She glanced into the room that was going to be the bathroom.
If only she could have a bath in a tub full of water—enough water to splash in. She never realized the value of such an everyday thing as water, until she was deprived of it. Charlie wished for running water in the house now as badly as her mother did. The big white porcelain enamel bathtub sat useless and empty, covered with a layer of dust. Nobody used it, because it took too much water. A little tin tub with two inches of water had to serve for baths.
At the breakfast table, Papa looked worried. The serious part of the drouth had begun. There was additional work for everybody because the wind had died down.
“Use as little water as possible,” Dan Carter said. “I’ll keep the gasoline engines going. The still season lasts for most of July and August. Save every drop you can for the stock.”
The men went out to look after the eight windmills in the pastures. Water was as important as food for the drouth-stricken animals. The windmill mechanism had to be greased by hand once a week. Often the rods had to be pulled because of trouble at the bottom of the well three hundred feet below. The rods were in eighteen to twenty foot lengths, screwed together. Sometimes an unexpected “twister” would come and blow the wheel off the tower to the ground. Windmilling was a never-ending job.
Water! Water! was the constant cry through the ranch country. The gaunt wooden windmill became the symbol not only of hope but of fear.
That morning after the men left the house, Grace burst out: “Oh, if I could only go swimming again!”
“Let’s ask Papa to take us to Christoval this summer,” said Charlie. “But I’ll have to get a new bathing suit first.”
“The river’s probably dry,” said Mama.
“No, the South Concho never goes dry,” said Grace. “Maybe Uncle Moe will take us in his Ford truck.”
The children talked of a week’s camping trip they had taken two years before, when their father had taught them how to swim.
“Papa rowed that old boat,” laughed Charlie, “and said, ‘You keep following me. Keep coming, hon, keep coming.’ I was so busy trying to catch up to the boat, I didn’t know I was swimming.”
“We just lived in that river,” said Grace. “Stayed in it all day.”
“We got muddy and dirty and blistered,” said Bones.
“Mama made us take baths under the falls with soap to get the dirty river water off,” said Charlie. “I thought that was awful then, but wouldn’t I like to do it now!”
“We were so starved coming out,” said Grace, “we ate like coyotes.”
“And that man came along with a wagonload of cantaloupes,” laughed Charlie. “Papa bought about a dozen and oh! what a feast we had.”
“Yum, yum!” said Grace. “I could eat one now.”
Their voices fell silent, as they remembered their former happiness.
Mrs. Carter had gone out on the back porch, and stood there, her back turned toward the children. Grace ran and put her arms about her.
“Don’t cry, Mama,” she said. “It’s sure to rain some day.”
“Every year I plant pecan trees,” said Mama, “and every year I see them die. There’s never any water for my trees. The stock always has to have it—every drop.”
“Who cares about trees, when the cows are bawling for water?” cried Charlie. Then, seeing her mother’s stricken face, she said fiercely, “It’s not that we need rain. We just got to have it.”
That afternoon in the water lot, Charlie met Homer Barton. She had not seen him since he ruined her saddle. Now all her former anger surged back. Her father had not fired him—he was walking across the lot as if he owned the place. There was his black horse as big as life. To her surprise, Homer was not cross at all. He looked at her still-bandaged hands and asked her what was the matter. She did not tell him, of course. She would never admit to mean old Homer that she had let a rifle discharge in her hands.
Homer broke the awkward silence. “Promise me you won’t tell, kiddo.”
“Won’t tell what?” She was alert and ready for him now.
“That you brought me home and I held on while Gypsy loped.”
“I’m tellin’ the whole world!” said Charlie gleefully. “You cut off my saddle strings and I hate you for it. So I’m tellin’ the whole world.”
Homer flushed. “What did you go tell for? Who-all you been tellin’?”
“Oh, just Gus and Bud and Uncle Moe and Jake Duffy and Sam Reed and Tex McCloud and McKeever brothers and the whole world, that’s all.”
“Yeah, that’s enough,” said Homer. “They all know it. Everybody in the county knows it, and they don’t let me forget it either.”
Charlie smiled. She was enjoying her revenge.
“Charlie,”—Homer had dropped the “kiddo” now—“Charlie, is there anything you want? A new saddle with all the strings left on it?”
“No, thank you,” said the girl. “I like mine, just as it is.”
“I’ll give you…I’ll give you a five-dollar bill, Charlie,” coaxed Homer, “if you’ll stop talkin’ about it.”
“Don’t want your old money!” Charlie called back over her shoulder. She smiled. She felt almost sorry for mean old Homer. It was nice to have him eating out of her hand. She gloated over her victory, not dreaming how soon she would forget it in the face of sterner realities. She went to help her father at the windmill by the dirt tank. Dan Carter crawled up on the tower as nimble as a cat.
“Don’t you need Gus to help you, Papa?” called Charlie.
“No,” he answered. “I can do it without Gus.”
“Can’t I climb up and bring you a wrench?” begged Charlie.
“No, hon, you go and bring Old Clabber over,” said her father. “I’ll need the horse to help me pull these rods.”
Charlie had scarcely turned her back when it happened. Her father was disconnecting the pumping rods when his wrench slipped. The next minute he fell, and in falling, he reached out, lunging at a cross bar of the tower. Coming down feet first, he caught the bar with one arm to break his fall.
Charlie did not know whether she heard his fall, or only sensed it. She turned and saw him hanging there, and then as he lost his hold and tumbled to the ground, her whole world crashed to pieces with him. She could not run fast enough, but when she reached him, Homer Barton was there already.
“You get out!” she glared at Homer. “Don’t you dare touch my father!”
“Get out yourself, Charlie Carter!” ordered Homer Barton. “Maybe I can help him. Go call your mother and tell Grace to telephone for the doctor—quick!”
Instead of bossing Homer, Charlie found herself minding him.
After Mama ran out and Grace started telephoning, Charlie wondered what to do next. Hearing the creak of wagon wheels and Ringo’s loud barking, she looked and saw a wagon coming across Little Pasture. It was Jake Duffy with a load of “bundle feed,” to be used for the milk cows and saddle horses. Jake’s kaffir corn, stunted and dry, had been harvested, and Dan Carter bought the entire crop to help the nester along.
“Jake! Jake!” cried Charlie, running out.
“What’s up, Hoot Owl?” answered Jake. “Ain’t you never gonna be a lady and take time to walk?”
“Oh, Jake! Jake! Papa fell off the tower!” screamed the girl, pointing toward the windmill.
“That so?” Jake Duffy jumped from the wagon and ran.
He and Homer carried the hurt man into the house. Jake undressed and examined him, while Homer helped Grace get the other parties off the line, to get the call through to the doctor. The doctor promised to come, but they knew it would be several hours before he could get there.
“His shoulder’s out of place, I think, ma’am,” said Jake to Mrs. Carter, “but I don’t think there’s any other broken bones—just bruises. Course I ain’t no doctor. Homer and I will go and pull those rods and get your water pumping.”
“Thank you, Mr. Duffy,” said Mrs. Carter. “You hav
e been a real help.”
Charlie sat by her father’s bedside, hunched over with fear. She was the first one to see when his eyes opened and he regained consciousness. “Hello, pardner!” he said.
“The doctor will soon be here,” whispered Charlie. “You better not talk till he comes. You’re all busted up.”
“What happened, hon?” asked the man.
“You fell off,” said Charlie.
“Not as smart as Gus,” mumbled Dan Carter. His eyes closed as pain overtook him.
It was a long time before he opened them again. As she watched the still figure, Charlie tried to think it wasn’t true. This terrible thing could not have happened. Her father was young, strong and capable. He could do everything better than anybody else. He could not fall from a windmill tower.
But the still figure on the bed belied her thoughts.
She tried to think of more pleasant things. The pleasantest thing in the world was rain—when it was needed so badly. But she could not promise him that, not unless a few clouds appeared. Then she remembered the Christoval camping trip. Yes, that was a happy thought to dream about. Grace said the South Concho River never ran dry. As soon as Papa got well again, they would go and stay for a week. They would swim and take baths under the falls.
When Papa woke up again, she would tell him that. He would whisper, “Yes, we’ll go.” He would be happy in the thought of going all the time he had to stay in bed to get well.
“I’ll have to have a new bathing suit,” said Charlie to herself, “but not a six-bit one.” She pondered for a long time—how could she get it?
When the doctor got there at last, he sent Charlie out of the room. As she went through the kitchen, she asked Grace, “Where’s Homer?”
“Out helping Jake fix the windmill,” said her sister.
“Charlotte, take these buckets and get me some water,” called her mother.
“Where’s Bones?” growled Charlie. “He’s supposed to pack water and wood. That’s not my work.” But she picked up the buckets and went on.
Accidents like this should not happen, especially to a nice man like her father. Charlie felt irritated and exasperated now. Why did this have to happen to spoil everything?
When she reached the windmill, she saw Homer Barton sitting on top of the fence, whittling lazily on a stick. Nothing else was happening.
“Is that the way you pull rods, Homer Barton?” demanded Charlie.
“Not exactly,” said Homer. “We struck a snag, or Jake did. He took his wagon and went back to his place to get something…some part or other…”
“Don’t you know what he went for?” asked Charlie. “Was it a windmill leather or a sucker rod?”
“Heck! How should I know?” answered Homer. “I’m not a windmill expert.”
“What do you know, anyhow?” asked the girl.
“Oh, horses and cows and…” he chuckled, “saddles.”
But Charlie did not laugh. “Get me some water,” she said.
“No water,” said Homer. “The house storage tank is empty. No water till Jake comes back. He said he’d bring over a couple of barrels of water from his well for your mother—in case we don’t get the pump going tonight.”
“You won’t get it pumping tonight?” cried Charlie. “Why, Papa keeps it going all day and all night. The dirt tank will get empty and then what will the cows drink?”
“The cows can wait,” said Homer. “We’ll get it fixed in a couple of days maybe.’’
“You’ll let the cows go thirsty for a couple of days?” cried Charlie.
“Keep your shirt on, kiddo!” replied Homer. “Leave it to us. You got a couple of men here, takin’ care of things while your father’s laid up.”
“Men? Did you say MEN?” scoffed Charlie.
“You just leave everything to us fellers who know how,” said Homer.
“Who don’t know how, you mean,” said the girl. “You and Jake—you’re a pretty pair. Why, Papa and I would have had that pump going hours ago, if he hadn’t slipped and …”
“But he fell,” said Homer, getting angry now. “Who are you to be bossin’ us men, I’d like to know. You want us to walk out and go home?”
For once, Charlie stopped to think. Jake and Homer were two poor specimens, but she knew the family must depend upon them. Gus and Bud had all they could take care of without added duties. The dirt tank was getting lower by the minute. Somebody had to do something. So she said nothing more.
She sat down under the fig tree beside the storage tank and waited. Then she asked: “Homer, did you mean it, when you offered me five dollars to keep my mouth shut?”
“Yes, I meant it,” said Homer. “But you’ve got to promise to stop talking. You are never to mention that…er, that little loping incident…to anybody again as long as you live.”
“I promise,” said Charlie, glibly. “Where’s the money?”
Homer dug into the back pocket of his levis and pulled out a roll of bills. He peeled off a fiver. “Got to have a better promise than that.”
“Hope to die if I ever tell,” snapped Charlie.
“That’s better,” said Homer. He held out the five-dollar bill and she took it.
Clutching it tightly in her hand, she ran swiftly to the house. She never once looked back at Homer or thought of thanking him.
“Greedy little fiend!” exclaimed Homer, frowning.
CHAPTER X
The Beautiful Bathing Suit
“IT’S FORM-FITTING,” BOASTED Charlie. “Wool jersey, gray with pink trimmings. And just see all the pretty buttons.”
Charlie was proud of her new bathing suit, but Mrs. Carter disapproved.
“It’s not suitable for a child of your age at all,” she said. “Did Rob McKeever sell it to you? You should have waited until Aunt Eleanor goes to San Angelo.”
“Aunt Eleanor’s too busy getting ready for Genevieve’s birthday party,” said Charlie. “I made up my mind I didn’t want a six-bit bathing suit this time. I wanted an expensive one.”
Mrs. Carter looked up from her sewing. Grace stopped the sewing-machine and looked too.
“What did you pay for it, Charlotte?” asked Mrs. Carter.
“Five dollars,” bragged Charlie. “It was a bargain—reduced from seven ninety-five because of the drouth.”
“Did Papa give you that much money to spend for a bathing suit?” demanded Grace. “You could have made one out of a feed-sack that would be good enough for that dirty river water. Why Mama, that’s more than we paid for this dotted-swiss for my party dress.”
“Who wants to go to Genevieve’s old birthday party?” cried Charlie. “I’d rather go to a dog-fight.”
“You are not invited,” said Grace with a lofty air. “I’m going to town and stay two nights at Aunt Eleanor’s. I’ll be there for the party, and have a good vacation too. Won’t that be nice?”
“Vacation, bah!” snorted Charlie. “You couldn’t pay me to leave the ranch for three days and two nights.”
But Mrs. Carter was not easily sidetracked. “Did Papa give you the money for it, daughter?” she asked quietly.
“Why…er, no…” stammered Charlie.
“It was Bud Whitaker then,” said her mother. “Did you bribe him to take you to town and ask him for the money? Daughter, I’m ashamed. You know the cowboys don’t make much and Papa owes them money.”
“No ma’m,” said Charlie. “I never even asked Bud.”
“He just gave it to you, I suppose,” laughed Grace.
“He didn’t either,” snapped Charlie. “That’s all you know about it, smarty.”
“I bet she charged it at McKeever’s,” said Grace.
“Charlotte Clarissa,” said Mrs. Carter sternly, “where did you get that money?”
Charlie knew she could go only so far with her mother. “Why…er…well, if you have to know…it was Homer Barton who gave it to me.”
“Homer Barton!” cried Mrs. Carter in astonishment. “Why sho
uld Homer give you money?”
Charlie shrugged her shoulders. “Because he wanted to,” she said. Then she closed her lips tightly and refused to explain. No amount of coaxing or threatening brought more words out of her.
“Charlotte Clarissa,” said Mrs. Carter sternly, “you cannot take money from any of the cowboys for any purpose. You must return that money to Homer the next time you see him.”
“I can’t!” said Charlie. “I can’t.”
“There will be no running to your father this time,” said her mother. “Fortunately he is not here to hear about it, but getting a good rest at headquarters with Uncle Moe. He is to be spared all worry until he is well again. You must give the money back to Homer.”
“How can I?” asked Charlie. “I’ve spent it. It’s gone.”
“You will return the bathing suit and get the money back,” said Mrs. Carter.
Charlie hugged the garment tightly in her arms. “I can’t do it, Mama. It’s the nicest bathing suit in the world. It’s form-fitting—it says so on the tag. If I earn the money to pay Homer back, can I keep it?”
“Don’t let her, Mama,” put in Grace. “She can learn how to sew and make herself a feed-sack suit.”
“Huh!” sniffed Charlie. “I hate to sew. I utterly hate and despise it. If you don’t keep still, Grace Carter, I’ll knock you into the middle of next week. You like to make old party dresses with ruffles, you like to go to silly little Genevieve’s birthday party, but I don’t. I don’t care if she’s fourteen years old or a hundred. I hate ladylike girls. Nobody’s going to make a lady out of me.”
“That will do, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Carter. “You needn’t shout so. Keep your voice down.”
“I have to have my bathing suit for our camping trip, Mama,” Charlie went on. “Papa promised to take us. If I keep my bathing suit, it is sure to rain. I can earn the money easy.”
“You are to return the bathing suit,” said Mrs. Carter coldly. “There is no way for you to earn any money.”