by Baxter Black
Chalk, fifty-two, and Fiona, forty-eight, Straight’s parents, stepped off the porch and headed out to meet their bronc-riding son. Fiona gave Straight a formal hug, no kiss. Chalk shook his hand and patted his shoulder. How the daughters became so outgoing was a mystery to all, but they lent gaiety and mischief to an otherwise often humorless household.
Cooney had assumed that Straight’s parents had named him Straight Line as sort of a joke. But after meeting Chalk and Fiona, it didn’t seem their way. He had broached the subject with Chalk once and learned that it was purely practical. It made a person’s name easier to remember, he explained. Cooney thought but didn’t say, Well, why didn’t you name him Crooked or Bunt or Side or Maginot?
Chalk himself had brothers named Timber and County and a sister named Rachael. Chalk explained without the slightest hint of a smile that girls didn’t need to worry about memorable first names because when they married they changed their name anyway.
The first time Cooney saw their cowdogs he remarked to Chalk that he assumed they would have a Chow Chow. Chalk looked at him quizzically. Cooney said, “Chow Line. Get it?” Chalk didn’t get it. The next two days were leisurely. Cooney, Straight, and Chalk took a couple of rides in the pickup to check water tanks and one long horseback circle to check cattle. The sisters were big on playing games: checkers, chess, rats, tiles, pinochle, cribbage. They had boxes of them.
Straight was a miserable failure at Scrabble or Boggle, anything that involved spelling, but he was a good sport about it because he was unbeatable in checkers or Chinese checkers one-on-one. He had the savant’s ability to see things spatially. In fact, the only math course he even understood in school was geometry.
Border, the second son, would be home in time for supper.
Straight grew more agitated by the hour as Thursday tick-tocked by.
Cooney walked with him out to feed the horses. “Something buggin’ you?”
“Nothing bad, I guess. It’s just that Border will be here soon and . . . well, him and I don’t always get along.”
“What do you mean?” asked Cooney.
“Oh, we never have got along. It strains the family. I hate to put them through it another time. I had hoped when we got older we’d get more, uh, more understanding of each other.”
“It takes two to tango . . . and two to tangle,” said Cooney with the simplistic wisdom of an Old Testament believer.
“I know that,” he admitted, “but he sucks me into his trap, and I say stupid things, which he then points out, and I wind up getting frustrated and stomp off. I’m just no match for his smart mouth.”
“Aw, it’ll be all right. Just don’t get cornered, and if you do, tell yourself, ‘So what?’ What difference does it make to you what he says? It won’t affect your bronc ridin’ or your life.
“Besides, it couldn’t be all that bad.”
It was all that bad.
Border returned to the same glad homecoming that Straight had enjoyed. The sisters were vivacious, the folks were proud but tight lipped. Straight smiled, shook hands, and welcomed Border home.
Cooney was pleasant, staying in the background and watching the reactions and body positions of the family members as they circulated among themselves. Border was a big man. Twenty-four years old, six foot two, and at least 215 pounds. He had dark hair, a big chin, thick eyebrows, sported a well-groomed beard, and wore little wire-rimmed glasses. He was not necessarily fat, just burly, although it would be easy to guess as he aged he would have a weight problem. If he was trying to look professorial, he succeeded, in an imperious sort of way.
Fiona had prepared tough roast beef from an old cow that had broken her leg and they had home-butchered, plus mashed potatoes, canned green beans, and watery gravy, but the atmosphere was one of bonhomie. Until, five minutes into the meal, Border turned the conversation to Straight: “So, how’s the buckaroo, bucking, rodeo-odeo business?”
“I’m still doing okay,” said Straight neutrally.
“I’m glad. I don’t know how some of you and your rodeo buddies do it,” he commented as if he were really concerned. “I mean, bashing your heads in for pennies. I tell you, those stock contractors and advertisers and middlemen are making millions of dollars off your naive sense of . . . what would you call it: macho, death wish, pseudo-camaraderie? Competing against each other, always hoping the competition does poorly but having to act like you really want him to win.
“What an effort in futility. You might even win a buckle, but what does that amount to? It wouldn’t even buy your gas to the next podunk town. Pretty sorry return on your investment. Just stupid, if you ask me,” Border concluded, shoveling a loader bucket of mashed potatoes onto his plate.
The family was glaring at Border. A thunderhead was building behind Straight’s eyes.
“I do it for the girls,” Cooney said cheerfully.
Myra blew a sticky wad of mashed potatoes out of her mouth. The starchy lava vaporized and clung to the salt shaker in the center of the table. It was so sudden, so out of order, so funny, that even Fiona changed expression and said, “God save the Queen!”
By the time everyone at the table had quit guffawing and giggling, Border had leveled his gaze on Cooney. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and cleared his throat, but Cooney spoke first: “So, what do you do to get girls?”
“The opposite sex is not a priority in my life right now,” answered Border. “I am engaged in the acquisition of a degree in higher education, and that takes all of my concentration.”
“What are you studying?” asked Cooney politely.
“The title of my master’s thesis is ‘The Misapplication of the Harrod-Domar Growth Equation to the Economic Planning of an Underdeveloped Country.’”
“Which one?” asked Cooney.
“Which one what?” asked Border.
“Which country? Or does it mean an area within a country, like say, Nunavut within Canada or Eritrea within Ethiopia or Cohagen within Montana?”
“My model,” Border began, as if he were lecturing, “or at least the one I think I will choose is . . . I’m considering a small community in Labrador. Thirty-eight percent unemployment, average income . . . $9,000 a year, an economy built on a dwindling fishing industry . . . or maybe Barwidgee, Western Australia. It could be fascinating and very valuable, an isolated village, or possibly Togo, another impoverished African country.
“You see, Cooney—it is ‘Cooney,’ isn’t it? It’s important that I choose a country, a place that has significant importance in the world economy, and yet will stand alone as a study unit that can be applied to other models and the data then extrapolated, thus having the far-reaching impact that I expect my work will stimulate. I want to make a significant contribution. It’s more than the money, you know,”
“How much do you make now?” asked Cooney.
“I’m matriculating. Dedicating all my time to enlarging my knowledge of mankind. Because, like I said, it’s not about money,” explained Border.
“Surely you have a job somewhere . . . working at the Kwik Chek, flipping burgers at Wendy’s, sweeping up the college gym?” pressed Cooney.
“I have an assistantship. I help teach some of the classes,” Border said.
“That’s what? Seven bucks an hour? Six?”
“Eight-fifty,” Border said.
“Canadian?” asked Cooney.
“What are you getting at?” asked Border in a threatening tone.
“Nothing. I was just wondering how much longer you’ll be working on your master’s thesis,” said Cooney.
“As soon as I . . .”
Cooney interrupted, “But, of course you haven’t even started it yet. You still need to pick a location to use as your model, if I understood you right. And what good is a master’s without a PhD? That must be on your l
ist as well, right?”
“Of course. Pure academic immersion, untainted by mundane variables, is essential to ensure that one has a clear mind and therefore can think with a worldview,” stated Border.
“Whew,” said Cooney, “it all sounds pretty expensive to me.” He caught a glimpse of Chalk and Fiona bent forward listening to Border’s answers. They were particularly interested in his comments about money. Cooney assumed the parents were financing their bright boy’s education.
He was also acutely aware of the BSE (bovine spongiform encephalopathy) quarantine on Canadian cattle and of the dire straits it had created for many cow-calf producers like the Chalk Line Ranch.
“I guess Straight could lend you some money,” offered Cooney. “He’s already won over $35,000 this year, U.S. But if I was in the advice-givin’ business, which I’m not, I would think you better start trolling for a woman with a job.”
CHAPTER 14
May 2, Sunday
Rodeo, Canadian Style
Rodeo is real life. They don’t call it off because it’s raining.
It should have been a short two-hour drive from Buffalo to Maple Creek, but the pouring rain slowed them to a crawl several times. Myra and Tyra intended to spend the entire weekend cowboyed up, and all four fit semicomfortably in the boys’ crew cab.
The crowd was light due to the weather, but the show went on. Tyra and Myra sat in the open bleachers with slickers on and hats pulled down. It was still drizzling when Art Undertow climbed to the announcer’s box:
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Cowtown Pro Rodeo right here in the shadow of the Cypress Hills, Maple Creek, Saskatchewan, where the west begins! Home of the Maple Creek Hotel, the Maple Creek News, and the Maple Creek Open, Canada’s premier stock dog trial competition, where the dogs are beautiful and the sheep fight back!
“Aren’t we thankful for the rain!” he boomed.
The crowd responded wetly: “Yes. Thank you, our dear Lord in Heaven, for the bounty of thy gift of moisture. Amen.”
“If it’s any consolation to the bronc riders, this little sprinkle makes the arena softer.”
There were bigger rodeos going on in the States over this weekend, but Maple Creek and Taber were where Straight began his career, and he tried to support them by entering every year. It meant a lot to the home folks to have a local boy-made-good come back, especially if he was ranked in the top fifteen in the PRCA. Cooney wasn’t chopped liver either!
Our heroes had the advantage of being able to watch the bareback riding. Doing so gave them an idea of how the horses could buck in the mud. It was a sloppy mess. To its credit the rodeo committee dragged and raked and turned the wet arena dirt the best it could. But horses slid, cowboys skidded, chute help ducked, judges dived, and the crowd went wild, all to a visual symphony worthy of any mud slide four-by-four dirt bike jamboree.
Steer wrestling—or bulldogging, as it is also known—in the mud was the pinnacle of absurdity. The dogger, on horseback, raced down the arena just a few feet behind a six hundred-pound steer, who was flinging mud and water like a monster truck trying to get unstuck. Before the dogger even reached for the steer to make his jump, the right side of his body from boot toe to eyebrow was solid brown.
Then he leaned off his horse, grasped the steer’s horns, and leaped, planting his heels in the arena mud to try to stop their forward progress. Each one looked like a snow plow comin’ through fifteen acres of chocolate pudding.
Finally, when the steer had slowed enough to get some leverage, the steer wrestler was obligated to throw him to the ground. This put them in the awkward position of being beneath the thrashing beast when he fell.
After each run the dogger would try to stand and acknowledge the crowd. The crowd cheered, but it was hard to watch. One was reminded of the La Brea tar pits.
When saddle bronc riding came, Straight was the first one out of the chute on a journeyman bronc named Long Reach. The horse came out, bucked as much as he felt he owed the stock contractor, then quit. Straight’s style allowed him to look good on any horse he mounted, good or bad. Straight always got his points. However, if the horse was weak, erratic, disabled, or a full-blown bad actor, Straight couldn’t make it look any better than it was. And it took a good effort by horse and rider to score well. The judges gave them a combined sixty-three points.
Cooney’s style differed from Straight’s classic “rock and fire” style. Cooney went all out—hook ’em, hang and rattle—every time. He never rode “not to lose.” He could ride a bad horse and make him look like a bobcat with a firecracker tied to his tail. His “all or nothing” attitude endeared him to the crowd but put him at a disadvantage with some of the judges who revered the purity of the traditional ride. Audience appeal had no bearing on the judges’ score . . . most of the time.
A steady rain had begun by the time Cooney had Pecos Bill in the riggin’ chute. She was a big, powerful, twelve-year-old mare who had the book of bein’ a dead head or a whirlwind, one or the other. Like when you throw a Tater Tot onto a hot griddle, you’ve got no idea where it’s goin’! She hated her name.
Straight was beside Cooney to help him get down when he was on deck. Rain was pouring off the front of their hats. Straight was wearing his yellow slicker, but Cooney was shivering in his long-sleeve shirt and protective vest.
“Shake it off, Cooney,” said Straight. “Take a deep breath.”
From behind Straight put his hands on Cooney’s arms and rubbed them up and down roughly. The stimulation created some warmth and relaxed Cooney enough that he quit shaking.
Cooney reached up and pulled down the rag that his black hat had become. He felt water in the seat of his pants. Okay, he thought, take your best shot, you old snide. We’re goin’ swimmin’.
At the fringe of his concentration he heard the chute boss tell him he was up. He leaned back against the cantle, felt the rein come tight in his left hand, and saw the back of Pecos Bill’s shaggy head swing toward the arena. Cooney’s neck tensed as he gritted his teeth and nodded.
The chute gate flew open, Cooney’s legs straightened out in front of him, and his spurs hit the rock-hard neck muscles of Pecos Bill as she wheeled to her right and catapulted into the muddy arena!
Pecos Bill was powerful enough to suck her big feet out of the mud and change direction. She would have quickly disrupted the rhythm of most good saddle bronc riders, but Cooney set his own rhythm, made her dance to his tune, and it was a pleasure to watch. During one outlandish half-gainer with a twist Cooney appeared to be standing in the saddle seat, ballet dancing as Pecos Bill gyrated beneath him. He seemed to skitter above her like a horsefly. All went well . . . until the end.
Just as the whistle blew Pecos Bill slid off a hind leg and went down onto her right side. Cooney bailed out backward over her right rump. He hit the mud, and she rolled over him.
People in the crowd rose in unison and groaned.
Pecos Bill struggled, stood up, and then trotted toward the gate. The rider could not be seen. Several cowboys sloshed out to help. The paramedics were racing into the arena. People in the crowd saw Cooney’s right knee rise, then his left. They breathed a sigh of relief and sat down.
One cowboy had Cooney by the arm and was pulling on him. Cooney was trying to push himself up with his other arm. Finally he stood, pulled up erect like someone was standing up a fence post. Unfortunately, he could not dislodge his boots to keep his balance and fell face-down in the opposite direction.
The cowboys to the rescue were laughing so hard that it took them a minute to get Cooney right again and another minute to get him unstuck. The loyal crowd couldn’t have had more fun at a bullfight or a ten-car pileup at the Indy 500.
People in the stands were breathless with laughter, temporarily unaware of the rain, as Cooney was dragged toward the fence. As a fitting climax, one of the
cowboys came back to dig Cooney’s right boot out from the scene of the crime, return, and present it to Cooney in front of the chutes like a trophy. The crowd gave him a standing ovation.
The judges gave him an eighty-four, which was even better!
At the close of the day Cooney Bedlam held the lead in both saddle bronc riding and bull riding.
CHAPTER 15
May 27, Friday
Pica Has Interview in Denver
While Straight and Cooney were swimming in the arena in Maple Creek, Saskatchewan, Nova Skosha had picked Pica D’TroiT up at Denver International Airport and driven her to the Marriott Tech Center Hotel. They had dinner at the hotel restaurant and discussed plans for the big interview the next day.
At 9:45 a.m. on Friday Nova opened the door for Pica and followed her into the conference room, where Turk Manniquin stood to greet her wearing an off-the-peg Armani suit and vest in amber, an off-white silk shirt, golden sunset tie, and Lamborghini slippers, size 14. His head was shaved, and he wore a gold stud in his right earlobe.
He walked the length of the sixteen-foot conference table and offered his hand. Turk was 6' 7" tall. Pica was 5' 3" barefoot. Add an inch and a half for her Ariat Fat Boy boots.
“I am so pleased you could come to Denver and visit with us. Nova has told me a sufficiency of you. You are more than I expected,” he said in his slight New Orleans Creole accent.
“You, too, sir. Much more than I expected, I mean, I guess, I was all, I never thought that you’d be, like, a giant, hey!” she said.
He laughed. “I wonder if you would stand up on this conference table and walk to the other end.”
Pica looked up at him and thought, It’s his table. She swung a leg up and stepped on, walked to the other end, and turned around.
“Now what?” she asked.
“I want to know if you can whistle,” he said.
