Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  She wished she could be with him. Especially at the National Finals. She winced back a tear at not being able to be there to see him ride.

  In another part of the Rocky Mountains several states south, Oui Oui Reese was sipping warm cider in the lounge at the bottom of the ski run in Vail, Colorado, where Turk Manniquin had given her a week at his personal townhouse apartment, all expenses paid. At her table were two ski hunks drinking off her tab and feeling her out . . .

  File, who, Turk assumed, had only a business relationship with Oui Oui, was not included in the coverage. The closest room File could get for under $180 a night was in Wheatridge, Colorado, a Denver suburb. So he chose to stay in his small apartment on the southeast side of Denver.

  He wanted to drive up every day to make sure Oui Oui was all right, but she asked him not to.

  She needed peace and quiet before her tour de force ten-day performance at the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas, Nevada. It would catapult her to the stardom that they both believed in their hearts that she deserved.

  CHAPTER 48

  November 24–November 30

  In Cyberspace

  November 24, 11:30 a.m.

  LL.mans@featherduster.com

  University of Florida

  Department of Biology

  Dr. LeMans:

  I have been searching the Internet for someone with knowledge of endangered tropical bird species. I hope you will be able to help me or direct me to someone who can.

  My name is Pica D’TroiT. I was arrested September 6 in Miami for smuggling feathers of the Glandular Y Cock from Nassau in the Bahamas. I am out on bail and restricted to my premises here on my family ranch in Pincher Creek, Alberta, until the hearing, which is still not even scheduled.

  I am innocent. Someone planted the feathers in my suitcase. I am assuming it was someone who intended to use me as a “mule” and recover them from my luggage once I had passed through Customs. The feathers had been sewn in the lining without my knowledge before I left Nassau in the Bahamas.

  This is all speculation on my part.

  For reasons I cannot divine, the lawyers of the company I was working for, OVER THE TOP ATHLETIC COSMETICS, don’t seem to be doing anything. Therefore, I am making inquiries myself, and I’m hoping you will take me seriously.

  There must be an expert or authority somewhere in your world who is an authority on the smuggling of endangered birds and their feathers. I’m not worried about getting even or suing, but somebody in your wide circle of interest must know the kind of people who did this to me.

  If I were able, free to do it, I would make the trip to Nassau myself. But . . . that’s not possible.

  Please, please, please help me. I don’t know where to turn.

  Pica D’TroiT

  Pincher Creek, Alberta

  Telephone

  November 28, 8:47 a.m.

  Pica D’TroiT e-mail

  Dear Miss D’TroiT

  I remember your arrest. You are a famous young woman, if I am right. A rodeo rider, as I recall. You made the national news for a few days. Forgive my skepticism, but, of course, you are innocent. That’s what they all say.

  Although I am not directly involved in the criminal process of prosecuting smugglers, I have had occasion to be an expert witness. Your case is probably under the jurisdiction of the Wild Bird Conservation Act and CITES, the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species. These are federal laws with deep and convoluted rules and restrictions. It is not surprising that your lawyers are mired up to their wallets.

  First I would like to talk to them, maybe get a couple of character references I could contact, and then I will visit with you on the phone. If I feel that you truly were “framed,” then maybe we can pursue it further.

  Sincerely, Dr. L. LeMans

  November 28, 10:59 a.m.

  NovaSkoska@OTT.com

  Nova,

  I am in contact with an expert on tropical bird smuggling. I had to send her a list of character references. I hope it was okay that I named you. Also she, the expert, Dr. LeMans, wants to talk to my lawyers. I gave her their names, but they don’t return my calls, so I don’t expect they’ll be much help.

  Hope all is well. It’s cold up here and . . . oh, nothing, I just miss you, hey.

  Pica

  November 30, 9:01 p.m.

  Cooney@e-mail.com

  Cooney,

  First, we’re so happy for Straight getting to go to the finals. All of Alberta is thrilled! About my case, I’ve been working the Internet for help to do some digging into the business of endangered bird smuggling. I found one lady, after e-mailing five other good prospects that turned out to be fruitless. Anyway, the lady, Dr. LeMans, said she would check me out and if she thought I might be telling the truth, she would try and help.

  It is so humiliating to be treated like a criminal, like a thief. I’m trying to be tough, but some nights I feel like screaming. I get mad at the lawyers; they keep saying there’s nothing they can do until a case is brought. Nova still speaks to me, but I haven’t heard from Turk or File . . . I know they are busy; finals are starting tomorrow. I wish I was there to cheer you on. I know you’ll do good, both of you. You guys take care,

  Your biggest, kissingest fan, Pica

  CHAPTER 49

  December 1, Thursday

  Las Vegas, Wrangler National Finals Rodeo

  It was the first night of the National Finals Rodeo, and the crowd was humming. The spectacular ten-day show routinely sold out every night. A blizzard of commerce circled around the big event for the full ten days. Two huge trade shows as well as many smaller ones were set up to appeal to those who revel in the world of the cowboy.

  Every year in the three weeks before Christmas, the city of Las Vegas went all out, filling its theaters with country singers, the biggest stars money could buy, and redecorating the casinos in cowboy high style.

  If you had an interest in agriculture, horses, three-quarter-ton trucks, turquoise, leather, western art, western clothing, jewelry that cost more than the world champion cowboy would make this year, or boots so beautiful and well fitted that putting them on felt as if you were slipped your tootsies into a chocolate mousse, Las Vegas had your number. Any eye-pleasing, taste bud-tickling, spine-tingling overindulgence you could imagine was as close as the limit of your Visa card!

  At the center of the whirlpool of pumping commerce were the cowboys. The Thomas and Mack Arena (on the UNLV campus) afforded most of the nightly sixteen thousand fans a good view of the ropin’, ridin’ gladiators. The big four-sided screen that hung above the arena showed close-ups in the box and over the bucking chutes plus the subsequent action. Several postperformance presentations at certain hotel-casinos and daily trade-show booth-signing opportunities gave fans a chance to get an autograph.

  Most of the sky boxes were filled with corporate sponsors and their guests. These national sponsors, many of whom have been involved for years, were the difference between rodeo in Las Vegas and a team-roping practice in the covered arena at the Adams county fairgrounds. The vast majority of PRCA members would never set foot in a sky box during the rodeo, but there was always the hope that someday they’d be invited.

  In contrast, an invitation to the Gold Card Room was the ultimate acceptance. Gold Card members were rodeo contestants who, over the years, proved themselves worthy of being included. Many sky box invitees would never set foot in the Gold Card Room, although there was always the hope that someday they’d be invited.

  An hour before the rodeo, our two heroes, Straight and Cooney, found themselves in the locker room, sitting in their bucking horse saddles on the floor, legs outstretched, checking the fit, the feel, the seat, the swing. They were surrounded by bareback riders whose event opened every rodeo.

 
Twenty minutes before the first notes of the National Anthem would ring out, the contestants were herded together and put onto horses to ride in the grand entry. They were introduced by states. Cooney went with South Dakota, and Straight went with Canada.

  The grand entry is a performance that you would never see in the “professional sports” where the contestants belong to the owners.

  “Too risky,” the owners would say. “Someone could get hurt, too much money at stake. Are you crazy? There must be over a hundred cowboys and cowgirls racing around that little arena, most on strange horses, at a dead run, carrying sixty state flags! And the noise! And the laser lights! The smoke and explosions! All waiting for one of those spooky cayuses to jump the track like a loose coal car on a runaway train! They’d go down like dominos!

  “What if a rider fell off?” would say the football, baseball, basketball coach, manager, or owner. “He could be trampled or kicked or knocked out. Not for my quarterback, no way, or my goalie, or my light heavyweight! I’m savin’ them for good.”

  But in rodeo a wreck is not an issue—something organized sports simply wouldn’t understand.

  Cooney and Straight had had a lot to talk about on their drive down to Las Vegas. They’d hooked up at Salt Lake City and left Straight’s pickup at the ranch of Lou Fielder, a retired bareback rider. Cooney was trying to encourage his buddy to “relax and enjoy it.” Straight tried, but it wasn’t his personality. He was going to think through every ride, every contingency. It was just his style. He was also listening to self-help CDs: “How to Be a Better Whatever,” “Charisma for Dummies,” “Fine Tuning Every Nervous Twitch.” If you’re going to have them, put them to use!

  And, truth be told, Cooney had an undercurrent going on inside, too. It was called “Pica D’TroiT.” He finally had gotten to first base with her, but between first and second there was the big, thunderous, threatening cloud of Pica’s legal problems. Every time he’d try to think about what he could do to help her, his mind would wander to the back of a bull. He finally conceded to himself that even with their e-mail correspondence, his mind was on riding.

  Cooney and Straight had arrived on Tuesday, November 29, two days ago. By 6:00 p.m. Thursday night they were pumped, excited, bearing down, and buzzing.

  CHAPTER 50

  December 1, Thursday Night

  Las Vegas, First Performance of the Finals

  The first night out our heroes drew up good. Straight was the first saddle bronc rider out of the chute in the first performance. Most in the audience who followed rodeo enough to subscribe to the Rodeo Sports News were aware of the good luck Straight was blessed with to be here. No one had wanted Slidell to get hurt, but if anyone got moved up, Straight was well known and likable.

  Cooney finished the regular season in the number 2 position in the saddle bronc with $251,320, only $5,045 out of first place. He was standing eighth in the bull riding with $88,468. And to top it off, that put him in the running for the title of “All Around Cowboy”! To qualify for this last category a performer must earn over $1,000 in at least two events. Cooney got ’er done!

  Straight qualified in the saddle bronc in fifteenth place with a total of $54,027. He was just proud to be there.

  It would come to pass that ten days later the world champion saddle bronc rider would win $278,169.

  In other words, a performer could win well over $40,000 at the finals alone. The National Finals Rodeo average competition stands alone to be won or lost at the NFR. The bronc rider who goes into the finals in fifteenth place could actually win the NFR average. It still might not be enough to earn him the world championship, but it is a prize to be treasured and grants lots of braggin’ rights to be in the record books.

  In the three weeks between the last rodeo and the NFR, the lull that fans have is different than that of the performers. Ropers will continue to rope, fine tuning every nuance of horse, rope, steer and man, studying, as it were, right up to the final test.

  Rough stock riders have to weigh their physical readiness, alertness, mental state, and psychological attitude against the chance of being injured before the finals just practicing!

  Cooney continued his routine stretches and weight lifting. He rode with the confidence of an actor who was taught “when you have a line down pat, forget it!” Don’t worry or practice too much.

  Straight, on the other hand, worried about everything. He went over each ride endlessly in his mind, even got his hands on rodeo blooper videos to examine the riders for flaws.

  He also kept practicing his voice lessons. He had bought several self-help tapes lately on “sales presentation” and “audio and video vocalization training” designed for those who wanted to be professional on-air radio or television personalities. Speakin’ of which . . .

  “It’s shoah a treat to see Straight Line make the finals, even if it ’uz bad luck for Hi Slidell. We wish y’all the best, Hi. You’ll be back,” announced Layer Pie, an Alabama backyard team roper and scrap iron collector who was calling the action for XM Rodeo Radio.

  “Rat on, Layer, you’ve been wrong a lot, but yer rat this time,” agreed Skim Slayton, his partner back home in a small Internet bluegrass program. And now both were broadcasting live from Las Vegas!

  Skim was also the designated color man. “Straight hails from Buff’lo, Alberta which is ’bout as far as Buff’lo, South Dakota, or Buff’lo, New York . . .”

  “Or Buff’lo Beeyill,” added Layer. “Anyway, as I was sayin’ when I was so crudely interpreted, Straight, or Straighten, as his friends call him . . .”

  “His friends don’t call him ‘Straighten,’” said Skim.

  “Wayill, that’s what I call him,” said Layer.

  “Which proves my point . . .”

  “Yup, Straight is first outta the chute tonight . . .”

  “I believe, if y’all had noticed,” pointed out Skim, “we already done bucked out fifteen bareback riders, so Straight is certainly not the verah first outta the chute tonight, as you so colorfully put it, when I am ’sposed ta be doin’ the colah and y’all jis’ read the statistics . . . which y’all do so wayill, like knowin’ that you shoulda have said, ‘Straight is the sixteenth cowboy to buck outta the chute tonight.’”

  “He’s up on a previous saddle bronc of the yeah, Miss Conception,” intoned Layer. “If Straight ever wanted to prove he was worthy of bein’ invited to the finals, this heah is the time.”

  “I was thinkin’,” said Skim. “It’s time for smoke. All you kiddies light up! Whenever I want a good, flavorful smoke that doesn’t stain yo’ fingers or make ya cough up big . . .”

  Suddenly over the radio there was a loud crash, the sound of microphones being pounded, speakers screeching feedback, and a racket like a swing set falling down a stairwell! It lasted five seconds. Layer had accidentally kicked Skim’s folding chair out from under him.

  “Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to the live coverage of the National Finals Rodeo brought to y’all on XM Rodeo Radio. This is your announcer, Layer Pie, heah to bring y’all the play-by-play. My colah co-announcer apparently has stepped out fo’ a smoke.”

  Down at the chutes Straight Line was astraddle Miss Conception. She was not a big horse, but she could kick the lights out! Ride her, and you were in the money.

  Cooney was holding her head steady while Straight measured the rein.

  “X and four,” said Straight as he measured with his fist, thumb, and four fingers.

  “X and four,” confirmed Cooney. It would allow the horse to take a little more rein because she had the tendency to bury her head between her knees when she bucked. Too short a grip on the rein would pull a rider right over the top.

  In a few quick, well-practiced movements Straight was reared back, legs cocked at the knees ready to snap, rein held high, and eye on the back of the horse’s head.
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  Straight gave a glance over his shoulder at Cooney, who loosely held the back of his vest. Straight made a quick smile and an easy nod, which were read correctly as “I don’t know how or why it happened, but we made it.”

  Cooney actually chuckled. “Show ’em how!” he said.

  The gate swung open like the lid comin’ off a trunk full of dynamite!

  Every bronc ride is like a fingerprint. No two are exactly the same. Straight Line was was a classic saddle bronc rider, and Miss Conception was a classic saddle bronc.

  They arced out of the chute like a centaur springin’ off the high dive. It seemed they were in the air a full two seconds. Miss Conception had a powerful kick at the top of her arc that appeared to propel her farther down the arena. Straight never missed a lick. He popped his arm and pistoned his legs like the drivers on a locomotive. You could almost hear the expulsion and see the steam!

  The hat on his head was steady as the bead on a rifle. The action was so good that it gave Layer Pie, up in the Rodeo Radio booth, goose bumps.

  “Boy, that’s the kind of ride that makes a catfish hold his breath,” said Layer.

  “I couldn’t have said it bettah, Layah, even if I wuz the colah coordinator. Which I am, so I’ll jis’ say it again: ‘You couldn’t hold yo’ breath bettah, even if you wuz ridin’ a catfish!”

  “Wayill said, Skim,” said Layer.