THE TRUTH ABOUT CALEB, PART TWO

THE TRUTH ABOUT CALEB Caleb & Belva Confront Love & Sadness

In Part 1 last month Caleb drifted into the tiny desert town of Earhart, Arizona, and started spending time with the widow Belva. Tongues wagged. Who was this man with the sweat-stained hat and palomino-white hair grazing the collar of his long-sleeved blue shirt, the kind prison inmates wore? Friends worried. "Belva. You better sleep with that pistol under your pillow," they warned. "That guy's lookin' for sumpin'." Indeed he was, but Caleb had kept his secret for 50 years. Would he share it now? With Belva?

One September evening, Caleb arrived at her cafe later than usual. A "Closed" sign hung on the door. He knocked. Belva's small apartment was attached to the rear of the building, and it seemed too long before the door opened. "Oh, Caleb. Come in. I'm so glad you're here," she said. "Dog's ailin' somethin' fierce. He's tryin' to lie down by the woodstove. But he can't. Maybe you can help him!" "Sure, Bel." It had been so easy to drop the 'va,' almost as if they'd been friends for years. "You can rub some liniment on his hip for me. Maybe then..."

Caleb followed her inside. He'd had his hair cut, but she didn't notice. Too worried about Dog, he thought. Besides, it was dark inside. She disappeared into the kitchen. "Okay if I turn on a light?" he asked. "Oh, sure. I musta' forgot."

FICTION THE TRUTH ABOUT CALEB

He groped beneath a lampshade and pulled the chain. Light flooded the tiny living quarters, and signs that Belva lived there were everywhere. Paintings of flowers softened the walls. Needlepoint pillows littered the couch. Books, covered in dust, lay everywhere - crammed onto shelves, shoved under chairs, stacked in piles on the floor. Yet she'd never mentioned she liked to read. Then he saw the eyeglasses.

Dozens of pairs cluttered the top of a cedar chest. Mail-order catalogs boasting new styles lay open . . . forgotten. And, on a small wooden table beside an overstuffed chair, black and white photos told the story of a beautiful young woman in bathing suits, evening gowns and rhinestone tiaras. In every pose, her blond hair whirled about her shoulders and fell seductively over one eye.

One picture, framed in tarnished silver, caught his attention. His hands trembled when he picked it up and blew dust from the glass. He held it under the light. The girl was surrounded by a football team, 11 husky young men, helmets under their arms, with "Flagstaff High School" stamped across the front of their uniforms. Kneeling on the ground in front of them all, another young boy clutched the water bucket. He wore a white shirt, dark trousers, and his eyes brimmed with a crush only a 14-year-old can feel for a beauty queen. "Can you believe that was me?" Belva's fingers caressed the frame. "You're sweet. Right after that picture, Andy and I eloped. I wasn't quite 16. That's Andy with his arm around me, and Archie and Leon... Harry... Chuck... and Barney's the one with the dimple in his chin."

Caleb remembered them all, Barney especially, the wrong friend at the wrong time with a gun. "And who's the little guy with the bucket?" he asked.

Belva shook her head. "I guess I never noticed him."

Dog's whimpering grew louder. He turned in circles. And groaned. "Just listen to him, Caleb. Poor baby. Maybe you can lay him on his side and rub this liniment on his hip. You can get down on the floor lots easier than me." She smiled, the same smile that had bewitched them all so many years before.

"You sure he won't mind?"

"Oh no. He likes you, Caleb. He likes you a lot."

Kneeling was torture, a painful reminder of all those years on his knees, praying, doing time in the prison cell. But he got the old dog down and rubbed the medicine in. Finally, the animal closed its eyes. Caleb, pleased at his success, forgot his own discomfort and passed the time reading titles on book covers surrounding him. "I never knew you liked to read so much, Bel."

"I always liked to read. And you know somethin' funny? Nobody believed this dumb blonde could read."

"Now I know what to get you for Christmas," he said, amazed at the liniment's soothing warmth seeping into his own knuckles, deep into prison scars.

Caleb had supper with Belva that night, and they talked about Dog. He would never get well. Caleb knew it. So did Belva. "What am I gonna do when he...?"

"I'll find you another one." He meant it. "A nice little fella you can cuddle on your lap."

"I don't want another dog, Caleb." She

COWGIRL CAMP URBANITES TRADE HIGH HEELS AND AUTOMOBILES FOR BOOTS AND THE BACK OF A HORSE

CHURNED BY HUNDREDS of pounding hooves, the yellow dust cloud billowed across the Sonoron Desert. A dozen dubiously mounted cowgirls struggled to keep the herd of longhorns moving in one unit through clutching tangles of thorny mesquite. Cows bellowed to each other as if in protest of the struggle to keep them moving past perfectly edible vegetation. Three of the novice riders converged on a stray speckled cow and her offspring, harranguing the pair back to the roiling herd with shouts and wide gesticulations. Mickey Runninghorse, the veteran cowboy charged with turning a gaggle of urban escapees into competent cowhands, sat watching silently on his lathered steed. Nodding in approval, Runninghorse flashed a smile to the jubilant women. They cheered, only to startle three more of the cows into the brush. Crestfallen, the cowgirls lurched after the runaways, their loud whoops filling the air as they crashed through the thick desert tangle.

Only the day before, these women had filled the roles of housewives, mothers and corporate executives. Now they were playing out their Western fantasies at Merv Griffin's Wickenburg Inn and Dude Ranch, nestled in the heart of the high Sonoran Desert 70 miles northwest of Phoenix. They came from across the country to spend a weekend at Cowgirl Camp, arriving on a Friday. After unpacking their gear in the resort's hillside casitas, the women trickled down to the stables dressed in their Western finery. Fringed suede jackets complemented designer jeans and silver-tipped cowboy boots. Others-cowboy cognoscenti - were better equipped, sporting tooled chaps and riding gloves. Despite their varying wardrobes, the women shared a common goal: to have a rip-roaring good time.

A one-hour riding lesson before dinner Friday night covered the fundamentals of getting into a saddle and the trick of staying seated.The ranch's wranglers evaluated each woman's riding ability for the intensive work ahead. Laughter and goodnatured chatter moved on to the cookout at the stables and then to the lodge, where the cowgirls began friendships and strutted their stuff while line-dancing.

Divided into three groups so they could get more one-on-one attention, the cowgirls participated in activities staggered over the weekend. The "beige" group united by the color of their bandannas started Saturday morning with a two-hour trail ride. Loping through the desert under the direction of Joann Bennett, a first-class cowgirl from the rodeo circuit, the dudettes got their first taste of desert riding and enjoyed a detailed monologue about the surrounding peaks, plants and wildlife.After an hour-long lunch break, they saddled back up for a cattle drive through the 4,700-acre ranch. Three hours later the group arrived at the stables, diligently herding the cattle into the corral. The women staggered off their horses with sheepish grins and rushed to switch their names from the "trail ride to dinner" signup sheet to the list for the easier hayride.

WHEN YOU GO

Location: Cowgirl Camp, the West's Wildest Women's Weekend, Merv Griffin's Wickenburg Inn and Dude Ranch, Wickenburg, 70 miles northwest of Phoenix.

Getting There: Take State Route 89 north of Wickenburg for 8 miles.

Dates: May 26-28, 2000. Future Cowgirl Camps in fall 2000 to be announced. Reservations required.

Fees: Rates, which vary by season, include two nights' accommodations, meals, horseback riding and all activities.

Additional Information: Toll-free (800) 942-5362.

The Saturday evening cookout welcomed other guests at the ranch. Resident cowboy poet and songwriter Gary Adler entertained by a raging bonfire. Ranch hands served chicken, biscuits, potatoes, corn and cowboy beans. Homemade peach cobbler and freshly brewed coffee finished the hearty meal. Cowgirls moaned - their diets discarded along with curling irons, mascara and nail polish. The final activity of the weekend for all 60 women was a Sunday morning sorting competition in which teams tried to separate cows from the herd according to colored tags on the animals' ears. The first two groups displayed their newfound expertise but eventually lost control of the herd as the cows dodged and lurched in an effort to escape to the other end of the corral. The third group, perhaps learning by example, did better. The winners earned T-shirts for their efforts, and all of the cowgirl camp participants were awarded diplomas for their successful weekend.

Later the women met at the ranch restaurant to reminisce about the lessons learned and the friendships formed before driving down the dirt road that would take them from a rustic paradise back to the hustle of everyday life.

"I have a new respect for Western actors," Pam Ostrowski said as she loaded her dusty bags into her truck. Her friend tilted her face to the sky and whooped loudly in agreement before climbing into the truck to head out.