Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  “You said it,” he said. Then, “Look at theyat!”

  At the buzzer Straight had taken off his hat, fanned the horse, and then bailed out! He landed on his feet, hat in hand, then threw it high into the air.

  “My good smokin’ red-eye gravy,” exclaimed Layer. “He mawked an eighty-seven point five! What a way to start the Wrangler National Finals Rodeo saddle bronc riding!”

  “An eighty-seven point five!” said Skim. “That takes the lead in the NFR saddle bronc ridin’!”

  “Not to diminish that fine ride, Skim,” said Layer, “but I guess even a fifteen score woulda prob’ly took the lead at this stage uh da game.”

  Fourteen more saddle bronc rides rolled in and out of the chutes. Four riders bucked off. The next-highest score was an eighty-five by Shelby Truax, who came into the finals in fourth place with $146,445. Then the chute boss was standing in front of chute 3.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” spoke the rodeo announcer over the din of booming music, sound effects, and the undertone of spectator noise, “in chute number 3, standing second in the world, from Buffalo, South Dakota, Coo-oo-oo-nee-ee-ee Be-e-e-ed Lu-u-u-u-m!”

  If Straight was an engine on the track, Cooney was a derailed box car coming off the edge of the Grand Canyon! He rode all-out every time. He was not afraid to get bucked off; he was always trying to win, as opposed to “not lose.”

  “Furious” would be the best description of Cooney’s riding style.

  His draw was Silver Belle, a middlin’ to large dapple gray mare who had started life as a filly in Porum, Oklahoma. Broke to ride, she had spent a year in Hitch’s Feedlot in Guymon checkin’ pens until one day she decided she’d had enough of the mud and dust and had a change of personality.

  Not wanting to get any of his cowboys hurt, the cattle foreman took her to the sale with the warning that she was not a kid’s horse.

  The Maid Brothers Rodeo Company bought her to use as a saddle horse because of her size.

  After getting her back to the ranch and finding they could not saddle her, they ran her in the riggin’ chute and forced her to dress as a bareback bronc. The brothers found out what she was good at!

  That first year the riders rated her one of the five best bareback broncs.

  Two years after that she switched to saddle bronc riding and found a home.

  In addition to being good sized, she was quick and unpredictable. She was now nine years old and in her prime.

  Straight helped Cooney get down onto Silver Belle. Her book was well known. Both Straight and Cooney had drawn her, but only Straight had scored well. That “unpredictability” meant that she didn’t always come out of the chute nice and clean, line out, and start bucking.

  “Okay,” said Cooney, “I’m givin’ her a little slack.” He adjusted his grip on the rein. “Any ideas?” he asked Straight.

  “Just be ready, partner. She can come from outta nowhere.”

  Cooney leaned back, glanced into the arena, then back to the horse’s poll, stretched his shoulder, moved his arm position slightly, and took a tight-lipped, concentrating breath. He was like a model posing for a photo. As soon as body, mind, and heart lined up perfectly, he froze! Through gritted teeth he said, “Let’s ride!”

  Silver Belle’s first move out of the box was an almost 180-degree swing back to her left! Instead of propelling herself out of the chute by leaping into the air, she had swung her body around as if she were in a reining pattern. Cooney’s spurs shot out and caught both sides of her neck just as her front feet hit the ground! Her body was twisted so far to the left that her front end and hind legs were not parallel. Then, in a split-second move she swung her front legs back to the right a full 90 degrees! She looked like a cutting horse at the top of its game. Cooney’s spurs held their position, though the unexpected move caught him off balance.

  All that kept Cooney in the seat was the fact that he was left-handed and rode with his right. That gave him a slight edge. The whole right side of his body was rigid and rock hard. His muscles were locked in position when the gyroscope fell off the edge of the table!

  The muscles in her powerful hindquarters flexed in a crouch . . . then came unwound! Horse and rider entered the arena atmosphere six feet above the ground! As they climbed upward Cooney’s arm reached out above the neck, and his upper body moved forward, almost over the swells, as his dull rolling rowels glided backward in an arc along the flanks. A perfect demonstration of the “rock” as in “rock and fire”!

  She was a quick horse and got in a lot of up and downs during their short 8 seconds. As seen from the stands Silver Belle was putting on a show. Even with her changing directions twice more unexpectedly, Cooney hung on and kept spurring. He looked like a helicopter trying to land on a bouncing dune buggy in the Baja 500. All that seemed to be in contact between man and beast was the rein in his hand and the bottom of his boots in the oxbow stirrups. There was so much daylight between his seat and the saddle that migrating ducks could have flown between them!

  “Furious was right!” It described the ride: exciting, explosive, and furious.

  At the buzzer Silver Belle was just coming down. She must have deliberately leaned to the right because Cooney unceremoniously sailed out head first over the swells and into the dirt, performing an awkward somersault before crumpling in a pile of chap leather and smashed felt.

  “By the buckskin on my breeches,” exclaimed Skim Slayton, “I believe she done nat on purpose!”

  “How you come up with them pithy gesticulations, Skim, is beyond me. You jus’ have a way with woods.”

  “Looka theyah! A sebundy-nine! I don’t b’lieve it! Why, them Yankee judges, they . . .” complained Skim as Layer Pie pushed the mute button on Skim’s microphone.

  CHAPTER 51

  December 5, Monday

  Fifth Performance of the

  National Finals Rodeo

  December 5, 10:14 a.m.

  Dear Pica,

  Since you wrote I have visited with one of your lawyers and a Ms. Nova Skosha with OVER THE TOP ATHLETIC COSMETICS. The lawyer was noncommittal on your culpability, but Ms. Skosha is convinced you are innocent of the charges of smuggling “limbs or pieces, living or dead, whole or in part” of the endangered species, commonly called the Glandular Y Cock.

  I put in a call to a contact that is familiar with the “illegal trade” in the Caribbean. He is not recognized by the feds or academia, yet he has been helpful to me in the past. He is aware of a transaction last fall wherein a feathered garment was shipped to a buyer in the U.S. This is third-hand but originated from the person who made the delivery. It was in September, according to the source.

  My intermediary is making subtle inquiries about the seller, potential buyer. Nothing solid yet, but I’ll keep you informed.

  y.t., Dr. Laurel LeMans

  December 5, 12:24 p.m.

  Dr. LeMans,

  Oh, my! I don’t know if it would be the same person . . . shipping to the States, I mean. Whoever did it actually hid them in my suitcase. But any news keeps me optimistic. Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!!!!!!

  Pica

  December 6, 1:28 p.m.

  Pica,

  News. According to my intermediary, a package containing a feather halter top made from the Tetuchtan Pavo Real was smuggled into the States and hand-delivered to a party in Denver, Colorado. Second-hand information said that the recipient was a voluptuous woman who had a French name. I hope this helps. I’ll keep tracking, but it is tricky business down here.

  Dr. Laurel LeMans

  December 6, 1:42 p.m.

  Dr. LeMans,

  This gives me an idea! Thanx!

  Pica

  December 6, 1:51 p.m.

  Cooney,

  I just heard from Dr. LeMans, the bird expert. You’
ll never guess who was delivered a package containing a halter top made from endangered bird feathers. In DENVER, NO LESS! Not the Glandular Y Cock, but something called the Pavo Real. But the timing was about the same time I was traveling back to the States from Nassau. Plus . . . they have hear-say that the recipient was a good-looking woman with a French name. Ring any bells?

  Pica

  December 6, 12:14 a.m.

  Pica,

  Sorry I didn’t get your e-mail quicker. Rodeo, ya know. Straight and I both rode tonight. He finished third, me fourth. Pretty tight. I rode my bull.

  But wow! In a collision of coincidences . . . after the Omaha Rodeo last fall Straight and I went to a party that ended in a spectacular conclusion involving a voluptuous woman wearing a halter top made of fancy feathers! That voluptuous woman, who might be a ten, only if you are a one hundred, is standing in your booth at the NFR right now and, according to Straight, starring in the big OTT party following the last perf. We’re close, Pica. What can I do to help?

  Cooney

  December 7, 6:47 a.m.

  COONEY!!!!!!!

  This is it! Get me her hotel and room number, if you can.

  I’ll be out of touch for a while. Leave it on my e-mail.

  Cooney, whichever one you are, I’m owing you big-time.

  My Lps Kss yr Hrt

  P D’TT

  A handwritten note left on D’Troit’s kitchen table:

  December 7, 10:52 p.m.

  Dad,

  I love you. I’m doing what I have to do to clear myself. I’ll be gone maybe two weeks. You can’t know where I’m going. I know you are liable for me, no matter what, but I have information about the smuggling charge and must check it out.

  Just know that I am in no danger. I can take care of myself thanks to you. You are my mountain, my rock, and it hurts me to have to keep you in the dark. Oh, Dad, I love you so much . . . Please

  This first draft was thrown into the trash at the Pincher Creek bus station.

  The note that Juneau D’TroiT found on his big chair in the living room Thursday morning read simply:

  Dad,

  I love you. I’ll be gone maybe two weeks. Please trust me. Don’t forget to give Thunder Jack his Bute paste.

  Your daughter, with love

  CHAPTER 52

  Oui Oui’s Background to Bring Us Up to Date

  Way back before Oui Oui’s past got checkered she made acquaintance with a flashy import-export dealer from the Caribbean island of Barbados. Oui Oui had been on spring break from San Jacinto Junior College in Houston. She and two other girls had driven to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, to celebrate. It was in Fort Lauderdale one tequila night that she had met Hurtado Herman Huachuca.

  A reminder to readers whose Spanish is confined to “enchilada” and “Taco Bell”: the letter h in Spanish is silent, the letter u is “long,” and there is no letter w. So phonetically his name would be spelled oor-ta-do air-mawn wa-choo-ka.

  He was thirty-five years old then. She was eighteen and ripening.

  He whisked her away on his 106-foot motor yacht from Fort Lauderdale to his luxurious villa on the leeward side of Barbados and entertained her for a week. He collected many things besides pretty conquests. He had a collection of hallucinogenic dried tropical fruits, beautiful soft hides from the mighty jaguar, and jujus made from the feathers of tropical birds.

  Senor Huachuca allowed Oui Oui to luxuriate in the feathers and jaguar hides and even to taste some of the mind-bending tropical fruits.

  The idea that these items were rare, verboten, and valuable made Oui Oui tingle inside. Senor Huachuca dressed and decorated her with his treasures, and she posed in discreet but seductive positions for him to photograph.

  At the end of her spring break he returned her to St. Petersburg in his yacht. He could not gift her any of his illegal bounty, he had told her, but he invited her to come back and visit again sometime.

  Once a year until she was twenty-five she always found time to give him a call. They would arrange for her to fly down and spend a week. She became acquainted with his staff, his chefs, his gardeners, his pilots, chauffeurs, and the captain and crew of his yacht. She also was on speaking terms with two gentlemen, Feliz and Trueno, who served as his bodyguards.

  “Why do you need bodyguards?” she asked Three, as she called him—three Hs.

  “In my business I often deal with certain items that may be approved by one country and, how you say, outloud by others . . .”

  “‘Outlawed,’” she corrected carefully. Three was sensitive about having his English-is-a-second-language corrected.

  “. . . So I sleep in dormancy when I feel their presence. They are quite correlated in what they do,” he explained unintelligibly.

  He was always generous with her. Oui Oui had a nice collection of pretty things, although Three was very cautious about entrusting her with illegal contraband. Eventually there came a time in their relationship when she became consumed in pursuing her quest for stardom and didn’t make it down to see him. Three sent her cash occasionally, but she always tried to pay him back. “No, no,” he’d say, “just come and see me.”

  Last August 30, when File had been notified about Pica D’TroiT’s breakdown and unscheduled layover in the Bahamas, he had immediately rushed to Oui Oui’s apartment in Denver to tell her the news.

  She was furious! “It’s just another way to get attention! Everyone will be worrying, ‘Oh, oh, I hope it’s not serious. She’s so sweet,’” Oui Oui mimicked. “‘Let’s get her on Larry King, Dr. Laura, or The View. Maybe Barbara WaWa could do an exclusive.’ . . . That slimy little two-legged bench sitter! And to top it off, she’s not even American! Can you believe it?”

  File ducked as a plastic glass, two couch pillows, and a bag of jelly beans filled the air! But the storm went out of her as quickly as it had come. “Oh, Filo, Filo, Filoptic, whatever shall we do? . . . Every time we try and do the right thing . . . like when I lent her my comb, it always comes back to haunt me.”

  “Listen,” said File firmly, “maybe we can turn this into something good. Sort of make oil out of oatmeal.”

  “Oil out of oatmeal? What does that mean?” she shot back.

  “You know, clams outta crabcakes, hay outta sunshine, dinero outta tortillas.”

  “You mean rainbows outta rain?” She sought for the right phrase. “Like, turn lichens into luck?

  “Ducklings into swanlings? Pica into powder?”

  “You got it, Baby,” said File enthusiastically. “Like what if Pica got stuck down there in the Caribbean and couldn’t get back? Maybe she commits a murder, is picked up for prostitution, or is arrested for smuggling drugs or . . .”

  Oui Oui interrupted, “Or arrested for smuggling jaguar hides or . . . wait . . . feathers.”

  “Feathers?” said File. “No, it would have to be something serious like stolen diamonds or forged banknotes.”

  “Feathers, Filoman,” she said, “rare, protected, illegal exotic bird feathers.”

  “Where in the world . . .” objected File.

  “I think I know just the person to call,” she said with a bit of a grin.

  It had been three years since Oui Oui had seen Three. He could not come to the States because he was listed as a sneaky, crooked, half-baked feather fondler and self-important paranoid peyote dealer by the U.S. Customs Service. But she could see only the good in him.

  The night after File’s revelation, Thursday, September 1, Oui Oui’s plane landed in Miami. She flew the shuttle to the Nassau airport and was picked up by Feliz, one of Three’s personal bodyguards. He delivered her to Three’s yacht.

  She had explained her dilemma to Three and said that she had to be back in Miami by Monday with the goods. “No problema!” he said and set the wheels in
motion. She kissed him and kept his wheels in motion for the next three days!

  In selecting the ideal contraband they selected three jujus made from the feathers of the Glandular Y Cock. Little fetishes like shoo flies or key-ring bobs or fancy earrings. Simply a gather of feathers no more than four inches long banded together at the top with delicate metallic thread. Smaller and much lighter than an old shaving brush.

  File, surreptitiously working in concert with Oui Oui, had made arrangements to arrive in Nassau on Monday evening, September 5, to spell Kro­Asha, who was staying with Pica. KroAsha left that evening. She and File crossed paths at the airport and exchanged news. KroAsha had assured File that Pica was back on her feet and ready to continue her round of media appearances as the flashy, feminist, athletic woman bronc rider who had captured the interest of the media so completely.

  As soon as KroAsha boarded her flight back to Denver, a large, busty woman with big sunglasses wearing ill-fitting Bermuda shorts and carrying two large name-brand paper bags came around the corner and bumped into File. She spoke quickly from underneath an unstylish straw hat with fruit in the band: “Here,” she said, handing him a small box. He took it and kept walking.