by Annie Proulx
He passed a heap of hide rugs and a display of huge curved longhorns ready for mounting on a Cadillac hood or the living room wall. There were booths for candy floss, snake cakes, bratwurst, Australian rain slickers and kitchen gadgets, pony-hide briefcases, bolo ties, leather and wool chaps. One boot shop carried hats and boots and Bob tried on summer straws until he settled on a Resistol polyhemp with a hand-rolled brim, a Calgary crease and a black cord band. In the mirror he looked like a real Texan.
He continued his wander down the street in the shade of the hat, wondering why he had not bought one before now, passed bad cowboy art featuring lurid sunsets and rearing horses. People kept looking at the sky which had begun to cloud over. The bank thermometer had inched up to 107 degrees. The kitchen-gadget barkers shouted and waved multibladed implements. A few customers stood around the weather station and tornado warning systems booth.
“Keep that thing turned on,” said Hen Page to the salesman, gesturing at the sky. Beyond it was the bison burger barbecue grill manned by Cy Frease, with Coolbroth Fronk putting the meat and fixings in buns and making change. Bob bought two with onions and salsa, ate them as he strolled.
He came to a gap in the booths, and in this open space sat Rope Butt in a saddle resting on an oversize sawhorse. From this perch he recited cowboy poetry on request for $2.50 a poem. Bob purchased a long comic recitation of Rope’s own composition, “How to Make a Bridle,” at a cost of five dollars, for it was, said Rope Butt, twice the length of a regular poem and had some bawdy lines for which there was usually an extra charge. When the recitation began to draw a small crowd Rope waved them away, declaring it was a private performance for a paying customer.
After the poem Bob paused to watch two arm wrestlers, both dripping sweat, the champion a huge cowhand from Goodwell, Oklahoma, who had so far defeated all challengers. Their fleshy arms made sucking sounds where their skins touched. There was a burst of applause from the stage as Buckskin Bill, chairman of the Barbwire Queen judges, announced the winner—Moxie Slauter, the oldest girl of Advance Slauter, a peaches-and-cream beauty with humidity-straggled maroon hair. Bob noted that she had double dimples and deserved to win.
At 11:45, in the liquid heat, he walked out to the rodeo arena at the north end of the main street, a place of steel and wood corrals he had seen fifty times deserted and forlorn, the air pale yellow with suspended dust. Now the place thrummed with diesel pickups and stock trucks, early comers already filling the spectator bleachers, horses and bulls and calves in the stock pens. The thunderheads loomed, the darkling plain flat beneath its indigo bulk. The entranceway flew a banner announcing the 68th Woolybucket Ranch Rodeo. Barkers hawked cotton candy and cold drinks. He bought a ticket and went to the stands, picking out an aisle seat. The front row was taken up by eight assorted men, whom Bob guessed to be the monks from the Triple Cross, for they were dressed in chinos and short-sleeved shirts while the lay Woolybucket audience wore jeans and cowboy boots. Tourists wore shorts and T-shirts. The smell of food was everywhere. A turkey leg vendor roamed the aisles selling the hot meat, followed by the taco man, the barbecue rib man and the popcorn lady, then the stringy youth with a pierced cardboard tray holding towering cones of cotton candy, to Bob’s mind the second vilest confection on the planet, first place going to the candy apple. In the crowd Bob thought he saw the nurse with the flapper hair and dimpled cheeks, but when she turned he saw it was another woman. Perhaps he could see the nurse again when he met with the Chines at the hospital. Behind him someone said, “Fixin a have us a storm.”
The inner wall of the arena and the fronts of the chutes were plastered with advertisements for local businesses. Many of the contestants were riding their shy ranch horses up and down in the arena to get them used to the crowd and the space. Brother Mesquite was with them, on his paint horse, Tic-Tac, a name the abbot had protested as unspiritual, but Brother Mesquite had grown up with horses named Tic-Tac and planned never to let the name fade.
Bob had been to many rodeos, but never a ranch rodeo. He knew some events were different. His program told him that the competitors were restricted to cowboys who worked local ranches, no professionals allowed. Three of the traditional events had been dropped—bull riding, which Bob regretted, and barrel racing, cause for rejoicing. The unfamiliar events were four-man penning, oldtimer’s bronc riding, double mugging, a feed sack race, a cutting horse contest and, as the last event, wild cow milking.
At noon on the dot the rodeo commenced, and Bob, surrounded by turkey leg munchers and squalling babies, stood with the rest of the crowd and took off his hat to the words of “The Cowboy’s Prayer” intoned by Rope Butt. The line of thunderheads flickered with lightning but seemed no closer. The northeast breeze freshened and people sighed with pleasure. As the crowd sat down the Grand Parade began, composed of scout troops and the children of local business owners in gaudy costumes and waving advertising flags on horses groomed to spectacular showiness, their polished hooves gleaming, brushed haunches a-shine, manes plaited in intricate designs that would excite envy in an Afro-American beauty shop. The announcer, up in his high booth, was Warnell Pue, an Old Dog regular, and he was drunk, cracking jokes about the clowns (clothed in women’s dresses chopped short at midthigh), mixing up names and even events. The contestants clustered with others from their ranches, stood leaning on the arena rails, alternately watching the action and the sky.
“Start with bronc ridin, ride as ride can, reglar saddle, first man out is Dalton Booklung of the Dirty Socks outfit over in Clayton, New Mexico, come all this way for the event. What? What?” He leaned down to someone shouting at him from the ground.
“O.K., little mistake there, not Dalton Booklung but his brother Raine Booklung, still the Dirty Socks, Raine Booklung ridin Cap’n Crunch. This here is a mean bronc. He has put a man in the hospital already this year—he’s in rooms 101 and 102.”
Bob recognized Raine Booklung as the shirtless man from the barbwire sign booth. His long hair hung to the middle of his back. His wet arms gleamed. He stood on a rail of the chute pen while his brother and friends held a weasel-headed horse, suddenly dropped into the saddle like a sack of cement, the gate flew open, the horse twisted and reared, put his head down and his heels high and threw Raine Booklung into the dirt.
“One down. Guess that hurt, didn’t it, Dalton?” called the announcer. “Little mistake, lemme see, the horse was not Cap’n Crunch but Devil’s Avocado—no, Devil’s Advocate.” The cowboy, frosted with dust and manure, limped toward his friends and a bottle.
The bucking broncs won the day, defeating all of the cowboys, who included Dalton Booklung, announced, to applause, as “Doggone Booklung.”
The team penning was next, an unfamiliar event to Bob. At the far end of the arena a small herd of calves with numbers on their sides milled about while half a dozen men set up a portable pen in the foreground. One man laid a chalk line in the dirt and four mounted cowboys from the Banjo-B Ranch entered the arena. One, with a red warlord mustache whose ends hung down on his chest, rode into the herd and began cutting out his three calves and driving them across the chalk line. The other men, without crossing the chalk line, tried to keep the calves from rejoining the herd but one small and agile calf broke away and raced back to the herd, and by the time the first rider cut him out again all three animals had fractiously gone in different directions. Only one calf was penned. One of the mother cows broke loose from somewhere and cantered into the arena.
“Better luck next year, boys,” called the announcer. “Now we’ll have some double muggin.” The cow ran up and down, bawling for her calf. Warnell Pue’s voice rang out.
“She’s a mean old cow, she’ll crawl and she’ll bawl, she’ll slink through the weeds like a reptile, goddammit. She’ll horn you and ruin your business. Now we’ll have some double muggin.”
There were cries of protest that four teams had not yet competed in the penning, but Warnell Pue shouted back at them, “Well hell, better luck ne
xt year, boys, anyhow,” and once more announced the double mugging contest. There was general confusion until two of the rejected cowboys climbed up into the announcer’s booth and bodily removed Warnell. He was replaced by Advance Slauter, who mumbled about his lack of experience and said he didn’t know any clown jokes, though he immediately tried to tell one, a long, involved story that brought in battle-axe mothers-in-law, a scolding wife, a smart dog, a mean bull and a talking horse, all to no point until the crowd groaned.
“All right, then, let’s have the rest a the pennin. Heeeeere’s the Wall Street Ranch boys. Better get on it, them cattle is mighty restless.”
The team roping brought the crowd to its feet. The first pair out was Charles Grapewine and Shug Capps of the Diamond Bar. Grapewine, the header, tagged the corriente right in front of the gate and led it away in an L-bend. Capps caught the heels in a clean, traditional throw.
“Eleven seconds!” bellowed Advance Slauter as the timekeeper held up his stopwatch. None of the following ropers came close to that time. Bob saw Brother Mesquite outside the arena talking earnestly with his partner. Both men bowed their heads and mumbled together. Bob thought they might be saying prayers. Indeed, so often had Bob seen prayer and signs of the cross at rodeos that the entire event seemed one of religious ritual, requests to God for favor and thanks for victories. Brother Hesychast glanced at the sky and seemed to pinch the air in his fingers, rubbing it as though to gauge the humidity. The line of thunderheads was noticeably more distant and the northeast breeze cooled the plain. Maybe, Bob thought, there would not be a storm. After a brief discussion both men went to their bags and took out different ropes, but Bob saw Brother Mesquite change again, putting the new rope back and taking out the first—or a third—in its place.
The Triple Cross team was the last up. Brother Hesychast was on a tough-looking little blood bay quarter horse, rather thick in the leg, thought Bob, and Brother Mesquite on Tic-Tac. Both men wore their cassocks hitched up at the waist and crosses glittered on their chests. The horses wore overreach and splint boots to protect their legs, not common for ranch mounts, who generally had to take their chances.
Brother Hesychast atop his horse waited rigidly in the box and stared at some distant point in the arena. Brother Mesquite’s eyes glittered like those of a cat who sees the mouse. The signal came, the steer burst out of the box and Brother Hesychast stood in his stirrups and rode, came up on the animal’s left side, his rope twirling, the little blood bay rating the steer and then a smooth catch and the dally. The steer was fresh and lively and Brother Hesychast had to take hold strongly and turn him left across the arena. The steer was moving fast. As it turned Brother Mesquite bore down, in roping position, feeding the loop and then he tossed, roping the animal’s heels out of the air, bringing the crowd shouting to its feet.
“Six one!” screamed Slauter. “Out a the air! How’s that for a panhandle cowhand? That’s National Finals stuff that we just seen. Goddammit, you won’t see prettier ropin nowhere. Let’s hear it for the Triple Cross boys.” Bob shouted until his throat was raw.
The remaining events seemed tame despite the madness of the wild cow milking contest, wily old range cows cornered by three-man teams, who tried to squeeze a few drops of milk into a small bottle. Several cowboys limped from the field of battle, chased by the conquering cow. Wardell Pue, somewhere in the crowd, began to call, “She’s a mean old heifer…”
The Wall Street Ranch won the penning, the cow milking and the feed sack race and took overall honors for the day—three hundred dollars for the team, a saddle blanket for every competitor and the Woolybucket Ranch Rodeo cup, a real silver cup engraved with the names of the winning ranches going back to 1933, the second year of the rodeo. Brothers Mesquite and Hesychast each received a belt buckle and a pair of spurs made by esteemed local smiths, Brother Mesquite coming away with a set from Kevin Burns of Spearman, and Brother Hesychast a pair from Shamrock’s Pat Vaughn.
Bob lunched a second time on a third bison burger, washed it down with black coffee and, for dessert, enjoyed two snake cakes, leaning forward to keep the powdered sugar off his shirt, when Sheriff Hugh Dough, both arms in casts and in company with his sister Opal, came up beside him.
“You got a call from your uncle. I told him I would pass along the message. It’s about that shoot-out in Denver that Tazzy was involved in. Tazzy Keister? Your uncle said a tell you that the dead man is a Mr. Quantum Goliath. He is the president a Global Pork Rind. Tazzy went up there lookin for you, Bob Dollar. She went to the bunkhouse on the Busted Star first. LaVon saw her truck peelin out. You’re lucky you was stayin at the Shattles’. Anyway, they got her now, she’s in custody.”
“What will they do to her? What about the son? Does LaVon know about the shooting?”
“Tazzy will have to stand trial. The kid is with his grandmaw. I expect he gets old enough he’ll do like most Texas boys don’t know what to do—join the navy. Yes, LaVon knows about the shootin. She listens a the police calls on her shortwave. She called me about seeing Tazzy in her truck the other day. You can’t beat LaVon on news.”
“Come on, Hugh, let’s us git some a that barbecue,” said Opal Head. “I’ll feed it to you.”
“All right, but first I got a go to the little boy’s room. Let’s go around by the jail a minute.”
A little before two Bob strolled toward the quilt raffle booth, but while still at a distance, came onto a church jumble sale presided over by Janine Huske. That lady sat under a white canvas awning, her flushed face protected from the sun by a white lace hat trimmed with faux forget-me-nots.
“Hello, Bob Dollar,” she called. “Want a do your Christmas shoppin early? We’ve got everthing from pot holders to doorstops. How about a nice jade elephant from Burma?”
Bob came over and shook her hand, glanced at the wares spread out on a table made of planks and sawhorses. It was a mish-mash of Reader’s Digest books, gewgaws and paperweights. He caught his breath when he saw a wooden bureau drawer overflowing with costume jewelry, all of Bakelite and celluloid and other polymers he could not identify. The fabulous brooch he remembered from the quilting bee lay in sight. Janine Huske, following his eyes, said, “That’s all Freda Beautyrooms’ stuff. I thought it was kind a heartless a her son just a dump it like that—that’s the way he brought it over, all higgledy-piggledy in that drawer—but that’s what happened. Some of it’s right pretty. Out a style now and all plastic. I would a arranged the nicer pieces but there’s no room,” waving at the stained ashtrays and yellowed boudoir lamps that took pride of place.
Bob picked up a green pearlescent key ring shaped like a tiny suitcase and centered with a Scottie dog cartouche. There were big chunky elasticized bracelets in dozens of colors. Some, with colored spots and ovals, he thought were special but did not know the name for them. There was a transparent yellow hinged bracelet with red geometric shapes superimposed on it, another black carved-hinge bracelet set with faux pearls. A tangle of earrings in extraordinary shapes had sunk to the bottom of the drawer, where they formed a mat of interlinked findings and fasteners.
“How much for the whole drawer?” asked Bob, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Oh, well, I don’t know. They told me to sell each piece for a dollar. But so far nobody’s bought hardly nothin except LaVon found a red Eiffel Tower pin and she bought that. Tell you what, I’ll go ask Rella Nooncaster. She’s in charge. She’s just over at the raffle booth.” She pointed at the woman peering at her watch and looking around. Bob caught her eye and waved, pointed at his wrist to show he needed a minute. “If you don’t mind waiting a minute I’ll be right back.”
“That’s fine. Would you tell Mrs. Nooncaster that I’ll be there as soon as we finish up? I promised I’d tend the raffle booth for an hour. That’s where I was going when you caught me.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure she’ll make you a good price since you’re helpin out.” And she took up her purse and trotted toward the raffle booth.
Bob unearthed a pin in the form of a black Bakelite bar with tiny brass cooking implements suspended from it. Uncle Tam would pass out when he saw this.
“She said how about twenty dollars for the whole shootin match?” Janine Huske’s voice had the timbre of one bringing good news.
“Done,” said Bob, foraging in his wallet. He handed her the bill, took up the heavy drawer and headed for the raffle booth.
“Here you are,” said Rella Nooncaster. “I won’t ask what you’re goin a do with all that old jewelry. You must have a girlfriend somewhere? Or maybe it’s for your mother or grandmother?”
“It’s for my uncle,” said Bob, pleased by the woman’s face, the stage for a series of conflicting expressions.
“Takes all kinds. Anyway, here’s what you do. Fill out the raffle tickets in two places, one for the buyer, one for the drawin. Five dollars a ticket. Give the pink one to the buyer, the white ones go in this box. And here’s the money box. Whatever you do, don’t leave the booth because both the money box and the quilt are valuable. Somebody will be here at three to take over. And thanks, Bob, for helpin out.”
Sales were slow and Bob wished he had brought along Lieutenant Abert or Broken Hand. He began to pick out pieces from the jewelry drawer and rub them, sniffing for the phenol smell of Bakelite. A fat man with a paper sack of barbwire lengths and a bulky cylinder under his arm came up and looked at the quilt, which hung behind Bob.
“That’s really something. That is a pretty piece of work. I’m an antique dealer from Charleston, South Carolina. I would surely love to buy that quilt. How much?”
“It’s not for sale,” said Bob. “It’s a raffle. Five dollars a ticket and they have the drawing at five over at the bandstand.”
