Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  “Jew haf discovered me,” conceded Feliz graciously. “This one is so espensive because it has been making the news.”

  “Yes,” said Pilo thoughtfully. “I remember, it was that movie star caught smuggling . . . in Miami, yes, it was in the papers. And this is the very birds that were in question?”

  “Si,” answered Feliz. “That iss why it iss so espensive, pero, para mi caballero estimado, I can take fifteen thousan’ dolares, not a peso more.”

  “Does it come with the girl?” asked Pilo.

  Out of sight, out of mind momentarily, Pica was loosening her hands within the leather belt and listening to the banter. When Feliz mentioned the Glandular Y Cock she looked down at the gorgeous feathers festooning her gran tetones. So that’s what they look like? She was hit with the irony that she was being taken advantage of again with the same bird feathers!

  “I think,” said Feliz, “that you would have to tame her first, but . . . I haf some taming pills que hacele mancilla . . . aaaaag! ” He screamed, grabbing his throat!

  Pica had the belt around Feliz’s neck and her knees in his back! He was falling toward her trying not to go down. They crashed to the door! She was flattened, but he was turning blue!

  She reached behind her, twisting the door handle just as it exploded inward, knocking her on top of the gasping Feliz! Cooney’s momentum carried him through the door, by them both, and into the arms of Streak and Pilo!

  Over his shoulder Cooney saw what he took to be a naked Pica stomping a man on the ground. In a matter of seconds Feliz rolled over and came out with an automatic pistol. He was cussing un rayo azul!

  “Cooney, come on!” Pica jerked him out of Streak’s arms and in six steps made Oui Oui’s bedroom and slammed the door and locked it. “Push that chair under the door knob and grab that bag on the bed!” she shouted.

  “What?” he said.

  “Just do it!”

  Cooney heard racket, yelling, and cursing from the other side of the door. He quickly pulled a desk chair out and propped it under the door handle. In the meantime Pica was kicking through the pile of shoes. Oui Oui wore a size 9. Pica wore a size 5½. She slid into some furry oversized bed slippers. The best she could do for clothing was a fur coat that hit her midthigh.

  “That leather bag on the bed, get it!” she told Cooney again. The bag was a folded-over garment bag with a handle and a shoulder strap.

  Feliz kicked at the door. Pounded it with the butt of his pistol. “I don’ know where jew think jew are goin’,” he said loudly through the door. “It iss a trap, your room and I am the only door out. Jew don’ haf no shance.”

  “Call 9-1-1,” whispered Cooney.

  “They’ll arrest me!” said Pica. “I’m the fugitive, remember!”

  “Well, you’re gonna be a dead fugitive if we don’t do something,” he said.

  “What are you holding up?” Feliz demanded through the door.

  Cooney looked at the bag in his hand. In his confusion he assumed that the man in the next room could see him. “It’s just a bag,” Cooney said to the voice. “I don’t know what’s in it.”

  “Evidence,” said Pica. “He’s a feather smuggler, and I’ve got the evidence! And we’re gonna get him. Follow me.”

  She quietly slid the glass door open and stepped onto the balcony.

  CHAPTER 68

  December 10, Saturday,

  Final Performance of NPR

  Straight Turns Out His Horse

  Straight was beside himself with worry. Earlier he and Cooney had been in the stretching room. They’d gotten the rigs out and adjusted them for the thousandth time. Cooney had gone to the bathroom. The Grand Entry horses were ready, so Straight joined his Canadian contingent of performers. He didn’t really think about Cooney for a while. But Somewhere between the doggin’ and the team roping Straight knew something was wrong. Cooney had not yet shown up at the riggin’ chute to put his saddle on his bronc.

  At the conclusion of last night’s performance, the ninth, which Straight had won, a lot was up for grabs. Cooney, Straight, and Shelby Truax had ridden their broncs. They were the only three riders out of the fifteen who had ridden all nine. Cooney and Straight were tied in points, twenty-one ahead of Shelby. All three had an even chance, depending on the draw, to ride their tenth. If all three made good rides tonight, odds were that Straight or Cooney would win the average.

  Cooney had already sewed up the PRCA world championship saddle bronc riding. No matter what happened in the average, it would not be enough for anyone to catch him for the world championship. But he was still in the race for the NFR average.

  On the other side of the gold coin, due to a great week, Cooney was unexpectedly in the running to win the bull riding NFR average. And with it, maybe the PRCA bull riding world championship and the PRCA all-around cowboy world championship!

  For Cooney to win the bull riding average tonight would require that the two next-highest-placed bull riders buck off, and he would have to score a eighty-seven or better on his bull. Stranger things have happened.

  PRCA records show that a small number of rough stock riders have won three world titles in one year. Since 1950: Bill Linderman (AA, SW, BR) in 1950, Casey Tibbs (AA, BB, SB) in 1951, Harry Tomkins (AA, BB, BR) in 1952, and Jim Shoulders (AA, BB, BR) 1956–58.

  Layer Pie and Skim Slayton, our Alabama XM Rodeo Radio commentators, were hyping the saddle bronc race as a close one.

  “Yes suh,” intoned the sonorous voice of Layer Pie, “we rodeo fans could not have asked fo’ a bettuh climax, a higha pinnacle, an apogee mo’ closer to the sun its ownself than this week’s pufomance of the classic rodeo event, saddle bronc riding!

  “How do you see it tonight, Skim?”

  “Trut be known, I’m not even seein’ you too good, Pi Man. Maybe they could adjust our focus on that giant teleprompter in the sky. Least I’d know what was up,” replied Skim Slayton, cowboy color commentator.

  “What happened to yo’ glasses?” asked Layer.

  “’Member when dat big guy step on my face las’ night?”

  “You mean after you slosh yo’ bevridge down his wife’s shirt front?”

  “Well, I didn’t know it was his wife!”

  “So, it’s missing half of a lens, look to me like,” observed Layer.

  “Actually, it ain’t missin’. I glued it back wit Crazy Glue, but it fell out jis’ now, while I was concentrating on the nex’ event, the two-man luge . . . Son!” he yelled off microphone, “bring me another beer and chaser!”

  “Back to y’all, Layer,” said Layer. “Thank ya! Thank ya! Lots of excitement tonight with three of rodeo’s best saddle bronc riders wit’ a chance to win the average . . .”

  Layer Pie laid it on. He told the audience everything we already know about what’s at stake. He set the scene for the battle. Onlyest thing he didn’t know that we knew was that Cooney wasn’t there.

  The first ten broncs were bucked out. Several good rides, no mistakes, no exceptionals.

  The last five horses were standing in the chutes. Straight, in desperation, had gathered Cooney’s gear and saddled his draw in addition to his own. In the stands and behind the microphone no one was the wiser, but behind the chutes Straight had spread the news that Cooney had not showed up yet. Several cowboys were looking for him under the stands.

  Down to three. Shelby Truax climbed over his horse and set his rein. Straight was on the catwalk behind Cooney’s horse, scanning the crowd.

  Shelby nodded his head. Catclaw tensed. The gate swung wide, and the 1,100-pound spotted caballo made his entry. The book predicted that he would blow out of the box, but instead he hesitated, then shot out forward, catching Shelby off guard.

  The cowboy’s spurs stayed tight ’til Catclaw’s front feet hit the ground, then the horse broke loose
! He had a fantastic day! He stretched ’em out and laid ’em down! Shelby opened up and let ’er hang and rattle. It was fun to watch, and both horse and man received a grand ovation.

  “A seventy-eight score!” boomed the announcer.

  The crowd was happy. Then the announcer spoke as if he was going to announce the Ali-Foreman heavyweight championship. “Right now, at this moment that young man you just saw makin’ a first-class ride on Catclaw is officially in first place in the NFR average!” A cheer went through the crowd. “Two riders remain! Should either ride their bronc and score more than fifty-seven points, Shelby will be reduced to second or possibly third place.

  “Shelby, you’re the king right now. Enjoy it, my young friend! We’ll see how long it lasts!”

  Boyd Nicodemus, rodeo announcer, said off-mike to the secretary, “Cooney’s up first, I think, but . . . that looks like Straight behind the box. Can you see Cooney, is he up there?”

  No one had an answer.

  “We want to remind you of our awards presentation following the rodeo . . .” he talked on, filling dead air, waiting for a sign.

  The chute boss was looking up over Cooney’s horse at Straight, who was saying, “I don’t know, Darrell. He was here at the start tonight, but I haven’t seen him for an hour. I’m really worried. He doesn’t answer his cell phone.”

  In fact, Cooney had shut off his smartphone. Not for a reason he would be able to give after the smoke cleared, but it had to do with Pica focus. He wanted no distractions.

  One of the cowboys on the catwalk piped up and said he had seen Cooney walking out to the parking area before the grand entry.

  The chute boss talked to the judges. Then he took out his cell phone and called the commissioner, who was sitting in the VIP section.

  “What’s the hold up?” asked the commissioner.

  “Cooney Bedlam failed to show. Somebody saw him leave the building.”

  “That’s crazy! That can’t be . . . heck, he can win it all. He can’t be gone!”

  “Reckon I should turn his horse out?” asked Darrell.

  “That’s the rules, iddinit?” said the commish.

  “Yeah, but . . . what if he’s just on the pot, or his watch broke, or he . . . got in an accident?” asked Darrell.

  “In that case we better call the police, but we can’t hold up the show. Gimme a second to talk to the announcer’s booth.” The commissioner got the announcer’s booth on the phone. “Let me talk to Nicodemus . . . Boyd. They can’t find Cooney Bedlam anywhere. Make an announcement to the crowd . . . and shut off that music. Just explain briefly and . . . have him raise his hand, or let us know if he’s here. Otherwise we gotta turn out his horse.”

  Boyd spoke, ‘“Ladies and gentlemen, sorry for the delay, but something very unusual has occurred. One of the contestants, Cooney Bedlam, who is actually next up in the saddle bronc, cannot be located. Cooney, if you’re here in the coliseum . . . better git yer butt down to the chutes.”

  A strong murmur ran through the crowd.

  “No need to panic,” said Boyd. “Probably some simple explanation, so relax and . . .”

  The chute boss got up next to Straight. “Look, we can’t wait much longer. And I don’t think we’d be allowed to let him in if he walked in here after this event is over. What I could do, since I’m the chute boss, is let you go ahead and ride, then if Cooney hasn’t showed when you finish we just disqualify him then.”

  Straight looked at the chute boss. “Uh . . . no. I . . . I won’t ride out first, ’cause if I scored good, and he still isn’t here, then he wouldn’t have a chance to win. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  Darrell had been a chute boss for many years at the NFR. He’d seen cowboys do a lot of things that didn’t seem reasonable. “Well, if I turn his horse out first without a rider, he definitely won’t have a chance to win. Either way, looks to me like he’s a no-show.”

  Boyd was watching the confusion in front of the chutes.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, looks like we’ve made a decision down at chute number 4. The chute boss is talking to the gateman, and he’s . . . he’s opening the chute gate! With no rider! This is Cooney Bedlam’s last bronc in the final performance. Silver Slicker, a great draw, last year’s saddle bronc of year! Turned out by the already confirmed current saddle bronc world champion!

  “Well,” said Boyd, “I guess that’s that. We move now to chute 3, Straight Line, Buffalo, Alberta, comin’ out on that great bronc Yukon King from the Calgary Stampede string. This horse bucked out in the fourth perf, and Tucker Houston marked an eighty on him. Straight has ridden this good bronc at least three times and made money . . .”

  Down at chute 3 Straight had his seat in the saddle, working on his rein. He suddenly raised his head and looked back. Izzy Bosun was leaned over the chute helping. “He ain’t here,” said Izzy. “You just worry ’bout this horse here. You can win the whole shootin’ match in the next 8 seconds. Whattya doin’?”

  Straight nodded his head. The gate swung open, and Yukon King wheeled and rose into the air like a ricocheting waterfall! Straight released the rein, grabbed the rail, kicked his stirrups loose, and let Yukon King fly out from under him!

  Straight swung back onto the catwalk, watched the horse buck off, then turned and retreated back behind the chutes.

  The crowd was aghast. There was a long moment of “I don’t believe it!” Boyd Nicodemus was speechless, and Layer Pie knocked over his spit cup.

  In this pregnant pause that held everyone dumbfounded, several cowboys—some in the stands and some on the catwalk—­understood immediately. They could put themselves in Straight’s very boots.

  It’s that bond between traveling buddies. Built on a hundred disappointments, occasional volcanic exhilarations, and miles and miles of sharing the same air, the same fear, the same hope, and the same pain.

  This unspoken bond is not rational, but it knows without thinking the right thing to do. Straight could not consider claiming the win by default.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Boyd as two mounted riders raced around the arena following a cowgirl carrying a flag, “the winner of the tenth perf, Slake Downey, and our unofficial winner of the NFR saddle bronc average, Mr. Shelby Truax! Let’s hear it for our two champion cowboys!”

  “Duane?” asked Phyllis Bonite. “What happened? How come he didn’t ride? I mean he coulda won it, right? I don’t get it; he just gave it up.”

  Duane, who had gone down the rodeo road for fifteen years, ten of those with his best friend, Hi Oatman, understood exactly why Straight had turned out his good horse. “It’s hard to explain,” he said to his wife . . . and left it at that.

  It is hard to explain. At a time in my life when I was “down to no keys,” I met someone who changed my life for the better. At that first meeting he gave me something that was precious to him. I protested, “I can’t take that from you. We’re just, we’re just friends.” He handed it over and said, “You can’t be more than friends.”

  CHAPTER 69

  December 10, Saturday, Getting Late!

  Pica and Cooney Escape Down the Zipline

  Pica was standing on the four-by-six-foot ledge that floored the balcony outside the bedroom door. Another ledge to the right, the one off the suite, was eight feet away. Beneath her she could see the jungle canopy in the broad fake daylight and the zipline platform beneath her.

  She clambered over the four-foot rail wearing the mink coat and too-big bed slippers over her feather duster body suit. She handed the garment bag back to Cooney, who was standing on the ledge with his back against the door jamb. Holding the rail she turned, swapped her hand grips so her back was to him, and leaned out over the top of the jungle panorama twelve stories above the hotel-casino lobby.

  Cooney almost swooned! “Stop” he yelled, “you can’t . . .
!”

  Pica looked down at the platform below her. It was the highest one, on the tenth floor where tourist riders ascended to begin the zipline ride, back and forth, across, and through the jungle to the bottom. An attendant was daydreaming during a lull in riders.

  The expanded metal floor of the platform was twelve feet down, a full story, and eight feet out from the inside wall. A level metal bridge extended from the inside wall to the platform floor. A vertical steel pole supporting the zipline cable rose eight feet up from the platform floor. Along the length of the pole were horizontal braces made of steel rods connecting the pole to the wall.

  The closest horizontal rod to the balcony ledge was distant five feet horizontally and four feet vertically. It was still 138 feet above the ground!

  Pica, an experienced rock climber herself, said, “Follow me!”

  She pushed herself off the ledge, caught the upright pole, swung around the abaxial side all the way, and stood on one of the horizontal bracing rods. She was now facing Cooney from several feet below and looking up.

  “Drop me the bag!” she said.

  Cooney leaned out over the rail and dropped the bag. Pica caught it.

  “Okay, you’re next, hey. C’mon,” she ordered.

  “I don’t think I can. I’m afraid of . . .”

  A loud crash came from the room behind him! It was the bedroom door handle giving way to a .44-caliber hollow-point! The explosion was followed by a stream of Spanish profanity that was oddly musical and increasing in volume. Cooney slid the glass door behind him just as the rushing Feliz hit it with his shoulder!

  Cooney scaled the rail and, without pause, leaped for the vertical post! Simultaneously Pica dropped to the platform, glancing off the surprised attendant! Cooney swung completely around the post with one hand and crashed into the steel rods, bloodying his nose, then fell to the platform. Thank goodness his fall was broken by the terrified attendant, who was skittering away like a scared crab.