Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  “I fell into money, as I mentioned, and became involved in protecting endangered species. I’ve made a life in Las Vegas. Lick eventually got married, had kids, lives out in the sticks somewhere, and now tours the country entertaining.

  “I’ve been to a show or two of his. I would have never guessed he could be so funny . . . or responsible.”

  “Are you married?” asked Pica.

  “No. Well, not really. There was this deal with a casino owner but . . . It was marriage, but it wasn’t love,” Teddie answered.

  Pica ooohed.

  “No regrets, Kid. Lick did ask me. I’ve always treasured that. It probably wouldn’t have worked, but at least he asked me. I turned him down. Deep down I still know it was the right thing.”

  Silence nudged in between them. Pica drifted back to sleep. Teddie Arizona kept her eyes on the road.

  “Where are we?” asked Pica after waking.

  “We, my dear, are coming into Helena, Montana,” said Teddie Arizona. “I figgered we could freshen up. Get a coffee or a pop and . . .”

  “How far is it to Las Vegas?” asked Pica.

  “Close to a thousand miles from Cut Bank. But I flew into Billings. I have some development property there and Fort Benton. I was just making a wide circle to see what was movin’ and shakin’. Are you in a hurry?” asked Teddie.

  Pica was still playing her cards close to the vest, but she thought she better know if this ride was gonna peter out and if she should try another. Her thought was to get to Las Vegas before the finals were over. More specifically, before Oui Oui checked out of her hotel. Pica wasn’t sure what she would find there . . . proof of her own innocence? More than likely the proof she was looking for was in Oui Oui’s apartment in Denver, but . . .

  “I don’t guess so. I was hoping to be there by Friday night,” hedged Pica.

  “Well, that works for me. I’ve got tickets to the rodeo finals, but I kinda quit going. Too much pizzazz for this ol’ party girl,” she laughed. “We’ll spend the night in Billings and fly out tomorrow. Private plane, you know. I’ve got a little business in Billings tomorrow morning. We can leave by noon and be in Vegas by five o’clock Friday. That be okay?”

  Pica considered telling this nice woman the truth. There was no way Pica could check into a hotel or use her cell phone. But she was too tired to worry about it now.

  “I can help drive,” offered Pica.

  “It would be even better if you just helped with the conversation. I’m doin’ all the talkin’,” said Teddie.

  “Sorry,” said Pica. “I just don’t feel like talkin’ much.”

  “I’m sorry, Darlin’. You must have a lot on your mind you’re tryin’ to work out. I don’t mean to be prying. You just do what you need to.” Then Teddie added, “But, if you wanna air out some of your worries, I’d be glad to try and listen.”

  As luck would have it—and as I have said before, it sometimes does—it turns out that Teddie Arizona had a townhouse in Billings. There would be no evidence of her mysterious companion’s presence on the trail from Montana.

  CHAPTER 58

  December 9, Friday Night

  Ninth Performance of NFR

  “Big excitement heyah in da saddle bronc, Skim,” began Layer Pie, XM Radio Rodeo broadcaster, to his color commentator, Skim Slayton. “Foah contestants have ridden all eight broncs so far and are within fifty-six points of each otha’ for the average.”

  “Yessuh, Layer. You said it right. And speakin’ of right, I am enjoying a cool, refreshing bottle of Alabama White Delight . . . the light beer with a wiff of white lightnin’ all home brewed right outside of my hometown of Cullman jus . . .”

  Layer punched Skim’s mute button. “As I was sayin’ befo’ you-all speakin’ ’bout yo’ uncle’s garage business, which I thot I ’splained theah ain’t no advertisin’ on our XM station.”

  “Pa-leeze do not misencalulate my intentions,” protested Skim. “I am fully awayah and, if you remembuh, that public service announcements are appropriately appropriate since you and I nevah, I say, neva have made a dime.”

  “Within fifty-six points!” said Layer. “Furst in the saddle bronc average with 632 points is Cooney Bedlam, who is also now standing fourth in the bull riding average. Straight Line, the Cinderelly story of this week, is second in the average only three points behind Cooney. Shelby Truax from Geyser, Montana, at 602 total on eight broncs is third, and in fourth place for the NFR average in the saddle broncs is Arizona cowboy Clancy Schmidt.”

  “That’s all gonna change tonight,” said Skim.

  “Wayal, how perceptavous of you, Skim. That’s why you-all gets the big bucks around heyah.”

  “Thank y’all, Layah. So, speakin’ of colah, Alabama White Delight is sho . . .”

  The mute button made no sound as it engaged.

  Straight and Cooney were back in the dressing room stretching, pulling, reviewing, redoing, winding up, unwinding, just getting in the groove. Straight had done several interviews in the last week. The underdog, against all odds, had a chance to win the big one!

  Through some unspoken superstition, none of the rodeo cowboys spoke to Straight about his great run. Comin’ from the back of the pack, now within reach of one of the gold buckles. No one wanted to jinx his luck.

  Rodeo cowboys are fiercely competitive, make no mistake. And I’m sure they breathe a sigh or a get a shivering lift when the announcer informs the crowd that one of the other contestants has bucked off or hit a barrel, missed a loop, broke the barrier, or failed to mark him out. But to display anything but empathy and good sportsmanship would be a violation of the cowboy code. Ref. cby cd ch 12 v 16 . . . never kick a feller when he’s down.

  The other factor at this stage of professional competition is that the luck of the draw has at least as much influence on the score as does the cowboy’s ability to ride. And Straight’s luck was all aces.

  Straight was down on Persimmon Splatters. Because Cooney was up next, one of the other bronc riders was helping Straight. This ninth performance was loosely called “the Bad Pen.” The arena was sold out and filled with a crowd who had started following Straight more closely with each performance as he continued to make every ride.

  At the OTT booth every night after the show, Straight was on hand to sign autographs, take pictures with dads, make wives wonder why he wasn’t married, be a good example for kids, smile politely, and generally give rodeo a good name.

  Oui Oui, the LIP LASTER girl, was doing her part as well. Seductively draped in her copyrighted line of trashy western wear called “Cowgirl Growl,” she posed for photos, signed autographs, and exuded estrogen like a pollinating ragweed.

  Suffice it to say, OTT’s booth was packed.

  “Next up in chute number 3,” roared the announcer, “coming into the finals in fifteenth place nine days ago and now standing second in the average from Buffalo, Alberta, the one and only . . . Straight . . . Line!”

  The crowd picked up the chant. Barrelman Razzama Tazz conducted the choir. He’d point to one side of the coliseum, and the crowd would shout “Straight!” Then he’d point to the other side, whose crowd would shout “Line!” With each cheer they would speed up like a locomotive pulling out of the station, increasing slowly with each vociferation, until at full cry it sounded like a freight train: “Straight-Line, Straight-Line, Chooka-Chooka, Chooka-Chooka, Straight-Line, Straight-Line, Chooka-Chooka, Chooka-Chooka, Straight-Line, Straight-Line, Chooka-Chooka, Chooka-Chooka . . .”

  But there is no glory behind the chutes. You’ve got to step out onto the battlefield. Bam!

  The gate swung open. Persimmon Splatter came out like a racehorse, one, two, three, four strides. Straight’s spurs stayed rigid on the buckin’ horse’s neck, then, just like her book said, Persimmon dived to the right and started to buck! Put he
r nose into the dirt like she was sweeping mines and commenced to pound the earth and the sky!

  Straight stayed on . . . but it was not pretty. Persimmon was leaning into the tight right turn, hind feet kicking to the outside, as she circled as if her head was tied to a post! The audience in the front row could see her underbelly each time she fired!

  Her first run-and-jump trick usually caught even the best bronc riders and threw them into orbit. It also earned her repeat invitations to the Bad Pen. Many’s the video that shows Persimmon’s hapless riders landing ten feet away from the buckin’ little mare.

  The problem for her was that tonight the rider up was hot, primed, and on a roll. Straight Line stuck to her like he had roots. He did slide. He did roll. He lost his hat and all track of time, but he never lost his grip, his balance, or the nerve that it took to hang and rattle with the best that rodeo contractors had to offer.

  He made it the requisite 8 seconds and wondered for a split nano where the pickup men were just as she side-passed and punched him into the ground like a lawn dart! He rose and started walking back to the chutes, unsnappin’ his chaps while looking up at the giant four-sided scoreboard that hung high above the center of the Thomas and Mack Arena. One of the chute help handed him his hat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer pronounced at the top of his lungs, “a new leader! Straight Line with a hard-earned, well-deserved seventy-nine points!”

  “Theyat had to be one of the ogliest bronc rides Ah have evah seen in my life,” said Skim Slayton into his microphone.

  “Fo’ onct in yo’ life,” said Layer Pie, “I can find no fault with yo’ colah analysis.”

  “Only thing I evah seen worse was the bridesmaids at my cousin’s weddin’,” said Skim.

  “Which cousin’s wedding was ’at?” asked Layer. “The bride’s o’ da groom’s?”

  “Bo’ fum,” said Skim.

  “I should have sumized it was a family affair,” said Layer, conceding his missing the obvious. “Anyways, that means only five men have stayed aboard in this roun’ of bad news broncs. Counting Straight, only three have done rode all nine horses but! . . . and Ah say it with no personal assprobation on yo’ part, Skim, since it is fairly cleah from the tons of fan mail that XM Rodeo Radio has done received this week alone, that we will not be asked back politely to return. They-all be only two mo’ times at the NFR, the National Finals Rodeo, dat we, you-all and me, will be honored to announce that de nex’ and final saddle bronc rider in this, the ninth and next-to-last performance, is none other than Buffalo, South Dakota’s world cham-peen-ship leader, Cooney Bedlam.”

  “I don’ know how you do it, Layah, you-all can sho’ pile it on!” said Skim.

  The coliseum announcer was making similar pronouncements to the adoring crowd. “Yessir, ladies and cowboys, coming into tonight’s performance this next saddle bronc rider holds the lead in the average by a total of three, only three points ahead of his runnin’ partner and best friend, Straight Line, who you just watched score seventy-nine to take the lead. What is going on in this man’s head, ladies and gentlemen, I can tell you . . . He is thinking about riding this tremendous bucking horse named ‘Smokeless Blood Brother,’ who has earned his own reputation by having only three qualified rides made on his back in the last twenty-two tries! Put your hands together, clench your buns, and tear the seat cover off your chair . . . In chute number 5 . . . Cooney Bedlam!”

  The crowd cheered heartily. Laser lights shot through the dust. Sound effects pounded and rumbled ’til the faces of the fans looked like orbital monkeys drawing three Gs!

  The announcers egged on the crowd! Then out came Cooney Bedlam, all 158 pounds of him, on the back of the big bad bay. The gate swung open, and the pair catapulted into the arena.

  The next 8 seconds looked more like a bad billiards shot in which the cue ball banks off the rail and knocks the 10 ball through the front window. Or if you’ve ever seen anyone fall down a set of stairs, a calf get loose in a chicken house, or a dually loaded with sawdust hit a patch of black ice, you’ll get a mental picture of the pair’s trajectory.

  Somehow in the early going Smokeless Blood Brother slammed the fearless Cooney into the concrete wall, then ricocheted across the arena, weavin’ and buckin’ while Cooney was rockin’ and swervin’, feintin’ and firin’, reachin’ and liftin’, and never lettin’ up until they crashed into the far end, ejecting Cooney out over the dumbstruck calf ropers.

  These calf ropers were up in the next event and were watching safely behind the metal panels. As Cooney sailed into the knot of ropers and horses, they tried in vain to scatter and avoid the misguided missile.

  Cowboys ducked, horses spooked, and ropes tangled as the Tasmanian devil seemed to explode on impact! Cooney knocked one of the ropers off his horse, rolled under another, and bounced off three more ’til he landed on his feet like an Olympic gymnast!

  It took about ten seconds for cowboys to get the horses settled and for Cooney to dust off and unscrew his hat. He looked up at the nervous, glaring group around him, tipped his hat, walked over to the metal panel that he’d just flown over, and climbed back into the arena. The crowd was on its collective feet, each person turning to a seatmate and asking, “Did you see that?”

  After the “terrorist” was out of their midst, the calf ropers settled back down. They watched Cooney walking across the arena toward the bucking chutes to a continuous standing ovation. More than one roper shook his head, not believing what he had just seen. And they realized once again why they had chosen to participate in a timed event instead of a self-flagellating, pull-my-finger, teeth-rattling train wreck during which you wear a bullet-proof vest, several bone screws, and a felt hat.

  But Cooney felt so good. “A seventy-six!” belted out the announcer, “which sends Cooney Bedlam and Straight Line into the tenth and final performance tomorrow night tied for the NFR average championship!”

  The last part of the announcer’s blast went unheard. It was buried by the uproarious crowd’s reaction to the stingy score that the judges had given Cooney: Boooooooooo!

  CHAPTER 59

  December 9

  The Ninth Performance Continues

  Beneath the arena in the media room where they’d been escorted, Cooney and Straight answered the sportswriters’ questions. “How does it feel? Any friction between you two? Who do you admire? What are your chances?”

  Some of the answers were revealing: “Don’t count out Shelby Truax. Luck of the draw. Yes, my folks are here. I learned a lot from Straight. Cooney helped me get back my game. ’Scuse us, I’ve still got a bull to ride.”

  Cooney and Straight had both ridden all nine broncs they bucked out. Shelby Truax had also ridden nine broncs but was twenty-eight points behind the each of the leader’s total count. The first criterion to determine the winner of the NFR average was the number of broncs ridden successfully. Second was the number of total points garnered. Third would be money won. Any of the three who failed to ride tomorrow, regardless of his total points, would lose to the one or two who successfully made the tenth round.

  They walked back down the hall to the contestant area. “I meant what I said,” said Straight. “You did get me back in the right state of mind. Although you might not be able to tell, I’ve never been so loose.”

  “Well, your idea of loose is wound pretty tight to me,” laughed Cooney.

  “And you remember,” said Straight, “tellin’ me about ‘forgiveness and mercy to all who offend’? I told you about how my brother reacted after I had missed the finals. I didn’t let it get to me. I just let his jabs roll off and concentrated on the fact that he was my brother . . . and that I’m gonna love him no matter what.

  “Whatever his reasons for putting me down were not because I was good or bad. If I didn’t provoke it, then all the meanness came from inside him. He couldn’t
hurt me, and it was actually sad watching him try to. I was changed inside, I am changed inside! It’s like looking at my life in a bigger picture.

  “Anyway, last night he sent me an e-mail. It was . . . uh,” Straight swallowed a little catch in his throat, “kind of touching. We’ve always fought. I was older, more athletic, he was younger and smarter. He apologized. Said he was sorry for being a jerk. Regretted that we couldn’t have been better friends growing up. Congratulated me for having the try and determination to make as far as I had.

  “It was one of the best things ever happened to me, Cooney. The folks have enough problems making everything work without havin’ to put up with bickering kids. I’m not sure exactly what caused his change of heart, but something did.”

  Cooney waited to see if Straight was done talking, then spoke: “He saw the goodness in you, Straight. God gave you a kind heart. In spite of your ambition and funny habits, you’re a nice guy. Everybody likes you. You work for what you get and don’t blame bad rides on judges or horses or bad luck. And you’ve always been good about helpin’ other guys ride better. I’m the prime example of your coaching. Not only that, my amigo, you are a top hand and one classy bronc rider . . . who, if I remember right, is tied for the average goin’ into the last perf.”

  Straight looked up at Cooney, grinned, and said, “Yeah . . . ain’t that somethin’?”

  Up in the media box Layer Pie was keeping the XM Rodeo Radio audience entertained while Skim Slayton talked to the vendor selling roasted almonds.

  “So that thayah is the completion of da ninth round of the tie-down roping. Da fust foah a duh contestants are from da big state of Texas, with Tuff and Trevor in da lead. Matta fack, nine of da fifteen finalists wuz from Texas, three from Oklahoma, and, guess what, Skim? . . .”