by Theasa Tuohy
The little silver plane with its enclosed cabin was moving back up through the bright blue, cloudless sky. Laura searched the horizon for the cornfields she’d spotted from the air a few minutes before, but saw no more than dust rising up from the rodeo grounds and encircling animal pens. The strong smell of manure hung in the flat, oppressive heat. Only the silver bird completing its top arc and again heading down provided an out-of-body escape for the hot, sticky, earthbound souls cheering its descent.
Laura heard Jenny’s gasp and felt her stiffen long before the audience went deathly silent as they saw that the plane was falling, not following the set circular pattern.
“Oh, please God,” she heard someone say over the silence. She looked at Jenny, hoping for some kind of reassurance. There was none. Her soft features were rigid, her mouth tightly set, her hand a fist held up to shade her eyes. The only sound was the bawling of cattle. Laura could see cowboys astride the wooden pens, motionless in silhouette against the heavy sun. Her heart was pounding in her throat. She was afraid she was going to throw up. It’s the heat, she thought. How can I get home? I want my windowsill overlooking the quiet backyard gardens on Gay Street.
The plane was spiraling, turning in tight twists as it plummeted toward a spot that looked to be just beyond the cattle pens directly across from Laura on the west side of the rodeo grounds. The wooden pen gates, which were about twelve feet high, provided Laura’s horizon. As the nose of the silver plane came within what seemed inches of their tops, it leveled off and soared upward.
The roar from the audience was deafening, and Laura clambered down from the stands with no awareness of what she was doing. She pushed through the exuberant crowd and made her way to the place where she and Jenny had landed a half hour before, and sure enough, Roy was just taxiing to a spot out of the way of the third plane that was to be used by the other stunters.
Jenny and Clem and John were not far behind.
As Roy climbed out on the wing and leaped to the ground, Laura was jumping up and down with her arms outstretched. Roy whisked her off her feet and whirled her around. When he put her down, the other three were there with congratulatory hugs.
“You blacked out, didn’t you?” John said.
“Damned if I didn’t,” Roy replied. “The grayness came on first, you know. Just couldn’t see. Then, next thing I know, I’m looking at those cow pens coming straight for me.”
“I was so frightened,” Laura said, her face so close to Roy’s she could see the beads of moisture on his mustache, the pulsing beat of his temples. His arm was still around her shoulder. “I can’t believe you made it.”
Jenny leaned in and with a stern look pulled Laura to one side. “If you’re going to be shining up to anybody,” she said in a harsh voice, “it should be Clem. He’s not married, and he’s Osage and has lots of headrights.”
Laura was too excited to take in this unintelligible bit of information, although the married part did register somewhere in the back of her mind. Her mother always said married men were safer, they didn’t make too many unreasonable demands on your time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE BULL RIDER
The five of them were back in the hot stands waiting for the next act. It wasn’t lost on Laura that Jenny had seated herself in the middle, with John and Roy on the other side of her. Clem, next to Laura at the end of the row, was regaling her with stories of cowboys, cowgirls, the Wild West, the famous Hundred and One Ranch, and the major attraction of the day.
“This flying stunt will be nuts. It’s hard enough to bulldog a steer under the best of circumstances, but jumping from a rope ladder hanging from an airplane? Ridiculous.”
“Bulldog?” said Laura.
“You jump from a horse onto a bull or a steer’s back, and twist his horns till you subdue him. Make him fall to the ground. It was invented by a cowboy named Bill Pickett. Look,” Clem pointed, “he’s standing right over there, near that far cow pen.”
Laura followed his hand and saw an elderly dark-skinned man wearing a broad-brimmed white hat.
“Yeah,” said Clem. “The son of slaves, and part Cherokee. Guy’s nearly sixty, but he’s still the best.”
As a cowboy in the arena jumped from his horse and tied together the legs of a calf he had just roped, Clem went on: “This place is a shadow of what it once was. Twenty-five years ago they ran one of the world’s most famous touring shows out of this place. When I was five, I saw Geronimo shoot a buffalo from a moving motorcar right here. The show had a team of cowgirls, fifteen or twenty strong, who could shoot, ride, and rope with the best of ’em. Will Rogers perfected a lot of his lariat tricks here.”
His last words were nearly drowned out by the booming announcement of the upcoming event: “Ladies and gentlemen, the next death-defying event will be Mr. Ted ‘Suicide’ Elder, who will ride astride two galloping horses as he jumps them over an open automobile filled with people.” The daredevil, dressed in a fringed, one-piece yellow suit and a black cowboy hat, was standing erect with a booted foot planted in a strange-looking saddle on the back of each of the horses. They were yoked together by a large piece of wood. He held the reins in both hands, the same way one would drive a team.
“You saw Geronimo?” Laura exclaimed. “Honestly? That’s really the Wild West.”
Clem laughed. “The Wild West was gone long ago. These roundup shows have been a parody since the turn of the century.”
“People in New York still think it’s wild out here,” Laura said. “Look! He’s in the air, over the car.” A hoof of one of Suicide’s jumping horses pinged on the hood of the auto it was leaping over. The horses and their rider landed safely on the other side, but the several people in the car had taken the precaution of ducking. “Wow, that was close.”
“The Wild West,” Clem said with a wry grin. “Yeah, when I was at Harvard, a lot of people seemed to think I lived in a teepee.”
“Harvard? That was a long way from home.”
“I had the sense to come back for law school. People in these parts are not about to hire an attorney who doesn’t know the terrain.”
The announcer came on again, this time even more booming. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the death-defying stunt of the day: Tex MacPhearson will attempt to bulldog a steer while descending a rope ladder from the wings of an airplane.”
“The only thing missing is the drum roll,” Laura quipped.
Jenny glared. “This isn’t exactly easy. Shush.”
Damn her, Laura thought, a tight frown clearly giving away what she was thinking. Why does she have to be so superior and prissy?
Clem nudged her with his elbow and gave her a conspiratorial wink. Strange man, Laura thought, East Coast education and sitting here in twill pants and blue work shirt. He made the rogues in the newsroom look like sartorial wonders. At least he wasn’t wearing his coveralls today. His mother’s house was elegant, if overstuffed. Big mahogany furniture, crystal chandeliers, large gold-framed oils, heavy silk drapes—doilies and antimacassars everywhere. Jenny had said there was even a chapel for circuit-riding priests. What a mystery this all was. Rich Catholic Indians? She’d grown up thinking they all wore head feathers, carried tomahawks, and danced with a medicine man.
Clem broke into her thoughts: “This fella will do anything for attention. He recently tried to pull an automobile across a dance floor with his teeth.”
“A flagpole-sitter type, huh?” Laura said. “And the cameramen are coming out in force. I noticed earlier there were photogs spread around the field. But look, several guys with motion picture equipment are setting up.”
A small plane with an enclosed cabin flew low and slow over the field, dipping its wings left and right in greeting.
“How does a pilot make his wings dip like that?” Laura asked Jenny.
“Easy,” she replied. “Two pedals on the floor, like a car. Left rudder pedal dips the plane that way. Right to the right.”
The plane banked and tu
rned, and came back; this time the audience gasped, noticing a man waving from one of the wings. At this point, an angry bull came roaring out of a pen and began ranging around the enclosed arena.
“The plane is going to have to land once that guy has gotten to the end of the rope ladder,” Jenny said. “The pilot will have to get his air speed so slow to drop Tex, he won’t be able to pull up to gain altitude.”
“How slow?” Laura noticed for the first time that what she’d thought was the open end of the arena to her left had, in fact, a sturdy-looking wooden fence. Just high enough to pen in a steer trying to escape, she realized, but still tall enough that it could catch a wheel of a plane trying to land.
“At about forty-five miles an hour he’ll stall and drop like a rock.”
A look of disbelief crossed Laura’s face. “That’s still awfully fast for jumping, even to the ground, isn’t it?”
Clem chuckled. “You got that right, little lady. This stunt couldn’t carry a bucket to the well.”
“Why’s he doing it? I don’t get it.” Laura looked from one to the other, both of whom shrugged.
The plane passed overhead once more, this time with a rope dangling from the cabin, with the man still on the wing close to the fuselage.
The announcer, again booming about death-defying acts, was drowned out by the crowd roaring its approval while the bull snorted and pawed at the ground. Two cowboys on horses were trying to maneuver the animal to a round circle branded in the arena dirt.
As the plane circled back around, the daredevil was clearly visible, descending the rungs of the rope ladder, which was swaying in the sharp drafts created by the movement of the plane. The bull was pawing the ground, throwing its head around as though trying to avoid a buzzing bee. Neither of the cowboys could control their horses, which were whinnying and rearing and backing away from the bull.
“That bull’s never going to let anyone on him,” Clem said. “The noise of the plane is enraging him and terrifying the horses.”
A hot, dry breeze suddenly kicked up and swung the stunter, MacPhearson, parallel over the upraised horns of the bull, as the plane wobbled, then headed for the fence. MacPhearson was trying to swing his legs down toward the bull, but the wind and the plane were dragging him sideways. Laura could see the man clearly, he and the plane were so close to the ground. The ubiquitous high boots, the bunched-up pants, cloth helmet, goggles, and huge leather gauntlets that reached halfway up his arms. All of it topped off by a comic red polka-dot bowtie. He seemed tiny, swaying as he was. But to Laura’s surprise he didn’t look frightened. He seemed simply to be frowning in intense concentration as he repeatedly tried to swing his legs toward the ground. Laura was frightened for him. Her breathing was coming in gasps, and she was definitely fast reaching the conclusion that this flying stuff was dangerous business.
“The pilot can’t pull up,” Jenny said, “no way. MacPhearson’s going to be smashed into the fence.”
The crowd went deathly quiet.
“Oh lordy,” Jenny gasped, “I think the plane’s going to clear but . . .”
MacPhearson suddenly made a wild swing with his legs like a broad jumper clearing a hurdle and sailed over the fence and let go of the ladder. The plane disappeared from sight behind the fence, followed by the sound of cloth ripping.
“Must of made some kind of soft landing,” Jenny said, jumping up from her seat. “That’s the quietest crash I ever heard. Both of ’em probably fine.”
People were rushing from the stands, filling up the arena field, as cowboys and their horses tried to wrangle the steer back to a pen. Then with a flying leap, Bill Pickett wrestled the runaway animal to the ground; spectators stumbling and dodging to avoid running over man and bull.
Laura, who was trying to take in the scene as she scribbled notes on the run, hesitated for an instant wondering if she should get a quote from Pickett, but decided the plane crash was more important. Someone could be dead!
She followed Jenny at a dead run now, Clem loping along beside her as hundreds of people thundered past. After Laura rounded the cow pens, she stopped in her tracks. The little plane was tipped sideways among a field of huge green leaves, resting on a wing and its tail. The air was electric with flashing cameras.
“A sweet potato patch!” Clem exclaimed. “I’ll be durned.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NEWS FROM HOME
Laura plunged into the field of green leaves and immediately sank up to her knees. As she tried to take a step forward, her feet were caught in a tangled mass of vines and she nearly lost her balance.
Clem grabbed her and pulled her back. “Tubers about to be picked, not much good for walking. You’re liable not to ever get anywhere.”
Laura turned to Jenny, who had stopped short of the patch. “What’s that dangling from the plane?”
“That’s the pilot. He’s hanging from his seat belt,” Jenny said with a nervous giggle. “Looks like he’s all right, though. And there’s MacPhearson over there, trying to make his way through the tangle of potatoes. No damage. The plane looks pretty much okay. Made a soft landing, and just sort of tipped over.”
“Good grief,” Laura said. “Everyone seems to crash, or nearly crash, and pay no attention. I think I’m going to stay out of airplanes from now on.”
“You can’t do that,” Jenny replied with a stern look. “You agreed to fly with us for several days.”
“That’s before I realized how risky it is. This day has certainly opened my eyes.” Laura looked down at her dusty jodhpurs and limp, wrinkled shirt.
“That’s pretty dumb,” Jenny said. “What did you think it was?”
“Sort of like taxis, I guess. You get in for a ride and you don’t expect them to crash every few minutes.”
“You cannot quit now. I gave up a dinner dance at the country club to do this.”
“Where the dickens have you been?” someone shouted from behind her. Laura whirled around to see Cheesy, up to his knees in potato plants, his camera dangling from his left hand. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Only two hotels in town and you not in either of ’em. Barnes is worse than a hornet.”
“Oh!” Laura’s hand flew to her mouth as she stared at Cheesy. She was happy to see him, of course. She had so wanted him to come. Was that only yesterday? But now, she couldn’t seem to form her thoughts. She was watching Roy high-step through the thick growth on his way to help the stranded pilot. He had a blue checked bandanna at his throat instead of the red he was wearing yesterday.
“Fer jeez sake, say something. It’s me.” Cheesy snapped his fingers in front of Laura’s eyes to get her attention. “I can tell it’s you, even in dose clothes.”
“Oh, Cheesy, I’m so glad you’re here.” She grabbed his free hand and gave it a squeeze, her words coming out in a rush. “Is Barnes really angry with me? You can’t imagine what it’s like here. We need pictures.”
Cheesy patted his camera. “I got plenty. Just gotta get to a post office to mail ’em. And you better call Barnes. Now!”
“You need a shot of that,” she said, pointing. “The man at the plane helping to rescue the pilot is Roy Wiggens. He’s an important flier.”
“Who? The flier or the rescue guy?” Cheesy asked. “I sure got one of the pilot hanging upside down by his seat belt. It’s a winner. Front page, I’ll lay odds.”
“Cheese, isn’t this stuff unbelievable? I’ve been riding around in these things without a worry. I guess I thought about them as sort of taxicabs.”
“You can get hurt in a hack,” Cheesy responded.
“Yeah, well, you know, you don’t have horrible examples right in front of your eyes like this.”
“All I know is ya better call Barnes.”
“Problems?” Clem asked, interrupting. “I’ll be glad to take you to a phone.”
“That would be swell,” Laura said. “This is Cheesy, my photographer. Talk to him while I go interview the guy who fell off the rope ladder.
”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE MOTHER LODE
“Don’t worry about the charges,” Laura said, as she and Clem walked into the big house. “I’ll reverse them.”
Clem laughed. “That won’t be necessary, my mother won’t notice the difference. She’s a very wealthy woman.”
“No matter, it isn’t right for her to pay for my work call.”
“You seem very nervous about talking to your boss.” Clem’s voice was easy and soothing. “Perhaps it would be better not to call collect.”
He placed the call for her. “Hello, Central,” he said, “I want a connection to New York.”
“Hey, boss.” Laura’s voice was shaky, tentative.
Barnes’s explosion could be heard around the room. “So, it’s the dead come back to life! We were preparing your obit!”
“I filed you a great story last night with the pilot’s version of the death jump.” Laura’s snappiness had returned. “None of the wires had that, I betcha. And no one had Jenny’s version of the stolen plane. Now we got a stunt guy trying to jump on a steer. Cheese has pictures of that.”
“Gotta hand it to you, kid. You landed a couple of originals. But I’m not used to sending girls out to handle cowboys and Indians. And when a reporter doesn’t pick up his advances, it’s time to worry. I checked with Western Union, they said you were a no-show. Figured you for dead.”
“I’m glad you thought I was worth missing.”
“Don’t go sentimental, kid. There’s lots a money riding on this trip. And Cheesy reports there’s more good stuff coming up.”
“Naw, I’m not sure it’s worth it anymore. We’ve got the crash in the potato patch for you.” Laura tried to make her voice self-assured, a little brass for a sharp edge. “This aerobatic stuff is dangerous. I think I’ll just come on home.”
Another explosion resounded through the room. “What are you, nuts? Of course it’s dangerous. Makes it exciting. No story, if it wasn’t dangerous. Go get your advance and get back to work.” Bang. The line went dead. Laura stood there looking at the empty receiver. Clem was shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, clearing his throat. He had moved into a far corner of the big room, clearly having heard her city editor. Laura searched for something to say.
