“Why—as a matter of fact, it was my best subject in school.”
“Was it now?” Lowe’s homely face lit up, and he started to speak, then bit his lip. “Well, now, I don’t want to pressure you, Dani, but I’m trying to get Cindy and Maury through without having to put them in a school while I’m on the road. I’ve got most of the subjects they need settled. Had to rope and tie just about everybody I know who’s seen the inside of a high school, but seems like arithmetic and rodeoing don’t hitch.”
He paused, looking at her with restraint, until Dani volunteered, “Why, I’ll be glad to do what I can, Hank. I’m no teacher, but we can try it, can’t we?”
“All right.” Cindy shrugged. “I’m no good at it though. I’d rather ride a horse. Ruth was showing me how to ride the barrels—but she don’t do that no more.” She looked at her father as if he were somehow to blame. “I don’t know why.”
Seeing the look of embarrassment she had noticed before when she’d mentioned Ruth, Dani took a quick guess at what had happened, but said only, “Well, you can ride Biscuit, if your father says if s all right. I’m not as good as Ruth, but I’ve got a pretty good horse.”
“Sure!” Hank chimed in quickly, his eyes warm with gratitude. “You just say when, Dani, and I’ll have the kids ready for their lessons. And you let them ride Biscuit anytime. Cindy’s pretty good—and so is this wrangler!” he dropped his hand to rub Maury’s mop of hair, then looked at the bull who was eyeing them. “This is Popcorn,” he mentioned, changing the subject. “He looks peaceable enough, but he’s a cowboy stomper for sure. Always hate to see a young buck on top of him, but Bake’s riding him tonight, so it’s all right.”
The arena was beginning to come alive, now, with animals being moved into the pens. Hank excused himself, “Got to run, Dani. Thanks for offering to help with these two.”
Dani smiled as they left, then moved out of the arena. Her ride wasn’t scheduled until the afternoon, and she wanted to find Luke. But she didn’t see him all morning long and didn’t know which motel he was in. At noon, she joined the crowd at the snack bar; as she left with a hamburger and Coke, Megan Carr waved at her from one of the small tables. “Sit down,” Megan invited. She was eating a supersized hot dog, piled high with chili and baptized with mustard. “You racing today?” she asked, licking mustard from her upper lip.
“This afternoon,” Dani informed her. She picked up the rounded part of the bun, peered inside, then admitted, “I don’t know why I got this. I can’t eat a thing.”
Megan chewed the hot dog and swallowed, studying Dani. “Got some butterflies, huh?”
“Millions!” Dani sipped nervously at the Coke, then shook her head. “I must be crazy, Megan. I used to ride the barrels in high-school rodeos, but the girls here have been doing nothing else all their lives. I’ll probably fall off my horse!”
Megan noted the nervous mannerisms of the woman in front of her, and asked calmly, “Tell me about riding the barrels, Dani. I’ve been talking to bull riders and saddle-bronc riders so much, I haven’t had time to get any background on barrel racing. I don’t even know the rules or how it got started. Fill me in, will you?”
Dani began to talk, unaware that Megan Carr was not telling the truth, that she just wanted to calm Dani’s nerves.
“Well, women didn’t play much of a role in rodeo for a long time, Megan. After World War I some girls did trick riding, and a few even rode saddle broncs. A woman named Fox Hastings even entered the bull-dogging, right here in Houston, in 1924, but that was just a freak. There was something called a Sponsor Girl Contest a little later. Girls sponsored by a firm or a ranch were judged on horsemanship and dress, but there was no standardization, and it wasn’t much.”
Dani picked up her hamburger and took a small bite, thinking about her subject. “In 1945 two women decided to have a real competition—a race that was a figure-eight turn, around barrels or poles, which would show how well their horses were trained. It caught on, and that’s how barrel racing got started.”
Megan had been eating steadily and paused only to ask, “What exactly are the rules? How far apart are the barrels?”
“No certain distance, Megan. It depends on the arena. There are always three barrels set in a cloverleaf pattern. If arena sizes and shapes allow, the pattern is shaped like a triangle, with the base nearest the start, the base barrels thirty yards apart, and the run to the single barrel at the point of the triangle thirty-five yards from the base barrels.”
“How do you win?”
“Why, it’s strictly a timed event.” Dani nodded. “The barrel racer has a running start. When she enters the arena, she usually takes the barrel to her right first and circles this barrel clockwise. The next two she’ll probably circle counter-clockwise. The rules say that she has to turn both ways during the three-turn run. The start is twenty yards from the line on which the base barrels sit, and the minimum run at the starting line has to be fifteen yards.”
Megan finished her hot dog, and Dani—soothed by the laid-back attitude of the other woman—finished her hamburger. Dani continued to talk, then abruptly cut herself short. “Say, you’re a pretty good therapist, Megan!” She smiled. “Got rid of my shakes with your bedside manner, didn’t you?”
Megan gave her a steady look. “What’s with you, Dani? You’re no country girl with stars in your eyes like most of the girls who do this sort of thing. And you’re not country-Western, either—which all of them are.” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, studying Dani carefully with a clinical eye. “Why are you here?”
“Why—I guess just to see if I can do it,” Dani excused herself lamely. Megan’s close inspection alarmed her, and she tried to shore up her credibility. “I’ve always missed the rodeo atmosphere. And the old eight-to-five job gets pretty boring.”
“What was your eight-to-five job?” Megan demanded swiftly. “You’re college stuff and sharp as a tack. Most riders, men and women, don’t want to know anything but horses and bulls. They get all their fun at parties like the one at the Corral last night. And you looked as out of place there as a minister at a racetrack!” She cocked her head, adding, “I’ve a pretty good feel for people, Dani. Done a lot of prying around. And you just don’t fit the pattern.”
Dani shrugged but knew there was no way to fool this woman. “Well, I’m running away, if you have to know, Megan. Got into a situation I couldn’t handle—so I walked away and left it. Got a little money, so it doesn’t matter too much if I win anything racing.” She forced a smile, thinking suddenly of her dream. Quietly, she admitted, “Guess I’m nothing but a wimp. Never had any respect for people who ran away from problems—now here I am, leading the parade!”
Megan glanced down at the table, and when she looked up again, her voice was low. “Remember what the old baseball player Satchel Paige said? ‘If you hear footprints, don’t look back, ‘cause something might be gaining on you.’” There was a sad cast on her heart-shaped face, but as if aware that she had let her guard down, she laughed and chattered, “Must be about time for the balloon to go up. What time do you ride?”
“Jay Dember said to be ready at three.”
“Plenty of time. Let’s go watch the show.”
“All right.” As they walked toward the chute area, Dani sought more information: “I told Hank Lowe I’d help his kids with math. But I didn’t think to ask about a wife.”
“Doesn’t have one, not now. His first wife ran off with an aluminum-siding salesman,” Megan informed her. “Hank carried a real torch for her, or so Ruby tells me. She said the only woman he ever showed any interest in since number one is that barrel rider—Ruth Cantrell.”
“I thought she was Clint Thomas’s girl,” Dani commented cautiously.
“She is, but the way Fran tells it, Hank and Ruth were on the way to a ring. Then Clint waved his long eyelashes at her, and that took care of that.” As they came to stand beside one of the chutes where a black horse was kicking a st
accato tattoo against the sides of the chute, Megan concluded, “Hank, he’s a fine guy, but there’s one cowboy I think he’d let a bull stomp without lifting a hand.”
Dani gave her a startled look. “Clint Thomas?”
“Got it the first time, Dani. Look, there he is now. He is a hunk, isn’t he?”
Dani glanced over to see Clint laughing with two cowboys. She glanced at the black horse, who reached up with his hammerhead to gnash at one of the handlers, and wondered how anyone could be so cool. They were not, she soon discovered. The entire area in back of the chutes was in motion. Stock was being moved up. Clyde Lockyear, wearing high-heeled boots and a white sombrero with a peaked crown, was a blur of motion. He walked continuously down the line of chutes, prodding animals, asking cowboys if they were ready, signaling arena hands to bring up more flank girths, more halters, more snagging hooks.
But the cowboys were just as active, Dani saw. They were constantly milling around the chutes in a tireless, nervous manner. Some chewed gum, not slowly and methodically, but quickly, in nervous spasms. They worked and reworked their already perfect equipment, taking off their hats and looking at the sweatbands. They squatted, they stood, they got up and walked around—then did it again.
Finally the voice of the announcer boomed over the speaker system, welcoming the audience to the rodeo. When that was over, he said: “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the first event on tonight’s program is cowboy bareback bronc riding. You’ll notice these horses don’t wear saddles. The cowboy has to hang on to a standard leather handhold. He is required to have his spurs in the horse’s shoulder as he passes the judges and then he is required to spur the horse throughout the eight seconds of the ride. Each cowboy is judged on how well he rides, how well he spurs, and how well the horse bucks. Now it looks like we’re ready, so we go to chute number five and a young cowboy from Tulsa, Oklahoma, named Charlie Devoe. He’ll be riding Midnight, a real bucking horse!”
A short, heavyset young cowboy settled onto the back of the black horse, looking very nervous, Dani thought. He pulled his hat down, his face tight and pale, then nodded. The gate swung open, and the horse exploded. He hit the dirt kicking, and the rider’s head was whipped backward by the charging jolt. He stuck on, but Megan judged, “He was off-balance coming out of the chute. He won’t score high.”
The ride ended, and the pickup men moved in to take the cowboy off the horse. “A fifty-three for this cowboy.”
It was a very poor score. Dani knew. To win or even place in the money required a score in the high 60s. The judges rated each horse on a scale from 65 to 85, depending on how hard he bucked. They scored the rider from 1 to 20, depending on how well he stayed in control of the ride. A good score, such as 88, represented the total of the scores recorded by the two judges.
Bake Dempsey wandered over to where Dani and Megan stood. “Come to see me take first money?” He grinned. He seemed loose, and there was no fear in his face. He nodded over to where Clint Thomas perched on the top rail and eased himself down onto the back of a roan. “Ol’ Clint’s just a hair ahead of me right now, but he’ll be number two pretty soon.”
The announcer was saying, “. . . Nineteen ninety-one All-Around Champion. Hails from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Watch him go!”
They watched the ride, and Bake predicted, “Old Clint got a lemon. That horse ain’t worth shucks.”
Dani was watching the horse, who was making vaulting, kicking leaps. The crowd yelled but Bake shook his head. “That ain’t a dirty horse. He’s easy to ride. Don’t never give a cowboy any surprises, and once you get the motion it’s like sitting in an armchair.” The ride ended, and Bake predicted, “Sixty-six.” He grinned when the announcer droned out, “And it’s a sixty-eight for Clint Thomas.”
Thomas walked through the gates, saw them standing there, and came over. He cursed harshly, his face screwed up with anger. “I’m goin’ to shoot Clyde if he don’t come up with better horses.”
Bake laughed, saying, “Well, I appreciate your help, Clint. All us poor mortals just can’t grieve much over it when you big stars don’t do too well.”
He turned and walked to the chutes, not aware of the murderous anger on Clint Thomas’s face. Thomas stared at Bake Dempsey with rage in his eyes, but then he suddenly wheeled and caught Dani staring at him. At once he shook his head and forced a rueful laugh. “Can’t stand to lose, Dani. Never could.”
He stood between Megan and Dani, watching Bake ride a tall, rawboned horse getting a score of 81. When Bake came back, Clint grinned and commented ungraciously, “That was a good ride, Bake.” Then he turned and walked away.
Bake complained, “He’s like a sore-tailed bear when he loses, ain’t he? But then, who ain’t?” Watching one of the chutes, he remarked, “Don’t know that cowboy.”
Dani and Megan turned to see a broad-shouldered man easing down onto the back of a nervous paint. “He looks strong enough that the horse ought to be riding him,” Dempsey quipped. “But there ain’t no man stronger than a twelve-hundred-pound hoss.”
The announcer cried out, “And now in chute number 1 we have Luke Sixkiller riding Agony. . . .”
“Sixkiller?” Bake mused as they waited for the horse gate to swing open. “Thought I knew every rider in the country.” He watched the ride, which was a good one, and when the score of 76 was announced, Bake murmured, “Not bad.” Sixkiller came in and saw them standing there, but did not speak until Dempsey hailed him.
“Hey, Sixkiller, that was a good ride. I’m Bake Dempsey. This is Megan Carr and Dani Ross, case you ain’t met them.”
Sixkiller nodded, his chest not even lifting from the effort of riding the horse. “Glad to know you, Dempsey. Seen you ride lots of times.”
“Well, I never saw you, Luke,” Bake commented.
“Getting a late start,” Sixkiller curtly explained. He didn’t look at Dani especially, but included them all in his invitation, “How about something to drink?”
Megan said quickly, “That’d be nice. You’ve got time, haven’t you, Dani?” She was very efficient, Dani saw, in maneuvering people. They were soon drinking Cokes at the snack bar, sitting at the same table Megan and Dani had occupied a little earlier.
Sixkiller sat back in his chair, physically imposing as always. The smooth muscles of his shoulders and chest arched, clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton shirt, and he exuded a sense of latent power. He was, Dani thought suddenly, like Caesar, the huge Bengal tiger in the zoo at New Orleans. She loved to watch the magnificent animal when he was in repose, looking harmless and sleepy-eyed in the sun. But then he would suddenly rise and stretch; the immensely powerful muscles would spring into relief and the claws extend like sabers. She never looked at Caesar without thinking of William Blake’s poem “Tyger, Tyger,” particularly the line that called the animal a piece of “fearful symmetry.” She had seen enough of Sixkiller in action to know that he had that same quality.
Megan kept probing at Sixkiller, skillfully and never obviously, but her expertise as a reporter failed her, for she was up against an expert in the matter. Luke had spent too many hours grilling suspects to give anything away himself, and it amused Dani the way he easily avoided Megan’s carefully laid traps. He gave himself out to be just a “late bloomer,” a fellow who’d tried rodeoing a little, but only as a hobby. When Megan pressed him about what sort of work he did, Luke answered, “Demolition work. But the job played out.”
Dani gave him an innocent look and asked, “Are you married, Luke?”
“Nope. I’m available, just a lonely old bachelor,” he volunteered with a gleam of humor in his dark eyes. “How about you?”
“Just a lonely old maid.”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven.” Bake grinned. Then he looked up, and his eyes drew down into a squint. “What’s eatin’ Clint? He looks mad enough to bite somebody.” He lifted his voice, calling out, “Hey, Clint, what’s going on?”
Thomas stopped abruptly, then seeing De
mpsey, came over. “Got another phone call from the Creep,” he announced in a voice brittle with anger. His mouth was drawn tight, and he shook his head stiffly. “Wish he’d show his face—I’d like to split his wishbone!”
“Same guy?” Bake asked.
“Sounded the same. Voice was kind of muffled, but it was the same old song.”
“Who’s the Creep?” Dani asked. It was the first time the calls had been mentioned, and she wanted to know all she could. But Clint stared at Luke, not willing to talk in front of strangers. “Oh, this is Luke Sixkiller, Clint,” she quickly introduced them.
“New competition, Clint.” Bake nodded, then answered Dani’s question, “Some guy is putting the arm on some of us. Threatening to bust up our horses if we don’t fork over a wad of cash.”
“You going to the police, Clint?” Megan asked.
“No, I’m going to oil my forty-five,” Clint threatened grimly. “If that sucker gets near my horse, I’ll blow his head off!”
“Can’t watch him all the time.” Bake shook his head.
“Pay the Creep if you want, Bake,” Thomas snorted. “But I can tell you what’ll happen. His price will go up. His kind never gets enough! But not me. He can’t do anything in the daytime, and I’m going to be around Tarzan for a few nights. Hope he does show up. I’ll stop his clock!”
“Tarzan’s a valuable horse,” Bake said slowly, as Clint stomped away. “So is my dogging horse. But I can’t spend a lifetime sleeping next to a horse—and neither can Clint. Better just to pay up.”
“How many people are paying protection, Bake?” Dani asked.
Dempsey shrugged his shoulders. “I know three or four—but there’s more than that. Some people are keeping quiet about paying off.”
Clyde Lockyear came hustling by, stopping long enough to exclaim, “Hey, Dani, you better get ready. Barrel riding’s the next event!”
Dani got up, the earlier nervousness coming back. “See you later,” she threw over her shoulder. As she left Dani noticed that Megan managed to attach herself to Luke as the two men rose. “Good luck, Dani,” Bake called out.
Revenge at the Rodeo Page 9
