place.”
“I said I’d farm it for you.”
“If I wanted it farmed, I could hire someone to do it. I wouldn’t need to acquire another husband.”
“We’d be company for one another.”
“We’re company now.”
“What’re you going to do—sit here the rest of your days scratching out a living with your cactus wine?”
“That’s exactly what I plan to do.”
“Kathryn …”
“No.”
“But …”
“No. That’s all.”
Hank’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. I was afraid for a minute that I was going to be treated to a display of his legendary temper, but soon he looked placid as ever. He stood, patting my shoulder.
“You think about it,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow and I want a yes answer.”
I’d think about it, all right. As a matter of fact, as he rode off on the bay I was thinking it was the strangest marriage proposal I’d ever heard of. And there was no way old Hogsbreath was getting any yesses from me.
HE RODE UP again the next evening. I was out gathering cactus fruit. In the springtime, when the desert nights are still cool, the tips of the saguaro branches are covered with waxy white flowers. They’re prettiest in the hours around dawn, and by the time the sun hits its peak, they close. When they die, the purple fruit begins to grow, and now, by midsummer, it was splitting open to show its bright red pulp. That pulp was what I turned into wine.
I stood by my pride and joy—a fifty-foot giant that was probably two hundred years old—and watched Hank come toward me. From his easy gait, I knew he was sure I’d changed my mind about his proposal. Probably figured he was irresistible, the old goat. He had a surprise coming.
“Well, Kathryn,” he said, stopping and folding his arms across his chest, “I’m here for my answer.”
“It’s the same as it was last night. No. I don’t intend to marry again.”
“You’re a foolish woman, Kathryn.”
“That may be. But at least I’m foolish in my own way.”
“What does that mean?”
“If I’m making a mistake, it’ll be one I decide on, not one you decide for me.”
The planes of his face hardened, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. “We’ll see about that.” He turned and strode toward the bay.
I was surprised he had backed down so easy, but relieved. At least he was going.
Hank didn’t get on the horse, however. He fumbled at his saddle scabbard and drew his shotgun. I set down the basket of cactus fruit. Surely he didn’t intend to shoot me!
He turned, shotgun in one hand.
“Don’t be a fool, Hank Gardner.”
He marched toward me. I got ready to run, but he kept going, past me. I whirled, watching. Hank went up to a nearby saguaro, a twenty-five footer. He looked at it, turned, and walked exactly ten paces. Then he turned again, brought up the shotgun, sighted on the cactus, and began to fire. He fired at its base over and over.
I put my hand to my mouth, shutting off a scream.
Hank fired again, and the cactus toppled.
It didn’t fall like a man would if he were shot. It just leaned backwards. Then it gave a sort of sigh and leaned farther and farther. As it leaned it picked up momentum, and when it hit the ground there was an awful thud.
Hank gave the cactus a satisfied nod and marched back toward his horse.
I found my voice, “Hey, you! Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Hank got on the bay. “Cactuses are like people, Kathryn. They can’t do anything for you once they’re dead. Think about it.”
“You bet I’ll think about it! That cactus was valuable to me. You’re going to pay!”
“What happens when there’re no cactuses left?”
“What? What?”
“How’re you going to scratch out a living on this miserable ranch if someone shoots all your cactuses?”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
He smirked at me. “You know, there’s one way cactuses aren’t like people. Nobody ever hung a man for shooting one.”
Then he rode off.
I stood there speechless. Did the bastard plan to shoot up my cacti until I agreed to marry him?
I went over to the saguaro. It lay on its back, oozing water. I nudged it gently with my foot. There were a few round holes in it—entrances to the caves where the Gila woodpeckers lived. From the silence, I guessed the birds hadn’t been inside when the cactus toppled. They’d be mighty surprised when they came back and found their home on the ground.
The woodpeckers were the least of my problems, however. They’d just take up residence in one of the other giants. Trouble was, what if Hank carried out his veiled threat? Then the woodpeckers would run out of nesting places—and I’d run out of fruit to make my wine from.
I went back to the granddaddy of my cacti and picked up the basket. On the porch I set it down and myself in my rocking chair to think. What was I going to do?
I could go to the sheriff in Arroyo, but the idea didn’t please me. For one thing, like Hank had said, there was no law against shooting a cactus. And for another, it was embarrassing to be in this kind of predicament at my age. I could see all the locals lined up at the bar of the saloon, laughing at me. No, I didn’t want to go to Sheriff Daly if I could help it.
So what else? I could shoot Hank, I supposed, but that was even less appealing. Not that he didn’t deserve shooting, but they could hang you for murdering a man, unlike a cactus. And then, while I had a couple of Joe’s old rifles, I’d never been comfortable with them, never really mastered the art of sighting and pulling the trigger. With my luck, I’d miss Hank and kill off yet another cactus.
I sat on the porch for a long time, puzzling and listening to the night sounds of the desert. Finally I gave up and went to bed, hoping the old fool would come to his senses in the morning.
He didn’t, though. Shotgun blasts on the far side of the ranch brought me flying out of the house the next night. By the time I got over there, there was nothing around except a couple of dead cacti. The next night it happened again, and still the next night. The bastard was being cagey, too. I had no way of proving it actually was Hank doing the shooting. Finally I gave up and decided I had no choice but to see Sheriff Daly.
I put on my good dress, fixed my hair, and hitched up my horse to the old buckboard. The trip into Arroyo was hot and dusty, and my stomach lurched at every bump in the road. It’s no fun knowing you’re about to become a laughing-stock. Even if the sheriff sympathized with me, you can bet he and the boys would have a good chuckle afterward.
I drove up Main Street and left the rig at the livery stable. The horse needed shoeing anyway. Then I went down the wooden sidewalk to the sheriff’s office. Naturally, it was closed. The sign said he’d be back at two, and it was only noon now. I got out my list of errands and set off for the feed store, glancing over at the saloon on my way.
Hank was coming out of the saloon. I ducked into the shadow of the covered walkway in front of the bank and watched him, hate rising inside me. He stopped on the sidewalk and waited, and a moment later a stranger joined him. The stranger wore a frock coat and a broad-brimmed black hat. He didn’t dress like anyone from these parts. Hank and the man walked toward the old adobe hotel and shook hands in front of it. Then Hank ambled over to where the bay was tied, and the stranger went inside.
I stood there, frowning. Normally I wouldn’t have been curious about Hank Gardner’s private business, but when a man’s shooting up your cacti you develop an interest in anything he does. I waited until he had ridden off down the street, then crossed and went into the hotel.
Sonny, the clerk, was a friend from way back. His mother and I had run church bazaars together for years, back when I still had the energy for that sort of thing. I went up to him and we exchanged pleasantries.
Then I said, “Sonny, I’ve got a question for you, and I’d just as soon you didn’t mention me asking it to anybody.”
He nodded.
“A man came in here a few minutes ago. Frock coat, black hat.”
“Sure. Mr. Johnson.”
“Who is he?”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t get into town much these days.”
“I guess not. Everybody’s’ talking about him. Mr. Johnson’s a land developer. Here from Phoenix.”
Land developer. I began to smell a rat. A rat named Hank Gardner.
“What’s he doing, buying up the town?”
“Not the town. The countryside. He’s making offers on all the ranches.” Sonny eyed me thoughtfully. “Maybe you better talk to him. You’ve got a fair-sized spread there. You could make good money. In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t been out to see you.”
“So am I, Sonny. So am I. You see him, you tell him I’d like to talk to him.”
“He’s in his room now. I could …”
“No,” I held up my hand. “I’ve got a lot of errands to do. I’ll talk to him later.”
But I didn’t do any errands. Instead I went home to sit in my rocker and think.
THAT NIGHT I didn’t light my kerosene lamp. I kept the house dark and waited at the front door. When the evening shadows had fallen, I heard a rustling sound. A tall figure slipped around the stone wall into the dooryard.
I watched as he approached one of the giant saguaros in the dooryard. He went right up to it, like he had the first one he’d shot, turned and walked exactly ten paces, then blasted away. The cactus toppled, and Hank ran from the yard.
I waited. Let him think I wasn’t home. After about fifteen minutes, I got undressed and went to bed in the dark, but I didn’t rest much. My mind was too busy planning what I had to do.
The next morning I hitched up the buckboard and drove over to Hank’s ranch. He was around back, mending a harness. He started when he saw me. Probably figured I’d come to shoot him. I got down from the buckboard and walked up to him, a sad, defeated look on my face.
“You’re too clever for me, Hank. I should have known it.”
“You ready to stop your foolishness and marry me?”
“Hank,” I lied, “there’s something more to my refusal than just stubbornness.”
He frowned. “Oh?”
“Yes. You see, I promised Joe on his deathbed that I’d never marry again. That promise means something to me.”
“I don’t believe in …”
“Hush. I’ve been thinking, though, about what you said about farming my ranch. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you farm it for me? I’ll move in over here, keep house and feed you. We’re old enough everyone would know there weren’t any shenanigans going on.”
Hank looked thoughtful, pleased even. I’d guessed right; it wasn’t my fair body he was after.
“That might work. But what if one of us died? Then what?”
“I don’t see what you mean.”
“Well, if you died, I’d be left with nothing to show for all that farming. And if I died, my son might come back from Tucson and throw you off the place. Where would you be then?”
“I see.” I looked undecided, fingering a pleat in my skirt. “That is a problem.” I paused. “Say, I think there’s a way around it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. We’ll make wills. I’ll leave you my ranch in mine. You do the same in yours. That way we’d both have something to show for our efforts.”
He nodded, looking foxy. “That’s a good idea, Kathryn. Very good.”
I could tell he was pleased I’d thought of it myself.
“And, Hank, I think we should do it right away. Let’s go into town this afternoon and have the wills drawn up.”
“Fine with me.” He looked even more pleased. “Just let me finish with this harness.”
THE WILL SIGNING, of course, was a real solemn occasion. I even sniffed a little into my handkerchief before I put my signature to the document. The lawyer, Will Jones, was a little surprised by our bequests, but not much. He knew I was alone in the world, and Hank’s son John was known to be more of a ne’er-do-well than his father. Probably Will Jones was glad to see the ranch wouldn’t be going to John.
I had Hank leave me off at my place on his way home. I wanted, I said, to cook him one last supper in my old house before moving to his in the morning. I went about my preparations, humming to myself. Would Hank be able to resist rushing back into town to talk to Johnson, the land developer? Or would he wait a decent interval, say a day?
Hank rode up around sundown. I met him on the porch, twisting my handkerchief in my hands.
“Kathryn, what’s wrong?”
“Hank, I can’t do it.”
“Can’t do what?”
“I can’t leave the place. I can’t leave Joe’s memory. This whole thing’s been a terrible mistake.”
He scowled. “Don’t be foolish. What’s for supper?”
“There isn’t any.”
“What?”
“How could I fix supper with a terrible mistake like this on my mind?”
“Well, you just get in there and fix it. And stop talking this way.”
I shook my head. “No, Hank, I mean it. I can’t move to your place. I can’t let you farm mine. It wouldn’t be right. I want you to go now, and tomorrow I’m going into town to rip up my will.”
“You what?” His eyes narrowed.
“You heard me, Hank.”
He whirled and went toward his horse. “You’ll never learn, will you?”
“What are you going to do?”
“What do you think? Once your damned cactuses are gone, you’ll see the light. Once you can’t make any more of that wine, you’ll be only too glad to pack your bags and come with me.”
“Hank, don’t you dare!”
“I do dare. There won’t be a one of them standing.”
“Please, Hank! At least leave my granddaddy cactus.” I waved at the fifty-foot giant in the outer dooryard. “It’s my favorite. It’s like a child to me.”
Hank grinned evilly. He took the shotgun from the saddle and walked right up to the cactus.
“Say good-bye to your child.”
“Hank! Stop!”
He shouldered the shotgun.
“Say good-bye to it, you foolish woman.”
“Hank, don’t you pull that trigger!”
He pulled it.
Hank blasted at the giant saguaro—one, two, three times. And, like the others, it began to lean.
Unlike the others, though, it didn’t lean backwards. It gave a great sigh and leaned and leaned and leaned forwards. And then it toppled. As it toppled, it picked up momentum. And when it fell on Hank Gardner, it made an awful thud.
I stood quietly on the porch. Hank didn’t move. Finally I went over to him. Dead. Dead as all the cacti he’d murdered.
I contemplated his broken body a bit before I hitched up the buckboard and went to tell Sheriff Daly about the terrible accident. Sure was funny. I’d say, how that cactus toppled forward instead of backward. Almost as if the base had been partly cut through and braced so it would do exactly that.
Of course, the shotgun blasts would have destroyed any traces of the cutting.