The Trouble with Horses

by Susan Y. Tanner

  “And you fell.”

  “Not at first. I made him work for it, but rodeo after rodeo he was there, helping me saddle, waiting for me after my run, cheering me on.” She heard her own voice soften with memories. Cade had once done the same, but Cade had been away at college by then, chasing his own dreams. “We didn’t travel far competing – grandpa and me – just stuck with local runs. The small payouts looked big to me then. I found out later, Tyge let his buddies go on without him, following the big money, so he could chase after me.”

  “He loved you.”

  “He wanted me for sure,” Malone said drily.

  “What did your grandpa think about him?”

  “Not much. He never said so flat out but Grandpa had a way of saying a lot in a very few words.”

  “You miss him.”

  “Always and forever. Grandpa and Grandma, both.” And home. And she had yet to decide what she would do about home.

  “Well, looks like your grandpa was right.” Joss gave her a quick look. “And you still need to stay away from Tyge.”

  “I plan on it. Now we need to get ready.”

  An hour later they stepped out of the living quarters with Trouble at their heels. “Why don’t you go inside where it’s warm?” Malone suggested.

  “I’d rather come with you.” Joss’ tone was firm and Malone didn’t argue. She was never sure if Joss was staying close for her own protection or Malone’s.

  “It’s another hour before barrels. You aren’t dressed very warm.”

  Joss ignored that. “Why do they stick to such set times? It’d save a lot of time if they started one event right after another.”

  “Mostly for the fans, so they know what event is happening when. Some people care more about watching roping and maybe steer-wrestling. These are usually fans of the sport and not the thrill. There’s a bigger crowd for rough stock riding, a lot of those are people you’d as easily find at monster truck jams and motor cross. They like the excitement of knowing that someone could get hurt.”

  “Sounds sick to me.”

  Malone laughed. “Not necessarily. It isn’t that they want someone to get hurt. Some wish they had the courage or freedom to risk themselves for a sport they love. It takes them out of what can seem to be a dull world.”

  “Do the sponsors follow the fans more than they do the competitors?”

  “For the most part. Sponsors as well as the vendors who pay a hefty fee to set up at these events, but it brings in the sales, now and later.”

  “Sure are a lot of them. You can buy anything and everything without ever leaving the place. From hats and boots to jeans and jewelry.”

  “You see something you like?” Malone asked.

  “Every time I turn around,” Joss admitted, “but nothing I need.”

  Malone made a mental note to find a reason for a shopping trip.

  “I did think I’d walk a few blocks south of here in the morning. I used your cell phone to look up a salon that specializes in short cuts. I made an appointment.” Joss hesitated. “I guess I should have asked first.”

  “Of course, you can use it. But . . . are you sure? Your hair is gorgeous and you’ve already cut so much of it.”

  “I like it a lot better short. It’s easier and ... cute. I haven’t been allowed to cut it for a while. And I, for sure, need someone to straighten out the mess I made of it.”

  The implications of that saddened Malone while Joss’ wanting to look cute – for Luke? – heartened her. “Will you give up wearing a cap all the time?”

  Joss gave her an almost smile. “Most of the time, anyway.”

  “Did you happen to notice if they did nails?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good, I’ll try to get an appointment close to yours and then we’ll have some lunch away from here.”

  “Lots of choices right here on the grounds,” Joss said.

  “And none of them really healthy, now, are they?”

  Joss hesitated. “I’ll need some money.”

  “You know where your money is. I’ve put it away every day.”

  “I haven’t earned it yet. I haven’t finished paying off the clothes you bought me – I kept every tag so I’d know - and I know how much I eat.”

  Malone shot her a look. “The money is yours.” She left it at that.

  They reached the barn and Scoop’s stall and Malone started laughing. “That is why you’ve earned your pay. I hate braiding manes.” The sorrel’s mane wasn’t simply braided, it was woven into a fancy lattice-work of hair. Malone did the bare minimum necessary to keep from grabbing flowing mane rather than reins in her run, but she had to admit Scoop looked ‘photo ready’. And she always bought one of the professional photographs of herself during a performance. Most were at the first or second barrel going into or coming out of the tight turns but she had a few where she and her horse were breezing for home, hair, mane, and tail flying.

  “Hey, beautiful.” Malone turned, startled at Cade’s voice behind her. Before she could speak, he waved his hand negligibly in her direction. “Not you. This gorgeous creature.”

  Stepping forward, he ran a hand over Scoop’s gleaming red shoulder.

  And Malone laughed again, glad that she could with all the drama that had happened in the past few days, with all that had – and hadn’t – happened between the two of them over the past many years.

  * * *

  I am a creature of instinct rather than habit. I believe I came by the trait naturally both from my feline heritage as well as from my father’s examples and teachings. And instinct advises me that my plan to stick close to Joss this evening may not be needed.

  With a slight signal, Cade attaches Townie to Joss’ heel as we all part ways. That Aussie, like most dogs, is bound by habit as I am not, but more, is bound by obedience as I most definitely am not. With Cade accompanying Ms. Rodeo and Townie guarding Joss, I find myself free to surveil the premises. Yet again, I’m forced to concede the canine has his uses.

  I start in outlying areas, looking for anything that is untoward, and drift closer to the action in the arena as all remains quiet on the perimeter. Besides I hear the announcer declare the end of the steer wrestling, a silly event in which a cowboy leaps from a speeding horse to grasp a steer by the horns and force him to the ground. I am familiar, now, with the line-up of events. Bronc riding will be next with barrel racing behind it. I shall not miss my barrel racer’s performance.

  My next area of surveillance will be behind the bucking chutes. Rough stock riding is not my favorite rodeo sport. I cannot fathom the incredible stupidity that causes a human to climb aboard a massive package of muscle determined to unseat him.

  However, more to my purpose, I’ve noted that the contestants tend to leave their duffle bags lying open in what appears to be a trusting, if careless, manner. I don’t know what, if anything, I might find. Most of them are as studious to their craft as the ropers and bulldoggers and barrel racers but, beyond a doubt, their ranks have been infiltrated by not just the undesirable but the unlawful – and perhaps even the deadly.

  As I make my way from one end of the coliseum to the other, the clowns assume position on the arena floor for a brief comedic act while the rodeo announcer proclaims the gate will soon be opening on the first bronc rider of the evening. I listen as he begins his spiel about bronc riding being the more potentially dangerous of the rough stock events despite the hazards of a bull’s horns.

  I watch said broncs trot down an alleyway that runs parallel to the corridor I traverse, within touching distance should I be so inclined. With a little ‘cowboy encouragement’ of yipping and yaying – which sounds are not just on the movie screen after all – they make their way into a series of holding pens rather than milling about in a mass. I peer into eyes that, while watchful, do not seem the least wild and rank. In fact, most appear to hold a spark of interest in their new surroundings. However, the man on the loudspeaker assures his audience that many broncs have
an inclination to turn dangerous hooves upon a rider once he is down, making me wonder if that is perhaps a precursor to the metaphor to ‘kick a man while he’s down’.

  His patter helps the antics of the clowns fill the void, although I suspect die-hard fans of rough stock riding are more inclined to use the facilities and buy another alcoholic beverage than they are to get bored and leave.

  I relegate his voice to background noise, as I suspect so many spectators do. My attention must remain on greater things though I will remain in tune sufficient that I do not miss the end of bronc riding and the barrel racing that will follow.

  Despite my own expectations on the subject, I have found barrel racing to be a sport I can admire. The equestrians are dedicated and skilled, their horses athletic and talented. The bursts of speed and fast turns combine for a breath-taking performance that thrills the crowd.

  I find a spot to perch and allow myself to watch the bare bronc riding to ensure I don’t miss the event that follows.

  As the gate is flung open for each bronc, the whooping and hollering of the cowboys around me is deafening. I feel heartened that they appear to be cheering each other on rather than hoping for defeat of what must – many times – be a competitor who stands between them and a paycheck. I suspect it will be the same with the bull riders.

  Observing the bipeds, it seems, each competitor has a posse – in the common vernacular – of two or three fellow competitors. These trusted mates help him settle upon the broad back of his ride and ensure his rigging is secure before the tip of his hat signals the opening of the gate. Once the animal makes his explosive escape from the narrow chute into the arena, they continue their support with shouts of encouragement which the rider cannot possibly hear over the blare of the speaker and the snorts of his draw.

  I have not long to wait before bronc riding – both bareback and saddle – concludes, followed by another intermission. At last, Ms. Rodeo enters the arena on the powerfully built horse called Scoop, which name probably makes perfect sense to someone somewhere. He digs into the ground as effortlessly as a train steams along its track, heeding signals that are invisible to the uneducated among the spectators. I, however, have educated myself, watching her daily routine as she does what she calls ‘tuning’. Her slow work in the practice pen mimics the moves she makes at incredible speeds during a performance. And the signals vary from horse to horse. A stride or two from the barrel, she sits in preparation for the turn. One horse will require nothing more to slow than that subtle signal. One will need a softly voiced ‘whoa’. Yet another will require a soft ‘bump’ of the reins. It is a fascinating art. Absolutely fascinating. And the horses – at least the ones Ms. Rodeo rides – all enjoy their jobs. That is evident in their eagerness to enter the arena.

  I experience a strong feeling of pride as she exits the arena after a flawless performance. She is, after all, my human for the present. I hear the announcer declare hers as the time to beat so far tonight but cautions there are more outstanding horses and riders to come. Hmph. Perhaps that is so but they will have to work hard for their money.

  Now to the task at hand.

  I’m sure there are those who find the bawling of cattle a familiar, even welcome, sound. I decide that could only be true for those equipped with something less than my highly attuned sense of hearing. It’s a most unharmonious din though the bulls themselves do not seem to realize the fact.

  Neither do the contestants seem bothered by it. That may be because the clatter they make, combined with the noise of the loudspeaker, is equal in decibels. I’m careful to skirt those contestants, keeping to the periphery of careless boots. Fortunately, most in this vicinity cling to fence railings or climb up to sit in precarious positions for a better visual of each ride.

  I’m careful to keep my movements discreet but hesitate at the sight of Tyge with his back propped against a corner post. He seems more interested in studying the faces around him than in the arena action and – as Luke described to Joss – his own mug is rather badly ‘banged up’. To both my chagrin and relief, his gaze skims over me without recognition. I should not be surprised. Past actions have made it clear that a cat, regardless of my commendable defensive action on his behalf, is beneath his notice. I’m not certain the nature of his quest but I deduce it must be a mission that has him so markedly quiet and still, almost as if he is hidden in plain sight. I keep my attention at least partly with him as I make my way from duffle to duffle. I’m adept at appearing nonchalant so that even the most observant human is unlikely to notice my search. The first few bags hold nothing untoward, just ropes and gloves and containers of rosin, a substance the cowboys use on their ropes.

  Something dark and metallic catches my eye in one and I circle from a different angle to catch a better look. What appears to be the short barrel of a handgun gives me pause but I must accept there is nothing to be done about it now. By the time I find Cade and convince him to follow, the duffle and its owner could be long gone and I will have missed any opportunity to determine its owner.

  As if to prove that probability, the announcer strikes up once again while the first of the bulls are moved into the bucking chutes. “Ladies and gentlemen, like the broncs, these bulls are more powerful and muscular than even a decade ago. They are the result of selective breeding. Their physical attributes have been pulled to the fore by genetics. Watch as their hoofs hit the ground with incredible force, as they jump to extraordinary heights then twist and turn midair with amazing agility.”

  After a moment, I tune him out. Interesting, but not my mission. I resume my perusal of cowboy gear but see nothing more that appears problematic. I’m careful to note which cowboy retrieves the bag with the handgun. I don’t recognize him but I will in the future, and not just because of my photographic memory. The scar low on one jaw, though barely visible in the dim light, is distinct in appearance, almost a tiny starburst. If that saw a surgeon’s hand, it was a most unskilled one.

  With my focus still partly on Tyge, I’m aware that he shifts positions as the cowboy in question passes him by. Shifts and stares but makes no other move. Unlike myself, the cowboy does not notice. Humans are so incredibly unobservant.

  Tyge watches as the space around us empties then refills with bull riders. Some contestants trade the number previously affixed to their shirts for a different one, close one duffle and open another. The implications are obvious and amazing. It must take a special kind of stupid to choose to ride both bulls and broncs.

  Despite my scrutiny, other than the handgun which isn’t all that uncommon these days, I see nothing more among the collection of cowboy gear that I’m inclined to think noteworthy. I can only deduce that I’ve unearthed all that I can here and it is little enough. Too little.

  I cast a last glance toward the chutes before seeking sustenance worthy of my efforts and hesitate. I realize the first cowboy up is Quinn and his lead posse member appears to be the “kin” who argued with him earlier. I swiftly alter course, hoping to glean at least one tidbit of information from tonight’s work. I listen to their banter. Whatever rancor was between them seems to have dissipated, but that is the way of humans, unpredictable in their emotions. For now, they appear to have set aside their difference of opinion as kith and kin often do. Perched atop a wooden rail, I can now better see the arena. I hear the excitement in Quinn’s voice as he climbs up the chute and peers down at the bull.

  “Dawson.” Catching the cowboy’s attention, Quinn hands his bull rope to the other and climbs over to settle on the broad, muscular back of his ride.

  I almost miss the sleight of hand that follows because I’m watching Dawson’s face. Yet it is because I note his faint, but discernable, look of regret that I catch the cowboy’s surreptitious movement. Quinn’s bull rope is dropped to the ground as Dawson pulls a substitute from a bag lying at his feet. A feeling of dread sweeps me and I yowl a warning that my intellect tells me Quinn cannot hear above the clamor around him and wouldn’t understand if
he did hear. This cannot end well for Quinn.

  I leap from the rail, darting through the cowboys in my path. I reach the chutes, but I’m already too late. The gate is swung wide. I hear shouts of dismay and a thud. The bull is spinning free and riderless in the arena. Quinn is crumpled on the ground half in, half out of the chute. I cannot tell if he lives and cannot help him regardless. I focus my attention on Dawson who is crouched beside him and – had I not witnessed the exchange of the bull rope – I would believe the anguish on his face to be genuine. And Dawson’s guilt, too, I can do nothing about. At least for the moment.

  What I can do is find the evidence of the crime, for I have no doubt a crime of monumental proportion has been committed. There! The switched bull rope lies in the dirt beyond Dawson. His back is to it and to me as he focuses on Quinn.

  I snag and drag the rope under the chute. I’m confident I am not noticed as I bury it close to a corner post as deeply as speed allows. Fortunately, there is a mix of shavings and sawdust everywhere. I must keep it safe until I can bring it to the attention of Mr. Silver Eyes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cade moved quickly in and out of the crowd as the ambulance, lights flashing but siren off as requested, pulled as close to the back of the chutes as possible. The announcer was assuring the crowd that emergency assistance was at hand as a team was paid to be at each and every performance throughout the event. He urged everyone to please keep their seat while the cowboy received the best possible care.

  But Cade had seen Quinn Rivers hit the chute with a force equivalent to an unseat-belted passenger ejected from a car in a crash. If the bull rider lived long enough to get that care it would be a miracle.

  Since he’d been at the far side of the arena, he reached the bucking chutes as a stretcher was being placed on the ground beside Rivers. The bull rider’s twisted torso brought a sick feeling to Cade’s stomach. This wasn’t a case of a cowboy concussed and momentarily unconscious. Rivers could not have gotten to his feet regardless.