by Andrew Smith
“That’s okay. It’s not too far. It’ll be fun.”
“Yeah. I don’t think Gabe’s even really got permission from his dad to come along, but that’s his problem, ‘cause he’s coming anyway.”
“Sounds like you’re kidnapping him.”
Tommy, grinning, steered with his knee and opened up his can of tobacco.
“Want some?”
“Not now. I feel sick, kind of.”
“You’ll shoot and ride the hell out of that thing, don’t worry,” Tom said, and I felt better just hearing my friend talk like that. “CB and Ramiro are taking off this morning to flatbed some hay down that easement road to throw out for those horses. I gave him a can of chew for Rose in case she’s back yet and I told him to tell her we’ll come out on Monday and see her.”
“That’s really nice of them. Tell your dad thanks if I don’t see him.”
“It’s not that nice. He’s taking it out of our wages anyway.”
“Just so he’s not charging us feed store prices.”
“Feed store prices plus hourly for him and Ramiro.” Then he spit into his ever-present, half-filled cup. And I laughed. I knew he was joking, and I knew that Carl would probably end up not charging us anything for that hay, even though I believed it was a fair thing to do.
Tom looked at me. “Where’s your bandana?”
“What?”
“You should have a bandana or something when you ride in one of these things. You never know. You might need to wipe the sweat off your hands or your eyes or keep the dust out of your face. You could even get cut. You need one.”
“I didn’t think about that.”
“Well, here.” Tommy tilted over to one side and pulled a pressed and folded red bandana from his back pocket.
“Is it used?”
“That would make it even luckier.” Then he spit again.
I tied the bandana around my neck like an outlaw in one of those old westerns. “I don’t need any extra luck. Thanks, Tom.”
“You just win, Stotts. We’re all going to be betting on you.”
“That makes me feel even worse, then.”
There was always a lot of money being bet on the biathlon. Everyone knew it was illegal, even the sheriff, but it was just like a regular horse race and, of course, Clay Rutledge gambled on it just as much as anyone else. And everyone said he took his own cut from it, too. Bettors could put money to win, place, or show on any one of the numbered riders in the event and the betting tickets were sold right over the counter at Papa’s store. Most people thought the money from the biathlon was the only thing that kept Papa’s open for business from one year to the next.
There were at least fifteen riders already there at the check-in when Tommy and I got to Three Points. Most of them I had never seen before, but there were a few hands from the Benavidez ranch who said hi to me, and I saw Chase Rutledge and that leopard Appaloosa of his there, too, which didn’t do anything good for my nervous stomach.
“I feel like I’m gonna throw up,” I whispered to Tom as we went to the sign-in table.
“Aim that way,” he said, pointing a thumb like a hitchhiker toward Chase.
Then I saw the Benavidez family there by the table, all smiling at me like I was some kind of hero. Gabriel came up to me, snaking through the crowd gathered around the table filling out forms and paying entry fees.
“Hey, Troy. You look like a bank robber,” Gabe said.
“Don’t say that too loud, I think Rutledge still wants to put me in jail,” I said. “You coming tonight?”
“Sure thing.”
“Troy!” Mr. Benavidez smiled and reached out a hand. This time he squeezed real hard and slapped my shoulder, too, with a stinging left swat. “Let me pay your entry fee. You can be sponsored by the Benavidez ranch.”
“No offense, Mr. Benavidez.” I felt myself turning a little red. “But no thanks. I wouldn’t know what to do with this fifty dollars I got in my pocket otherwise, and I’ve been ready to do this since my birthday.”
“You’re quite a young man, Troy,” he said, and then he started to say something else but Luz cut him off.
“Hi, Troy. Are you feeling good?”
She was looking at my pants sagging over the tops of my tennis shoes, so I know what she was thinking.
“I can’t wear a belt when I ride. It hurts. Sorry, Luz,” I said, looking down. “And I feel horrible. I think I’m sick or something.”
My hand was shaking and I could hardly write legibly when I filled out the entry forms at that table. To make things worse, they were all looking over my shoulder as I wrote.
I paid my fee and drew a Popsicle stick from inside a big upturned hat. I drew number seven and was handed a printed bib and four safety pins to attach to my shirt.
“Number seven, Dad, number seven,” Gabe said, indicating which number to place money on over at the small store. Maybe I was dreaming, but I heard a couple other people saying “number seven” from within the crowd.
“All riders should report to parade lineup,” the sheriff was announcing from his loudspeaker.
“I should go get my horse,” I said.
I saw Mr. Benavidez grab his wife’s arm and turn back toward Papa’s, Gabe following. Somewhere back in the crowd I saw my father, could read his lips as he was talking to another spectator. He was saying, “Number seven.”
I felt as dizzy as the first time I chewed that tobacco with Tommy, and I followed my friend back to that old Ford truck, where Reno was tied outside the trailer, numbly aware that I was barely holding that bib number in my hand and Luz was following along.
“Here,” she said, “give me those,” when she saw that I couldn’t get the first safety pin open with my sweaty hand. She took the bib and pins from me and I wiped my hand up on that bandana around my neck.
“Don’t scream too loud if I stick you, Troy,” she said and she pressed the bib up to my chest and opened the first pin. Then she slid her other hand up inside my shirt and I felt her cool, smooth arm slide up my belly and chest and my knees nearly buckled underneath me.
Tommy must have known what was happening because I felt his hands bracing my shoulders from behind me.
“Easy there, Stottsy. You’re not resting on us yet.”
And me standing there, barely, wishing there were a dozen more pins to hold that number seven to my chest. After she closed the fourth pin, she turned her hand around and pressed her palm on my breast.
“Your heart is beating so hard,” she said.
“I know.”
She rubbed her palm down my belly softly and then she pulled my shirt down straight and smoothed out the number by rubbing it down on my chest. Then she pulled that red bandana around so the knot was behind my neck.
“There,” she said. “You’re the handsomest rider in the bunch by far.” And then she looked over at Tommy and back at me and said, “Good luck, Troy.”
And then she leaned forward and kissed me softly on the cheek.
“Oh, he says he doesn’t need any,” Tommy said.
I didn’t say anything, but I heard Mr. Benavidez calling for Luz from somewhere far away. She whirled around and disappeared into the swirling and buzzing crowd.
As fast as I could, I ran behind the trailer and bent forward with my hands on my knees and threw up all over the tire.
“That’s probly a good thing, Stottsy,” Tom Buller said, standing right behind me, next to my horse. “That’s probly a real good thing.”
And then I heard him spit.
They began playing the national anthem. I was late to line up. The parade was starting, and we were supposed to be in numbered order.
“Come on, Stotts. Get up on your horse before it’s too late.”
I moved over to Reno’s left side and got my foot up in the stirrup. I stood there for a second and then I wiped my face off with that bandana.
“Now that’s lucky,” Tom said, pointing at the smear on his bandana.
�
��I feel good now.”
“Good. ‘Cause I’m going down there to see George at the store and I’m gonna put a week’s pay on number seven.”
“Please don’t, Tommy.”
“Don’t worry, Stottsy,” he said. “I’m betting you all three ways. There’s no way I can lose.”
And then Tom Buller slapped my leg as I got up on my horse and turned away toward Papa’s. Then he called back over his shoulder, “I know you don’t need it, so I won’t say it.”
I rode Reno to the lineup and found my place near the front. There were thirty-two of us, so I figured the staggered start would take almost three hours and if we were lucky, the last riders would be in by noon. Last year’s winner got to wear number one; he was an older rider from Holmes who had grown up most of his life in Texas. He was real good, and won the event the last three years running. I saw Chase off behind me wearing number nineteen.
The flags in front of us started to march and all the riders fell in behind them, riding single file because the deputy was going to announce each of our names over the speakers. I heard the Holmes school band begin playing behind us.
I saw Luz and her family standing along the parade route, smiling and waving to people they knew. I looked right at Luz and saw her staring at me, too. She smiled, and I thought about her saying I was the handsomest rider and it made me feel real strong; and I tipped my hat at her and smiled back. I wondered if she still saw me as straight-mouthed.
And I saw my father there in the crowd, too. As I watched him, I saw people come up to him and shake his hand or hug him and pat him on the back. I knew what they were asking him—if he was okay, if I was, if we needed anything. I was glad I didn’t have to hear it.
I looked for Rose, too, knowing that she would never come to Three Points just to see this parade. I looked anyway.
Then when I came up to the black-and-white Ford Bronco, I saw Clayton Rutledge sitting by his open window on a tall barstool, holding a wrinkled bundle of papers, his microphone held up to the side of his mouth as he announced the riders.
He looked at me and said, “And no, folks, we haven’t made an exception to allow babies to compete this year. Riding up wearing number seven is young Troy Stotts, who believe it or not is really sixteen years old.”
I heard some people in the crowd laugh.
“And that fine-looking horse he’s riding is a Benavidez cutting horse named Rita.”
He’s not a cutting horse.
I could have slapped him with a hay hook right then and there. I looked over at Luz, and then I heard Gabriel yell out, “That’s his own horse he’s on and his name is Reno and he’s a thoroughbred!”
I clenched a fist at Gabe and shook it.
“Thanks, Gabey.”
And I looked at him and he mouthed, silently, but real big so I could read his lips, “He’s an idiot.”
Tommy came up behind them and I heard him yell out, “Go get ‘em, young Troy and Rita!”
And then I put my head down because that made me laugh hard.
After the parade, we all gathered at the starting line for the biathlon. Since I was number seven, I had half an hour after the start for me to check Reno’s saddle and make sure we were both ready for the race. Any longer than that would have worn me down, so I was happy with my place. Number four was about to be sent, with five on deck. I’d have to move over to my spot soon.
Tommy was squatting down, checking Reno’s feet.
“He looks real good. Where’s your dad?”
“He’s gonna be at the number two range. Standing. That’s the hardest one, I think.”
“Did you see the rifles?”
“Number five,” an announcer called, meaning five was about to be sent, with six on deck.
“They’re real good. Marlin biathlon rifles. They cost a lot. Really dialed in.”
“You get a thousand bucks if you win.”
I put a tennis shoe in Reno’s stirrup and lifted myself up onto him. I arranged the reins back and straightened my bandana. Then I leaned over and whispered in Reno’s ear, saying, “Do good, boy.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Number six.”
“Tommy?” I started to walk Reno over to the on-deck area. Tommy grabbed my knee hard. I was going to tell him that I’d kick him if he ever called my horse “Rita” again; ‘cause I know how he’s got that coyote in him. “Thanks for the bandana.”
“You already said that.” And then he spit and held up his fist, and I punched it hard so I knew it hurt him, because it made me wince, too. And then he slapped Reno on the butt and said, “Stotts, remember… turn invisible and pass them all.”
The first mile of the course was steep uphill. I had an advantage there because of Reno’s strength and my size. So when I came into the first set of targets, I felt calmer and more confident than I had since I woke up.
The first station involved shooting from horse back, which can be a tricky thing if you are on the wrong animal for it. A lot of the riders put plugs in their horses’ ears. But Reno knew how to hold steady, so I could prop an elbow on one knee to steady the sights. Every station was judged, too. Judges kept track of riders and their scores, and they kept stopwatches so they could give credit time if there were ever two riders showing up at the same set of targets. The targets were small iron knockdown circles, about the size of a half-dollar, set off no closer than fifty feet at any station. Each rider had five shots at five targets, and then had to reload the rifle for the next rider before leaving.
I took a long time making my shots at the first station because I was afraid of missing. I took them all down and I heard the judge say “I’ll be damned!” when I did. He probably had money on someone who’d already come through, I thought. I put the five shots in the rifle’s clip and handed it down to the judge and said “Thank you” before riding off on the second mile leg.
On that second leg, I passed rider number six, a woman from Holmes who looked to be about thirty-five; I’m really not good at guessing ages. I could tell she was pretty mad as Reno and I brushed past her.
It was getting hot, and I was sweating in the saddle. Reno was sweating, too, breathing hard, but loving the speed of the racing toward the next station. I untied the bandana and wiped my eyes and hands, then I tied it on to the saddle horn as we came into sight of the second station, where my dad was judging. And there he was, stopwatch hanging from a cord around his neck, a blue Dodgers baseball cap on his head, looking as out of place there as if he had been wearing a shirt and tie.
“Did you pass six?”
“Way back there,” I said. “I got ‘em all at one.”
I got down from Reno, feeling cooler from the air hitting the sweat on my jeans. My dad handed me the rifle and said, “All right, number seven. Five targets from a standing position. Only one rider’s got ‘em all so far, son.”
Standing was hard because after riding two miles, you tend to be shaky and, with no rest for your elbow, shooters have a tendency to pull their shots. I tried to relax my shoulders.
“Dad, you remember what we talked about this morning?” I said. “I plan on holding you to that promise, you know. I’m going to get you on that horse.”
He had a kind of disappointed look on his face, but he smiled a little. Tried to, anyway.
“You don’t have to worry about that, son. I’m proud you asked me. But you better make that horse you got extra nice. Now you better start shooting before six comes in.”
“I think the first snow’ll come before six gets here.”
And then I took all five at station two, as well. I reloaded and gave the gun back to my father.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Tom Buller told me to say he owes you five bucks if you get all five,” my dad said.
“He could afford it if I get ‘em all at the next one.”
I smiled, pulled my hat down straight, and Reno and I were off on the third leg.
The third leg was mostly downhill
and through the trees, in part following the shore of that river that nearly killed me on my sixteenth birthday. Reno and I took it fast and I could hear the five shots of the rider in front of me as we neared the last set of targets. Number five was barely out of there when we rode up.
Clayton Rutledge was judging the third station.
I knew he’d be there, but I kind of felt my guts shrink when I saw him standing with his clipboard, his eyes staring at me like they had that night he stopped me on my way home.
“Well, well, it’s the Stotts boy,” he said. “You already been through the first two? How many’d you get?”
I got down from Reno. Clayton made no move to hand me the rifle.
“I got ‘em all.”
“That’s pretty lucky shooting for a boy your size, I’d say.” Then he held up the rifle and turned it over in his hands. The barrel pointed right at my belly as he checked it. “Let’s just see if that number five got it reloaded.”
He carefully removed the magazine from the rifle and squinted as he counted the bullets it held. I knew what he was doing, and I began to get a little mad but I wasn’t going to say anything to him this time.
“I hope you worked out your head, boy. Chase and me don’t hold no hard feelings about that mistake you made.”
I exhaled a big breath and held out my hand to get that gun. “These five are lying flat, right?”
“Five targets from a prone position. That means laying on your stomach, boy.”
He handed me the gun and I flattened out on the ground.
“The wind’s coming up,” he said. “You might need to adjust for that. ‘Cause that first one on the left is a bit cockeyed. I seen two riders in a row miss that same one today, but I thought it was the wind. Maybe when I reset ‘em I’ll turn it this way a bit more.”
And he just kept talking like that as I tried to take aim.
I missed my first shot. I put my face down in my hand.
“You missed!” he said. “Let’s see … number seven. One penalty. You are number seven, right, boy?”
“Sheriff Rutledge, could you please stop talking?” My voice was shaking as I said it. He didn’t say anything, but I could hear his footsteps as he walked up alongside my legs and then stood right beside my left hip, casting his large shadow over me.