by Alex Cord
A soft voice came eerily out of the tree above his head, saying, “Shhh.”
He looked up to see her pale legs dangling from a stout limb near the top of the tree. “What in the hell are you doing? You are a pregnant woman. You trying to kill yourself? Stay right there. I’m coming up.”
All the clamber up the tree, he muttered about having married a lunatic, thinks she’s a damn chimpanzee. He finally got to her and fixed himself in a notch and began to scold her again. She put her finger to his lips and told him to hush and listen to the night. Moonlight fell upon her through the leafage in strands of silver-blue, imparting to her tranquil face a bloodless look of marble. She turned her eyes to him and smiled. And for a moment he thought he could see inside of her, the shape of her thoughts, the industry of her woman’s nature forming bones and brewing blood. He placed the flat of his palm against the fullness under her dress as if to feel the turnings of the wheels.
92
Fort Worth, Look Out
A cold, mizzling rain was falling in the dim just before dawn as the last of the horses clambered into the trailer. Chauncy’s neckbell tinkled as he hopped in and found his place near Soot. Jesse made a final tour around the truck and trailer, checking doors and the hitch. He got behind the wheel and buckled in. Abbie in the back seat nestled among a pile of jackets, pillows, and down coats, squirmed with excitement. They were going to Fort Worth to win The Futurity. Holly reached over and touched the back of his hand on the gear shifter and smiled. It penetrated his heart. He brought the back of her hand to his lips and kissed the pale blue highways of blood beneath the see-through skin and asked if she’d pour him a coffee.
On the interstate at seventy miles an hour, he passed a familiar road sign. Seeing it triggered memories of driving home last year a hollow man, as empty as a straw, with little purpose and frail desire. Now his business was blooming, his soul enriched by the miracle of Miracles Unlimited, and most important of all, he had found the love of his life. He put his eyes on her beside him in the full blossoming of motherhood and felt a flush of heat in his loins.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing,” he answered, and ran the flat of his palm softly over her face.
A quarter-mile behind them a black muscle car doing at least eighty-five miles per hour weaved recklessly in and out of lanes. A red car of the same type was chasing the black car and doing at least ninety. Each car packed four teenagers. Jesse was checking his mirrors constantly. The black car roared up on his left side and had to brake hard for the vehicle ahead. The young driver attempted the impossible, swerving hard right and cutting right in front of Jesse. Forced to brake again, the car was thrown into a sideways skid. Jesse had no room to maneuver. He hit his brake swerving right onto the shoulder as another car plowed into the rear of Jesse’s trailer.
Chaos ensued. Traffic at a halt. Six vehicles wrecked. Jesse’s rig banged but functional. Two horses were tied outside the trailer. Jesse led Soot out of the trailer on three legs. The left hind leg would barely touch the ground. Chauncy followed.
Holly and Abbie watched in stunned silence as Jesse examined the black colt.
In the stabling area at the Will Rogers Coliseum, Soot stood in a stall, the hind leg cocked, toe lightly touching the ground. Jesse, Holly, and Abbie stood in mute attendance. Dr. Dale Schmidt, a practitioner of equine chiropractic and veterinary medicine palpated the colt’s spine. “He’s got a vertebrae wrenched out of place causing a spasm in his loin. I’ll try some manipulation, see if we can’t move it back. Then I’ll place some acupuncture needles to control the inflammation and pain. When I’m done, run cold water over his back for twenty minutes and give him two grams of bute. Then all we can do is see what morning brings and go from there.
They came from the corners of the country, and a handful from Europe and Asia. Most though were Texans. It was a glamorous roundup of coifed hair, diamonds, gold and silver, bosoms in silk, and feet in dead reptiles wearing silver spurs under miles of denim and felt.
Cutting had come a distance from its origin on dusty pasturelands in cactus and scrub under blazing suns and drenching rains. But the men and women who really were the lifeblood of the sport were still the cowboys, the dawn-till-dusk, down-in-the-dirt men and women who love horses and working livestock, who would every now and then find themselves with a taste for silver and silk, and a want to gather with friends and see who had the better horse.
Jesse rode the colt through the solemn corridors and under the archway into the loping pen behind the judges’ stands. The air was hushed and serious. The dominant sound, hoofbeats muffled in the sand. Holly, Abbie, and Dr. Dale walked beside him. When the colt came up on his toes for a good gander around, Jesse nudged him forward. Holly and Abbie found the portable steps that took them from the arena floor to the box seats. They sat and watched the colt move into a trot and join the traffic circling the pen to the left. Dr. Dale watched from the side.
Thirty-odd horses were walking, trotting, mostly loping, to take the edge off and get them relaxed enough to concentrate on the job. Jesse trotted three circles and then rode over to Dr. Dale. “What do you think?”
“He looks good. How does he feel?”
“Good.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, Jesse, but I’ve got to tell you. If he injures himself again, it could jeopardize his future both as an athlete and as a breeding stallion.”
“I hear ya, Doc.”
Jesse turned the colt and joined the traffic at a lope. The colt’s neck soon began to soften and his stride evened out. He finished a circle and rode over to the working area entrance at the end of the row of judges’ stands. He dropped his reins in a loop across the colt’s neck and leaned forward to study the herd and watch the competition.
The cattle were young, quick and healthy. He spotted two or three he’d try to avoid. They were high-headed, squirrely looking, not involved in the solace of the herd. They could be runners, rather than wanting to get down in front of a horse and try to get by him.
There were three horses to go before him. He felt a touch at his leg. Holly was looking up at him. He bent down to kiss her. She whispered against his lips, “Go get ’em, Jesse.” She ran her hand under his chaps and tickled his thigh.
“Thanks,” he said.
Thirteen minutes later, he took three deep breaths, blew the last one out, and moved toward the herd, loosening his shoulders. He went deep into the herd and cut his first cow. Soot was keen and sure, even patient as he waited, confident, quivering, to see what the cow would try next. When it moved, he was right in its face. He appeared as a lustrous black shadow darting here and there without effort or sound, a graceful manifestation not of this earth but ephemeral and spirit-like, capable of vanishing instantly.
The buzzer put an end to his defeat of the third cow. He rode out of the herd to an eruption of applause. Ten minutes later, it was announced they had won the first go-round. Out of six hundred and fifty-three horses, Soot and Jesse were judged to have performed the best. They’d now be among the two hundred and forty horses going into the second go-round.
He wanted more than anything to simply head off with Holly and Abbie, have a quiet dinner as if nothing had happened, and speak not one word about it. Instead, he was set upon like he was one of the Beatles in the sixties. He smiled and said thank you a hundred times.
Holly had jumped on the phone to Bear and Ruby who let out a “yeow” and a “way to go” loud enough for Jesse to hear six feet from the phone. He got on and said thank you one more time and grinned as he snaked his arm around Holly standing there.
Back in the stall, Holly and Abbie worked brushes and towels to polish the lustrous colt. Jesse stroked the sleek neck as Dr. Dale pressed fingers along the colt’s spine and hip. “There’s some instability right here. Let’s see what we can do.” He began to make an adjustment on the colt.
The second go-round wasn’t much different from the first. Jesse Burrell and the black colt destroyed the comp
etition, leaving the owners and riders of two hundred and thirty-nine horses thinking they might just as well have remained abed. Again, Jesse felt that overwhelming desire to be off alone. To not speak of the glowing success as if to deny its reality. When Holly took him in her arms, she knew and spoke not a word. She held him with increasing pressure until she felt him come to her and begin to breathe in synchrony with her. They looked into each other’s eyes for a brief moment and then let go. Abbie was waiting for her turn. She looked up at Jesse and said, “What else? I didn’t expect anything else.”
Bobby Hunt, a rival cutter, walked up. “Jesse, if I’d known what you had, I’d a stayed in bed. Congratulations, pard. Two down.”
Almost six hundred horses had been excused from further competition when the sixty remaining began to warm up for the semifinals. The living greats, with several hundreds of years of experience riding with them, were all there with super colts. There was an undercurrent of attention on Jesse’s colt as he rode into the warmup area. They all knew this was the one to beat. But no one got it done. Not that day.
For only the third time in the history of the event, one horse would be going into the finals having won all three preliminary go-rounds. And this time it was Soot— the urchin, the mutt, lacking any known royal lineage, indeed the progeny of dubious parentage, devoid of any documentation of age or legitimacy.
Against the cold December night, Jesse wore a heavy, wool mackinaw that looked like it came out of an old Northwest lumber camp. He had on his good Black Gold hat, brushed clean. He walked down the barn aisle toward the colt’s stall. In about two-and-a-half hours, he’d be riding for the gold. Soot raised his nose as if to search him out in the air. Holly and Abbie with brushes and towels fussed around the colt like court attendants at a coronation. Charlie the therapist and Mason had arrived and hovered, trying not to get in the way. Abbie would find no end to the brushing of Soot’s mane and tail. He stood alert and calm, a splendid work of God’s art, as breathing black marble with a lustrous glow that came from within.
Chauncy stood aloof in the corner, the silent faithful companion, proud of his service. Holly, in spite of her belly, had polished his hooves. Mason and Abbie had put the dull rich sheen to the leather and rubbed the silver conchos to a bright shine. Jesse placed the green and white Navajo blanket on the horse’s back then swung the saddle up and wiggled it into its fit. He pulled the cinch up snug but not tight. He ran his hand along the sleek neck and combed his fingers through the thick forelocks that fringed the coal black eyes giving the colt a look of the rascal about him. Holly put the final touch. A dab of Vaseline to the colt’s muzzle and around his eyes made him a shining thing.
Twenty horses, the best in the world at three years of age, were about to compete for a big chunk of a quarter of a million dollars. A sober silence kept from being absolute by an undercurrent of guarded murmuring resembling the muted tones of a requiem. The whole of the hill country had come to Fort Worth in support of Jesse and the colt. Mason’s mom and dad, Billy Diggs and Kathy Sue had driven down, so had Floyd Cox and a truckload of ropers. Dr. Nalls and Helen with Judge Lamar and his wife Leona had flown in on Kevin and Carley Bradley’s private plane. They all sat together in Lamar’s box. The judge, with some humor, had gone on nonstop chiding his wife for forcing him to get rid of the soot-colored colt, and bragging about his uncanny eye for horseflesh, at the same time lavishing praise on Jesse for his amazing talent. “He put the spit and rub to him. Nobody else would have even tried.” He turned to his wife and shook his head with a tight-lipped grin. “Leona, you cost me a million dollars.” She cocked a brow and looking at him out of the corner of her eye, replied, “It’s not the first time, cowboy. Besides, I probably saved your life. And darlin’, that’s worth much more than a million.”
The judge laughed big and loud. “You know she’s probably right…about me being worth more than a million, that is.” Larry Littlefield had come down from Colorado to announce the celebrity fund-raiser and to film a segment for his TV show. And like he said to Jesse, “I come down to see you win this thing, boy.”
Though Soot had been the brightest star by far up to this point, all previous scorings were discarded now and this work alone would determine The Futurity champion. Anything could happen, as they all well knew. And no one better than Jesse. Thoughts of last year’s tragedy kept trying to poke their way into his brain. He drew in deeply and blew them away on his breath as he watched the behavior of the herd during the last work before his turn to go. The colt was ready, the wildness in him always there. He had his own way of doing things and to ask him to do something he was just fixin’ to do on his own was an insult he didn’t take kindly. He had a lot of draw to him. He made a cow want to try him. Jesse reminded himself, above all, trust him. Don’t panic if he waits a heartbeat longer than you think he should before hurling himself into that explosive turn. He’s just having fun letting the cow think she’s got a chance.
In the aisle behind the five judges’ stands, Jesse nudged him forward at a quick trot and sat him down. One turn-around to the left and one to the right and stop. Drop the reins, stroke his neck, and let him relax. He heard his name called as he headed to the working area. Jesse sat tall and slim in a white shirt, black hat, and cream-colored fringed chaps. He wore a pair of silver-mounted spurs that Holly had ordered handmade especially for the occasion.
The colt was a thing to behold, burnished blackness with the touch of silver sparkling here and there, his front legs from the knees down were wrapped in white. He moved in delicate contact with the earth as if desiring to leave it undisturbed by his passing. His neck long and low as he approached the herd, his ears flicking like antennae, he almost seemed to crouch like a panther stalking.
Jesse knew what he wanted to cut and went after it. The judges like that, a decision to go for a specific cow right from the start. It makes for a higher degree of difficulty and this was no time to play it safe. He was against the best. The scores were high. The only way to win was to let it all hang out. He drove ten head out. The judges could see that he was focused on one cow. If he were to change that focus to another, it would cost him a penalty of five points on his score and certainly the championship. But if he cut it successfully, he would gather points in his favor.
He dropped the colt in front of the one he wanted—a perfect cut, right in the center. Somewhere in the vastness of God’s consciousness, in His sense of humor, in the poetry He puts into life, He must have created this particular cow to be the ultimate challenge for this particular horse. It seemed as if the cow and Soot came from the same source that had produced in them a fierce combativeness, the resourcefulness and extreme desire to achieve their end. They seemed inspired by their tasks and the opposition to its accomplishment. The eager heifer seem to say, “If you think you’re going to stop me, you got another think coming.” The heifer then made a move like a bantamweight.
So sure was the colt of himself, he didn’t even hurry; he seemed to take more time than wise, and yet a blur occurred. Just as the cow thought she would make it to the herd, she found in her face the hot blowing breath of Soot. Now savvy to the fact that this was not going to be as easy as she thought, she pulled out every instinct and lightning quick reflex with which she’d been endowed. And at every bone-crunching, muscle-tearing turn the cow found itself staring into a mirror reflecting not herself but the shining black face of the fire-breathing demon glaring her defeat. He began to give her a head start like a boy racing his sister. He’d blow right by her just a little and sink into his melting stop, watching her without turning his head. Then he’d hesitate a millisecond before cracking over his hocks in a hazy arc and cut her off. Jesse could feel the dirt against his foot as a stirrup brushed the ground.
The swelling roar of the crowd reverberated in the rafters of the coliseum. The valiant little heifer had been worn down. Fatigue had taken hold and stopped her dead in her tracks. No cow had ever tried harder. As Jesse lifted his reins pla
cing his right hand at the withers to signal Soot to relax, the audience went to bedlam.
He turned the colt back to the herd and cut his second cow. It wasn’t the one he wanted but he was under the pressure of the clock. He had no choice. It was a wild-eyed, high-headed thing that looked like it just might try to leave town rather than get back to the herd or out of sheer frustration, decide to run right through him. One bad move here could cost him the farm. He told himself he had to stay cool, trust this colt. There was something about Soot that made a cow try harder. The cow wanted to run rather than play but Soot cut her off and danced in front of her saying, “Come on Show me what you’ve got.” The cow made a move toward the wall. Soot waited. Way too long. Jesse’s heart stopped. He was sure they’d blown it. The crowd quit breathing. When what seemed like an eternity ended with a spine-cracking whirl over his hocks, Jesse thought he heard the sound of bone break. His blood ran cold. He felt himself for a millisecond having to catch up, so quick was the move.
The colt lunged in front of the cow and boxed her in. The cow shuddered and darted toward the herd. Soot waited that agonizing wait, then swept his graceful blur of an arc and blew in her face. He tapped his front feet in the dirt, his nose inches from the ground in front of the cow. The audience roared. Jesse knew he was on the edge. He wanted to quit but it would have meant being back in the herd when the buzzer sounded. He needed to end his run with Soot working a cow, and leave the judges with that image. So he took the risk and stuck it out. At the last second, the cow surrendered and stood trembling in front of the quivering wound spring of a black colt ready to pounce. The buzzer sounded on a perfect portrait. Jesse slowly lifted the reins in his left hand and gently placed the fingertips of his right on the horse’s withers, signaling they were done. The colt came out of his crouch to the throbbing roar of tumultuous applause, whistles, and cheers. He bent low and whispered something holy to the colt as he stroked the gleaming neck. He lifted one rein just an inch and Soot turned his face back toward Jesse’s knee so he could touch between his eyes. The Will Rogers Coliseum had never heard the sound it heard that night.
