Chapter 10: Thirty-Eight

At twelve-forty on the day of the rodeo, I knelt behind the announcer's stand with a brass key and a prayer.

The barrel racers were in the arena, and every eye in the grandstand was on them.

The tally board stood over my head on its crank frame, twelve feet of painted plywood.

It had a hook for every spring and well in the eight packs.

At the foot of the frame was a small iron box.

The key turned.

Inside lay a stack of tin plates tied together with wire, and each plate was stamped with a year.

All six read SALCIDO NO. 2, and each one carried a true depth of water: 36 FT, 38, 41, 37, 40, and 38 again.

Every year, Ardith Pritchett had measured the well honestly, stamped the true plate, and locked it in this box.

Every year, she had hung a plate that said DRY on the board.

I took the newest plate, 38 FT, and hung it on the hook in front of the plate that said DRY.

I did not take down DRY.

I only put the real number where the whole stadium would see it.

Then I locked the box and tucked the other five plates under my shirt.

I climbed the stairs to Lyle Kimbrough's box with my heart going hard.

My father sat at the rail beside Lyle, hat on his knee.

"Dear girl," Lyle said.

He patted the empty seat on his other side.

"Sit by me, you'll want a view."

I sat.

At one o'clock the barrel racing ended, and the announcer's voice cracked over the speakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the eight packs, the Water Master's report."

The crowd settled.

Ardith Pritchett walked out to the center of the arena in her gray blouse, carrying a long pointer and a microphone.

She was sixty, straight-backed, and she had read this board aloud for thirty years.

"Good afternoon," she said, and the speakers carried it to every bench.

"The springs are well this season."

"The Upper Spring stands at twelve feet," Ardith read, and tapped the board.

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