Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

Suddenly he felt ants crawling on his body. They were in his boots, down his back, and up his pant legs. He pulled off his boots, got out of his pants and shirt, and rolled himself in the tall grass. As soon as the cool air freshened his skin, the itching stopped.

  He lay there on his back staring up at the light blue Nebraska sky. The occasional cloud painted its way across the canvas. He was overcome with joy, then the giggles, then melancholy, then exhaustion, then sleep.

  In his dream he was kissing Pica. Her luscious lips pressed against his. The palms of her hands lay on his forehead and chin. She was moving his head gently to place her lips precisely on his. He could feel himself responding to her ardor. As his mind rose from the swamp mist into clarity, he probed gently with his tongue. He could feel holes in the picket fence of her incisors.

  He thought to himself that she hadn’t shaved for a day or two . . . or were those his whiskers? And . . . he didn’t chew Copenhagen. It was certainly a surprise to find out that she did. The strong smell of fish enveloped him, then suddenly she pinched his nostrils closed and blew a hot breath into his mouth.

  A confluence of feelings surrounded him as he reached up to run his fingers through her hair only to find that she had apparently gone bald since he’d seen her last.

  Cooney opened his eyes and looked right into the cloudy eyes of Loyal Dimwiddie.

  Cooney pushed Loyal off him and scooted back through the grass like a scuttling crawfish. In his haste he dragged his white Jockey shorts right across a fresh pile of cow manure. He stared up at Loyal in terror.

  Loyal had been fishing the river, as he did often since he’d retired. He had a catfish the size of a cocker spaniel, already gutted and cleaned and in a cooler in the back of his pickup. He made his own stinkbait out of garlic and chicken liver with just a sprinkle of seasoning salt. His secret ingredient was Elmer’s glue. It held the bait together well, but it was hard to get off your hands.

  Loyal was in the process of having all his teeth pulled once and for all so he could get dentures, but he was in that awkward stage between the initial excavation and “Say, ‘Cheese’!” And he’d had a cold fried-egg and onion sandwich with Miracle Whip for lunch, then a big dip of Copenhagen.

  Loyal had seen the stranger’s pickup pull in and just assumed it was a weary traveler stopping for a nap. It was only when he had packed up and driven by the vehicle on the way home that he had noticed the open car door and had seen the nearly naked body out in the pasture.

  At first Loyal thought the pilgrim might be sunbathing. But the open, unlocked pickup with a computer and other valuables lying in the seat led him to suspect a problem. He walked to the fence and called many times. The body never moved or gave an answer. Clothes were scattered about. Loyal climbed through the wire and approached the body. He could not see breathing, but then again, his eyesight wasn’t all that good. A touch or two with his boot toe and a prod with his finger elicited no response.

  As a last resort Loyal spit out his chew, took off his hat, wiped his hands on his overalls, and began to apply mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  What happened after that cannot not be summed up very tidily. Suffice it to say Cooney was incoherent, Loyal didn’t stay, and a curious cow ate the evidence.

  CHAPTER 21

  August 15, Monday

  Boise Airport

  Straight and Pica had spent two days shooting a one-minute television commercial for ESPN 2. The shoots were long; they said their lines over and over, posed and smiled, and earned their wages. They were both tired.

  Pica was vaguely aware that Cooney would be picking Straight up at the Boise airport, and when Straight offered her a ride, she declined. She could be civil, but she didn’t want to be in the car with Cooney Bedlam. He gave her the willies.

  Cooney had killed three hours napping in the Boise airport parking lot, waiting to pick up his partner. He woke with a start when his phone rang and headed toward the baggage claim. There he saw Straight just coming out the door with his war bag and briefcase. Pica D’TroiT was with him. She had even given Straight a quick peck on the cheek and hurried off toward File Blitzer, who stood by his rented Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz waiting on the curb.

  Now Straight and Cooney were headed west on Interstate 84 toward Caldwell, Idaho. Cooney was driving and tumbling in a green storm cloud of jealousy, frustration, humiliation, and lovesick blues.

  “Git it out, whatever it is,” said Straight. “I’ve about had it. Ever since Pincher Creek when she wrote you off you’ve been takin’ it out on me.”

  “Knock it off,” warned Cooney.

  “No, you knock it off. I can’t make her like you. I’ve told her you’re a good guy, but you’ve pooped in the buckwheat so many times, there’s not much I can say. Doin’ it with her ex-sister-in-law had to be the high point of stupidity.

  “I’ve put as many good words in for you as I can. When I mention your name she just holds her hands up and covers her ears!”

  “I saw her kiss you,” said Cooney darkly.

  “Where?” said Straight.

  “Right there at the door, back at the airport.”

  “Oh, man. You are losing it. We work together, for crying out loud! I like her, she likes me. We spend lots of time together, but it’s business.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Cooney sarcastically.

  “What are you getting at?” asked Straight.

  “Nuthin’. I’m just beginning to feel like your butler, your chauffeur. You fly all over. I drive and bring your riggin’. You’d think you were some high-class calf roper that needs his valet to haul his horses to the next show,” griped Cooney.

  “It’s only a gear bag and saddle,” said Straight. “Besides, I pay half the gas. Look, Cooney, I’m sorry she doesn’t like you. I wish she did. Sure make my life easier! You’re hard to be around. That might be what’s hurting my riding.”

  “Now it’s my fault you’re in a slump?” shot back Cooney.

  “No, I didn’t mean that . . .”

  “So, because I’m driving all over the country waiting on you like some celebrity athlete, you can’t seem to spur a bronc? I’m breaking your concentration, am I? Maybe it’s the bright lights and TV spots. You’re living the high life with your big endorsement, and I’m picking up your laundry?” Cooney’s tone was ugly. “Maybe you’re just feeling guilty.”

  “Quit pushing, Cooney. I’m wore out.”

  “All that posing and smiling must be exhausting,” said Cooney.

  Straight bent his head back against the seat, stretching his neck. “Anytime you wanna split, just say so. I can’t take much more of this.”

  Jealousy feeds on a fertile imagination. Its medical equivalent would be having a head-splitting migraine. Its artistic equivalent would be covering a statue of Saddam Hussein in pigeon droppings. And its musical equivalent would be castrating pigs in a metal building.

  Jealousy is a smothering, pervasive fog that slithers in like a propane gas leak and clouds the mind. It is also out of bounds, against the rules, usually unfair, and cannot be cured with reason.

  In the end it implodes, destroying the afflicted, or vanishes overnight to everyone’s everlasting relief.

  Straight is trying to be patient, but he has his own problems, and jealousy has Cooney’s heart in a vise.

  “They’ve got me a room at the Holiday Inn Express,” said Straight as they pulled off the freeway into Caldwell. “It’s got double beds.”

  “I think I’ll just drop you off and park behind the arena . . . sleep in the camper,” said Cooney.

  “You can leave your gear in the truck. But . . . thanks anyway.”

  CHAPTER 22

  August 15, Monday Evening

  Caldwell, Idaho

  Cooney slept fitfully for an hour, then got up and walked over to Victor’s, a
fine dining restaurant and bar at the edge of the fairgrounds that housed the rodeo arena.

  Unbeknownst to our blurry hero, File Blitzer, duplicitous road manager for Straight and Pica, had surreptitiously picked up Oui Oui Reese at the airport that morning, and the two of them had slipped unobtrusively into Victor’s dining room and sat in a corner booth.

  “So, Sweeto-muss,” Oui Oui was cooing at File, “when is little Pica Poot going to fall on her face? I’m getting anxious. You know I’m already planning my wardrobe for the national finals. I’ve got this cute little see-through knit tee with an unborn calf-hide bustier, black and white, hair side out, that will knock your socks off. I brought it to model for you this evening.

  “I’m thinking OTT LIP LASTER girl, Vanity Fair cover or maybe Stud, GQ, Esquire. This is gonna be big.” She rubbed her buxomness against his arm. “Of course, I’m not wearing it now. I’m not wearing anything now,” she purred.

  File felt a catch in his chest. She had just plugged in his toaster.

  “Soon, Baby, soon. That little trick with the whoopee cushion in Vernal, the toilet paper stuck to her saddle during the grand entry in Calgary, the bogus e-mail about her secret love child with the commissioner . . . It’s just that she’s getting determined not to let her pitfalls stop her.”

  “I’m getting impatient, Mega File!” Oui Oui fumed, then turned plaintive. “I want this for both of us. I’m not just thinking of myself, Smooky. You’d be happy if I was happy, right?

  “Maybe we’re going at this from the wrong angle. Something in her past or private life that could be revealed. Start a rumor that she’s a member of PETA, doesn’t like rap music, or takes steroids?

  “We need to exploit her weakness,” she concluded.

  Well,” said File, “there is this one thing. I don’t know how we could use it, but I’ve heard she has a stalker. Not really a stalker but some rodeo clodhopper who has a crush on her and she hates him.”

  “How do you know?” Oui Oui asked.

  “I’ve overheard Straight and Pica talking. He’s Straight’s rodeo buddy. I’ve seen him occasionally, but I don’t know him. Straight keeps trying to defend him, but Pica doesn’t want to hear it. Maybe we could get a wedge in there somewhere . . .”

  Oui Oui’s infinitely devious mind began plotting. “Like maybe frame her for a crime . . . the two of them plan some scheme . . . some scheme that interferes with . . . cheat another rodeo rider’s chances, they get exposed . . .”

  Oui Oui sipped her wine and looked away in thought.

  “My gosh!” said File, pointing at Cooney. “There he is!”

  Just at that moment Neville Schneer, sports columnist for the Owyhee Avalanche Weekly, stepped to their table. “By gosh, aren’t you File Blitzer?” exclaimed Neville.

  “Well . . . uh, yes . . . Yes. I am he,” said the startled File. “Do I know you?”

  “Maybe not, but I know you,” smiled Neville. “You are Pica D’TroiT’s manager, if I’m not mistaken.”

  A thunderhead rolled across Oui Oui’s expressive brow. File caught her expression and paused. He gave her a conspiratorial smile and said, “Road manager would be the exact title.”

  “I’m covering rodeo week. I have a column in the paper. How is Pica doing? Does she like her new position with OVER THE TOP ATHLETIC COSMETICS?”

  “It’s taking her some time to get adjusted. She was pretty green when she took the temporary job of road rep,” said File.

  “You mean she’s just on trial, so to speak?” asked Neville.

  “Yep,” said File.

  “Well,” said Neville jokingly, “I guess she could go back to riding saddle broncs.”

  Neville glanced over his shoulder to see Cooney getting up. “Hey, Cooney, how ya doin’?”

  Cooney eased over to their table.

  “I’m File Blitzer. I’m the road manager for your buddy Straight.” File offered his hand.

  “Cooney Bedlam,” said Cooney genially. “I’ve seen you around. Straight says you do a good job.”

  “Thanks. Say . . .” File directed his comment to Neville. “Did you hear that Pica is going to exhibition a bronc this week?”

  “No! Wow! That should be a crowd pleaser!” exclaimed Neville. “There’s a background story on her I remember that talked about her rodeo skills. You don’t see them competing in pro rodeo. I wonder if they could. Can a woman ride as good as a man?

  “Cooney, what do you think?”

  Cooney knew he’d better keep his mouth shut. He just shrugged his shoulders.

  Oui Oui sensed an opportunity. She didn’t know for what exactly, but she played a card. “Well, I personally think it is silly. Of course, girls can’t ride bucking horses as well as a man. If they could . . . they would! Or else why don’t they?”

  “They don’t,” said Neville, “because the men won’t let them belong to the Professional Rodeo Association.”

  “That’s not true,” said Cooney.

  “It’s like letting women play in the pro basketball league. They’d get creamed!” added Oui Oui. “Besides, they all look so butch. Don’t you think so?” she asked Cooney.

  “Think what?” asked Cooney

  “That women should keep their place. You see it everywhere, in college, in grade school, girls playing football. Wearing the pants in the family. Now the feminists have taken over rodeo. Where does it end?” Oui Oui was on a roll. “Do you think it’s fair for women to get paid more than men if they can’t do the same job? Do you, do you? I’ve about had it with those hairy-legged women trying to prove they can ride better!”

  “I guess I don’t think about it much,” said Cooney, suddenly uneasy with this loud woman. “You just don’t see ’em, so even if it is allowed, it’s obvious that women can’t ride broncs as well as men, or we’d see a lot more of them. They’re good at other things: roping, barrel racing, baking cookies, and having babies.”

  “Oops,” said Neville. “My tape just ran out.”

  “I gotta be goin’ anyway,” said Cooney. “Nice to meet you, ma’am, boys.”

  Cooney headed back to the contestant parking area at the back of the rodeo grounds. The lights were on in the arena, which caused him to change directions to see what was going on. A cherry picker parked in the arena was extended, and a workman was replacing one of the big lights. Cooney noticed movement behind the bucking chutes and walked over.

  Out of the dark shadows Pica D’TroiT strode and literally ran into Cooney.

  “Oops. Sorry!” she said, then realized into whom she had crashed.

  “My gosh!” was all Cooney could say.

  She raised her eyebrows and chuckled. “I was hoping I’d get to meet you someday.”

  Across Cooney’s brain paraded visions of him barfing on the sidewalk in Miles City and being flat on his back in Pincher Creek. “Me, too,” he said. “At least on a day when I was able to talk.”

  She looked at him kindly. Finally she said, “I’ve always sort of hoped you weren’t as bad, as uh . . . as . . . help me out here, Cooney, from your first e-mail I assume you are a man of words.”

  “‘Sorry’ would be my first choice, if it was me. You hoped I wasn’t as sorry a human being as it appears I am every time you see me.”

  “That might be a little harsh,” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Truth is, I . . . I’ve been intrigued, I guess, since the first time I saw you,” said Cooney.

  “Behind the chutes at Tucson,” she stated.

  “Yeah, when you stared at me and crossed your eyes. In my mind I keep playin’ over all my slipups and major faux pas. Thinkin’ how stupid I must look to you, when I really just wanted to get to know you. I get fuzzy. It makes it hard to keep my mind on my business.”

  “Looks like you’ve been doin’ good,�
�� she said.” Ranked in the bulls and the broncs.”

  “Yeah, I can’t explain it,” he said.

  “Straight is worried about you,” she said.

  “I’m not proud of that. He’s got enough on his mind tryin’ to do all that publicity stuff and rodeo, too. I’m not helpin’ much. I’ve not been a very good partner. I need to make it right with him. Word’s out that you’re gonna exhibition a bronc this week?”

  “Yessir,” she said. “That’s what I was doing here tonight. Checking out the chutes.”

  “You need help gettin’ down?” Cooney offered.

  “Thanks, but Straight has offered to help. I think it will be after the bronc riding Friday.”

  “Well,” said Cooney, “it was nice to talk to you. It really was. Good night.”

  At 10:00 p.m. that night, Lick Davis’s message machine came on. “You have reached Lick Davis and the Posthole Poetry Company. Nobody’s here right now, so the javelina is checking this machine. You can leave your message, but talk slow ’cause he has trouble makin’ his ms and ns. Something to do with cloven hooves, I think. Or you can try back during business hours, nine to five Cowboy Standard Time. Thanks . . . [click] . . .”

  “Lick, this is Cooney Bedlam. I had a nice conversation with Pica tonight. I didn’t insult her or throw up on her shoes or nuthin’. Maybe things are takin’ a turn for the better, and I’ll get a break!

  “Take care, amigo. Adios!” he said. “I hope I’ll be seeing you around.”

  CHAPTER 23

  August 17, Wednesday

  Caldwell Night Rodeo

  When the Owyhee Avalanche Weekly came out on Wednesday, the headline on Neville Schneer’s column read: Girl to Ride Bronc at Caldwell Rodeo! Not All Cowboys Are Impressed!

  Cooney Bedlam, a ranked saddle bronc rider, was quoted as saying, “It’s obvious women can’t ride bronc as good as men . . . they’re better at baking cookies and having babies.”

  After Cooney had had his short, uncomplicated conversation with Pica, his attitude improved mightily. He’d placed fifth in the bull riding the night before. He’d drawn Crash Bar in the saddle bronc riding for that night, and he was pleased with the draw. He had made an effort to be more pleasant to Straight, had rode his bronc on Tuesday, and taken fourth. They had helped each other get down onto their respective bucking beasts. It felt like old times, PPI (Pre-Pica Infatuation).