Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  Shooting off the front like wings on a penguin were the fenders. When one saw a bronc saddle stretched out on the ground the stirrups seemed to be reaching out, trying to hug somebody. The association tree and the front binds kept them in that position.

  The stock contractor furnished each bronc a big leather halter. The bronc rider attached his thick, soft, plaited rein through a ring on the halter slipknot style. Often Straight would place the back strap of the halter where he wanted it, then secure it by braiding a few strands of mane around it. Finally he would tuck or tie his rein so it didn’t drag the ground while the horse was waiting.

  Next he placed his saddle onto the horse’s back, high up on the withers, loosely pulled up the front cinch, then buckled the back one. Chute help would put on the wool-lined flank strap behind the saddle, and the horse would be ready to push on up into the bucking chutes.

  As Straight’s draw, Witch Hazel, made his way to chute 4, Straight was snugging his chaps, squeeging around, making sure there were no folds in his Wranglers under the chaps.

  Straight was a handsome man. He had a fashion sense. His jeans were pressed, and he wore the popular, glitzy, silver concho belt that looked vaguely Navajo. Tonight he was wearing the Montana Silversmith Championship buckle he’d won at Cheyenne Frontier Days last July. His spurs were chrome, the rowels loose and blunt, and his riding boots were scuffed and comfortable. The spurs never came off the boots. The spurred boots came off at the end of the ride and went directly into his war bag.

  Clean shaven, he had trimmed black hair and a serious look in his eye. His chaps were beautiful, flashy red and white with sparkling gold trim. In a patriotic gesture he had a small maple leaf sewn on next to his brand, which some would describe as an S Bar but which he called a straight line. The gold fringe reflected bright light and flashed as he spurred. Tonight he was wearing a starched light yellow cotton shirt under his black protective vest with brooks bulletin monogrammed on the sleeve. His Uncle Jamie was the publisher of the little Alberta newspaper and sent him $300 a month Canadian for gas.

  Although Straight was tuning out the extraneous noise during his preride warm-up and concentration, he could feel the excitement when the announcer proclaimed, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, rodeo fans, we come to that classic pro rodeo event, the saddle bronc riding! Skill and precision, grace and beauty, power and . . .”

  Straight leaped onto the catwalk behind the chutes. It was crowded up there. For each saddle bronc rider there were two spectators, two helpers, a cameraman, and somebody’s new girlfriend. Conspicuously absent was anybody who made a living with a rope.

  He stood over Witch Hazel and mentally reviewed his “book”: powerful out of the box but unpredictable, then weakens after the second or third jump. Trick was to not “miss him out,” that is, to have your spurs in position over the point of his shoulders when his front feet hit the ground.

  Witch Hazel stood quietly in the chute. On the catwalk Straight did a little cowboy ballet. He had his rowels touching each other, his boot toes at 180 degrees, and was doing squats. Flexibility, the ability to snap your feet forward, lock in the spur, and rake—that was the key.

  They started at chute 8 and worked their way down. After the first two, the chute help moved the horses up. Each had been saddled loosely in the riggin’ chute and the flank strap installed. Straight moved with Witch Hazel. He was now two away. He reached down, caught the near side latigo, and pulled it tight. Then he tied it off. One more tug on the back cinch. He unwrapped his rein and automatically measured his handhold against the back of the pommel.

  The cowboy in front of him was down on his horse, waiting for the previous bucker to clear the arena. In the back of his mind Straight heard the gate next to him swing back and the crowd roar!

  Straight climbed down into the chute and sat against the cantle in the saddle seat. He dropped his legs down over Witch Hazel, slipped his feet into the stirrups, and let his boots rest by the front cinch. He pulled his hat down until his ears were flat and took hold of the rein with his left hand. He ran the soft rein between his third and little fingers, thumb up. A minor adjustment here, a scootch there.

  Looking down from the announcer’s stand over the top of chute 6, a watcher would see a legless cowboy reared back, crown pushed out of his hat, his left hand holding the rein that came up from the left side of the horse’s neck. On the inside, away from the arena, his right arm gripped the top rail of the back of the chute.

  One of the gate men in the arena had a short cotton rope looped around the horse’s neck near the head, holding it against the gate. A cowboy on the catwalk had a grip on the leather tail of the flank strap. The chute boss held a taut cotton rope that would swing the gate open wide instantly. Another one of the chute help held tight to a small rope double looped around the front of the gate to prevent any accidental opening.

  Two judges in zebra vests stood in the arena on opposite sides of the chute. The stock contractor prompted the next rider to “get to it!”

  “Anytime!” shouted the chute boss.

  Straight leaned back, pulled hard, and lifted up on the rein. The muscles in his cocked arm would have pinged like steel pipe if you’d touched them. His body tensed, his eyes sighted down the top of the swells, he gritted his teeth and nodded his head.

  From the stands Cooney and Sherba watched the gate swing back, exposing the entire contents of the bucking chute in an instant as if somebody had pulled a curtain. The gate opened from the rear end of the horse, causing him to swing toward the opening. He pushed off his front legs, pivoted on his hinds, and appeared to go straight up into the air!

  Cooney, watching from a professional perspective, saw Straight snap his legs forward and lock his spurs in the neck at the point of the horse’s shoulder. From Sherba’s perspective she saw an explosion!

  Witch Hazel reached his apogee and then, instead of coming down in an arc, dropped like a twelve-hundred-pound anvil landing on all fours! The crowd could feel the jolt that shot through Straight from tailbone to skull.

  Straight held his rowels in position somehow. The horse then catapulted forward and landed on his front feet. Straight raked back with his spurs as Witch Hazel kicked his hind legs straight out behind him. He made another classic buck and then, unable to unseat his rider, gave up. He made a few half-hearted attempts and finished unspectacularly.

  The automated scoreboard read “67.”

  CHAPTER 4

  March 16, 12:01 a.m.

  On the Road from Houston to Austin

  The green glow of the dashboard reflected off Straight’s glasses. A long string of headlights shone like a fluorescent snake in his side mirror. The radio clock read 12:01 a.m.

  The big Cummins diesel under the hood of his 2500 Dodge pickup roared along like a purring Tyrannosaurus rex. A light south Texas fog slid damply over the pickup’s nose, forehead, and Capri camper, leaving turbulence in its wake.

  Straight was pumped! He had qualified to ride in the final go in the saddle bronc riding at Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. He would make his ride in Austin, then return to Houston for a shot at the “big money”!

  He’d been talking steadily since he and Cooney had left Reliant Stadium, “Yessir, Cooney, this is just what I need to make my breakthrough. I did four interviews! I think that girl with OVER THE TOP ATHLETIC COSMETICS did the best. She asked about my karma, if I did chants, believed in reflexology, and how I achieved Zen.

  “I told her everything . . . she even wanted to know if I used lip balm. If I’d considered endorsing lip balm. Turns out her company has invented a lip balm that absorbs into your lips like DMSO . . . makes them fuller, larger, and still protects against chapping!

  “She went blitzo when I mentioned I liked doing poetry. She said I was so Renaissance, so Rhodes scholar, so sensitive . . .”

  Cooney was laid back on the
passenger side but still listening. “Reflexology?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said Straight, “-ology, the study of reflexes. Action by the horse, an equal and opposite reaction by the cowboy. Reaction, reflex . . .”

  “Do you know what a podiatrist is?” asked Cooney.

  “Not sure,” said Straight, “but a doctor of some kind. Po for potion, making potions? I don’t know.”

  “My second cousin is a podiatrist in Minneapolis,” said Cooney. “A foot doctor.”

  “Maybe I could make a poem about a foot,” said Straight. “That would impress her. ‘Foot,’ ‘foot’ . . . what rhymes with ‘foot’? I love rodeo, all the dust and soot, and when I’m riding saddle broncs, nothing’s more important than my foot.”

  Cooney mused a few seconds, then said, “A poem about a bronc rider who finished second because he failed to mark his last horse on one side. It goes, ‘Upon the cowboy’s tombstone they decided they should put, He aimed for world champion and missed it by a foot.”

  “Naw” said Straight, not getting the bad pun, “I’m thinking more serious, more Renaissance. Rodeo Renaissance. A traveling poem like, ‘My pal and I had done our ride and were driving back to Houston . . .”

  Straight stopped, stumped. “Well, it doesn’t have to be Houston, maybe Pocatello. No, that would be harder to rhyme. How ’bout Dallas? . . . I got a callous in Dallas . . .”

  “Give it a rest, Straight. You made a great bronc ride tonight. You may not be a poet, but you can sure ride a horse.”

  The truck slid through the night carrying our two heroes from Houston to Austin. At 3:00 a.m. Straight woke up Cooney, and they changed drivers.

  The sky was light when Straight woke up. They were twelve miles southeast of Austin on Highway 71.

  “Are you ready?” asked Cooney.

  “To ride, you mean, or eat?” said Straight groggily.

  “No. To hear the start of your traveling rodeo poem.”

  “Sure!” said Straight, all ears.

  “The title is ‘A Conversation at the Mortuary between the Sheriff and the Reporter.’ ‘Which ’un was the one they hung, that fateful day in Houston? It’s obvious, the sheriff said, the one they hung’s the noosed ’un!’ ”

  Straight laughed. “Now that’s pure Renaissance if I ever heard it!”

  “Actually,” said Cooney, “try this, ‘We left the city limits while the chickens all were roostin’, our pockets full of money from the rodeo in Houston.’ ”

  Straight sat up straight. “That’s it!” he cried, “How does the rest go?”

  “That’s as far as I got,” said Cooney.

  “Wow. Austin,” Straight said, already working on the next line, “Austin . . . what rhymes with ‘Austin’? ‘Boston,’ ‘Crosston,’ ‘Dosstin’ . . .”

  “If we wore our rubber noses we’d be rhino-osser-austin!”

  COONEY WAS TOO GOOD FOR HIS OWN GOOD. IT WOULD GET HIM INTO TROUBLE SOMEDAY. POETRY IN THE WRONG HANDS CAN BE DANGEROUS.

  What Cooney admired most about Straight was his ability to focus. Whether it was riding broncs, driving down the road, constantly calculating about taking advantage of his rodeo celebrity, or even playing games, he was able to concentrate all his energy on what he was doing.

  Straight was left-brained, which meant he went by the rules, colored inside the lines, and would practice ’til he got it right. School had not been easy for him. College required that he study more than most, and that’s what he did. So, although he did not graduate on the dean’s list he had a respectable high-C average. This allowed him to rodeo for Kansas State and qualify for the scholarships he’d been awarded.

  His upbringing had been fairly typical of ranch kids. His folks were cattle people and worked hard on a ranch northwest of Buffalo, Alberta, 216 kilometers east of Calgary and 80 kilometers north of Medicine Hat. They disciplined their children and loved them. Because the ranch depended on the kids to help, extracurricular activities were at a minimum.

  Straight had been a responsible older brother and was driving himself and his younger brother and two younger sisters to school, thirty-two kilometers one way, by the time he was thirteen. His brother, Border, was very smart and was skipped forward two grades. Thus he and Straight were in the same class.

  Straight was the more athletic of the two, but Border’s intelligence was intimidating. It spawned an inferiority complex in Straight, who, despite Herculean study sessions, could never do as well academically as his younger brother. They didn’t have many fistfights, but there was always a feeling of tension between them.

  This self-induced competition, a psychologist would deduce, was the cause of Straight’s prodigious determination.

  After three years of traveling together Straight and Cooney had formed a nice bond. Each man had his private doubts and secrets, but neither was prying by nature. Cooney was usually quiet, let others do the talking, whereas Straight was always talking, planning, suggesting, pushing.

  Cooney questioned, Straight plotted. They were business partners; neither had yet to cry for the other.

  CHAPTER 5

  March 16, Wednesday

  Pincher Creek, Alberta

  Pica D’TroiT sat up against the headboard of her own bed. The morning sun reflected off the snow-packed hillsides and pushed its way through the second-story window and its lacy curtains into her bedroom. She loved winter. She loved Alberta. She even loved winter in Alberta! But she wasn’t sure she loved Lionel Trane.

  They had met at the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas in December, just four months ago. Subsequently, they had arranged a weekend in Denver in January during the National Western Stock Show Rodeo and spent three days together in separate bedrooms—her choice. Following the Tucson rodeo two weeks earlier he’d gone on to Houston, and she had flown home.

  Lionel was too busy being Lionel Trane to have much time for her. He was ten years older than Pica’s twenty-four and at the top of his game. He had children from a previous marriage. His time was not free.

  Pica, too, was a bronc rider, and her three older brothers were saddle bronc riders. One had retired from rodeo, but two were still on the circuit. The boys had so many championship buckles among them that they could have triple-handedly ballasted an offshore drilling rig in the North Sea!

  Perrier, the youngest of her three brothers, had said she was as good as they were. Alas, there was little opportunity for her to prove it. Although most rodeo fans thought female contestants were prohibited by the Canadian and American Professional Rodeo Associations, officially they were not. They just were not encouraged. However, her father, Juneau, had rodeoed a little and encouraged them all.

  Juneau and his brother, Uncle Firmston, ran a hunting and fishing guide business in the national and provincial parks in the Rocky Mountains that furnished their western horizon. Pica had worked for them all her life, and when she had graduated from high school five years ago she had signed on full time. Like her father and uncle, she was a skilled tracker, marksman, and photographer. She also did most of the camp cooking.

  Pica took her laptop from the bedside table and opened it to check her e-mail. Nothing from Lionel, but that didn’t hurt her feelings any. Cooney Bedlam slid into her mind. She didn’t know him, had never talked to him, but she had teased him at Tucson— “flirted,” some would say. She remembered he’d laughed when she made a funny face at him. There might be more to him than meets the eye, she thought. It occurred to her that she could e-mail him . . . just for fun. But how proper would it be for her to contact him out of the blue?

  This is a dilemma, dear reader, that is not an issue for most women born after the fall of the Berlin Wall. After all, they are serving on the front lines in the war on terrorism, getting fired as CEOs, going to jail for illegal stock trading, running for president, and, in some cases, paying child support!<
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  So, to Pica, the issue is not should a woman initiate a friendly contact with a man but rather would she do it with any person regardless of sex that she did not know well? And the answer, to this sweet-hearted, gregarious, good-lookin’, bronc-ridin’ bear hunter was . . . Well, of course, I should!

  She didn’t ask her mother.

  It took Pica less than fifteen minutes of Internet searching and texting her brothers to find Cooney’s e-mail address.

  “Dear ICE MAN,” she began. “I see you are entered up in Austin. Brave of you due to your injuries. Butt I saw you ride in Tucson (see photo). I hope you draw up good. I’ll be cheering for you.

  “A FAN”

  She attached a photo of Cooney from the Valley City Times Record.

  She punched “send.”

  CHAPTER 6

  March 16

  Rodeo in Austin

  Our two heroes had pulled into the huge parking lot at the Travis County Expo Center in Austin at 9:00 a.m. and parked. While Straight went visiting, Cooney climbed into the back of the camper to take a nap. He woke at noon and took out his smartphone to check his e-mail. He scanned the trash, then spotted “Pica.dt@NK.CA.” “CA” for “California”? No, Canada. It was from her, the girl with Lionel Trane. Had to be. Who else would Pica be? He opened it. “Dear ICE MAN,” it began. Of course, everybody in the rodeo world had heard about his ice skating adventure in Valley City, and she had seen him ride in Tucson. If she followed rodeo she might have seen him before that. Straight had said she was the sister of the D’TroiT brothers. They were Canadian.

  “Butt I saw you ride”? Sounds like her sense of humor. But how would she know he was entered up in Austin? Simple enough: just call PRO COM or ask her brothers to check.