“Real surprised like, ma’am.” I caught a glint in his eyes under his hat brim. Not a dumb cowboy. Equally, not a cooperative one.
Diana cleared her throat. Following the tip of her head, I saw Mike and Jenks headed in our general direction from beyond the rodeo office.
I returned my attention to the ma’amer. “Why surprised? Isn’t rodeo a dangerous sport?”
“For cowboys some. It’s us taking the risks. Men like Landry take the sure thing. And if there’s not a sure thing to be taken, they rig it so there is.” The edge to that sliced right through his laconic drawl.
“You mean contractors?”
He had the drawl back in place as he said, “Yeah. Contractors. Can’t say I ever heard of a stock contractor killed this way before.”
“Trampled by his own bulls? No, I would imagine that isn’t a frequent . . .”
I let my imaginings die a natural death because he wasn’t paying attention. He was looking over my shoulder toward the rodeo office. A flicker of something showed for the first time in the strong lines of his face. It made him a lot more interesting. I turned to see what he was looking at.
Standing on the office’s narrow wooden porch were a woman I didn’t know and a man I did.
The woman was tall, rawboned. Those attributes added to her air of strength. Even at this distance I had the impression the strength was also one of character.
The same description applied to the man next to her, Thomas David Burrell. From encounters this spring I had reason to know that the impression of his strengths was accurate.
Turning back to ask Zane about his reaction, I was left with only his back, now at a distance of several yards, as he strode away. It was a pleasant view, but I didn’t let it distract me.
I could chase after him. Chasing after people to ask questions is one of my finer professional skills. But in this instance, I didn’t think exhibiting that professional skill would gain me much.
On top of his general lack of cooperation, that flicker of reaction had been too short, and not well enough defined, for me to have an inkling of what I might be messing with. No sense in making an enemy out of him if I might need him cooperative down the road. All I knew was that the sight of those two people had an effect on him: Awkwardness mixed in with some strong, unidentifiable emotion.
I knew exactly how that felt, since the last time I’d spent any time face to face with Tom Burrell, we’d not only been face to face, but mouth to mouth.
I turned and headed toward the arena, wondering if Zane’s unidentifiable emotion had been unidentifiable only to an outside observer, or if we had in common that it was unidentifiable to the person experiencing it, too.
“Where’re you going?” Diana asked.
“Let’s see if we can find that third cowboy.”
“Don’t you want to check with Mike and Jenks?”
“Looks like they’ll be occupied a while.” They had intersected with Burrell and his companion. All appeared pleased by that.
Continuing in the other direction, I started looking for a familiar face among kids in black cowboy hats as we wandered through knots of arriving competitors. Diana easily kept pace, despite toting the camera. I needed to start lifting weights again.
I felt a pang for the fully-equipped workout room in the Manhattan apartment I’d shared with my then-husband. What did it say when you missed the treadmill, but not the marriage’s rut?
Diana saved me from my own questions with one of hers. “Do you know who that was?”
She knew I knew Tom Burrell. She must mean the woman he was with. “Who?”
“The guy you were just interviewing.”
“You heard him the same as I did. Grayson Zane. Why? Do you have reason to think he was lying?”
“I have reason to know he wasn’t. Do you know who Grayson Zane is?”
I had a feeling cowboy wasn’t the right answer. Nor cowboy in a black hat. “No.”
“He is one of the top rodeo cowboys in the country. Way he’s been going this season, possibly the top rodeo cowboy in the country. Although it’s a long way to December and the NRFs.”
The scruffy cowboy, Evan Watt, mentioned those letters, too.
“But Grayson Zane’s been there before. He was all-around rookie champion. Then he had a couple real bad years. Got hurt, started to rise up the ranks, got hurt again. That second time it looked like he’d stay down.”
I eyed her. “You play in the Fantasy Rodeo League or something?”
“Or something. I have two kids crazy for rodeo. Anyway, he came into town four, five years ago looking more beat up and low down than Evan Watt. But he must have had enough left for his entry, because he won an event here that Fourth of July. Started winning a few more. Had a steady climb ever since. Been to the NRFs the past three years and has taken home a bundle.”
“What is—are the . . .?”
“National Rodeo Finals. Rodeo’s World Series, Super Bowl—”
My phone ringing interrupted. “Where are you guys? Jenks is leaving.”
“Mike wants to know where we are,” I told Diana.
“Tell him west end of the arena, near the boxes for the timed events. But I’m not staying, either. I’ve got to pick up the kids.”
“Uh-oh.” Two vehicles and both leaving. “Did you hear that?” But Mike didn’t appear to be listening to me.
He came back on. “It’s okay. Tom’ll drive me to the station to get my vehicle. I might miss the start of events. Meet where we sat last time.” More talking in the background on his end. “Unless you want a ride to the station, too.”
I could go with them to the station and skip tonight’s rodeo. We’d get no footage anyway, with both photographers gone. So, all I could gather would be background. Plus, it wasn’t like I’d never seen a rodeo. I had. Once.
On the other hand, accepting the ride would mean being confined in a truck with Burrell and Paycik. Most likely between Burrell and Paycik.
There’s no such thing as too much background.
“I’ll meet you in the same spot,” I said.
So, there I was, alone behind the scenes of a rodeo, sidestepping black-hatted cowboys, the horses they guided, and stinky piles of agricultural byproducts.
I was about to head to the grandstand, when I spotted Cowboy Number Three.
He stood against a fence, running rope through one gloved hand, with his other hand gathering it into a neat coil. He’d nearly finished, then he unfurled it and began again. From the way he started when I spoke, it had not been my approach that prompted the do-over.
“Excuse me. I’m E.M. Danniher from KWMT. I have a few questions about your reaction to the death of Keith Landry.”
At my first words he jumped like he’d been poked with a bull horn—the kind with a point, not the kind that makes noise.
His head snapped up, and the glare he sent me indicated his answer would be, “Hell, no, I’m not talking.”
But he had no chance to say it.
“What are you doing? What are you doing?” demanded a female voice.
In another half a second, a female form interposed itself between me and Cowboy Number Three.
She was the same age as Cowboy Number Three, wearing a glittering western shirt of a chartreuse so bright it made my teeth ache, a stripe of glittering rhinestones down the outside of each leg of her tight black jeans, and a pink cowboy hat with—I wouldn’t kid about this—a tiara attached around the front of the crown.
It required another look to take in the girl inside the outfit. She wore heavy makeup and her long hair teased and sprayed into the stiff bigness of another era. Beneath it all was the attractiveness of a young, healthy, fit female.
“I have a few questions for . . .” I left it for either to fill in the name
of Cowboy Number Three. No such luck.
“Can you not see he’s getting ready to compete?” Brain surgery, rescuing a toddler from a raging flood, or pilots taking off to save the planet from a plunging asteroid—none rivaled the importance she gave that word.
“He’s not competing yet.”
“You cannot be serious! You do not interrupt a man’s preparations.”
“Heather,” Cowboy Number Three said from behind her, one hand cupping her shoulder in a familiar way. “It’s o—”
“No, it is not. It is not the least little bit okay.”
He shrugged and went into the competitors’ area, where I was not allowed.
At this point, though, I was at least as interested in her as in him. Talk about an over-the-top reaction.
“I’m E.M. Danniher with—”
“I don’t care who you think you are, asking questions all over the place when it’s none of your business. It is not acceptable to break a competitor’s concentration. You might not be from around here . . .” Dramatic pause for a scathing look at my decidedly unsparkly attire, as well as unforgivable lack of cowboy hat, much less tiara. “. . . but it’s only good manners no matter where you come from not to barge right in like that.”
“And your name is?”
“Honey,” came a new voice, practically dripping that substance. “You go get ready.”
“But Mom—”
“Now.” Ah, this honey could carry a sting. Quickly soothed. “Go on, now. You don’t want to have to rush for your ride.”
Ms. Tiara did what she was told.
With the hierarchy clear, Cowboy Number Three at the bottom, then Heather/Honey, then Mom, I turned to greet the top of the pyramid, prepared to spread honey of my own if it got me what I wanted.
No need.
“You’re Elizabeth Danniher with the TV station, aren’t you?” Her smile was gracious and warm, with a touch of wryness. She didn’t look around for a camera, but I had the feeling she’d already determined there wasn’t one.
“I am.” I held out my hand. “And you are?”
“Vicky Upton, Heather’s mom.” She gave a good handshake in return. Firm, not rough. Well-tended hands. Well-tended everything. But perhaps the most well-cared for was the iron determination in the eyes and jaw. “I do apologize if Heather was overzealous. She’s keyed up, what with getting ready and all. It’s not the big event like it will be next week, but they are having her do the rodeo queen’s ride tonight, and it’s her first time. Plus, she always has been protective of Cas.”
Her smile invited me to be indulgent with young love. I was more interested that Cowboy Number Three had at least one name.
“In fact, they’re protective of each other,” she added. “They’ve been sweethearts practically from the cradle, and he’s a fine boy, from a fine family.”
“Yes, I hear it’s a fine family. The . . .” I dangled it for her to fill in a name.
She slid right by. “One of the county’s first, and such a history with the rodeo. Cas’ aunt, of course, owns Cottonwood Drive.”
That was supposed to mean something to me. I wondered if the unknown aunt owned a road. “And what is Cas’ last name?”
Her eyes widened, which might have been what allowed me to see the wheels turning behind them, as she considered evading, then quickly realized it wouldn’t take me long to find out by other means. But why hesitate at all?
“Newton.”
“Thank you.” I wrote the name in my notebook—not to remember it, but to see her reaction.
Caution slid over the honey. “Why’d you want to talk to Cas?”
“We’re reporting on Keith Landry being found dead here.” Her mouth twisted, likely a response to the circumstances of that death. “I understand Cas was here this morning.”
Okay, so I’d pushed the truth. I didn’t understand that at all. I guessed it, wondered it, hypothesized it. But sometimes pushing works.
She pushed back. “Oh, no, surely not.”
I gave a you’ve-got-your-story-I’ve-got-mine shrug. “I won’t know until I talk to him.” That line led directly to an impasse, so I shifted focus. “Your daughter is the rodeo queen?”
That explained the tiara, I supposed.
Her smile broadened into the genuine article. “Yes. We’ve worked so hard for this, and now she’s Queen of the Sherman Fourth of July Rodeo. She’s an even better roper than I was, or am. But the most important part of being rodeo queen is the scholarship. Biggest one for any rodeo queen in the state of Wyoming. It’ll make a difference when she goes off to college next year.” Pride gave her a glow, though it was too fierce to be entirely attractive. “And now she’s rodeo queen.”
Before I needed to produce a suitably impressed response, she looked up as if hearing the voice of God. But only if the voice of God came through the PA system of the Sherman, Wyoming Rodeo Grounds and He concerned Himself with the tie-down-roping competition beginning.
“Got to go cheer on Cas,” she said with a big smile. “It was nice to meet you in person.”
“Nice meeting you,” I parroted.
I’d started away when “Oh, Ms. Danniher” brought me back around to face her. She gave a little grimace, as if in sympathy. Yet I thought I caught a whiff of malice. “You have to watch where you walk around here, what with all the horses coming and going.”
I hadn’t, and there was no question about the whiff I caught now.
Chapter Four
I’VE WORKED IN Boston, where the brave muster true belief every year, while the rest pray to be proven wrong by the Red Sox.
I’ve worked in Washington, where the Redskins beat is second only to the White House. That’s when the Redskins are losing. When they’re winning, the President has to wait his turn.
And I’ve worked in Chicago, where the biggest gusts come from bellows of delight or sighs of despair according to the fortunes of the Cubs, White Sox, Blackhawks, Bears, and Bulls.
But I have never encountered a community whose identity is wrapped as tightly around a sporting event as Sherman and its rodeo. The Fourth of July Rodeo is religion, patriotism, and sex, rolled into four days of cowboys and beasts.
You’d never get that, though, from looking at the Sherman Rodeo Grounds. The grandstand has concrete block foundations, and the arena has sturdy structures. Other than that, there’s a general air of impermanence, like an open, dusty campground whose character changes depending on its current inhabitants.
The nightly rodeos are local workaday events. On weekends and other special occasions, the vehicles flowing into the Sherman Rodeo Grounds show more out-of-state plates, the competitors’ outfits flash added bling, and the concession stand flourishes.
Actually, I base that observation on experiencing two rodeos: the preview for locals back in May and this Thursday night regular rodeo. Not much of a sample, but Mike grunted agreement with my assessment. A grunt achieved from the distance he’d established after initially sitting right beside me. We were the only two in the grandstand’s upper reaches, with a gap of a good ten rows before the spectators below us.
I held myself in dignified isolation and watched the action in the arena. The structure of rodeo competition is uncomplicated.
A man gets on the back of an animal—bull or horse—which takes exception to a passenger. The man tries to hold on for at least eight seconds. If the trip lasts that long, style points figure in. But first you have to last that long.
That’s bronc riding (saddle or bareback) and bull riding. These are called roughstock events.
In the other events, man and horse are allies. That’s tie-down roping, team roping, and steer-wrestling. Plus barrel racing for “girls.” Mostly one man and one horse work together, but in team roping there are a pair of man-horse combos all going again
st one cow, which hardly seems fair.
In these events, time comes first, style earns no points, though infractions can earn time penalties or even disqualification. Not surprisingly, these are called timed events.
Apparently, the nuances beyond that rudimentary understanding are infinite to the initiated.
I’ve toyed with working rodeo into a consumer affairs report.
One pitfall I’d been warned about in doing consumer stories is the dearth of good video, and yes, we still call it video. Even though most stations on the planet shed video decades ago.
It’s hard to capture the drama of a senior citizen being scammed by a telemarketer last month. Rodeo, though, has built-in drama. Man vs. beast. Man and beast in union. Man vs. the clock. Man vs. himself. It also has color and emotion and action. Triumph and dejection. Great video. Now, if I found a barrel racer or roper with a consumer problem . . .
“Particularly that one,” I said aloud, as I spotted Cowboy Number Three, now identified as Cas Newton. He was among the final riders waiting to compete in tie-down roping.
I reached across the distance Mike had put between us.
Getting his attention wasn’t easy, since whatever attention wasn’t focused on the arena was on the hot dog rapidly disappearing into his mouth. I saw a potential career for him in hot dog-eating contests if this TV thing didn’t work out.
I tugged on the hot dog wrapper.
“Hey, it almost fell,” he protested.
“Know anything about the one on the far right, beside the light pole?” I asked. “I’d say the one in the black hat, but they’re all wearing black hats.”
Mike gave me the eye, silently demanding to be told why I was interested before he forked over information.
“I won’t shout it,” I said.
“I’m eating, and you smell like horse—”
“It’s my shoe, not me. Besides, I wiped it and wiped it and wiped it on the dirt. I hardly smell it at all now.”
“That’s because you’re used to it.”
“C’mon, weren’t you raised around this stuff?”
Left Hanging Page 3
