Miss Shumway Waves A Wand

Myra was sitting with her feet on a chair. Her eyes were closed against the hot sun. She had changed into a simple, well-cut linen frock which fitted her figure like it was painted on her.

“We part at Vera Cruz,” she said without any finality in her voice.

“Do we want to go there?” I asked. “Let’s stay here. You can tell me a story every night and when I want a change you can dance for me.”

“That sounds awfully nice of you,” she said, stretching lazily. “But, I can see no future in it for myself.”

“Don’t you ever get away from your hard veneer?”

She opened her eyes and reached for the coffee. “No. It’s much more than skin deep and it never cracks.” She refilled her cup and then stared across at the mountains that seemed to press in on the town.

“That’s an awful shame,” I said, fumbling for a cigarette. I found I’d used my last Chesterfield and glanced hopefully at her. “You must miss a lot of fun that way, sister.”

She gave me a cigarette from her case. “Oh no,” she said, “I’ve no time for play. I’ve got ambitions.”

“You certainly have,” I said. “But you don’t want to overdo it. What did you say your name was again?”

She laughed, “Myra Shumway,” she returned.

I didn’t need the confirmation. I knew I hadn’t made a mistake, but all the same I was glad to know. Besides, we were getting on a more friendly footing and that was important.

“That’s a beautiful name,” I said.

A small party of Mexican labourers passed, carrying guitars. They crossed the little ruined square and sat down with their backs against the wall of an opposite building. Two of them began to play very softly.

“That’s nice,” Myra said. “Do you think they’ll sing?”

“They will if you ask them to,” I returned. “If you give them some money, God knows what they’ll do.”

While I was speaking, a truck came rumbling into the square, blotting out the thin music of the guitars. As it swept past the hotel, two men slid off the tailboard. A small wizened man and a big fat man.

Myra suddenly pushed back her chair, made to rise, then settled herself again.

“Something bite you?” I asked, watching the two men approach. “We’re going to have company. Americans by the look of them.”

“You ought to go into vaudeville,” Myra returned. Her voice was so acid that I glanced at her, surprised.

“Know ‘em?” I asked, wondering why her face had hardened. This kid could look tough when she was in the mood.

“My best friends,” she returned bitterly. “You’ll love them.” The two men came up to the verandah, mounted the steps and stood over us in silent hostility.

Myra said, “Hello. I’ve been wondering what happened to you?”

“I bet you have,” the fat man said between his teeth.

“This is Mr. Ross Millan,” she went on, waving her hand in my direction. “Doc Ansell and Mr. Samuel Bogle. Mr. Bogle’s the gentleman with the dirty face.”

“Sit down and have an egg,” I said, wondering why these two guys looked like a public disaster.

“I don’t want an egg,” Bogle said, stretching his thick fingers ominously.

“Maybe Mr. Bogle would like a drink?” Myra said, smiling.

“We’re going to have more than a drink,” Bogle returned viciously. “We’re collecting for charity—our own charity.”

“He’s got a very forceful personality, hasn’t he?” I said to Myra.

“Grape nuts for breakfast,” Myra said, shrugging. “You know what it does to some people.”

“Oh sure,” I said. “Perhaps he’d like some now.”

Bogle seemed to draw moss of the air around into his lungs. I took a menacing step forward.

Myra said quickly, “Do sit down and have a drink. It gives me a pain in the neck looking up at you.”

“Yeah?” Bogle said. “You’ll be getting more than a pain—and it won’t be in the neck either—if you don’t hand over my dough.”

Myra looked over at Ansell, “Has he been left out in the sun, do you think?”

Ansell’s small mouth tightened. “That line won’t get you anywhere,” he said firmly, “we want our money!”

I didn’t know what this was all about, but I did feel that two to one seemed pretty long odds.

“Listen fellas,” I said, easing back my chair. “If you can’t be civil, I must ask you to make a noise like an airplane and fly away.”

Bogle’s fists slowly knotted. “Did you hear what that punk said?” He turned slowly on me and pushed his great red face forward. “Open that big trap of yours again and I’ll tear your arm off and beat you to death with it.”

I smiled at him, not making any move. “Couldn’t you beat me to death with something else? The manager of the hotel would probably supply you with something. I don’t think I’d like to lose my arm.”

Ansell intervened just as Bogle got set to hand me one. “Not so fast, Sam,” he said.

“Maybe, this gentleman doesn’t realize the facts.”

Bogle looked suspiciously at me and then at Ansell, “You mean he’s a sucker, too?” he asked.

“Why not? You and I were. He seems quite a respectable person,” Ansell returned.