Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  “Did I make the whistle?” asked Cooney.

  “Who knows?” said Snorty. “But you did make a memory! That’s what they’ll be talkin’ about on the way home tonight.”

  CHAPTER 30

  August 27

  San Juan Capistrano, Party Time!

  “Eighty-four!” announced the announcer.

  Through the panels Cooney saw Lick Davis waving him over. It took Cooney a few minutes to gather his bag and shake hands, but he made it around to the plush accommodations side.

  “Great ride,” said Lick, laughing. “Meet some of my friends.”

  Lick led Cooney into one of the good-size tents. A bar was set up at one end.

  It was a loud crowd. The ladies and gentlemen who peopled the place were dressed cowboy fancy. The men wore high-dollar boots, good straw hats, long-sleeve western shirts, and clean Wrangler jeans, and although they didn’t look like rodeo hands, many wore fancy trophy buckles that they obviously had won rather than bought.

  Their female counterparts, mostly wives, were women who knew how to shop.

  “Make way, boys,” hollered Lick. “There’s a champion comin’ through!”

  Cooney was surrounded by an appreciative crowd. “What a ride!” “You made history!”

  “Give him room!” “Get him a drink!”

  Lick stepped up onto a chair. “My friends, allow me to present a close personal friend, a first-class bronc rider, and, as you saw this afternoon, one of the few bull riders who has mastered the bassackwards cartwheel dismount just to thrill the crowd, Mr. Cooney Bedlam!”

  A huge cheer swelled from the watchers.

  “Raise yer hand, Cooney,” suggested Lick.

  “Gentlemen,” yelled Lick, “one more thing. Our special guest is in need of some raiment enrichment. Witness, if you will, the tattered tunic, the annihilated habiliments, the ragged garment, the wardrobe laid to waste . . .”

  Two defense attorneys were scribbling down Lick’s text for use in their next trial.

  “In other words,” continued Lick, “our young lion needs to borrow a shirt!”

  All eyes scrutinized more closely the wrinkled rag that partially covered Cooney’s upper torso. The shirt he was wearing had torn horizontally just below the pocket line from the button to the center of his back. The right sleeve had come loose at the shoulder seam and hung limply from his elbow. And there was a visible streak of cow—make that bull—manure running unbroken down his right front from his chin to his shirttail.

  In the blink of an eye at least four men were taking off their shirts and offering them to Cooney.

  Cooney looked at Lick. “I can’t take these guys’ shirts. I got another one in my war bag here.”

  Lick laid a hand on Cooney’s arm. “Take ’em,” he said quietly. “Let ’em treat you right. They know what they’re doin’.”

  Each profferer of a shirt made Cooney try it on. Finally one particularly dashing fellow took over and insisted that Cooney wear his. Although Cooney had no way of knowing, it was a $250 shirt from Saville Row.

  “Name’s Corp,” the fellow introduced himself to Cooney. “I’d be honored if you’d wear this one. It was a gift from my great-grandfather, Corpus Luteum the first, Greek immigrant and the first to plant olive trees in the area now known as Clovis. See, that’s his brand there on the cuff: CL bar.”

  “How could I turn down an offer like that?” said Cooney, getting into the mood.

  “In return,” said Corp, “I’d would like to have yours, worn in battle, as a memento if you could spare it.”

  “Well, sure, I guess . . .” said Cooney, “but . . .”

  “Get me a staff, boys, and we’ll make a flag outta this gladiator’s shirttail to honor the occasion!” hollered Corp.

  Two hours later a group of eight men, including Cooney, had depleted the bar and was still celebrating. Cooney had learned that this tent was the privy of the Piebald Polo Club. Membership was composed of California businessmen, Realtors, doctors, lawyers, farmers, and cowboys who held trail rides, were generous to worthy causes, and liked to have a good time. Maybe like raucous Rotarians but with a bigger budget and no secret handshake.

  They were down to actually having conversations. “So,” Cooney asked Lick, “is it true you rode a camel at the national finals?”

  All the men laughed. “Yeah, tell us about it,” they encouraged.

  “That was a long time ago,” started Lick. “’fore I met any of you guys: 1985. You probably wuddn’t born yet.”

  “I think I was five or six about then,” said Cooney.

  “I’ll just tell you the camel part. There’s a book they wrote about it, ’bout that whole year: Hey, Cowboy, Wanna Git Lucky?”

  “Yeah,” said Cooney, “I read it, but I never knew if it was true or not.”

  “The camel part sure was!” assured Lick. “I rode him from the Oklahoma City zoo to Myriad Arena, right down Main Street, jumpin’ cars, duckin’ around buses, racing reporters, policemen, runnin’ red lights. I nearly ran over the security guard at the contestants’ gate to get back of the chutes. He recognized me at the last moment and opened the gate.”

  “Were you really naked?” asked one of the men.

  “Nope. I had on somebody’s underwear. Actually, I can’t remember if it was mine and a pillowcase for a wild rag . . . but I can remember I was only thinkin’ one thing: make the bell, get to the church on time. It was my last chance. I couldn’t miss it. I didn’t want them to turn out my bull.”

  “And you rode him,” said Cooney with respect.

  “Yep, I got lucky,” said Lick.

  One of the men started in on a story, and Cooney turned to Lick and asked, “I’ve had a couple people ask me, including an Indian policewoman, if you married the girl that you rescued from the Las Vegas mafia. I don’t really know that story, just the legend. You mind tellin’ me if the lady I met in Benson was her?”

  “Naw, I don’t mind,” said Lick. “Her name was Teddie Arizona, and, no, I didn’t marry her. After the rescue, as you call it, I stayed in Las Vegas for a couple years. She put me up in a fancy apartment in town. But she was real mixed up, and I was in a mental slump. We became a burden on each other. She started goin’ to a psychologist, and I started drinkin’.

  “Truth is, I asked her to marry me, even bought a ring. When I asked her, she broke into tears and said no,” said Lick. “I packed that next mornin’, borrowed a car from a guy I knew, and left town.”

  “What happened to her?” asked Cooney.

  “I think she stayed in Vegas, started her own business. She inherited, or got in a divorce settlement, some pretty good money. Don’t know if she ever got married again,” said Lick.

  “Where did you go?” asked Cooney.

  “That’s another story, Cowboy,” said Lick. “How ’bout another tequila and prune juice?”

  CHAPTER 31

  August 27, Saturday Night

  The Llama Ride!

  “That camel story should be in Guinness World Records!” said Less Oriole. “You ever been on a camel since then?”

  “Nope, can’t say as I have,” said Lick.

  “Hey, boys, I’ve got an idea,” said Less.

  “We better go,” said all the others who knew Less and didn’t really want to be a part of any of his ideas.

  “No! Wait! This is great! Let’s have a race. We’ll re-create Lick’s camel race! Cooney, you’re a good kid, and you know we love ya. We wouldn’t do anything to lead you astray, but how could you pass up an opportunity to have a camel race with Lick? A re-creation of one of rodeo’s greatest events!”

  “Lesster,” said William Bill, one of the few remaining who still had any modicum of restraint, “this doesn’t sound very wise.”

  “Well,” sa
id Lick, “I’ve done dumber things than that. Less, what’s your plan?”

  “Done dumber things than that?” What a great rationale to embark on a train wreck. There are people who walk a little closer to the edge than most of us. And I don’t mean when lives are at stake or when there are battles to be won. I mean just to see what’s there.

  You know them. They make you uncomfortable. You can let them into your box, but you wouldn’t dare go into theirs. It’s just good sense to keep them at arm’s length. It should be no surprise that a significant number of these edge walkers are drawn to bull riding.

  Cooney is getting dangerously close to Lick.

  Our band of merry revelers was unable to locate any camels for the “Midnight Ride of Lick and Cooney” or “Loony,” as it quickly became called. But these were resourceful men, and they soon located a fellow Piebald Polo Club member who raised llamas, the next-best thing.

  At 11:00 p.m., down a long driveway off Camino Capistrano, a group of men was standing in a cyclone-fenced corral explaining to Federico Dedos why they needed to borrow his two fastest llamas for a race.

  Lick was pumped. He had gone over the edge and was inciting the crowd to riot.

  “We could all ride one!” he crowed. “Feddy, how many llamas do you have? Looks like ten or twelve here. Whattya say?”

  Less was living a dream. “I need a big one, Federico! Gimme yer best!”

  “Now hold it, boys,” said Federico. “These are valuable llamas, and I don’t know if I’ve got racing insurance.”

  “Whattya worried about?” asked Corp. “You probably beat some poor ol’ wool-weaving hippie from Hemet outta them. For ten cents on the dollar.”

  “You don’t know that!” said Federico indignantly.

  “You probably still owe her for them. You do, don’t you?” said Corp.

  “Come on, Feddy,” said Less. “You know we won’t hurt them, but just to be fair, we’ll put up collateral. Corp, you and Bill Bill, cover it. Just say, ‘We swear to cover it,’ and we will pay you back for any damage done to the llamas.”

  “Ah, that’s okay,” said Federico. “I’m thinkin’ we should have a little bet on the side as to who wins. But this little corral’s not big enough to have a race.”

  “Feddy,” said Less, “this is the Midnight Ride of Loony, which is the reenactment of Lick’s camel ride at the national finals. It is in honor of rodeo fans everywhere!

  “Here’s the plan. There’s nine of us, ten countin’ your son. So we send Bill Bill down the street to the Boomerang Swallows, where the front door will be the finish line. Everybody that rides will get a haltered llama and start right here in this pen. Your boy can open the gate, and out we go.

  “First one through the Swallows door gets the pot.”

  “How ’bout a hundred apiece?” said Federico.

  “Here’s three hundred,” said Corp. “That’s for me, Lick, and Cooney.”

  “Well, here’s five hundred,” offered Lick, “to sweeten the pot!”

  “I can . . .” started Cooney.

  “Put yer money away, Son, it ain’t no good here,” said Federico.

  Bill Bill took the money, jumped into his car, and drove to the bar. It was full of rodeo fans and cowboys in town for the festivities. Bill Bill made the announcement, and the contents of the bar spilled out into the street. Traffic was light, and a couple of corners were covered to provide safe passage.

  Twenty minutes later, at 11:44 p.m., Bill Bill got the call from Federico’s son, F-2, that the gate was about to be opened. Several cars full of onlookers had driven down from the Boomerang Swallows to see the start of the race.

  Between Federico, F-2, and each jockey, they managed to get a halter, with a lead rope tied back around to make reins, on seven llamas.

  A word about llamas: nasty.

  They are bigger than alpaca, antelope, and wombats and smaller than cows, old sows, and Harleys. Weighing in at up to four hundred pounds, long legged and long necked, they can stand flat-footed and look over the top of the average man’s head.

  They are quick to anger, to kick, to spit, paw, ram, whack, orgle, neck wrestle, and mount anything that moves. And they are hard to ride. Now back to my story.

  Llamas have a thick coat of wool, which is helpful when getting onto them and hanging on for dear life.

  The corral was now surrounded by a crowd. Onlookers lined the mile-and-a-half roadway to the finish line.

  Some of the bystanders who had livestock experience helped the riders get mounted.

  In addition to Lick and Cooney, others, including Corp Luteum, Feddy Dedos, Less Oriole, Hubcap Longevity, Hookworm Shields, and Jack Handle, were entered up. I know: That’s more than seven, but Hubcap had agreed to run along beside Jack Handle to keep him upright, so they each counted as one-half.

  F-2 had his hand on the gate, watching for the moment when all seven riders were up and ready. It took two or three men on the ground to keep each llama contained. F-2 could whistle. Not a tune, but a noon o’clock whistle in a factory town. He laid his fingers to his lips, and they were off!

  Out of the gate was Lick in the lead! His llama was trotting, and it was painful to Lick’s skinny buttocks. He tried to lie back with his boots out in front of the shoulders. His balance was good, but the llama’s back was not very wide. Besides, he still held in one hand a large plastic glass of tequila and prune juice (the bartender stocked it in his honor)! He leaned forward to try to urge the llama to run.

  Less Oriole shot by him. Lick’s llama immediately switched into a cow gallop trying to keep up. All of the llamas soon caught the spirit. The first casualty was Hook Shields, appropriately, when he hooked his left boot toe on the gate post, lost his balance, grabbled the top rail, and swung himself off the llama, then smacked into the gate! It was a Wile E. Coyote moment. However, his llama continued on with the pack.

  Corp lost control on the first right turn onto Camino Capistrano when his llama, whom he had named Gilroy in honor of his hometown, turned abruptly, and Corp sailed off the left front quarter. Corp somehow managed to hang on to the rope reins. Gilroy dragged him several feet, then, realizing what was impeding her progress, turned back up the rope to the scene of the crime.

  Corp, thinking he was winning, grabbed the halter on both sides of her head and started to pull himself up. When he was nose to nose with Gilroy, she pursed her cloven lips and spit a fetid, bile-flavored slanger all over his face! He fell over backward like a Mace victim, screaming and rolling in a large, uneven circle.

  Federico was giving Lick a run for his money. They were both up on big males. Federico knew how to pick ’em. What he didn’t count on was that the two males were neck and neck in the pecking order and would fight at the drop of an Inca.

  Feddy and Lick were soon in a heated effort to keep the two apart and still make progress.

  Feddy, always ready to hedge his bets, had strapped a light English saddle around his llama.

  While the two llamas were ramming each other and neck wrestling, Feddy, on the right side of Lick and slightly behind, grabbed him by the collar. He leaned into his left stirrup to position himself to pull Lick off the back of his ride. To his chagrin his saddle slid sideways 90 degrees.

  Lick’s head was now pinned to the back of his llama. Feddy was nearly airborne. He looked like one of those bulldogging pictures in midjump. He had a hold of Lick with his left hand, the rope rein with his right hand, and was squeezing his legs as tightly as he could around his llama. It was amazing that he covered almost twenty yards in that position.

  It was then that the two llamas swerved to the curb, each passing on opposite sides of a lamp post. It was curtains for Feddy. He performed a horizontal jackknife in an attempt to evade the collision. Unfortunately, the iron post left a message on his belly that read San Juan Valley Elect
ric Company, but in mirror image.

  Cooney was hangin’ on for dear life. He had ridden lots of wild beasts but usually under more controlled conditions. He was watching Less Oriole, who had taken the lead, whoopin’ and wallopin’ his llama down the edge of the street next to the eight-foot plastered wall that surrounded the mission. Thank goodness llamas are sure-footed, thought Cooney, ’cause Less is floppin’ all over him.

  Sticking out from the mission wall, eight feet off the ground, was a clay pot in a wrought-iron frame. Long-flowing flowered vines grew from the pot and descended toward the sidewalk. It was a long shot, but Less was up for it. After all, he had once bulldogged an army tank. He grabbed the vine with both hands, intending to swing up onto the top of the wall.

  In his mind he was envisioning Zorro pulling off a coup that would overshadow any boring llama race. However, the hundred-year-old wrought iron that was cemented into the adobe was no match for 220 pounds of mass going at the velocity of 20 mph. Let’s see . . . 220 pounds (mass) x 20 mph (velocity) = collision, contusion, concussion, confusion, and calamity cubed!

  Lick and Cooney were on opposite sides of the street from each other. The sidewalk was lined with yelling, screaming spectators. They had formed a V that would funnel the racing llamas to the front door of the Boomerang Swallow. Cooney could hear the cheering. People were shouting his name and rooting for him.

  “Take him out, Cooney!”

  “Coo-Nee! Coo-Nee! Coo-Nee!”

  In that split second he went competitive! Up ’til then it was just a joke. Some horseplay. Granted, it was way outside the box . . . but he was in a race, and Cooney didn’t like to lose.

  He started putting his heels to his llama, leaning forward, coaxing him to go faster. They were less than twenty yards from the door when Lick pulled up on Cooney’s off side. Lick looked in Cooney’s face and smiled a crazy smile.

  “Here,” said Lick, stretching his left arm across the chasm and offering a plastic glass half full of tequila to Cooney.