by Alan Lemay
Polly Collins's eyes blazed. "1 don't believe it!"
"You don't believe what?"
"No such thing could happen," Polly said furiously. "Lee never quit in his life ...he couldn't quit, he doesn't know how...not if they killed him!"
"Don't take my word for it, honey. Take a look!"
"I will take a look. And he'll show you you're wrong! Lee...."
"All right, honey, all right." Kate stood up and stretched. "They'll be drawing for their bosses pretty soon here. You feel good enough to come see them draw?"
Polly snapped to her feet. "You bet your life I'm coming to see them draw. And I'm praying to heaven that Lee Macklin gets a good tough horse. If he does, you'll see him make fools of them all!"
Rowdy Kate sighed and looked sad. "All right, honey."
At Las Cruces the rodeo runs three days. The broncho men draw for their qualifying horses at midnight, on the eve of the first day. Polly Collins had taken part in such midnight drawings over and over again, but not even the first drawing she had ever made had seemed more important to her than this drawing tonight, as she waited to see what horse would fall to Lee Macklin. On this horse he would make the first ride she had seen him make in a year.
The forty or fifty crack contest hands lounged about the big room in disorderly bunches. Polly Collins glanced over them, her eyes avoiding those which always sought her face. She located Lee Macklin, standing against the wall, talking to Bob Kennedy. After that, she prevented herself from looking at him again.
Jake Hutchinson, his big leather-seamed face genially ugly, got up to sit sideways on the edge of a table and shout at the buckaroos: "Hey, listen, you bronc' fighters! The Matagordas buckskin is off the contest list. Some of you seen him kill Dutch Iverson here last year. Matagordas ain't been in a chute since. But there's twenty-five bucks extra for anybody that wants to ride him for a special exhibition!"
For a moment a touch of cool chill took Polly Collins's mind away from the reason she was there. Dutch Iverson had turned and grinned at her just before Matagordas had bawled and come out, beginning Iverson's last ride. The buckskin was a killer, a tromper. It had been a terrible thing to see Dutch die under the crazed beast's hoofs. Though it was partly co incidence that she had not ridden since, the death of Dutch had been the last straw, the last word in her case against broncho riding as a profession.
She forgot that, though, as the drawing began. By twos and threes the broncho twisters slouched up to Jake Hutchinson's table to draw from the hat. Polly waited, hardly patient. She was hoping with all her heart that Lee Macklin would get a horse that no one else could ride, a horse on which he could show them all. Perhaps there was desperation in that hope, she so wanted to believe that what she had heard was not true.
Because he had entered late, Lee Macklin drew almost the last of all, but he finally strolled forward. For a moment or two, when Lee had drawn, there was a confused muddle around Jake's table, so that she called out to Jake: "Is this a private drawing? Sing out, will you!"
"Lee Macklin draws Black Powder!"
A fierce thrill momentarily possessed Polly Collins. The same thrill she had always known whenever she had watched Lee draw a hard-fighting horse - one that could win for him.
The new horse, Black Powder, had been ridden only once this season - and it was his first season. And it was Black Powder that had bucked down Lee Macklin himself at Tucson. Not everyone would have wanted Black Powder, but Lee Macklin would want him. She knew he would want him!
And then - she saw Lee Macklin quit. Casually, without expression, as he might have thrown in a poker hand, he turned in his slip and withdrew from the contest.
From the back of the room, near the door, Polly stared at him, but he did not meet her eye, and she could not read his face. Then she got out of there, and made her way back to the hotel through the ruin of a world.
She found Rowdy Kate Hutchinson in their room.
"Kate!...it's true! He has gone yellow! He drew Black Powder, and he folded up and quit like... like...."
"Uh-huh ...1 know. Poor child! Don't stand there staring like you was out on your feet. Sit down!" Kate forcibly removed Polly from her position against the wall and planted her in a chair. "Gosh, child, 1 never realized you was so plumb batty. Why, you must actually love that guy!"
"1 suppose. ..I'll always love him."
"Well, he was certainly nuts about you. How come you to get split up so?"
"1 don't know, Kate. I...1 wanted him to quit broncho riding. I didn't see any future in it. 1 wanted him to make something of himself"
"And he allowed he'd decide them things himself?"
"It kind of seemed that way. But 1 think now...Kate, 1 think he would have quit the contests in a second, knowing the way 1 felt."
"Then why didn't he?"
"I didn't understand it then. But 1 think now that he just felt that was a commercial kind of thing for me to be specifying, in a love affair. 1 know that he would have wanted me, even if 1 insisted on spending my life as. ..as a sheep shearer. And 1 think it kind of hurt him that 1 didn't seem to feel the same way about him. And then I got stubborn."
"Well, it's too bad. But he's sure proved you was right."
"But to see him fold up and quit ...Kate, it seems like it's more than 1 can bear."
Kate snorted cigarette smoke. "Well, it's over with now. There's nothing you can do, and you might as well...."
"No, it isn't over with. 1 can snap him out of it yet. I'll snap him out of it if it's the last...."
"And how," said Kate cynically, "is this to be done?"
"I'll show you how it's to be done! I'll do it, and you'll help me. Kate, I'm going to ride Black Powder!"
Kate stared at her without comprehension. "Who, you? When is this? You can't ride Black Powder!"
"Kate, you're going to fix it...for tomorrow, as a special exhibition. You run Jake, and Jake runs the bronchos. Don't tell me you can't fix it! You can...!"
Rowdy Kate looked flabbergasted. "And what if I could? You think 1 want you killed? That hors is green apples! This isn't the old Powder. This is the new black, right in his first prime, an', boy, he smashes 'em down in a cloud of dust!"
Polly's eyes burned with a dogged fire. "What if I'm bucked down? I've been bucked down more times than there are stickers in a salt bush. But 1 tell you, if 1 come out of the chute on Black Powder, that broncho is going to get the raking over of his life."
Unquestionably Rowdy Kate was set back. She sat for a long time blowing smoke through her nose and staring at Polly Collins. At last she said gently: "Child, maybe it might be done. Maybe there's things that can so shame a man that he'd rather take a quick die in any shape than go on as he was. 1 expect maybe you've got hold of one of them things. But, child, leave old Kate tell you something else. You realize that if you do this to him, he'll hate you for it...hate you till the hour he dies?"
"Kate," Polly said, "it's the least 1 can do for him... maybe all in the world 1 ever can do for him."
"And make him hate...?"
"I know."
"And what," said Kate softly, "if I won't play?"
Polly Collins seized both Kate's arms above the elbow. Polly had slim, wire-hard fingers that could snap tight a latigo and tie it quicker than a man's, and Kate flinched. "You've got to! You've got to fix it! I'll never...."
Suddenly the tears flooded Polly's eyes and ran down her cheeks, and she hid her face on Kate's Amazonian breast.
Old Rowdy Kate gathered Polly into her arms. "'S all right, honey. It's murder, maybe. But I'll fix it up."
Polly Collins spent a long night, and an even longer morning. She arrived at the rodeo arena only at the last moment and, having arrived, managed as well as she could to stay apart and alone. She was hoping against hope not to meet Lee Macklin face to face.
For an hour she evaded him. They were running off the calf roping before, inevitably, he finally managed to corner her.
"Howdy, Polly."
&nbs
p; "Hello, Lee." It was queer to see his blue gaze filled with grave concern. He was shaved now, and he looked taller and leaner and almost as competently leathery as she had ever seen him look. But nowhere in his face was there any sign of the old reckless humor, so that he was a stranger still, and it brought the same nagging lump into her throat again.
"Polly," he said, "I just got out from town. I didn't realize until just now that you somehow fixed it to ride this Black Powder. Polly, that's the craziest fool thing 1 suppose 1 ever heard of, up to now. You can't ride that horse!"
She said almost inaudibly: "Are you telling me what 1 can and can't ride?"
"Look here, Polly, I know that brute. I've been on him!"
"And off him?"
"And off him." Lee nodded. "I never rode a horse that's got the plain, hard power that he has...and I've rode them all."
She said oddly: "You used to ride them all."
He didn't notice. "Black Powder's been ridden, and he'll be ridden again. Montana Bill rode him, before Black Powder ever saw a rodeo. But Montana Bill can't sit a horse at a common wolf trot today.. .and never will again."
She said hotly: "If you think that's the sort of thing 1 go by...."
He interrupted her. "1 know you can ride, but a woman isn't built for a smashing like that. There's lots of good tough men that aren't built to ride that horse and come out sound."
"And there's others..." - there was a tremor in her voice, but her eyes were full of sparks - "there's others wouldn't stay it through to find out if they could."
He stared at her, and slowly all expression left his face, except for his eyes, which were bewildered. "You mean... why, look here.. .you mean...?"
"You know what 1 mean, I think," she said. A bitter smile twisted her mouth crookedly, even while her lips quivered. She looked him straight in the eyes.
"Dear God," said Macklin. "1...1 thought you at least knew me well enough so...."
She turned and broke away, unable to meet his eyes any longer, and headed for the chutes almost at a run. The broncho riding was already beginning, and the loudspeakers were blaring that Gil Strick was coming out on Misfortune. In the program the women riders would be interspersed among the men. Black Powder might be hazed into the chute for her any minute.
She went off and found a secluded spot among some bales of hay, where Bob Kennedy finally found her. His moon face was tough and dogged. "You're as good as murdering this boy...you hear me?"
"Murdering who?"
"You know damned well who. If Lee rides Matagordas...."
"Wait a minute! If who rides who?"
"Lee has took them up on that special ride proposition. The announcer's pretty near crazy over the whoopee he's going to make about it. Cowboy will attempt to avenge his old pal by riding out the horse that last year killed Dutch...!"
A queer, mixed emotion swept through Polly Collins. The death of Dutch Iverson was an enduring nightmare, and she despised the everlasting showmanship that seized upon his death for exploitation. But there was still a deep, sure thrill to the news that Lee Macklin was coming back to ride, unafraid to tackle anything that bucked.
But Bob Kennedy was rushing ahead. "I promised Lee to keep my trap shut. But you run him into this, and you got to haul him back out of it. If he rides...."
"Sure he'll ride!" She was suddenly exultant, blind to danger in the blessed thrill of believing that Lee was coming back - coming back like a cyclone that nothing could stop. "1 know 1 drove him into it! And I know he'll hate me for it. But I'm glad! You hear ...I'm glad!"
Bob Kennedy stared at her, his stolid moon face incredulous, astounded. "You don't know what you're saying," he decided. "You don't know...."
"1....11
Bob Kennedy took her by the shoulders, shook her once, and glared into her face. "You don't know," he growled at her again. "Lee ...he's hurt. He's hurt bad."
"He...he's what? He's...?"
"Lee's all smashed up inside. Nobody knows how bad he's smashed up...he won't even let them examine him right."
"But....
"Powder done it, at Tucson. 1 had to talk like hell to get him to scratch off last night when he got the same horse again!"
"But then, how is it they can let him...?"
"They don't know, 1 tell you!"
"But..." Polly's stare was dazed, bewildered.
"Last month," Bob was running on, "he was half killed by that roan cayuse, Bald Hornet, and the broncho never come halfway unwound. He liked to passed out on me when 1 was driving him back to town. All that night 1 was up with him, keeping hot packs all over his left side, and him whiter than my hat."
"In God's name, Bob......
"The way Lee is now, not fit to ride a buckboard... took here! You done this! If Lee follows Dutch, it'll be on you, you hear me?"
"Bob ...oh, dear heaven... Bob, you've got to stop him!"
"Who? Me? I can't stop him."
"Go to Jake Hutchinson...."
"I've been to Jake. He won't step in except on a doctor's say so. The only doctor Lee has let lay hands on him is in Tucson, and Lee won't tell what he said. You've got to stop him yourself!"
Polly Collins turned dizzy and sick. She dropped her face to her hands again, covering her eyes with those slender, wirehard fingers. "Go away," she said. "Leave me alone a minute! I'll try... but...."
"But hell! Right now, damn it! For all 1 know they're putting Matagordas in the chute."
"All right ...1 know. But I got to figure a minute how to work it. Just a minute more."
"Well ...pour leather into it! I'll go see if 1 can fix up any mix-ups and delays."
Polly Collins tried to steady herself and think it out. The judges, she knew, wouldn't take time now to call a physical exam on the demand of some wild-eyed girl. She had to go to Lee. She had to.
The loudspeakers were calling: "Chute Number One... Lee Macklin coming out on...."
Polly jumped like a quirted colt. Across the hay bales she could see the heavy barriers of the chutes, cowboys clustered along the top rails like roosting paisanos. The Yuma Kid was straddling Chute Number One. She saw the heave of his back as he jerked upward, tightening the bucking strap. His arms flipped up to signal ready - and he climbed out of the way. The lean, careless figure of Lee Macklin swung over the gate slowly, eased into the saddle. She heard the resounding crack of hoofs on wood as Matagordas let drive at the chute walls with his forefeet.
Polly Collins ran for the chutes. "Lee ...for God's sake! Hold up!"
Nobody seemed to hear her. She sprang up the side of the chute. "Hold that gate! Lee...!"
The gate was swinging. It opened slowly, as things move in a slow-motion movie, or a fever dream. Matagordas seemed to stand, as bronchos sometimes do, not aware that the wall is gone. No - he was leaning, rolling out of the chute, gathering for that first whirling jump. He swayed off balance for the jump - still slowly, all in slow motion. Polly reached out and tried to catch hold of Lee's shoulder, but her own hand was in slow motion, too.
Lee Macklin's face turned toward her, expressionless except for a faint surprise. She caught the quick flash of his grin. Then Matagordas jumped.
Watching that ride was like nothing Polly Collins had ever experienced before. She had watched a thousand rides, made scores of such rides herself, and perhaps that was why she could see and understand every detail of what was happening now. And the horrible effect of slow motion went on, so that she could miss no gather and release of the muscles of the fighting buckskin horse, no least movement of the man in the saddle.
And the Matagordas horse could fight. He was a horse that knew no tricks or twists - he never sunfished or shook himself or whirled to unbalance the rider. He was a horse like Black Powder, letting go a blind, squalling explosion of nerves and a thousand pounds of hard horseflesh at the job of putting the rider down by sheer smash of impact. It seemed to Polly that the Matagordas buckskin was not made of flesh and bone, nothing but steel - heavy machinery broken wild under the
drive of steam - could achieve this savagery of abrupt, unloosed force.
Lee Macklin was riding as hardly anybody but Lee ever could ride. It was beautiful, in its own way. Ordinarily you only see a rider jerking crazily on top of a horse that pitches and thrashes in the midst of dust, but that awful effect of slow motion that was upon Polly made plain the flex and play of muscle, the beautiful swing of balance, the accurate swift placement of spurs. Lee Macklin rode with muscles loose and free, in an incredible unity with the explosive battling of the horse. And he was scratching, scratching on every jump. He could have ridden tight and saved himself, maybe, at least given himself a chance, but he rode as he always rode, free swinging and reckless, his spurs raking from neck to flank.
Dutch Iverson had been killed on the ground, but Polly knew that, before Dutch left the saddle, he had been blind and dazed, perhaps knocked out altogether. And now she knew the exact moment when the lights went out for Lee Macklin. As surely as if she had been in the saddle herself, she sensed by his slack, dull swing the instant that the ride was ended, for all Lee Macklin knew.
The long-experienced vinegaroon, who had ridden them all, suddenly shouted: "Gosh, what a horse!"
Somehow Lee still rode, skillful muscles still fighting by habit in the dark. She saw Matagordas snap him like a rope.
The pickup men were answering the whistle at last. Bob Kennedy, who always rode pickup for Lee, was coming up on Matagordas with the fastest pony he had been able to borrow. He got an arm about the rider and hauled him bodily out of the saddle. He pulled up his horse and lowered Lee to the ground as he swung down. Macklin lay quiet in the dust.
Polly Collins swung a leg over the chute bars. She was starting to run across the field to Lee Macklin. Then the strength went out of her. What little could be done, there were plenty of others to do, a hundred ready hands at Lee's service now. The one thing that only she could have done was past and over with. She had been the only one in the world whose job it was to stop that ride, and she had missed out.
