Water for Dusty Bend

The bell on the schoolhouse roof rasped once, and a flock of kids burst through the open door like quail flushed from mesquite. June Mercer followed them out with chalk still dusting her fingers. Heat wavered in the street, rolling up from the packed earth and plank sidewalks. Leather squeaked where a team waited near the water trough, ears flicking at flies. The trough was low again. Everything in Dusty Bend seemed low on water these days.

“Ma’am, you reckon we’ll get arithmetic Monday?” Little Abe asked, turning his hat in both hands.

“If your cheeks aren’t crammed with taffy from Rosie’s,” June said. She leaned down and pinched his hat brim, and he grinned through a gap where a tooth should be. “Run along now.”

She held the door a moment longer, letting the last two girls pass. Their braids were tight and shiny; they smelled of soap and dust. Inside, the slate board showed her careful letters, a sentence about cottonwoods and sky. She wiped it clean with the rag and set the eraser in place, then took up her worn bag and stepped into the glare.

The street was a ribbon of shade to shade: eave to eave, porch to porch. Across from the schoolhouse the Copper Spur’s batwing doors pushed open and a pair of Ridge riders drifted out, spurs chiming. They were Crowe’s men. You could tell from the matching black hats, too stiff for ranch work, and from how they looked through people, not at them. June kept her gaze sliding off them as she crossed to the doctor’s. The town doctor had asked for help with the weekly supplies.

“June,” Dr. Mae Hawthorn called, lifting a crate down from the stage. She was tall and fifty and moved fast. “Careful, that’s glass.”

June took the weight and kissed the air near Mae’s cheek. “What’d you get?”

“Quinine, three rolls of bandage, and a box of needles that cost more than gold, mark my words. How was school?”

“Samuel tried to hide a jackrabbit under his desk.” June smiled despite herself. “He claimed it was a lesson in biology.”

Mae snorted. “That boy’s a lesson in trouble.” Her eyes flicked over June’s shoulder. “Don’t look, but Crowe’s new foreman is watching the street like it’s his barn.”

“I saw,” June said. “They’ve been thicker than flies.”

A dry wind shoved grains of grit against her ankles. Far off, the low ridge beyond town shimmered, the color of ash. Somewhere beyond it, Cedar Creek twisted through cottonwoods and cutbanks, and from it a dozen little draws fed troughs like the one near their boots. June felt the ache in her throat worsen just thinking of water she couldn’t see.

“Take the small crate,” Mae said. “Your brother at home?”

“Tommy’s fixing the roof shingles. Or supposed to be.” June’s mouth tilted. “If you see him, remind him I’ll check.” She tipped her chin toward the Spur. “If they bring trouble, send for me.”

“I always do,” Mae said softly.

June shifted the crate and walked. The porch boards under her feet were sun-hot. Storefront signs peeled at the corners: General Goods, Blacksmith, Barber. A buckboard rattled past with sacks of flour and a shouting driver. She stepped aside, eyes stinging at the dust, and paused where the shade was thickest. Her father’s old watch sat heavy in her pocket, its chain a dull gleam. She checked it out of habit, more comfort than time. The second hand chattered along in small, stubborn clicks.

At the Mercers’ small house near the edge of town, a bent picket sagged where Tommy had promised to mend it. The cottonwoods by the gate whispered without much to say. She set the crate on the table and found him on the roof, tapping out a tune with a hammer.

“You think nails drive better to a rhythm?” she called up.

He grinned down. “I think you always hear me slacking no matter what I do.”

“Not wrong.” She shaded her eyes. “Come wash up. Help me with supper, and I’ll tell you why Samuel has a jackrabbit’s soul.”