Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  Uncle Firmston came out and stood beside her. He lit a cigarette.

  “Uncle Firmy, you know you should quit smoking, hey,” she said.

  “Yes, I know. Kind of a burly Yank ya had for lunch,” he noted. “Did ya feel how hard his hands were? A workin’ man’s hands.”

  She remembered the rough palm of Cooney’s hand on the back of her neck while they were . . . well, on the floor in the tack room and she was on top of him. That, she realized, would be hard to explain, so she just let Uncle Firmy’s comment go unanswered.

  CHAPTER 37

  September 28, Wednesday

  Denver Airport

  As Cooney’s big jet landed at Denver International Airport his mind was racing. After he had debouched he called Straight on his cell phone. They were to meet after he landed, then they had a three-hour layover and then a flight to Oklahoma City to pick up their truck and head to Omaha.

  Straight was in a bar near gate B29, sitting in a corner near a large picture window. They could see the anthill activities of the ground crews as airplanes came and went.

  Cooney sat down and immediately began pouring out his story about Pica and his plans to save her. “Let me get a beer,” he said. “You want something?”

  It was then that Cooney first paid enough attention to realize that Straight was not right. “What’s wrong, amigo?” he asked, suddenly concerned.

  Straight stirred his rye and Coke with a straw. “I’ve got other problems. I’m sorry about Pica, I’m glad you got things straightened out with her, but I . . .” he took another draw on the straw.

  “The big meeting this week about replacing Pica also put me on notice. They are liking Oui Oui as the LIP LASTER girl, at least some of them are. They are thinkin’ rodeo authenticity is not nearly as valuable as sex appeal. Which means Pica’s out. Then it came up, ‘How’s it going to look?’ for the booth, for me, really, if I don’t make the finals.”

  Cooney felt a catch in his heart. Straight had been steady on the course toward his dream, which was to capitalize on his bronc riding ability and use it to become a rodeo media personality. Three months ago his dream was coming true. Now it appeared he might lose it all. “Nothing more for me,” said Straight in answer to the first question.

  Cooney went to the bar and picked up a draft beer. Suddenly his whole life was complicated.

  He was an intelligent man, but sorting out these problems left his mind fuzzy. But first things first: He owed Straight. More than he liked to think about. For three years his riding buddy had coached and commiserated with him. It had paid off. Cooney was the best he had ever been. Okay . . . he took a deep breath and returned to the table.

  “Partner, the first thing we need to do, before Pica, before OTT, before the booth, the girls, the truck, or your miserable brother, is to get you ridin’ like you know you can. I need to think on this, but we’ll do it.

  “I’ve got to go to the john and make a call or two. The plane doesn’t leave for two hours. If you’re not here when I come back, I’ll see you at the gate,” said Cooney.

  “Posthole Poetry Company. May I help you?”

  “Lydia, it’s Cooney Bedlam. Would Lick be around?”

  “He’s takin’ a nap in his new hammock. Can I have him call you back?”

  “I’m in the airport between planes. Any way you can . . . I need to talk to him kinda bad.”

  “All right. Let me see what I can do. I’ll put you on hold.”

  Thirty seconds later Lick came on the phone. “Hey, Cooney, what’s up?”

  “Howdy, Lick. Thanks for talking to me. I’m in a squeeze here, and I need some help sorting it out. Ya see . . .” Cooney laid out his confusions.

  “Humm,” said Lick. “I think the first thing I’d do is get Straight some mind-bending drugs.”

  “What?” said Cooney.

  “Not illegal drugs. But he needs uppers, some mood-altering, calming medication. He sounds like he’s depressed. Xanax is one that comes to mind. Believe me, I got depressed once. I didn’t know I was, but I finally went to the doctor and told him I couldn’t sleep, didn’t eat, cried at odd times. He gimme these pills, I took ’em for two days, and rose from the doldrums like a Phoenix.”

  “Where do you get ’em?” asked Cooney.

  “Yer in the airport, right? Where are you headed?”

  “Omaha.”

  “Great. I know folks everywhere. Let me make a call or two. Then I’ll call you back, and you can pick them up when you land. I’ve got some ideas on Pica’s problem, but we can talk about that after Straight gets straight.”

  “Thanks, Lick,” said Cooney.

  CHAPTER 38

  September 29–October 1

  Omaha Qwest Center

  On Thursday in Omaha Cooney was up in an Xtreme Bull Riding event, which also counted toward the PRCA standings. It was limited to forty selected bull riders who qualified to enter based on year-to-date winnings. The entry fee was $185. One go-round with the top twelve qualifying to compete in the final go-round. Winner could make upward of $5,000.

  The regular Omaha rodeo featured the requisite events: bareback bronc, saddle bronc, bull riding, tie-down calf roping, steer wrestling, and team roping. Each event had one go. Cooney entered both the saddle bronc and the bull riding. Straight entered the saddle bronc.

  Straight’s mood had definitely mellowed after Lick had arranged for them to pick up a few pills from a friend in Council Bluffs who had recently gotten divorced at age fifty. He told Lick he would be glad to give a couple of days’ worth to a friend in need. The arrangements had been made.

  Since their aroma therapy and virtual colonic under the tutelage of Stone Roanhorse, Straight had begun to regain his riding karma. The fact that he had come from twenty-second and out of the running to nineteenth since then looked good to him, but to OTT, he was still a long shot to make the finals with only a month to go.

  Straight had a good draw for the Saturday night performance. Klackamas Jack was big, powerful sorrel gelding. His book said that he could be inconsistent on occasion. Maybe take a nose dive to the right, so one had to be alert to him changing course in midair.

  Straight’s attitude was great. He had taken the Xanax as Cooney had instructed for two days, but he hadn’t had one since Friday morning. He was pleasant in the OTT booth on Friday night, while Oui Oui had been upset that her room had a view of the railroad yard. And the lotion in the hotel room smelled like deodorant soap. Klackamas Jack thundered into the bucking chutes with the other broncs. Nebraska was as much cowboy as it was corn. Those eastern Nebraska and western Iowa farm boys liked the rodeo. And the Qwest Center Arena was full.

  The first saddle bronc slammed out of the gate! Straight, up next, dropped down in the chute, rein in hand, thighs pressed against the swells, boots in the fiberglass oxbows doubled back along the side, hat pulled down, the rein hand raised almost straight-arm taking the slack, body back, back bowed. Then the bowlegged, bullet-proof Buffalo, Alberta, bronc rider in the black hat gave the nod . . . and the door blew open!

  As Straight left the chute, his last lifeline to fall away was Cooney’s fingertip on the edge of his vest.

  Cooney, standing on the catwalk, was three feet off the ground. The top of his hat was therefore nine feet above the arena floor. At the peak of Klackamas Jack’s launch, the top of Straight’s hat was three feet above Cooney’s eye line.

  Cooney watched Straight snap his heels right out over the flat of the neck, rowels landing in the crease along the top of the shoulders where they parked, his boots pushed hard against the stirrups. So hard that it lifted Straight’s body out of the saddle seat up against the cantle. You could see daylight between jeans and leather. His legs were maximum extension like the jaws of a bear trap waiting to scissor closed. Man and beast descended. The arches in Straight’
s boots took the full force of the impact when horse and man hit with the Earth.

  As Klackamas Jack reloaded and began to launch again, Straight leaned against the swells and brought his dull rowels back along the neck ’til they reached the cinch. Good drag, Cooney noted.

  They found the rhythm. Straight and Klackamas. Rock and fire, ridin’ the stirrups and the rein, light as a feather in the saddle seat. Grace under power. Cheetah, jaguar, Lamborghini. A Greyhound 240Z. Smooth, suave, the epitome of “just exactly right.”

  Klackamas never tried any tricks; he just poured his all into it. From the stands it looked so easy. And it was, as long as horse and man and rein and spur and footing and hoof and muscle and tendon stayed in harmony. Fifteen hundred pounds of feng shui.

  “Man, oh, man,” thought Cooney an instant before the 8-second buzzer jarred the spectators. “That is what it is supposed to be like.”

  Straight and Klackamas scored an eighty-nine. The crowd loved it. Straight took the lead with only six bronc riders left to go for a purse of about $15,000 to the winner.

  Straight went back to the catwalk to help Cooney get down onto his draw.

  “Great ride,” said Cooney as they were checking the back cinch.

  “Yeah, well, thanks,” said Straight. “Let’s see if you can beat it. You’ve got the horse that can.”

  In the next nine minutes before Cooney nodded his head to ride Sky Walker as the last man out, the wisp of a thought kept floating through his mind. It never completely formed, but the gist of it was: Straight needs to win this for his confidence, for his job, for his shot at the finals. And I am the last man standing between him and the championship buckle. But . . . I couldn’t . . . Straight would be devastated if he thought . . . How could I even consider . . .

  In the middle of the muddle Cooney called for his horse. He was on autopilot. He rode ol’ Sky Walker. But he failed to mark him out. Straight took the buckle and the check. Cooney didn’t mean to disqualify himself . . . did he? In the deepest part of his own heart, he didn’t know.

  CHAPTER 39

  October 1, Saturday Night

  Omaha after the Rodeo Party

  Straight, in a great mood, was in the OTT LIP LASTER booth as the crowd leisurely departed the big auditorium. Many stopped to visit, get samples of LIP LASTER lip balm and autographed pictures. For the first time since Oui Oui had begun appearing in the booth, Straight was getting as many requests for photos and autographs as she was. There was one point when no one was waiting to get Oui Oui’s autograph, and Straight had five people waiting for his. It wasn’t because Oui Oui had become lax in her personal appearance. It was just that the number of rodeo fans equaled the number of cleavage connoisseurs.

  Back in her hotel room, which conveniently connected to File’s, Oui Oui was simmering as she got ready for the invitation-only party planned for that night by the Omaha Rodeo Committee

  “Did you see that? Straight had more fans than me!” she fumed.

  “No, no, Oui Oui Baby. It just seemed that way for a minute because . . . because several were holding back. Waiting out of sight for your line to shorten. They were actually in it, they just didn’t know, and it seemed that way.”

  “Do you really think so?” she asked, not exactly understanding what he said.

  “Yeah, they love ya, Baby. Nobody can touch you. Besides, you’re gonna knock ’em dead at the party tonight.”

  “Oh, Filey, Filofrenzy, you always say the right thing. I just woochy, woochy, woochy you.”

  “Maybe when the party’s over we could have our own private party up here,” he crooned. “You could model that little exotic package you got in the mail from Barbados.” File was referring to the very source of the rare feathers that had caused Pica’s downfall.

  “Oh!” she said. “Oooooo! I could wear that to the party!”

  File cautioned her, “Remember, we’d be better off to keep that out of sight for a while.”

  “Oh, File!” she said, petulantly pursing her lips. “Nobody will know. Nobody even knows what the Tooting Pavo Real is anyway!”

  “That is theTetuchtan Pavo Real,” said File, correcting her gently. “Endangered feathers have been in the press a lot. It might be taking a big chance.”

  “You really think there will be an authority on endangered peacocks at a cowboy party? Lighten up!” she said slyly, “because . . . if I wore it to the party, there’s nothing to stop me from giving you a private fashion show after we come back to the room.

  “You know I want to make you happy. Please let me wear it. Please, please, please, pleeeeeese, Filomantic, Filovely, Filamour.”

  Twenty minutes later Oui Oui Reese walked into the crowded ballroom filled with men dressed in jeans and suit coats, women swooshing in long dresses or tight jeans, and waiters with trays of hors d’oeuvres and Champagne. She crashed the party like an icebreaker going through the Northwest Passage. The crowd would heave up, step back, then re-form in her wake.

  She was wearing a halter top made of two upraised fans of the most fluoredescent feathers imaginable in nature’s studio. It was as if a swan had been painting the ceiling with every color of sherbet she could find: lime, blackberry, raspberry, cherry, mango, melon, metropolitan, sunflower, Godiva dark chocolate, and John Deere, and . . . it had dripped onto her downy breasts. The infrastructure, neck strap, and back tie were made of tightly braided grass, as was the lining that separated her skin from the feathers.

  Like drones attracted to the queen bee, a swarm of men moved within her circle of pheromones. Just as one of the attendees handed her a Champagne glass, she felt something bite her!

  She fluffed her skirt and deliberately avoided touching where the little sting remained.

  “Of course, I’d be thrilled to have my picture with UUUU!” she gasped, eyebrows raised in surprise as she felt another tiny bite underneath the left fan of feathers.

  “Ooo, pardon me,” she said. “The Champagne must’ve . . . Ow!” she said, this time reaching up and scratching above her seventh rib.

  Oui Oui got control of herself. “Okay,” she said, “who would like a picture with the LIP LASTER girl?” A gentleman stood on either side of her.

  “How ’bout an arm around each of them?” asked the photographer who had been hired by the rodeo committee just for this party.

  “Of course,” she smiled like the seventh siren. She was taller than both men. Each seemed to nestle under her protective arms. “Smile!”

  Just then there were simultaneous bites on the abaxial sides of her halter top! Instinctively she reached to scratch them, but in doing so she jerked the surprised committee members across her chest and banged their heads together!

  It was the first of many photographs that would be passed around at rodeo committee meetings for years to come. The photos would eventually be included in a special historical scrapbook in her honor.

  Other photographs included one with her left hand raised like the Statue of Liberty, right hand underneath the left fan; another with her left hand inside the right fan like Napoleon; another with her right hand over the left fan as if she were reciting the Pledge of Allegiance; one with both arms crossed over her chest, fingers scratching madly, a grimace on her face; another with her bent at the waist shaking them as if she were trying to get crumbs out of her cleavage; one, particularly festive, with her upending a Champagne bottle into the right fan; and, finally, one with her lying on a round banquet table face down, arms spread wide, legs bent up at the knees, wiggling wildly as if she were polishing the table top with the feathers!

  Needless to say, after she had run out of the ballroom, through the hotel lobby, and down the hallway screaming at the top of her lungs and clawing at herself, she reached her hotel room door before File did. He had both keys. He came racing up and swiped the card.

  As soon as
the green light blinked, she smashed him into the side of the door and careened through the room and into her bathroom.

  File heard the door slam and the shower come on. He knew it was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER 40

  October 1, Late at Night

  Omaha, Cooney Calls Pica

  Cooney called Pica from his hotel room in Omaha at 11:30 p.m., an hour later than it was in Pincher Creek. She was in her bedroom, sitting at her desktop computer.

  “I’ve been trying to find out about these endangered species,” she said, “the smuggling business and all.

  “These feathers . . . they are quite the deal. They are, like, the most popular bird item to be sold. The birds, parrots, actually, live in the jungles of Venezuela. They’ve been hunted nearly to extinction. The governments and museums and bird people, I guess, are trying to protect them . . . Which only makes them more valuable, hey.”

  “Where are you learning all this?” asked Cooney.

  “Internet. It’s everywhere! So, anyway,” she continued, “like, I saw several related stories about the Customs Service catching smugglers. There are lots of color photographs of ornaments and headdresses and ceremonial stuff made out of these feathers. One of the articles was about this professor who is an expert on exotic bird poaching. I’m going to try and contact her.”

  “That’s a start,” said Cooney. “We’ve haven’t got much done down here yet. Straight had some trouble, but he got over it and won the Omaha saddle bronc championship!”

  “Oh, good. He’s such a good guy,” she said with compassion. “I worried about him, about hurting his feelings when I went on the media blitz, and he didn’t get invited. He deserves a break, hard as he works and all.”

  Cooney had a fleeting thought that she might have some regret about him, too, about hurting his feelings, because it was his verbal faux pas that catapulted her to fame in the first place and he who had borne the scorn of the media and the feminist world. However, she apparently had nothing more to say about his suffering, so he changed the subject.