by Vicki Tharp
The waitress came by and left with their food and drink orders. A stray wah, wah, wah, drifted to them over the laughter and the shouts and the jukebox.
Silas glanced over his shoulder, his muscles tight as the idiot did his version of a native dance between the tables.
Toby socked Silas in the arm. “Stop. We’re here to celebrate Josephine, not mop the floor with a couple of assholes.”
The waitress returned with a pitcher of beer and five frozen mugs. Toby poured, and when everyone had a glass, they clacked them together.
“To Josephine,” Silas said.
“To Josephine,” the rest of them echoed.
“Y’all are going to curse me.” Josephine had only been half kidding.
Cora swallowed and wiped the foam from her upper lip. “All you have to do is finish near the top tomorrow night and next week and Cheyenne is yours for the taking.”
“There’s still a lot that can go wrong. Comet could come up lame, or we could crash into the third can or—”
“Hush.” Silas put his arm around her shoulder and kissed the side of her head. “Nothing is going to go wrong.”
He took a sip of his beer and said to the rest of the group, “Josephine is convinced the circuit is plagued with bad luck or juju or whatever you want to call it. I keep trying to convince her that—”
Josh shook a finger at Josephine as if to say she might have a point. “A bulldogger friend of mine dislocated his shoulder a week back when a steer flipped him.”
“Johnny Freeman’s transmission blew out last month, and he was stuck on the side of the road all night long,” Toby added.
Cora swallowed a mouthful of beer. “And that redhead on the flag team caught her boyfriend cheating—”
“That asshole always cheats,” Silas said. “That’s not bad juju, that’s bad judgment.”
Everyone nodded their heads in agreement. “Maybe.” Cora topped off Josh’s beer. “But that roper guy, Jester was it? He threw his back out. Sharp pains, he said, like someone was jabbing pins in a voodoo doll and—”
“Stop. All of you.” Silas clacked the bottom of his mug on the table. “The circuit isn’t cursed. There’s no bad juju, and no one is running around with a pocket full of pins and a voodoo doll.”
The waitress brought their food, and they all dug into their burgers and fries.
“Besides,” Silas said around a bite of beef, “Toby made eight tonight on Tupelo. Only one other person has stayed on that bull since the spring.”
Josh clacked his mug against Toby’s. “And here I thought you were skipping this rodeo.”
“Got tossed in the first go around in Rock Springs. But I hadn’t cancelled this one, so I busted my ass and got here just in time to ride.”
Starved, Josephine scooped up some ketchup with her french fries tuning out some of the conversation. Despite what Silas had said about the circuit not being cursed, she couldn’t shake that weight in the bottom of her belly like someone had tossed in an old rusty horseshoe and it was just sitting there festering.
“…and you’ll never guess which bull I drew for tomorrow night.” Toby had his burger to his mouth, and he tore off a hunk, tucking the bite into his cheek. “Thrasher.”
That horseshoe flopped in Josephine’s belly. Josh laughed. Silas stilled. Cora said, “Who’s Thrasher?”
Silas’s hand tightened on Josephine’s thigh. He leaned toward Toby and said, “You don’t have to ride him.”
The crowd had thinned out, and no one had bothered dumping any more quarters in the jukebox, so Josephine didn’t have any problem hearing Silas’s soft-spoken words.
“Come on, buddy.” Toby washed his burger down with some beer. “I thought you didn’t believe in all that bad juju bullshit.”
“I don’t. It’s just—”
“Hello.” Cora waved her arms around until she had everyone’s attention. She wasn’t a woman who liked to be ignored. “Who is this Thrasher?”
“A bad bull.” Josephine looked at Silas for confirmation. “What’s the score now? Thrasher three hundred. Bull riders zero?”
“Awh, he ain’t that bad.” Toby threw in a laugh, but it kinda fell flat.
“Nobody’s ever gone the eight seconds on him,” Josephine said. “That rodeo announcer said some consider him unrideable.”
Silas glanced at her, a smile on his face somewhere between surprise and pride. What had he expected? When you took a bull rider to your bed, you tended to take an interest in the animals who wanted to stomp him into the ground.
“Darling,” Toby said, “they’re all unrideable until someone does.”
Josephine peeled Silas’s hand off her thigh and linked her fingers with his before she lost all circulation to the lower part of her leg.
Silas pushed a pickle around his plate. “You can pull. You don’t have to ride him.”
“If I want to get to Cheyenne I do.”
“Yeah, but—”
Toby clapped a hand on Silas’s back. His eyes bright and his used-car-salesman smile wide as if that would help convince Silas everything was good. “Relax, buddy. I’ve got a good feeling about tomorrow.”
8
On his way to the chutes, Silas passed Rowdy Boyd heading the other way, all decked out in his gaudy rodeo clown garb, his smile painted on thick and his red nose stuck in place.
He shouldered past Silas without glancing up, his steps quick with a don’t-screw-with-me-vibe radiating outward like a nuclear cloud.
Silas reversed and came up behind the clown. “Hey, Boyd.”
Rowdy stopped, but he didn’t turn around.
“You okay?”
“I-I’m f-fine.”
Silas put his hand on Rowdy’s shoulder. “Look, if Monte’s been riding your ass—”
“M-Monte’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
Rowdy turned around. Slow. One step then another and another until they faced each other. He kicked at an old dried-up cow patty with the tip of his shoes, then met Silas’s gaze. “It’s g-good to see you out of the h-h-hospital and doing well. I-I hate to see you guys get h-hurt.”
If Rowdy didn’t want to talk about what was bothering him, Silas had to respect that. “Thanks, man. We appreciate what you do for us. Except Monte, but he’s an asshole, so don’t worry about him.”
“Yeah. I h-hear ya. Karma’s a b-bitch, right?” Rowdy had a smile on his face and this time it wasn’t just the makeup kind.
Rowdy clapped Silas on the shoulder. “S-see you around.”
The announcer came on the PA and Silas hurried over to where Thrasher had been loaded into the number one chute. He caught up with Toby before his friend could climb up the rails.
Toby grinned, all white teeth and adrenaline-fueled anticipation. “Hey buddy, decided to watch me from the cheap seats?”
“It’s not too late to back out.”
“You’re kidding me, right? Your brains are scrambled if you think I’m going to—”
“It’s not worth the risk, Tobe.”
“You know, you suck at this best friend thing. You’re the one who’s supposed to have my back. You’re the one who’s supposed to be cheering me on.”
“Bail. You’ve got a good draw next week and—”
“Fuck that. Unlike you, I have to ride this weekend. I’ve done the math. I can’t get to Cheyenne without at least finishing in the money this weekend and next.”
“There’s always next year.”
“Navarro,” Terry Lewis called out to Toby from the chutes. “Kiss your boyfriend goodbye and get your ass over here.”
Thrasher rammed his head at the end of the chute and kicked at the rails behind him. The bull kicked again, and the chute clanked and shuttered.
“I don’t want to wait. If we both finish high in the money in Cheyenne, there won’t have to be a next year. Have a little faith.”
“Navarro!”
“Hold your horses,” Toby hollered back. Toby turne
d his attention back to Silas. His eyes sharp, the bravado putting an extra spark in his eyes. “Bet on me, buddy. I’m liking my chances.”
“Yeah.” Silas painted on a smile. They both pretended it was real. “Break a leg.”
Toby barked out a laugh and climbed up the rails and straddled the chute. Thrasher reared, his front hooves beating against the rails. He caught a fetlock over the top. The bull pissed and shit and yanked before getting his leg free and slamming down on all fours. Thrasher’s lungs bellowed, his foot pawed, his tail swished.
Toby stood on top of the rails and waved his hat to the crowd. The stands erupted. Cheers and foot stomping drowned out the announcer. They started chanting To-by, To-by, To-by. Each syllable thumping against Silas’s eardrums in a deafening two-part rhythm.
Silas scrambled on top of one of the empty chutes as Toby adjusted his bullrope. The chants died back, and the crowd fell quiet, the anticipation so thick in the air that Silas couldn’t quite catch his breath. He felt a hand low on his back, and he looked down to see Josephine behind him.
He gave her a hand up the rails and she sat on top, hooking the heels of her boots on the rail below her. She grabbed his hand.
“Shouldn’t you be getting Comet cooled down?” He had to talk louder than normal, but he didn’t have to shout.
“One of the stable guys owes me a favor.” She bobbed her chin in Toby’s direction. “Is he good enough?”
“One of the best.”
“It’ll be all right then.” By the way she squeezed his hand, Silas wasn’t convinced she believed her own words.
He kissed the back of her hand and held it to his chest. “Sure, it will.”
Silas locked his gaze on the number one chute. Toby had wrapped his hand with the tail of his rope, slid up Thrasher’s back, and straddled the rope. He snugged his hat down to his ears and gave the gateman a quick nod.
The chute opened, and Thrasher spun out of the gate. Dirt clods flew, pelting Silas and Josephine. She swiped a hand across her forehead leaving a red smear.
In the arena, Toby and Thrasher battled. Toby dug in his spurs as Thrasher bucked and spun and tossed Toby around like a wet towel caught on the spin cycle.
Four more seconds.
Thrasher twisted then stuck his head between his knees and kicked his heels into the air, catching Toby off balance.
Three seconds.
Toby re-centered, landing with a ground shaking thud that made Silas’s kidneys cry out in sympathy. Toby would be lucky not to be pissing blood for the next week.
Two seconds.
“Go, Toby!” Josephine stood on one of the rails, her hands on Silas’s shoulders for balance, her voice hoarse as she cheered on his friend. Then her nails dug into his shoulder like talons as Toby’s left leg came off the bull’s side and swung back behind his center of gravity.
“No, no, no, no,” Silas yelled. He could see it coming, knew what was going to happen before it even happened. He was reaching for the top rail to swing his legs over when Toby’s momentum threw him forward as Thrasher’s head slammed up, catching Toby in the forehead.
Toby’s body went limp.
His right hand caught in the rigging.
The bullfighters ran in as the buzzer sounded. Toby’s dead weight flopping around on Thrashers back. Rowdy bounced in front of the bull, trying to distract him as one of the other clowns ran in to grab the bullrope to free Toby. The crowd went silent, and Sila’s ears rang in the aftermath. The smell of shit, piss, sausages, and popcorn filled his nostrils.
Thrasher swung his massive head at Rowdy, hooking Toby beneath the arm with one of his horns, slinging Toby’s body clear.
Silas didn’t wait for the bull to be corralled. He jumped down into the arena and sprinted to his friend, stumbling in the thick dirt. He scrambled back to his feet.
“Watch out!” One of the clowns yelled as he ran by, but Silas wasn’t worried about the bull. He was worried about his friend.
Silas slid to his knees by Toby’s head. There was a gash on Toby’s forehead and blood trickled down into his hair. He held Toby’s head steady. They must have run the bull out of the arena because the paramedics ran in with their gear and a backboard.
One of the paramedics cut the front of Toby’s shirt open. Was Toby even breathing? From beneath Toby’s left arm, a wound bubbled with blood and air.
Toby groaned, his hand coming to his face, but with his hand still caught in the bullrope, he only managed to slap himself with it.
“Hold still, Tobe. I’m here, man. Let them check you out.”
Silas locked Toby’s head between his knees and freed his friend’s hand from the rigging. Something niggled in the back of Silas’s head. More of a polite tap on the shoulder than a slap in the face. But he couldn’t think about that now.
His thoughts, his focus, was on Toby.
Someone tugged on Silas’s arm. “You gotta let him go. Silas…Silas.”
* * *
“Silas? Are you back here? Silas?” Josephine aimed her flashlight under the bleachers near the chutes, where many of the bull riders had staged their gear before their rides. She’d already checked Toby’s trailer for Silas, but it had a quiet, almost abandoned feeling to it.
Toby was alive and out of surgery, but with him being on a ventilator, the doctors didn’t have any plans to try and wake him for a day or so at the earliest. The doctors had ordered Silas back to the rodeo grounds to get some rest. But Silas had walked off as soon as they’d pulled back into camp. That had been hours ago.
Now the sun would be up soon. Where was he? Had he caught a ride back to the hospital and didn’t tell her? Josephine couldn’t shake the sickeningly sweet taste that kept climbing up the back of her throat, like she needed to vomit, but her stomach was too empty, too twisted, to accomplish anything more than make spit pool in her mouth.
Off to her left she heard a noise like boots scuffing on gravel and swung the beam of her flashlight around. “There you are.”
She picked her way through the maze of crisscrossed supports and eased down beside him, resting her back against the pillar. “You want to talk about it?”
“No.” One word. Steady. Unequivocal. He didn’t move. His head rested against the pillar, his hat over his eyes, his legs crossed at the ankles, a bullrope in his hands.
“Congrats on your ride.” His hands rubbed on a section of the rope just past a sticky section of rosin.
She didn’t want to talk about her ride. But at this point she’d talk about anything, even her dad, if it kept Silas talking.
“We did well enough to qualify for the finals this weekend.” With a hundredth of a second to spare.
“You should get some sleep. Comet deserves to have a well-rested rider for the finals tomorrow.”
Off to the east, past the locked-up concession stands and the empty public parking lot and the battered chain link, the inky black night had turned a shade lighter. “Make that today.”
Silas tipped up his hat far enough that he could see the pinks blossoming on the horizon. He looked at her then, the pain in his eyes was a raw, palpable beast he was either too tired, or too emotionally battered to muzzle and leash. “All the more reason you should get some sack time.”
“Come with me.”
He gave the slightest shake of his head, so she settled against him. He put his arm around her and laid her head against his chest. She silently vowed to stay awake with him even as her eyes started to cross. The deep-seated fatigue from the stress of the past week or so was taking its toll and her runs were suffering.
But as important as it was to her to make it to Cheyenne, knowing that she had to go home after, no matter how well she did, stole some of her drive. Now with Toby in the hospital…
Snakebit, bad juju, bad luck, cards stacked against them, whatever the heck was going on this circuit, Josephine wanted it to stop.
Silas stiffened beside her and he sucked in a holy-shit type breath.
Her ey
es flew open and she struggled to sit up. “What is it?”
He held up the end of Toby’s bullrope, the end jagged and frayed.
“I don’t understand.”
“Someone cut this rope.”
* * *
“What do you mean someone cut the rope?” Josephine grabbed the end of the rope and held it up to the rising sun. “It looks like it split. The strands are frayed and—”
“Look close. Right there.” Silas pointed to the flat side of the rope, then spun it a hundred and eighty degrees in her hand. “And here. Like someone ran a knife along both sides.”
“But Toby was knocked out by the bull. The bullfighters got him free.”
Silas replayed Toby’s ride in his head, his stomach taking a nose dive as the bull’s hard head hammered Toby’s. None of that had anything to do with a split rope. Once Toby had been knocked out, one of the clowns had made a grab for the rope around Toby’s lifeless hand, but had come up short when Thrasher spun. That’s when Toby had been thrown clear.
That mental tap on his shoulder he’d felt when he’d released Toby’s hand from the rigging reached up and slapped him in the face. “You were right.”
“I was? About what?”
“About the bad juju. Well, maybe not about the bad juju, but about something not being right. I think someone’s sabotaging the bull rides.” He stumbled to his feet, his stiff muscles bitching and complaining and generally giving him shit, but he ignored all that. “Come on.”
She took the hand he offered, and he helped her up. “Where we going?”
“To check my rope from last weekend.” Nervous energy drove him back toward his rig at a ground eating pace.
Josephine jogged beside him to keep up. “Why would someone want to sabotage the bull rides? Who would benefit?”
“I don’t know. Someone who has something to gain by keeping the top riders out of the running in Cheyenne. Someone who may not have a shot at a buckle otherwise. Or someone with a lot of money on the wrong guy.”
At his truck, Silas threw open the back door of his camper and tossed his rigging bag on the ground. He hadn’t even looked in it since his concussion. He opened it wide and dumped the contents onto the gravel parking lot. Tossing aside a bunch of miscellaneous trash and other crap that had accumulated over a season on the circuit, he carefully inspected his backup bullrope and found nothing wrong.