by Aaron Latham
“How can they breathe in all this dust?” coughed Revelie.
As if he had heard her, Loving could be seen tugging up his red bandanna to cover his nose. Soon the other cowboys were doing the same. The rodeo began to look like a tournament of outlaws. Loving and Flytrap pulled hard and steady, reeling the horse in.
“Got ’im now,” Goodnight mumbled.
“You can do it!” Revelie shouted.
Loving and Flytrap had their horse almost reeled in when another cowboy showed up, tossed his rope over the snubbing post, and started pulling, too. He had a black handkerchief pulled up over his nose. Soon Loving’s rope and Black Bandanna’s rope got tangled up.
“They should take turns,” Revelie said.
Goodnight felt an inner tremor. He didn’t like the cowboy with the black mask.
“They’re fighting!” coughed Revelie, clutching his arm. “He’s down!”
“What? I cain’t see.”
Of course, Goodnight had expected some fights to break out sooner or later. They always did when this many cowboys got together. Especially if there were females present.
“Good, he’s up again,” Revelie reported.
Now Goodnight saw Loving, who had gotten his rope untangled from the other and was once again reeling in his wild spotted horse.
“Achew!”sneezed Revelie. “If Flytrap doesn’t close his mouth pretty soon, he’s going to eat up all our land. Why doesn’t he put up his bandanna?”
Now Flytrap was holding the rope, and Loving stood beside the struggling horse trying to throw a saddle on its back. He lifted the saddle and hurled it onto the bronc, but the animal bucked it off. Then Loving pointed at the horse’s head and evidently issued an order, but Flytrap shook his head. Loving yelled and pointed emphatically. Goodnight couldn’t ever remember seeing his friend so agitated. It didn’t suit him.
“What’s wrong?” asked Revelie. “What’s happening?”
“I dunno,” admitted Goodnight.
“It looks as if they’re having an argument.”
“It sorta does, don’t it?”
Now Flytrap, who had clearly lost the argument, was trying to do something to the wild horse’s head.
“What it looks like to me,” Goodnight said at last, “is Flytrap’s tryin’ to bite that dang horse’s nose.”
“Whatever for?” asked Revelie.
“Well, you know a horse’s nose is real tender like. And so they say if’n you sink your teeth into it, well, it sorta gentles ’im down. Leastwise till ya let go.”
“No!”
Goodnight noticed that the wild bronc was no longer kicking or bucking. Loving picked up his saddle out of the dirt and tossed it up on the horse’s back. This time the saddle stayed where it landed. Loving started buckling down the straps. When he was finished, he moved up to the horse’s head beside Flytrap.
“He’s not going to bite him too,” Revelie asked, “is he?”
Loving was buckling on a hackamore, a bridle with no bit. Wild horses didn’t like bits. This hackamore had just one rein, a long one.
Goodnight felt a vicarious thrill when he saw Loving put his foot into the stirrup and swing up into the saddle. Flytrap opened his mouth even wider, released the bronc’s nose, and stepped back in a big hurry. The wild horse jumped into the air and bowed its back. Loving leaned back to keep his balance and raked the horse’s side with his spurs. His right hand was held high over his head while his left fist hung onto the single rein. The horse came down hard, jarring Loving. He hunched over but stayed on. The bronc jumped again and turned in midair. Loving leaned into the turn. He looked as if he had lost his balance, but he hadn’t. He knew what he was doing.
“Ride him!” yelled Revelie. “Ride him! Ride him!”
“You got ’im now,” breathed Goodnight. “You got ’im.”
Loving fell off and lay motionless in the red dirt.
“Oh, no!” cried Revelie. “He’s hurt!”
Goodnight didn’t say anything, but something hurt inside. He couldn’t lose Loving, too. It was his fault. These games had been his idea. Goodnight thought he saw Loving move. Yes, he was moving, a second Adam coming to life in the dirt, apparently made out of dirt himself. Red dirt. It felt like a miracle. Goodnight hadn’t killed his “brother” after all. Loving was actually getting to his feet.
“Is he going to be all right?” asked Revelie.
“I sure hope so,” said her husband.
Goodnight felt weak—as if he himself had suffered some sort of fall—as he watched Loving limp over to the snubbing post and fetch his rope. Then he started chasing the horse that had run off with his saddle.
Goodnight felt uneasy when another rider, a cowboy who worked for the O Bar O, swung up into the saddle. This O Bar O hand seemed to know what he was doing, too. Goodnight tried to follow them both, the one cowboy in the saddle, the other still pursuing his.
“I didn’t think it was going to be like this,” Revelie said.
“It never is,” said Goodnight.
He saw that Loving had shaken off his limp and was once again moving with an absolute minimum of motion. The rope whirling around his head seemed to spin itself. Then it took off on its own and settled over the head and shoulders of the running horse. Flytrap appeared out of the dust and helped Loving hold on to the rope. Their high-heeled boots skidded in the red dirt. The horse got tired of dragging them and stopped.
Goodnight willed Loving to hurry. Come on. Get up there. Ride that thing. And yet at the same time, he wished his friend were out of the ring and standing safely beside him.
Goodnight felt the excitement again and the pain too when Loving swung up into the saddle once more. The wild horse jumped as high as it could and kicked out at some invisible enemy. Loving was using his spurs, trying to show the horse who was boss, but the animal had a few things to show the rider as well. The cowboy lurched from side to side like a willow in a twister. Goodnight had always thought of his friend as wiry, but now he seemed almost delicate. Wouldn’t he break? How much more punishment could he take?
“I wish it were over,” Revelie said. “I don’t care who wins. I just don’t want him to get hurt.”
Goodnight lost Loving for a moment in the dust storm. When his horse reappeared, the saddle was empty. Loving was down again. Worse! He had his left foot caught in his stirrup and he was being dragged along beneath the horse. He was being trampled and couldn’t get away. The bronc’s right rear hoof just barely missed Loving’s head.
No! The dragged man wasn’t Loving. Thank God! It was the O Bar O cowboy. He had on a blue shirt, too. Loving was still all right. Still in the saddle.
The rest of the crowd went quiet. Not even the buggy springs squeaked. Goodnight stopped being glad about Loving and started worrying about the O Bar O boy. The frightened horse couldn’t help stepping on him again and again. The other cowboys in the ring ran for their ropes, had to untangle them, and then threw them at the bronc. But they weren’t having any luck. They kept bumping into each other, and their lassos tangled with each other in midair.
“Achew!”sneezed poor Revelie.
Then Goodnight saw Loving ride out of a red cloud right beside the deadly horse. The rancher hadn’t exactly forgotten about his friend, but his concerns had shifted. Now suddenly Goodnight was frightened for them both, for he could see what Loving was trying to do. His reckless friend was attempting to grab the rein of one bucking bronc while he was still riding another bucking bronc. He was trying not only to ride the whirlwind but to ride it to the rescue.
“What’s he doing!” screamed Revelie.“Achew!”
“He knows what he’s . . . ”
Goodnight didn’t finish the sentence because he realized that he wasn’t at all sure that his friend knew what he was doing. Loving gripped the pommel of his saddle with his right hand and reached down with his left trying to grasp the trailing rein of the runaway horse. He almost had it when his own horse bucked and he missed. He tried agai
n, bending down lower, leaning even farther out of the saddle. His bronc seemed to recognize his moment of maximum vulnerability, for it gave a great leap and wheeled in the air. Loving’s right foot came up out of his stirrup and he lost his seat completely. He clung to his gyrating mount with one foot and one hand.
Somehow Loving managed to pull himself back onto the horse’s back. Goodnight realized how strong this delicate figure must be. Of course, strength wasn’t all muscles. Loving fought to get his loose foot back in the stirrup, and he fought the horse for control. He jerked the bronc’s head back in the direction he was determined to go, and he spurred him. The bucking bronc turned too abruptly and crashed against the runaway horse. Both animals stumbled. They were falling. Loving pitched forward, falling, too. But the horses somehow got their legs back under them and came back up again. When Loving came up, he had the runaway rein in his hand.
Once the two wild horses were tied together, Loving holding the rein of each, they both began to calm down. They bucked and kicked a few more times, each time weaker than the last, and then just stood there shivering.
Cowboys on the ground rushed forward to free the O Bar O cowboy’s foot from the stirrup.
“He did it,” said Revelie.
“He sure ’nough did,” Goodnight said proudly, shaking his head.
Revelie sneezed again and then cried. Her face was still wet from tears when her husband helped her down off the chuck wagon. Then the two of them climbed the rail fence and entered the dusty arena. Revelie kept sneezing, but she recovered in time to present a prize buckle to the winner of the bronco-busting contest.
“Congratulations,” Revelie said, and then she hugged and tried to kiss Loving, but she sneezed in the middle of the kiss.
Goodnight noticed that all the cowboys were looking at Loving in a different way now.
67
Goodnight—who used to enjoy riding the calves at the family fort back when he was a kid—would have loved to enter the bull-riding contest. But instead, he would be the timer. Whoever stayed on the longest would be the winner. Nobody could stay on a bull until it got tired and stopped bucking. Bulls simply weren’t breakable.
Just getting on the bull in the first place would be anything but easy. To make it at least possible, Goodnight had improvised a contraption that looked like a big box or a very small pen. The Home Ranch cowboys set it up just inside the gate of the corral. It was barely big enough for one bull at a time with almost no wiggle room at all. Which was the point.
Goodnight waved his hat in the air, which was the signal to drive the first bull over. The huge stud longhorn entered the wings that funneled him down to the open gate where the box awaited him. The bull hesitated, but the cowboys behind him were yelling. Simon was even cracking his whip. Choosing the lesser of evils, the bull entered the box. As soon as the longhorn was all the way inside, a cowboy slammed a gate closed behind him. The bull could be heard banging around inside the box, but he soon discovered that he wasn’t accomplishing anything and settled down. So far so good, thought Goodnight.
Then a tall, rangy cowboy from the Matador Ranch climbed the side of the box and started easing himself down on the bull. He had his bandanna pulled up over his nose outlaw-fashion because he knew he was about to kick up a lot of dust. Goodnight watched the Matador cowboy work his hand under a rope that was wrapped around the bull just behind his front legs. When the contestant was finally ready, he nodded to a cowboy on the ground. This cowboy swung open a gate on the side of the box, so the bull came out sideways and immediately started bucking and wheeling in a wicked circle. The cowboy had his left arm high in the air while his right hand clung to the rope tied around the bull. He was doing surprisingly well for a big man. Glancing down at his gold watch, Goodnight saw that the cowboy had been on the bull’s back for four seconds and counting . . .
Glancing back up, Goodnight saw that the Matador hand was now in trouble. He was trying to lean into the turns—“into the well,” as the cowboys called it—but the bull was turning faster than he could lean. Instead of leaning in, he was leaning out. He couldn’t help it. The force generated by the bull’s spinning motion was too much for him. It was the same force conjured up by a spinning rope. When you let the rope go, it would fly. And when the Matador cowboy let go, he flew, too. He landed hard on his back. Six seconds.
The bull wheeled and attacked the prostrate cowboy. The furious animal butted the man and tried to hook him. The tall, lanky cowpoke didn’t try to get up, but instead started rolling toward the corral fence. The bull kept butting him as he rolled. When he finally reached the fence, the cowboy rolled right under the bottom rail to safety.
While a dozen cowboys raced to see if the bull-rider was all right, Goodnight himself climbed down off his perch on the chuck wagon. He wanted to see for himself how badly this man had been hurt. He blamed himself. Maybe he should call off this bull-riding contest. He promised himself that if the fallen cowboy were badly injured, he would end it right now.
By the time Goodnight reached the crowd, the Matador hand was already up on his feet, brushing the red dust off his torn clothes. He had what looked like an embarrassed grin on his face.
“You hurt bad?” asked Goodnight.
“Reckon I’ll be okay one a these days,” the cowboy drawled. “But that’s more than I can say for my hat.”
Goodnight looked around for the hat and discovered that it was still inside the corral where the bull was wreaking vengeance on it. Stamping. Goring. Slobbering all over it. Killing it over and over.
“I’ll buy you a new hat,” Goodnight said.
“Thanks but no thanks,” said the cowboy. “I reckon I better buy my own hats. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry none ’bout me.”
But Goodnightwas worried. Not just about the bull-rider but about his bull-riding contest. He could see that it was more dangerous than he had imagined. Goodnight realized he had either to call off the competition or to come up with a way to make it safer. But how could he ever make a wild longhorn bull less dangerous? Then Goodnight surprised himself by coming up with an idea almost at once. The inspiration came from the name of the ranch on which that first bull-rider worked. The Matador.
“We gotta do somethin’,” Goodnight announced. “We cain’t have bulls pickin’ on boys when they’re down. So I figure we need some bullfighters. Boys who’ll git the bulls to up and charge them insteada the riders. Maybe wave somethin’ red. I reckon I’m callin’ for volunteers.”
Goodnight looked over the crowd that surrounded him. At first, it appeared that none of the cowboys wanted such a dangerous job, but then Too Short raised his hand. Then Flytrap put his hand up, too. Soon other hands went in the air as well. One was a very familiar hand.
“Less see,” Goodnight said. “How about Too Short and Flytrap? You boys got anything red?”
“I’ll do it,” said Loving.
“I’d rather have Too Short and Flytrap.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Okay, suit yourself,” said Goodnight who couldn’t say no to his friend. “You and Too Short. Flytrap’ll hafta miss the fun this time around.”
He watched his two designated bullfighters trot off to the bunkhouse in search of something red to serve as a cape. Then he ambled back in the direction of his place atop the chuck wagon. He found Revelie on the ground waiting for him.
“What happened?” she asked. “Did you cancel it?”
Goodnight hadn’t even realized that his wife knew he was debating calling off the bull-riding. That was the great thing about being married for years. You knew each other’s thoughts.
“No,” Goodnight said. “Loving’s gonna play matador, him and Too Short. They’re gonna make the bulls chase them so’s the riders can git away. So I reckon it’ll be okay.”
“What?” Revelie asked sharply. “I suppose you were the one who thought of this brilliant plan.”
“I reckon I did,” Goodnight said.
“You go to all the tro
uble to bring your friend back—you go all that way—and then you do your best to get him killed. I don’t understand you. I really don’t.”
The husband and wife were standing side by side on the chuck wagon once again when Too Short and Loving emerged from the bunkhouse carrying globs of red. Goodnight couldn’t make out what the globs were until they got closer. As they were climbing the corral fence, he recognized a faded red shirt in Loving’s hand, but Too Short’s cape remained a mystery. He had it all balled up. When Goodnight finally solved the puzzle, he chuckled to himself.
“This isn’t funny,” Revelie said.
“Don’t you see what he’s got hold of?” Goodnight asked. “His long underwear.”
The husband noticed that his wife still didn’t smile. Too Short’s long johns were more pink than red. Evidently, the cowboy did occasionally scrub his underclothes, contrary to popular opinion, anyhow enough to fade them.
Goodnight took out his gold watch as another bull was driven through the gate and into the box. Then he saw a cowboy with his mouth open climbing the side of the chute. That was just like Flytrap. If he couldn’t be a bullfighter, then he would be a bull-rider. Well, good luck. But the man Goodnight really wished good luck was the cowboy who had taken Flytrap’s place as a matador.
“Hold up!” Goodnight yelled. “Just hold your horses.”
Hurrying down off his wagon, he climbed into the ring. He walked over to the bull box—the chute—and looked between the railings at the longhorn. The huge animal seemed to be about to lose his temper.
“Excuse me, Chief Bull,” Goodnight said in English even though he figured the Human tongue might work better. But he hadn’t talked Human for a long time now and was rusty. He would just have to do the best he could with his mother tongue. “I have a favor to ask.”
The bull looked directly at him. The cowboys were looking at him, too, with puzzled expressions. He just hoped they didn’t laugh.
“This is just a game we’re fixin’ to play here,” Goodnight told the bull. “This here cowboy’s gonna jump on your back. And you’re gonna pitch him off. And that’ll be that. See? We’re not gonna hurt you. And I’d sure appreciate it if you didn’t hurt none of us. See? And then you can just go your own way back to your cows and your reg’lar life’s work. No harm done, right? None to you. And none to us. I figured I’d better explain this to you or you might take it the wrong way and git after somebody. Fair enough? Whaddaya say?”
