Fire Pony

by Rodman Philbrick

  Rick and Mr. Jessup are real busy with Pit Stop, putting that champion roping horse through his paces, and even Joe has to admit the two of them know what they’re doing. “I’ll give him this — the man can handle a horse and rope,” he says, watching from the barn one fine morning, and coming from Joe that’s like saying he’s practically the best in the world.

  I tell Joe about how Mr. Jessup had a wife and son who died, but he already knowed it, and he don’t care to speculate. And when I tell him how Mr. Jessup sometimes goes up to that old picnic spot on the bluff, and sits there alone on his horse, he says he don’t want to hear it. Like the whole idea makes him nervous, which I can’t understand. If it don’t make Mr. Jessup nervous, why should it bother Joe Dilly? It’s like he don’t want to ever hear about anybody who died because it might be him someday.

  Meanwhile Lady is getting stronger and pretty soon she’s her old frisky self and I start riding her real easy around the ring. You can tell she wants to go, though. There’s a lot of fast inside her wanting to get out, and I have to hold her back and say, “Easy there, girl. You’re still mending, remember?”

  I ain’t thought much about the idea of racing her, one way or the other, until one evening Mr. Jessup comes into the stall when I’m running a currycomb over Lady, and he strokes his hand over where the cougar raked her and says, “That scar looks like a pink lightning bolt.”

  I look at the scar and he’s right, it does look like a pink lightning bolt.

  “How’s she feeling?” he asks me.

  “All the way back,” I say. “Same as before.”

  “I thought as much,” he says. “The thing of it is, we’re shipping out for the state fairgrounds tomorrow. They got a rodeo and a horse race and there’s room in the trailer for a pony just about this size.”

  He kind of catches me by surprise, but it don’t take long before I like the idea.

  “Can Joe come, too?” I ask.

  Mr. Jessup don’t even have to think about that. Right off he says, “Sure. I think he should be there.”

  But when I go running into the bunkhouse and tell Joe the news, he gets this frozen look on his face. “You go ahead,” he says. “I’m busy.”

  “There’s nothing can’t wait,” I say. “Is there?”

  “You go on,” he says. “I better not show my face around no rodeo. You never know who might be there.”

  Then he turns away and fiddles with stuff so he don’t have to look at me.

  Mr. Jessup says he ain’t got no use for motels or RV trailers if he can help it, so we set up this tent, right there on the fairgrounds. It’s a real nice tent, big enough to walk around inside, and better than a dingy little motel room, that’s for sure.

  “I never sleep so good as I do in a proper tent,” Mr. Jessup says. He’s standing there with his hands on his hips, looking everything over, making sure it’s all trim and proper. “Nighttime, the air is fresh and your mind is clear. Then, come the first ray of sun you’re up and raring to go. Why, sometimes I think I should tear down the ranch house and put up a tent.”

  “Don’t pay no attention to him,” Rick says, winking at me. “The man would just as soon sleep on the ground as in a bed, that’s how crazy he is.”

  Actually, there’s real nice sleeping cots inside the tent, and even a small table and chairs. It’s plenty civilized, except we got kerosene lanterns and no electricity. Also, if you camp out right there on the fairgrounds you get to stay near the horses. See, there’s no room in the paddock, not with hundreds of animals brought from all over, so Pit Stop and Lady Luck have to stay in the horse trailer at night, and you can tell they don’t much like it.

  I ask Mr. Jessup, can Lady stay in the tent with us, but he don’t take me serious. “Now, you want to sleep in the horse trailer, you can,” he says. Then he goes to Rick, “They ever open this boy up, they’re going to find he’s made of hay and oats and saddle trees.”

  The sun’s starting to go down by the time we get off the road and set up our stuff, and when Rick gets his barbecue fire going I’m so hungry I can feel it in my knees. Rick, he knows a thing or two about food, and he’s got the coolers loaded up with ribs and ’taters and fresh corn, and some of them new peas you can eat raw, they taste so sweet.

  You might think the smell of all those nervous animals would cut your appetite some, but it don’t. I eat so many of them barbecue ribs Rick says I must be growing a couple of extra ribs myself.

  “The boy has the appetite of a sumo wrestler,” he says. “I don’t know where it all goes.”

  “Hollow leg,” says Mr. Jessup.

  “Maybe he’s getting set to grow some,” Rick says, looking me over.

  Mr. Jessup shrugs and kind of squints at me. “Just so you don’t grow much before the first race,” he says. “Lady couldn’t handle a rider much bigger than you, not if she’s running for speed.”

  “Then I hope I never grow,” I say.

  The way they explain it, the race part is kind of separate from the rodeo, even though a lot of rodeo people are in on it. Mr. Jessup says it’s the most disorganized race in six states, which is why everybody has such a good time.

  “Any horse with four legs can enter,” he says.

  “Is there a prize?” I ask.

  “There is, but you won’t be winning much,” he says. “Only a thousand dollars.”

  Only a thousand dollars! Well, I guess if you own the Bar None, a thousand dollars ain’t much, but that’s more money than me and Joe ever had altogether at one time. I figure, worse comes to worse and we have to hit the road again, a thousand dollars might buy a horse trailer for Lady, so she can come with us.

  But Mr. Jessup, he don’t seem to care if we win or not.

  “You get your pony from the starting line to the finish without standing her on her head, you’ll be a winner in my book,” Mr. Jessup says.

  “Nobody is going to beat Lady,” I say.

  “Too bad the boy don’t have no confidence,” Rick says.

  Mr. Jessup uses a napkin to make sure there’s no barbecue sauce on his face — he’s a real careful eater — and he gives me some more of that squint of his. “She’s never raced against another horse,” he goes. “Let alone in front of a crowd of wild cowboys whooping it up. Maybe she won’t want to go.”

  “She’ll go,” I say. “Soon’s I yell ‘Geronimo.’”

  I don’t know why, but that makes Rick laugh. He’s laughing so hard he chokes on his sparerib and we got to beat him on the back with our hats.

  I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open, but when I get in that cot, wouldn’t you know, I keep thinking about Joe, back there on the Bar None, all on his lonesome.

  I wish he was here in the tent, and I wish it so hard it won’t let me sleep.

  You want to sleep late, don’t camp out at no rodeos, because there’s folks there who wake up the roosters.

  I know because all of a sudden Rick is dragging me out of the cot in the middle of the night and going, “Come on, lazybones, time’s a-wasting. Another hour and you’ll miss the sunrise.”

  I go, “I seen it before,” and try to put my head under the pillow, only he won’t let me.

  “You’ve got to take your pony to the beauty salon,” he says. “Give her a new hairdo.”

  That don’t make no sense at any time of day, but you can’t ignore Rick when he’s got a bee in his bonnet, so I get myself dressed and somehow get my boots on the right feet, and next thing you know he’s shoving a mug of coffee in my hands and he goes, “I put three sugars in it, because you’ll need the energy. Now you get over there and wake up your pony. Give her some sugar, too, if she wants it. I guess she don’t drink coffee, does she?”

  “Not so far,” I say.

  “Give her time,” he says, and then he nose-laughs into his coffee mug like he does.

  Lady is kind of fussy backing out of the trailer, and I got to calm her down some by sweet-talking her, but probably that’s all the noise and
commotion going on. Why, the sun ain’t up yet and the whole place is going crazy! There’s folks exercising their horses, and rat-eyed rodeo riders wandering around looking sick to their stomachs, and this Brahma bull bellowing from the stockade like he wants to stomp those cowboys into the ground, and RV generators that sound like jet-fired vacuum cleaners, and a bunch of dogs barking, and mosquitoes whining, and babies crying, and every other noise you can think of, all mixed together before you’ve had breakfast.

  It turns out Rick ain’t kidding about the beauty parlor for horses. They got this stall set up where you bring your horse and they take care of the brushing and grooming and shampooing, and trim the mane and tail, and do most everything, Rick says, except dab it with French perfume.

  They get done with Lady and she looks brand-new pretty, and the funny part is, she knows it. She flicks her tail so high and mighty I go, “Yes, your highness. Is it okay if we go back to the trailer — excuse me, your castle?” She snorts and stamps her foot and makes up for it by nuzzling me with her nose as if she wants to say: See, it’s really me.

  They can’t do nothing about covering up her scar, though. A scar like that is forever, Mr. Jessup says, only he calls it a badge of honor.

  “It proves she has heart,” he says. “A lot of other ponies would have just up and died, but I guess you know that.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I figured, too.”

  I don’t see Mr. Jessup around while Rick is busy getting breakfast ready. He’s taken Pit Stop out to the roping ring, letting him get used to the place. Only Rick says it’s as much Mr. Jessup getting used to it as the horse.

  “That man looks like he don’t have a nerve in his body, but he does. He must, right? He didn’t, he wouldn’t be human.”

  “I guess,” I say.

  That’s when Mr. Jessup sneaks up on us. “What are you all guessing at?” he asks.

  “Oh, nothin’,” says Rick. “You ready for sausage and scrambled eggs?”

  Mr. Jessup says he don’t have much of an appetite, and when he hears that, Rick looks at me and winks. I guess there must be something wrong with me, because race or no race, I’m so hungry I end up eating Mr. Jessup’s share, which he don’t mind at all.

  “I’m feeling poorly,” he says to Rick.

  Rick says, “You always feel poorly before an event, Nick. You’ll be okay once you get the horse under you and the rope in your hands.”

  “I suppose,” says Mr. Jessup, like he don’t believe it for a minute.

  They got enough stuff going on at this rodeo to fill up three whole days, but wouldn’t you know, the calf-roping event is the very first morning, which means we can’t mess around, we got to get Pit Stop ready to go.

  “Tell you what,” Rick says to Mr. Jessup. “You go on into town and get a haircut.”

  “I don’t need a haircut,” says Mr. Jessup.

  “I know that,” Rick says. “But do it anyway. Just so you don’t think about roping for a few minutes. When you get back, all you got to do is climb on your horse and go.”

  When Mr. Jessup is gone, Rick makes a show of mopping his brow and goes, “Whew! Okay, you want to go watch the show, go ahead.”

  “But I thought we had a lot of work to do,” I say. “Getting his horse ready.”

  “The horse is ready. I just wanted to keep Nick moving. He stands around, he’ll think himself into doing something wrong. Some ways there ain’t much difference between a man and a horse.”

  Well, what happens is this. I’m right there hanging on the rail when the show starts. First thing they have this parade. All these duded-up folks come riding through the ring on horseback. They got pretty girls in sparkly costumes holding these big flags that whip in the wind, and a lot of ornery-looking cowboys with their chests all puffed out like they’re going to get a medal, and they got a sheriff with a big white Stetson hat, and a rock ’n’ roll singer who can’t remember all the words to the National Anthem, but what I notice most is the clowns.

  I seen rodeo clowns on TV, of course, but it looks different when you’re close up and in person. What they got to do is look funny, act stupid, and save people’s lives — all at the same time. The way it happens, say this bronco comes busting out of the chute, and before you can blink your eyes the rider comes flying off and he’s down in the dirt with the horse trying to stomp him into a thousand pieces. Well, that clown in the baggy pants, he’s got to get the horse away from the rider it wants to kill. And he’s got about two seconds to do it or there’ll be blood in the dirt. It’s like magic, how they keep on going and how they trick them kill-crazy animals.

  If you think the broncos are scary, though, you should see the bulls! And these ain’t just normal bulls, which are bad enough, these are the meanest Brahma bulls they can find. Them bulls are made of pure steam. If a bull don’t want to turn a rider into hamburger, it don’t get into the rodeo. And all you get to hold on to is a little bitty piece of rope, with one hand. No saddle, no stirrups or nothing. Just you and a thousand pounds of muscle and horn.

  Rick says bull riders are as crazy as the bulls. Why else would a man get up on an animal that hates him, and then try to make the thing mad enough to turn itself upside down and inside out before it tries to kill you?

  This one bull, he comes flying out of the chute, trying to climb straight up into the air, and the rider, he’s getting shook so bad his brains turn to jelly and he forgets how to let go of the rope. They got to rescue him by horseback, and then the bull really gets mad and charges this padded barrel where the clown is hiding, and butts that barrel so hard it smacks up against the side of the ring and the poor clown crawls out rubbing his head.

  Rick says people working in the rodeo call ’em bullfighters, not clowns, which makes sense.

  I seen one jump over the horns and get his pants torn up, right where it hurts! This stuff ain’t fake like the movies or wrestling, it really happens. Most of them riders and bullfighters ain’t got a bone they haven’t busted, and they got this funny look in their eyes, like they been to the moon or something.

  The next thing happens is what they call the bull-dogging event. There ain’t any Brahma bulls, though, they’re regular steers. What happens is the dogger, he chases the steer, jumps down from his horse while it’s still running hell-bent for leather. Then he grabs the steer by the horns and wrestles it to the ground. They time him with a stopwatch and the fastest man wins. I heard he might win as much as five hundred dollars — I don’t know what they give the steer, but he seems to get the worst of it.

  Anyhow, I’m having so much fun I clean forget about Mr. Jessup and his roping horse. Then I see him across the ring, all duded up in a black Stetson hat and a fancy shirt, and he’s moping along beside Pit Stop like he forgot to do his homework or something. You’d think he’s on his way to the dentist to get all his teeth pulled, that’s how long his face is.

  I run under the stands and catch up to him just as he and Rick and the horse get to the gate behind the roping chute.

  “I can see you’re all tense and nervous in anticipation of your race,” Rick says to me.

  “What?” I say. “Oh, that race.”

  “Let that be a lesson,” Rick says to Mr. Jessup. “The wisdom of the innocent.”

  “Shut up,” Mr. Jessup says, real quiet.

  I never heard him say that before, so I know he’s nervous. Rick keeps making jokes, but Mr. Jessup, he don’t crack a smile. He don’t look at nobody, just at his hands, like he’s never seen ’em before.

  I can’t see what’s going on past the roping chute, but the crowd is cheering, so the other ropers must be doing okay. Rick is fussing around with Pit Stop, checking to see the saddle cinches are tight, and the stirrups are right, and then he hands the lariat rope to Mr. Jessup and says, “You’re up.”

  Mr. Jessup, he gets up on his horse like he figures he’ll be shot any second now. Then Rick fixes this shorter piece of rope in his belt and slaps him on the back. “Go get ’em,” he
says. “Don’t think about it, just do it.”

  The whole idea about roping is, you got to keep as close as you can to the calf. There’s this open stall for the roping horse and right next to it is this gate for the calf, and the horse gets up right next to where this calf is waiting, bawling and nervous and wanting to run. Then when the rider is ready to go, he nods to the gate man and they spring loose that calf and a good roping horse is right on top of it as it comes out of the chute.

  Pit Stop, he sticks so close to the calf you’d think he was more cow than horse. Before you know it, Mr. Jessup has dropped a loop over the calf’s head and then Pit Stop, he puts on the brakes so hard you can almost hear the screech. The rope tightens up and the calf goes down and Mr. Jessup comes flying out of the saddle with the other rope in his teeth and he’s down in the dirt whipping that rope around the calf’s legs so fast his hands are blurred. A machine couldn’t have done it quicker.

  Why, the whole thing is over so fast I ain’t had time to take a breath or swallow, and Rick is leaning beside me at the gate, chuckling the way he does and nodding his head.

  Mr. Jessup comes back out of the ring dusting his chaps with his hat and that old regular smile is back on his face. “You see that horse work that calf?” he says.

  Rick says, “I guess you didn’t do nothing, huh? Just along for the ride?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” he says.

  Then they’re both looking at me, kind of staring.

  “What?” I say. “What?”

  “Better get the saddle on Lady Luck,” Mr. Jessup says. “You’re next.”

  What happened was, Mr. Jessup lost the roping contest to this other guy by one-tenth of a second. It’ll take you longer than that to blink your eyes, so that’s how close he come. The thing is, he seems real happy even though he didn’t win.

  “We’ll get ’em next time,” is all he’ll say about it.

  He and Rick walk with me and Lady to where they’re having the race. This is outside the rodeo part, on a stretch of dirt track with these rickety-looking grandstands on either side. They got this old starting gate they tow around on a tractor. The thing about a quarter-mile racetrack, it just goes flat out and straight — there’s no curve to it.