Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  “Huh?”

  “Guess what?” asked Layer.

  “Guess what what?” asked Skim.

  “Wayal, if nine is from Texas, and three is from Oklahoma, guess what?” Layer persisted.

  “Day iz all in du oyul bidness? All loud? All have pore taste in clothing? All hate the University of Nebraska?” guessed Skim.

  “No,” said Layer in frustration. “Two is from the Southeast Conference!”

  “Wayal pluck the hairs on my nose!” said Skim, “I am po-leezed. As if dat might add some needed colah to the discussion I wuz havin’ wit one of the fine gennelmuns who is helpin’ put on dis heah whole shebangs, which is should toasted almonds have cinnamon flavor o’ jus’ plain?”

  “I say,” said Layer, “they is yo’ nuts. You kin do whatevah you dang well pleeze!”

  “I am glad, Layah, dat you and I kin finally agree on sumthin’s. Now, if I may address the nex’ big issue, Cooney Bedlam. All knows he is in a dream race wit his podna’ Straight Line but . . . and I repeat a big but, Cooney is not done yet. He has another bull to ride still comin’ up tonight.”

  “So true, my wise and summacious conflagrator,” said Layer. “Cooney is, as of las’ night, tied with Izzy Bosun for fourth place in the average after eight bulls. A good ride tonight will keep him in contention for some all-around money, too.”

  “Wayal said,” said Skim. “Kayah fo’ some toasted almonds? These are, uh . . . catfish flavuh.”

  Cooney drew Dirty Dudley of the Flying Ewe Rodeo Company. He would come in the second chute load. This round was called the “eliminator round,” the equivalent of the saddle bronc “Bad Pen.”

  Only two bull riders out of ten so far tonight had completed the 8-second­ ride by the time Cooney’s turn came. Cooney was left-handed and rode with his right. Every bull in this eliminator round was picked because of its reputation of being hard to ride.

  Pause a minute, readers, and examine with me the physical condition that the rough stock riders must be in by this stage of the game. Bareback riding is an almost uncontrolled explosion. Two hip pockets, two spurs, and one glove are all that come in contact with the horse. It’s like releasing a hissing balloon inside a bird cage full of parakeets! The exertion it takes to ride a bareback would leave a hundred-yard sprinter gasping for breath.

  Saddle bronc riding, on the other hand, is often smooth but, as we have seen in Cooney’s last ride, can turn into bone-rattling demolition derby, requiring every ounce of strength your adrenaline can induce.

  Then there is bull riding, pound for pound requiring the most strength and the most quickness of all the rough stock events.

  Cooney had been on nine saddle broncs and eight bulls over the last nine days. He was a walking ache. He had bandages on his ribs, both knees, and one arm, a total of thirty-two sutures from three different wounds. He had abrasions, bruises, black eyes, blisters, contusions, wounds, joint strains, groin and bicep pulls, and a big lump on his head from his bailout into the calf ropers earlier this evening!

  He was, as sports announcers would say, playing hurt.

  CHAPTER 60

  December 9

  Ninth Performance, Cooney’s Bull Ride

  Straight was up on the catwalk behind chute 2. Cooney was straddling Dirty Dudley as they waited for another bull rider to buck out. Cooney had on his protective vest and bull spurs: Crocketts with star rowels screwed down so they wouldn’t spin. The bull rope was pulled through the loop, situated but not tightened.

  Dirty Dudley didn’t look particularly ferocious, but his size was intimidating: 2,100 pounds of giant braymer bull! He was solid black with short, black, turned-down horns and had a hump as big as a forty-pound sack of Redimix!

  Looking toward the bucking chutes from the center of the arena, beginning on the left, was chute 1. Between chutes 4 and 5 was a long gate that gave ingress and egress to or from the arena floor. There were seven chutes in all. Bulls were driven into the left side from the direction of chutes 4 to 1 through a series of tailgates that raised to allow the bulls to pass. Then, as each bull would arrive at his chute, the tailgate would fall behind him.

  From the same perspective, the chute gates on the left side opened into the arena by a right-hand delivery. The hinge was on the left side. Chutes 5 to 7 were the mirror image.

  Cooney, in chute 2 when mounted, had his left side toward the arena. He rode with his right hand. When he called for his bull, the gate would swing from behind his left shoulder, off the bull’s left hip. The bull would have to turn to the left to escape.

  Some bull riders had a preference of right- or left-hand delivery, although they were forced to take what they got. Of course, some bulls preferred one over the other as well. Tonight the bull had the luck of the draw.

  Applause! The full-throated voice of the announcer was building anticipation for the score of the previous bull rider: “Will you look at that? All you Texans better be on your feet. This is the leader in the aggregate for the average and the leader in the championship battle. Let’s see it, it looks, yes, . . . ladies and gentlemen . . . a ninety-one and a half!”

  Cooney was down on Dirty Dudley, letting the arena clear from the last man’s great ride. He was sitting back off his rope as Straight was pulling it tight. Then Straight handed the tail of the bull rope to him. Cooney was wearing a soft-leather glove on his right hand with a four-inch cuff. The initials “CB” were inked on the cuff. His hand was palm up and slid underneath the braided handle on the rope. He laid the flat-braided tail of the rope across the braided handle, wrapped it around the back of his hand, pulled it tight across the palm again, pulled it tight, and closed his fist. When it was just right, he snugged the exiting tail between his ring and little fingers and pushed it to the front.

  Cooney’s gloved hand was within an inch of the steeply rising hump. Straight, standing on the catwalk, leaned over Cooney with his right hand on the front of his chest and the left at the base of the protective vest in the small of Cooney’s back.

  Dirty Dudley made a move forward and a swipe with his head. Straight pulled Cooney’s upper body back out of danger. A second later Cooney slid up on his rope, pressing his pelvis and legs hard into the angle of right arm and bull back. That was the pivotal point. If he could stay over his hand he would be in the eye of the hurricane. After the body slid back off the rope, it would become a sail loose at the end of the boom flapping on the mainmast!

  Nod! Bang! Jump! Jar! Dirty Dudley sucked in his breath as he leaped forward into the arena! The rope came even tighter around Cooney’s hand. His spurs held steady, toes pointed out and lodged just in front of the girth of the bull rope behind the bull’s elbows.

  At 92/100ths of a second into the ride, Dirty Dudley’s front paws hit the ground like pile drivers, pitching Cooney forward over the hump, out of position. In a minisecond the bull was rising from the ground again, starting into a right-hand spin. Cooney’s spurs broke loose and began digging at the tough hide as he tipped forward again.

  1 66/100th seconds

  When his front feet hit the ground this time, the bull’s huge body was moving sideways as well as downward. The force of the impact pushed Cooney forward into his hand. Just right.

  The forces of gravity and propulsion kept him from sliding sideways. This time his body position was left arm thrown back, chest out, a straight line from his raised fist to his boot toes.

  Some bulls spin flat and fast. Dirty Dudley went up and down while spinning like a pump handle on a merry-go-round. Up he rose, veering to the right. Cooney’s right bicep and forearm were flexed and hard as he pulled against gravity to keep on top of his rope as they climbed. His body was bent forward to stay in place. Spurs pressed against the hide holding on.

  2 56/100th seconds

  The up-and-down occurred three times in one 360-degree spin. Cooney was
sittin’ pretty.

  4 77/100th seconds

  In the groove Cooney was now spurring constantly, up and down. He had the bull’s number.

  5 99/100th seconds

  On the next ascent Dirty Dudley did a stutter step. On slow motion at a later viewing, it appeared that as his front feet lifted from the ground, he hopped with his hind feet. Just a little hop. No more than six inches. In the time it took to say “tick tock” the seat of Cooney’s Wranglers slid back off his rope.

  Man and bull were in a climbing attitude. At the peak of his lift, with all four of the bull’s feet off the ground, his hind feet flying out behind, his front feet splayed wide, and his massive head flat and level, Cooney, still off the rope, slid to the left, off center, and off balance.

  7 12/100th seconds

  Bam! Crash! Levitate! Stand on your head! Flip clear over! Hang up! Get dragged! Get pummeled! Eat dirt! Get loose! Crumple on the ground! And cringe!

  “That, my friends, is what we call a wreck!” said the announcer, speaking the obvious.

  “One good cowboy versus one very large farm animal! Sorry, Cooney, but a no-score. Close but no smokeless tobacco!

  “Give him a hand, folks. That’s all he’s gonna get in the bull riding tonight!”

  CHAPTER 61

  December 9, Friday

  After the Rodeo in the OTT Booth

  Surrounding the oval-shaped Thomas and Mack Arena is a large, continuous concrete concourse at midlevel. It is filled with venue-owned booths selling beer, popcorn, hot dogs, and a variety of snacks. Also sponsors of rodeo are allowed to have informational booths. The PRCA has the monopoly on selling rodeo-related, officially recognized souvenirs such as jackets, scarves, sweatpants, T-shirts, baseball caps, calendars, buckles, jewelry, and programs.

  Space is set aside for autograph signings by those ropers and riders who had won their event that night. The saddle bronc winner’s area was sponsored by OVER THE TOP ATHLETIC COSMETICS. Tonight in the booth Straight held the honor. He had invited Cooney to join him. Having both men in the booth was a bonus for the fans. In the same booth at a table next to them but at a convex 90 degrees, Oui Oui Reese was holding court.

  Standing by the boys was Lick Davis. He, too, was well known to the rodeo crowd. He was there to honor his friends, Cooney and Straight, at their invitation. He, too, was signing autographs.

  “Hey, Cowboy . . . wanna get lucky?” a woman asked Lick.

  At the sound of her voice Lick looked over the hat of a kid whose program he was signing.

  There was Teddie Arizona, blonde, one blue eye, one brown, toned, dressed like a model from Cowboys and Indians Magazine, smilin’ and showin’ a few lines.

  He looked down at the kid, signed the program, patted his back, and said, “Be a good boy and don’t forget to eat your candy.” The kid looked up at his mother, who was staring at Lick under a furrowed brow. Mother and son walked off.

  “Hey, Cowgirl . . . need a ride?” Lick replied.

  “I just thought I better say hi and welcome you to Las Vegas,” she said.

  “It’s been ten years, at least,” said Lick.

  “Yes. Almost to the day,” she said. “Since you got married, actually. How’s that going?”

  “I guess it’s the best thing ever happened to me,” he said. “I’ve got an eight-year-old daughter and seven-year-old son. I’ve got pictures . . .”

  “No, that’s okay,” she said.

  “I read fairly regular about your wildlife preserve. It’s getting big-time. You’re doin’ good work,” he said.

  “It keeps me busy and out of the bars,” she laughed. It was an ironic comment. One of the reasons why she and Lick had split after two years was alcohol. His and hers. They were made for each other’s downfall.

  He had saved her life, and she had become wealthy overnight. Neither one, at the time, had a career, motivation, or a plan. She was a depressed, unpleasant drunk. He was a cheerful, irresponsible drunk. She got her act together first and took an interest in investing her money. She gave him a thousand dollars and the boot.

  He drove to Elko, Nevada, fell in with the cowboy poets, and found a niche. That was fifteen years ago. He had become a minor celebrity, not necessarily good, productive, or reliable, but well known. Twice, in those days, he had been performing in Las Vegas and had gone by to see her. The last time had been ten years ago.

  There was still a relationship then, not like old sweethearts, more like survivors of a sunken ship. But tonight, eighteen years since he had rescued her from certain ruin, a sweet affection seemed to radiate between them as Lick stepped closer. She smiled and gave him a hug. His mind immediately returned to another moment in her arms on the Idaho desert, at night, in the middle of winter.

  They looked at each other with humility. They knew one another’s secrets and kept them to themselves. The “Hey, Cowboy” and “Hey, Cowgirl” greetings were shiny threads that connected them to a time when they both were at the end of their rope.

  “So, how’s Al?” she asked.

  “He died,” said Lick. “Couple years ago. I kept in touch with postcards from places I traveled to. The nursing home wrote and told me. It was too late to go to the funeral.

  “Can I buy you a . . .” he stopped. He had controlled his drinking, not quitting entirely. He remembered she had become a teetotaler, joined AA.

  “No, thanks. But you can do me a favor. Introduce me to Cooney,” she said.

  Lick looked over his shoulder at the signing table. There was still a small group hanging around. “Sure,” he said. “Just give ’im another minute with the fans.”

  Oui Oui dispensed with the last big T-shirt guy with a red scarf headband. “Yer my favorite, Babes!” he leered. “Save a little for the rest of us!”

  “You know you can’t handle what you got!” she said, acknowledging the small lady with wrinkles and a “Bull Riders Do It in 8 Seconds” baseball cap.

  “Call Feliz,” she said out of the corner of her mouth to File, who was assisting them all in the booth.

  Oui Oui pulled on a floor-length zebra leather jacket, hair side out with faux leopard-skin collar. It was cold outside.

  “He’s waiting in the limo line,” File said. “You want I should walk you down?”

  “It would be nice,” she said. “I just don’t feel like pasting on one more smile for these schmucks. I feel like I was painted on a linoleum floor and walked over by a marching band.

  “Who’s that woman with Lick Davis?” Oui Oui asked suspiciously.

  “I don’t have a clue. Looks like an ol’ friend though,” said File.

  “She’s spends good money for clothes, that’s for sure. Kinda dowdy but expensive!” observed Oui Oui with a note of envy.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  File laid a hand on Straight’s shoulder and said, “I’ll be right back. Takin’ Oui Oui to the limo.”

  Straight acknowledged File’s message, then looked back to say goodnight to Oui Oui. She was headed into the waning crowd like a snowplow.

  Two minutes later Lick congratulated Cooney and Straight. Our heroes were tired and wired. “Cooney, there’s a lady over here I’d like to introduce you to. She’s an old friend of mine.”

  “Sure,” said Cooney.

  After Lick introduced Cooney to Teddie Arizona, she took Cooney by the arm, leaving Lick, and walked down the concourse a short distance. She said, “I have someone that would like to see you.”

  Cooney, in his preoccupied innocence, was thinking the person she was talking about must be disabled, infirm, or too busy to come to the booth. “I’ve known her just a couple days, but she has become special to me,” continued T.A.

  “Is she . . . do I know her?” Cooney asked.

  “Ah, here she is,” Teddie said as
she stepped up to a short woman in sunglasses, a Russian beaver hat, oversize down coat, jeans, and workboots.

  The woman lifted her gaze to him, her distinctive lips displaying themselves like peach-colored rose petals on a freckled pillowcase. They took his breath away.

  “Pica?” he guessed, but he knew. “Pica.”

  He breathed deep and experienced a lightness in his head.

  CHAPTER 62

  December 9

  Cooney and Pica Meet after the Rodeo

  First words like “What? . . . how? . . . where? . . .” hung in his open mouth.

  “I must stay hidden,” Pica said without reaching out to him.

  “Can, can you come with me? I could sneak you into my room, but aren’t . . .”

  “Please,” she said, then looked at Teddie and asked, “may we have a minute alone?”

  “Sure,” Teddie said and walked back to the booth where Lick was standing.

  “I need your help,” said Pica.

  Cooney was absolutely willing to do anything she asked. “What do we do?”

  “My bags are in Teddie’s car. She could drop us off at your place.”

  “Right on. Whatever you say,” he said. “Let me tell Straight . . .”

  “The less people that know, the less will be aiding and abetting,” she said.

  He looked at her. “You’re not worried about Straight, are you?”

  “No. It’s just that the less people that see me, the better it is for them.”

  “Okay,” said Cooney. “I’ll tell him I’ve got a ride to the hotel. It’ll be okay. He and I have different rooms on different floors.”

  “Good,” said Pica, then, “Cooney, you’re the only one I trust. Even Teddie Arizona doesn’t know the real story. It would be wise to have her drop us off at different hotels, then we can catch a cab to yours. And . . . don’t even hint to Oui Oui or File you saw me. I’ll explain it all later. Okay? I’ll wait ’til Teddie leaves and catch her. You meet us at this entrance right behind us.”