by Jonis Agee
“What does Hayward want to do?” she asked, listless.
Graver raised his brows, glanced out the window, and caught sight of Rose carrying Mrs. Bennett’s satchel, followed at some distance by Percival Chance.
He shrugged. “Far as I know, he’s entered. Don’t know what he intends to ride, he and his brother—” There, he’d done it. He swallowed and picked up his cup and put it down again.
As if she’d been waiting for the words, she immediately announced, “He will ride my stallion.” Her face hardened with decision.
Graver shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
She tried to stiffen, and couldn’t. Graver hated seeing her this way.
“He’s at the livery stable.” She gathered her string bag and prepared to rise. He put a hand on her arm. She looked down at it, and her expression softened.
He stumbled on the words. “If I may, I might could accompany you to the rodeo, Mrs. Bennett.” He felt his face redden and tried to steady his hand, but something about her made him jumpy as a green colt.
She stared at him a moment. “Of course.”
He removed his hand and picked up his hat. “I took the liberty of asking Rose to bring you more suitable clothes.” He glanced at her dress. She always appeared so darn, what, he didn’t know, but he liked it. He chastised himself, the woman was in mourning.
She picked up the skirt of her black dress and let it drop, then brushed at the front. “I suppose this would be a bit dampening on the festivities.” She shrugged then as if she understood that wearing black couldn’t do a damn thing to change the fates of her husband and son. She looked out the window. “I’ll see if there’s a room I can use at the hotel. They usually keep one for the Bennetts.” She tilted her head and glanced at him with the slightest hint of flirtation in her eyes. “I can see myself to the hotel, if you’ll come for me in half an hour?”
When he arrived, Graver was clean-shaven and wore a sky-blue shirt he’d bought from the peddler in July. The stiffness made him itch and he tugged on the cuffs of the too-short sleeves. It was the only shirt that fit his chest and shoulders once they filled to their former size with the extra food he’d eaten these past few months. The stiff collar creaked against his neck and he retied the dark-blue-and-black-figured scarf he wore underneath. He had half a mind to take the whole rig off and dump it in the water trough and start over, but he wanted to avoid shaming the boss. She was a handsome woman after all.
When Graver saw her standing with Drum Bennett without doing the old man any bodily harm, he grew uneasy, almost turned on his heel and left, then Drum saw him and lifted his chin and said something that made her turn.
What was she playing at? Graver nodded at Drum and waited until she’d concluded her conversation, then touched the old man’s arm with her fingertips. If Graver hadn’t seen the snakebit expression on her face when she turned her back to Drum, he would have suspected he was having the vapors. Drum gazed after them with the half smile of the snake that got the mouse.
“Ignore him,” Dulcinea hissed as they headed for the door.
She wore a black buckskin divided riding skirt trimmed in fringe and a matching black vest beaded with red and yellow flowers over a white silk blouse with full sleeves gathered at the wrists. On her head was a black flat-brimmed hat to match her boots. She didn’t wear her wedding band, he noticed, nor that wider one that had belonged to her husband on her thumb as she’d done since his death. As they walked toward the fairgrounds, he saw men turn to stare.
The entry parade at the rodeo was led by two trick riders dressed in white mounted on twin brown-and-white-spotted horses. Graver clapped enthusiastically and held his breath, but in the back of his mind the image of his own girls learning to sit the old horse dimmed the bright scene like a hand closing over a gold coin.
A group of seasoned cowboys came next, men who rode carelessly, shoulders rounded, legs stiff, rein hands raised as they clutched their hats and spurred their horses to a fast gallop past the crowd as if they had little time to waste. Graver could feel Dulcinea restless beside him on the splintered bench until three flag girls came trotting in, glancing anxiously at the snapping cloth over their heads and then at each other to keep their horses abreast and to not drop the flags. The crowd rose, placed their hands over their hearts, and the little band by the announcer’s stand broke into “America the Beautiful,” the tempo too slow and the piano off key.
After that it was a group of Sioux riders in full regalia. They pulled a travois and whole families walked alongside. The men were mounted on horses decorated with war paint and feathers. Some Horses and Rose walked in the middle of the group, with Lily leading Dulcinea’s dog painted with a circle around his eye and a feather tied to the rope around his neck. Graver hoped she wouldn’t notice, but she gave a sharp intake of breath and pointed her chin at the ring.
“That’s my dog.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Graver said.
“Looks happy, doesn’t he? And what horse is that?”
Graver squinted. “Must be their pony.” He was puzzled at Rose’s miserable expression. Some Horses beside her, determined and grim in his long war bonnet and the beaded outfit from his picture, led the horse.
“Hayward’s on my stallion,” Dulcinea murmured. “Sits him well.”
The rest of the parade was rodeo clowns pushing each other in wheelbarrows, a line of local cowboys in wooly chaps and bright scarves, and girls in flowered shirts and pants.
“I thought he was supposed to ride him in the race.” Dulcinea stared at him until he turned to face her.
“He’s warming him up?” Graver tried to still his face. She tightened her lips and frowned.
He was saved by a series of firecrackers set off by one of the town boys, which startled some horses to rear and buck and spin. Graver noted that Hayward sat forward, pushed his feet down in the stirrups and grabbed the horn while the stud stood on his hind legs and teetered, on the verge of going over backward, then came down again.
Dulcinea grabbed hard onto his arm but didn’t utter a word as her son spurred the horse into a gallop and guided it safely around the motley circus and out the gate.
“Boy has good instincts on a horse,” Graver said, and she nodded, face pale.
As soon as the ring cleared, the rodeo commenced with saddle bronc riding, followed by steer wrestling, then bareback riding. Willie Munday rode his saddle bronc to a standstill but scored low because it hadn’t bucked very hard. Larabee tried steer wrestling but jumped too late and missed the steer entirely, his horse coming to a stop and staring at him balefully. Then they worked the chutes and encouraged the other men. When the calf roping came, Jorge and Irish Jim tied for the fastest time and had a runoff that resulted in Jorge winning when Irish Jim’s pigging string came untied and the calf jumped up and trotted away. Jorge rode around the ring at a dead run, whirling his lariat over his head like a trick rider, while the crowd hooted and clapped. Dulcinea’s cheeks glowed pink and Graver was happy to see her laugh. When she sat down, she put her hand on his arm.
“That was wonderful, wasn’t it!”
Graver nodded and returned her smile, then a peculiar thing happened—their gaze held a moment too long and he felt the flush rise up his neck into his face, and he couldn’t drop his eyes. He wondered about the freckle below her eye, and the bump in her nose, did she always have them? When he put his hand over hers, he couldn’t have stopped himself if someone held him at gunpoint.
“Oh,” she said and tried to change the way her lips parted in a smile, but she couldn’t make them stop.
He watched her struggle to compose an expression and rubbed his fingers softly over hers, the way he’d gentle a startled horse.
There was a break in the action and Larabee came up the stands to collect them for the race. The scent of spit-roasting beef in preparation of the night’s supper made their mouths water, and Graver searched for something to feed her, settling on fried chicken sold by the piece. He
had just enough for one each, and felt again the pangs of being a man without money to treat a woman right. Larabee hung around them, giving Graver the eye until Dulcinea waved them away.
As soon as the men were out of earshot, Larabee said, “You can’t put that stud in this race. He’s too old. I could outrun that horse on one leg.”
Graver nodded. “Where’s the boy?”
“Brushing it. Got him shined up like Fourth of July and Christmas both.”
Graver raised his hand. “I’ll take care of it.”
By the time they reached the horse preparation area to the west of the stands, Hayward was settling his saddle on the stallion, which pawed the ground and arched his neck in anticipation, already splotched with dark patches of sweat.
“Bring the chestnut.” Graver nodded to the horse tied to the rope stretched across the bare lot for the racers.
“Son.” Graver put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, who immediately dipped and twisted away. “You can’t ride this horse.”
Hayward’s eyes blazed and his body turned rigid. “Like hell! My mother wants her horse in this race.”
Graver patted the air between them. “It’s not that.”
Larabee stopped the chestnut beside them, careful to stay out of the stud’s reach. “That horse of your mother’s will still be trying to make it home come supper. Remember how much slower he is than Red here.” He spit to the side and gave a quick chew on the wad in his jaw. “Now this horse, your pa bought him for this race. You know that?” He grinned, exposing blackened teeth and brown juice that threatened to drip down his shirtfront.
Graver nodded. “He’d want you to ride him. Give the men something to feel good about.”
Hayward looked at the horse, then his boots, then the stallion. For a long minute Graver thought the boy wouldn’t bite, then he nodded. Larabee handed him the reins.
“Go light on his mouth, hold him to the pack till you round the last turn, then set him loose and hang on. And don’t whip him. He’ll get you there.” Graver patted the horse’s neck and watched the boy mount, settling lightly in his mother’s flat saddle. He’d do.
Hayward gave them a curt nod, bit his lip, and shrugged to loosen his shoulders as the chestnut danced and tossed its head.
“Your pa’d be proud of you,” Larabee called and spit again. Then he turned his head to the side and muttered, “Hope he stays on.”
They found the other hands waiting for the race, exchanging bets. Graver looked over the gathering crowd for Dulcinea and was relieved to find her occupied with Tookie and Evan Edson from the Crooked Post 8. She was drinking lemonade and smiling at something the other woman said as her son rode by on his father’s horse, and missed his anxious search for her.
There were more than twenty riders and horses, including Percival Chance’s long-legged Thoroughbred mare, Rose on their Indian pony, as well as other locals and several cowboys who traveled on the rodeo circuit. At the end of the ragged line, Graver spotted Irish Jim bareback on a rough-looking bay horse he’d never seen before. The horses pranced and shook their heads and pawed in response to the noise and rising tension of the onlookers until finally the announcer read the rules and fired a pistol in the air.
Two horses bolted, and a couple spun and tried to run the other direction. By then the dust rose in clouds and someone with a spyglass shouted, “They’re off and running, a bay and chestnut in the lead.” Chance’s Thoroughbred was behind the leaders, and two others paced behind them with the main bunch back a ways.
Graver saw the boy had listened and held the chestnut in check. Let the others run the legs off their horses. The distance was too far for a front-runner to win. As the swirling dust settled, he removed his hat and waved the air in front of his face, then wiped his mouth with his hand and spit. The horses were spread out now, a long dark string pulled by the small bunch in front, like a child’s toy. Squinting against the dust, Graver could make out the figure of Irish Jim hunched low on the rough bay’s neck, and what looked like Hayward at his side while a big gray paced Chance’s Thoroughbred in front. Behind, a horse in the middle of the pack stumbled and nearly fell, scattering those that followed and driving several up against Irish Jim’s bay, who held on, switching leads as it absorbed the bump and leapt forward.
Then suddenly they were there, the wall of horseflesh pounding, shaking the ground, foam and dirt flung against the spectators, great lungs heaving for air, a rhythmic roar rising over the crowd’s shouts, absorbing and annihilating, and it wasn’t until the front-runners were well beyond that it was possible to sort their order again. Half the horses slowed after the first mile, chests labored, legs wooden, clumsy, heads flung, eyes wide, nostrils flared red, teeth bared against the bit, riders foam flecked, faces masked with dirt, already rising upright as their beasts faltered beneath them, broke into a trot, and pulled up in front of the spectators. Jumping down, the riders quickly dragged their horses off the raceway as the leaders neared the far turn.
Graver noticed Rose’s spotted pony maintained a steady pace the whole time and now passed those in front, picking them off one by one as more slowed. A white horse staggered to a walk, then halted while the rider kicked uselessly. Graver started out there at a fast walk, but a man on horseback passed him, saying, “I got it.” He hurried back before he was caught as the horses headed into the last quarter mile.
The gray, Hayward, Irish Jim, and Rose were neck and neck, thundering down on the people that pressed back at the vision: Would they make the final turn or simply run headlong into the crowd?
That was when Hayward made a young man’s mistake. In his eagerness to win he flailed the horse with the end of his reins. The animal, already full out, slowed, which drove Hayward to slash him again and the horse stopped, tossed his head and humped his back. If he weren’t exhausted, he would’ve bucked at the injustice. Instead he whipped his head around and bit the boy’s leg, hard enough that he yelped in surprise and stopped flailing, sat back, and rubbed the spot. The chestnut, satisfied, picked up a trot, then a lope, and joined the stragglers.
The gray slowed and dropped into a choppy lope, head burrowing toward the ground, and the race came down to Irish Jim and Rose. The bay Jim rode was still game, but it foamed pink from its mouth and blood streamed from its nose. The lean spotted horse that had maintained the same rhythmic pace, unaltered for nearly two miles, surged ahead and swept over the finish line to a stunned silence. The Indians grouped to the side glanced nervously at the white crowd, nodded to each other and smiled, then quickly dispersed. The paint pony passed Graver with enough energy left to cast a malevolent eye and snap its teeth at the silent mass. Graver and Larabee laughed and the noise that followed was like a giant’s breath, expelled in guffaws and hoots and applause. For a time it looked as if the temperature of the day had suddenly cooled.
Dulcinea pushed through the crowd as Hayward led the horse to where they stood. Grinning, the boy shook his head and rubbed the chestnut’s neck. Graver stepped forward and patted him on the back. Lesson learned. Hayward looked at him, eyes shining with pride and newfound humility. This boy would do. Graver touched the brim of his hat.
“Son . . .” Dulcinea stepped closer, and Hayward stepped back.
“Have to see to the horse,” he mumbled and walked on.
Dulcinea spun on Graver. “You simply must obey my orders!” She was all drawn up, like a dog on point, almost quivering in anticipation of the explosion.
“No, ma’am, I cannot obey orders that go against good sense.”
She stared at him for a good long minute, then something shifted in her eyes. “You were right. He rode a wonderful race, didn’t he?” She reached out for his arm. “I have to go congratulate my son.”
Graver watched her ease through the crowd, and smiled despite himself.
“Guess we been skunked,” Larabee drawled. “Never guessed that spotted pony had bottom. A woman riding it, too. Put us all to shame.” A tall, white-haired stranger on the othe
r side of Larabee spat and looked them over before he turned his bland face away and shouldered through the crowd. Graver searched for Hayward among the horses with heaving sides walking in circles, their backers disputing what went wrong in loud voices.
Irish Jim, next to the water trough, poured buckets over his little bay, which stood spraddle-legged and shaking. Jim stopped, took off his shirt, soaked it in a bucket, and then covered the animal’s head with it. The horse groaned and Jim removed it, squeezed water between its ears so it ran down its face, and gently sponged the nostrils, crooning and murmuring to it the whole while, “There’s a stout lad.” He dipped the shirtsleeve in the bucket and dribbled water in the horse’s mouth.
“Need help?” Graver asked. When Irish Jim looked up, there were tears in his eyes.
The horse sighed and slowly collapsed, sat down like a dog for a moment before folding his front legs and rolling to its side, eyes closed.
“No!” Jim knelt, panicked. The horse answered with a deep rattling snore and smack of its lips.
“Believe he’s tuckered out.” Larabee walked up and spit not an inch beyond his own boots. “Unusual, but in his place, I believe I’d do the same. Might could use a beer when he wakes up.”
Jim looked up at Graver as the horse snored with a regular rhythm.
“He’ll be fine. Seen a few take this approach to no harm. Let him be.” Graver looked at the people avoiding the animal as they walked past.
Larabee cleared his throat and stuck his hands in the back pockets of his trousers, his eyes focused on the racetrack. “You need to see this.”
Graver’s heart sank. Was the boy giving the horse grief?
Chance was still on the raceway, his tall boots coated with dust while his mare stood with its right front leg hanging limply from the knee, unwilling to place weight on it. The horse’s breath came in short, staccato rushes, and shivering waves rolled over her body, some so strong she tried to shift her weight back on the injured leg and had to be steadied by the lawyer.
