Outside the log buildings he saw clusters of trucks and trailers set up on the shady side, with families hanging around gossipping while they groomed horses. A few children were working out ponies beside the ring. Awkwardly, he climbed up a few levels into the ricketty stands, along with the kids and old men, and sat down to watch.
That afternoon he saw Ruth twice. The first time was in the dress-up class. There she was, clowning high up on a very tall, grey horse, riding barebacked. She was actually dressed in red pyjamas and her horse was stuffed into an oversized pyjama top. On the horse’s head, complete with ears sticking through holes, was a battered straw hat decorated with a plastic daisies. Egged on by the enthusiastic applause, the girl waved mockingly to the crowd and flipped her long legs so she was mounted facing backwards on the horse. Riding like that, she took her ungainly but willing horse round the ring once, then she spun right way around again and had her rear up like a fancy horse. When her ribbon was awarded, she bowed extravagantly to the judges and crowd, pinned it to the horse’s hat and rode off out of sight.
The time passed better than Peter had expected. The high point was two teams of riders, dressed as cowboys and Indians, who rode wildly round the ring in some sort of competition, with tight turns, and much skidding, yelling and brandishing of hats. In between competitions and small auctions, earnest children put their horses over small jumps, looking intensely pleased with their successes. Eventualy, the action seemed to be ending. A few very small children were being paraded around the ring on fat ponies by important-looking brothers and sisters, but no more classes were announced. Peter was about to leave when, after struggling with a loud squealing and coughing from the sound system, the announcer came back on. “We’re about all done, now, ladies and gentlemen. Just one thing more, if I can have your attention, please. You’re not going to want to miss this. We’ve got a cup here, and, what’s more, folks “ he sounded exaggeratedly impressed, “the winner gets to take the horse. Yep. That’s right. Take Pawnee once around the ring and he’s yours.”
“Hey come on, Jason,” a man in chaps yelled out through cupped hands, “Who would want him? That horse is only here because there ain’t nobody can handle him.”A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. Right in front of him, Peter saw a handsome but terrified chestnut brown horse with a shapely head, being more dragged than lead through the gate into the ring. A foreign-sort of horse, Peter thought. Not that he would know anything about it. Sitting down again, he watched a couple of young lads, and one tough older man try without success to stay mounted on the agitated horse. The animal’s eyes were alarmingly wild and he was tossing his mane wildly, snorting, and shaking flecks of foam. “Any more takers?” asked the announcer, sounding snide. And then there was Ruth again, walking coolly up in the late afternoon sunshine, with her cowboy walk. This time she was dressed in dusty, faded jeans and was bareheaded, but she had a red scarf twisted around her throat.
“Oh, oh. Look. Here comes Ruth. Ruth Bénard. If anyone can handle that Arabian, she will,” he heard a man behind him say to him neighbour. “Yep. She’s John’s daughter for sure. I don’t believe there’s anything she can’t ride. Though what she’d want with a piece of high-strung horseflesh like that, I couldn’t tell you.”
Ruth walked steadfastly up to the horse and laid her hand where his throat met his chest. It was as if she was telling him that she was sorry for the noisy crowd and his humiliation. Then she slipped her hand up the trembling neck, stroked what she could reach of his mane, and slid her hand gently down his muzzle. There was a sureness to the girl. After that, there was a waiting, a studying between Ruth and the horse. Then she slipped the stirrups down, touched the horse’s flank again, and let herself be flipped lightly up into the saddle by one of the attendants. There she sat, all leg, calmly shading her eyes, staring across the ring. Then, she leaned back a little in the saddle and gave the lightest nudge, as if, in her mind at least, there never was a doubt of his cooperation. The crowd was silent now. And they were off at a trot around the ring, with Pawnee half-stumbling at first, with small rearings and snortings of protest. But they made it. Before she would quit, Ruth rode the chestnut horse in a stiff-legged, prancing walk around the ring once more, and then, more smoothly, once again. Even Peter could see the quality of the animal then, and the way the girl fitted with him. After that, she sat a moment, just touching the horse affectionately on his neck. Then she swung lightly off, standing proudly by him, holding the bridle. There was a spontaneous burst of of applause, to which she dipped her head in acknowledgement. A cowboy hat was placed on her head. A small cup was presented. And then she walked away off the field, leading her horse.
He never let on to her, but Peter thought that she was the bravest girl he had ever seen. She had none of the ways he expected from the girls at home. She was as forthright as a man. Looked you straight in the eyes like one too. And the reason he knew this? For want of a better thing to do he stayed for the turkey supper, thinking that it would probably better than what he’d get at Mrs. Wesson’s on a Saturday night. The girl wasn’t there. Likely she had to go wait table again back at the boarding house. After a memorable spread of turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy, three kinds of pickles, beets, peas, and apple sauce, followed by two slices of pie, apple and cherry, from a table of many kinds, he was thinking of leaving when there was a rustle of excitement. The women started clearing up, yanking off the paper tablecloths, scraping plates and stacking tables. Standing aloof by the wall, he watched the band setting up on the platform. There were just a fiddler, a couple of guitarists, and someone on a keyboard, old men, they were, accompanied by a young, but determined, boy on drums.
Before long, in came Ruth with a bunch of other girls, dressed in a fascinating slinky green dress that clung around her narrow hips, and set off her long, loose black hair. Even Ruth, the sober one, was laughing and chattering with the others. “I was dancing with my darlin’ to the Tennessee Waltz…” One of the locals stepped up awkwardly and asked Ruth to dance. She started off with him, doing an exaggerated waltz, but Peter could tell she didn’t much care for him from the distance she kept. Livening the crowd up, the men began switching from tune to tune The Green Green Grass of Home, he heard, followed by The Yellow Rose of Texas, and even an odd version of Jumpin’ Jack Flash. And there it was again. That surprising, unexpected giving of herself, this time to the music. Unlike the other girls who danced carefully, keeping their eyes on their partners, this one kept straying off to dance by herself, falling with an odd, coltish abandon into steps that didn’t look like any dancing he’d ever seen, yet she was utterly charming.
After intermission, everyone formed up squares and now he found himself swept in to complete a set. Although he’d no idea how to manoeuvre around, he found himself pushed through the routines until he found himself with his arm around Ruth’s waist, swinging her round the set. After that, she took care of him, setting him straight when he blundered, her hands tapped his shoulder lightly to steer him back into the “all hands round”. When the music ended at last with a vigourous thumping of drums and stamping of feet, he held onto her slim brown hand and led her away from the crowd, not wanting to lose her. |  | |
