Especially after youd saved us from the fate of death, Choo Choo chimed in. We told him youd render him limb from limb.
Eat him alive, said Zia.
Well . . . something like that, I said. Did April and Delise come out with you?
Yes — there they are now. Zia pointed past me.
The three of them were walking toward the wagon, Ed Finch in the middle, with April on one arm and Delise on the other. When Finch saw me he stopped suddenly, his expression becoming pained, as if he’d eaten something which had just started violently disagreeing with him. But then, with surprising suddenness, his expression changed to a large, friendly smile and he advanced toward me, sticking out his hand.
Scott, there you are, he said, grabbing my hand and pumping it as if delighted to see me. I tried to find you at your suite, but there wasn’t any answer. Wanted to thank you for — well, what you did this morning.
It seemed a bit phony, and I suppose if it hadn’t been for the euphoria in which I seemed to be dwelling now, and perhaps the slight flutter of madness in the air, I would have handled all that followed differently.
But I said, Whats this I hear about The WILD West? You were thinking of finishing it up today, hey?
Oh, He’ll no, Scott, he said, openly and honestly. I’ll admit I was thinking about it. There’s only the one scene left, and we could probably get it done without any trouble. But there’s still a chance, and — well, it was a crazy idea. I must have been off my rocker.
You must have been.
I’ll lose my shirt, of course, he said, the happy expression fading momentarily. But then he brightened. Which is little enough. You risked a lot more than your shirt this morning, Scott.
Yeah, I risked my pants. When do you plan to finish shooting?
Sometime next week, I guess. If it’s safe even then. That is, if Ben hadn’t kicked me the He’ll — but never mind that.
Yeah. Even next week might be too soon, I said. Of course, it’s none of my business, I guess. The girls are all twenty-one, and it’s up to them. And you. I smiled. Of course, if you had gone ahead, and thered been more trouble, you could hardly expect me to come to the funeral.
Oddly, he paled a little beneath his tan. My . . . funeral?
I laughed. That’s not what I meant. I dropped that line of conversation, said hello to April and Delise. The gals all looked great, wearing identical cowgirl outfits, beige shirts and tight white jeans, tan-and-white boots, and very feminine little beige hats, like I. Magnins idea of a sombrero.
They all, incidentally, commented on my outfit, but the He’ll with that. What did they know, anyway?
Delise smiled at me and said, What are you going to do in the rodeo?
Watch.
Oh, come on, Shell, April said in the soft, whispering voice. I’ll bet you could win a prize. Ed said —
I dont care what Ed said. I have a feeling about horses —
Arent you going to do a little bronc riding, Scott? That was Ed. He was still smiling, friendly, but I couldnt miss the undercurrent of — something. Bitterness, anger, sarcasm — something.
He went on, I thought sure youd wrestle a bull, or do something brave. The girls have been bending my ears all morning about how brave and marvelous you are.
There it was. The last I’d seen of Finch after those gunshots, he’d been running like a scared rabbit. Well, so had I; but I’d sort of happened to be running after the girls. It seemed apparent that Ed was feeling a little guilty about taking the wagon, leaving the gals and me behind. And often when a man feels guilty, instead of getting angry with himself He’ll lash out at those around him. Under the circumstances, I thought, it wouldnt be too surprising if he felt like lashing me more than anyone else.
He went on, Now I know you can’t be afraid of horses —
Friend, if you really want to know, I am afraid of horses.
But a big, brave fellow —
I dont know just where he’d meant to put that needle, but unconsciously I took a half step toward him and he clammed suddenly. I wasn’t crazy about this Ed Finch to begin with, and while I didn’t mind a few cracks at my expense, Ed was getting a little too near the out-of-bounds crack.
But after subsiding for only a little while, he joined the conversation again by saying, I’m entered in the calf-roping contest, Scott. It’s the safest contest being held, so naturally that’s the one I entered. Why dont we both give it a try, have a little two-man contest.
Just between us, huh? I grinned at him. Mano a mano, and may the better idiot win?
That’s it.
Youre pretty good, huh?
He shook his head. I’ve never tied a calf — or even thrown a rope at anything in my life. But, he added slowly, I’m not afraid to try.
Well, you go ahead. I’ll sit with the girls and applaud —
April said, Oh, do, Shell. You can do it, I know you can.
And Delise chimed in, Go ahead. I’d love to see you out there —
What is this, a conspiracy?
— breaking a cayuse, or —
I’d break my fat head. Listen, I may not have much sense, but I’ve got more sense than to —
There was a girlish chorus of Do! Yes! and Oh, youve got to! amid dopey squeals and fluttering of hands and such.
I said firmly: I will not even enter the cow-milking contest.
And then Ed took a chance on getting smacked hugely in the teeth, as he said, lips curling, obvious contempt in his voice, Let it go, girls. Dont embarrass the guy any more. I dont say he’s afraid, but some of these tough ones, unless theyve got a gun in their hands —
There’s a little sap in all of us, I guess, and probably more than the usual amount in me, but when I start burning the heat affects the coolness of my mental processes, and I was burning.
O.K., I said. I’ll tell you what. You name it, and well both do it. We can go out in the ring and wrestle a Brahma bull, or shoot at each other, or do a tap dance — you name it. Though I’m damned if I know why youre so anxious —
He broke in, Calf-ropings the one I’m interested in. Fact of the matter is, Scott, I entered both our names.
You what?
Well, I thought sure youd want to take part in the show — impress the girls, and all. You want to impress the girls, dont you?
I kind of want to impress your nose, Ed. So dont get carried away, understand?
He understood. And it wasn’t like Ed Finch to be so dangerously big-mouthed — at least not like the Finch I’d seen so far. He hesitated a moment, then said, You got me wrong. I just assumed youd want to enter one of the contests. Most of the men do, you know — and were all amateurs, all in the same boat.
Uh-huh. And with your almost psychic awareness of what I’d want to do, you realized I’d want to rope a calf more than anything.
He didn’t comment. But April caught my eye and took me aside. Far enough from the others so they couldnt hear us, she said, We dont care if youre in the old rodeo at all, Shell. But — oh, he makes me so mad! I just want to see you beat Ed. We all do.
Honey, if I get out there, I am apt to rope myself and strangle before help arrives. Me and large toothy animals — we have very little in common —
We dont even care if you win. But youve just got to beat him.
They didn’t care; but I had to. That was one of those things which I’ve found only women say. God love em. Well, I’ll try, I said wearily. But dont be surprised if the calf wins.
She smiled. After that smile, I thought, it would almost be worth it even if the calf did bite me. We walked back to the others, and twenty minutes passed in a kind of daze. With growing nausea I realized that very soon I would be on a horse, swinging a rope around my head, and throwing the rope at a little calf.
Really, it was ridiculous; there’s nothing much to calf roping. You sit on your horse, the calf is freed and starts running, and then when he passes a certain point youre allowed to go after him. Then, if you get the rope around him
somewhere, you get off the horse, flop the calf over, and tie his legs with a length of cord carried for that purpose. Simple enough. I just have a thing about it, that’s all. Besides which, though I’ve managed it a time or two, I’m still not exactly sure how to start a horse.
All six of us were sitting together, watching the events now under way. There was a lot of color in the stands — and noise, everybody yelling and whooping. Already dust hung in the air around us, earth smell mixed with the aromatic odor of sagebrush. The current event was bronc-busting, which seems to be a sport in which you get on a bronc and it busts you.
Only three of the contestants were what might be called professionals, and theyd put on an exhibition of bronc busting which curdled my blood. One guy got tossed — well, like eight feet in the air, landed with a thud audible even over the crowds yells, and got up, and then fell down again. Two other guys managed to help him from the ring before the horse could jump around on him, but it was a near thing.
Following that the calf-roping began, and after seeing the vacationing dude ranchers making themselves look foolish out there but still having a good time doing it I decided my part of this affair wouldnt be too bad after all. The first man missed the calf and fell off his horse, only to get up laughing. The second man actually roped his calf, had a He’ll of a time tossing it to the ground, but got it tied finally and threw his hands over his head to roars and laughter from the crowd. There were well over a hundred guests present, and it was really quite a ball, everybody having fun.
The calf-ropers were being called alphabetically, and now it was Finchs turn. After him there were three other men and then Scott: Me.
Ed said, Well, here I go. Wish me luck, Scott.
Sure — hey. Dont I have to put my name in for a horse or something? Or —
That’s all taken care of, he said. I took care of it for you.
You did? That’s nice. I guess. What am I riding, a mad bull?
He grinned. Of course not. I talked to Mr. Cordiner, and he said you rode Vixen yesterday, got along well with her. So I arranged to bring Vixen over for you.
Big of you. I guess. I just couldnt get that I guess out of my thoughts.
Well, I wouldnt want to take an unfair advantage, Scott.
Yeah. I guess.
He waved, and went off. I watched him closely from that point on, since I didn’t really know all a man ought to know about this operation. From where we all sat, the chute, in which the horse was held until the calf was released, was on our left, just inside the ring. A brown horse was brought into the chute and Ed climbed up over the rail of the chute and lowered himself gently into the saddle.
He was about ready to go. The girls, and I, leaned forward, waiting tensely. The calf was released and raced forward, then the brown horse tore out of the chute. Ed clinging to the saddle horn with one hand and whipping the rope around his head with the other. He let out a wild Yippeee! and leaned forward a little, and I had to hand it to the guy for a minute there. He looked pretty good. But he missed the calf with his first try — in this amateur thing all rules went by the board, and a contestant could try till he got tired — and Ed gathered up the rope and gamely tried again.
This time he did sling the rope around the calfs neck, managed to get off his mount, stumbled, grabbed the calf and wrestled with it. The calf had a mind of it’s own, and it seemed a stronger mind than Eds for a while, but he got her down, managed to twist a rope around several legs and threw his hands in the air.
We all yelled and applauded — yeah, even me — and Ed limped back toward us. Before he reached us the announcer called out his time: Two minutes and eight seconds. It was the best time of the day at that, although I’d been told professionals could do it in ten or eleven seconds, or some such obvious falsehood.
Also before Ed reached us, each of the four girls had managed to give me a pearl or two of advice. I was to be sure I didn’t miss the calf with the rope; go faster than Ed; go slower than Ed; jump off the horse fast to save time; be careful getting off my horse; stay on my horse; and a few obviously impractical suggestions.
The next man slipped off his horse and broke his arm.
By the time it was my turn, the days record was still two minutes and eight seconds, and as far as I was concerned they could give the little silver cup to Ed. But I couldnt back out now, so I left my seat, feeling numb.
Then I was standing alongside the chute. My mount was already penned inside there, and as I climbed up to get on I looked her over. Yeah, Vixen, coal black except for that white blaze on her pretty nose, good old Vixen.
That’s what I said: Good old Vixen, trying to establish a little rapport. Vixen had at one time been used occasionally in the calf-roping dodge, but no more, now that she was a riding horse. I hoped she still remembered what to do, because I sure didn’t.
My calf was ready, horse ready, everything ready but me, but that didn’t count. The lasso was in my right hand, reins and short length of rope coiled in my left. I climbed over the top rail of the chute, hung poised above the saddle for a moment, then sat. So far, so good; I even started thinking about doing this job in two minutes flat.
The way to do it, I figured, was to take my time and make sure I didn’t miss the calf on my first throw. If I managed that, throwing the calf and tying it shouldnt take more than another twenty or thirty seconds, with luck. Vixen was keyed up — horribly keyed up, it seemed to me. Excited by all the noise and activity, I guessed. I could feel her actually vibrating under me, like those things barbers use on your neck. Man, this old mare was twitching about like a regular old dynamo.
She turned her old head around and looked at me. Good old Vixen, I said. That white blaze on her nose looked a bit odd. Just a bit. As if wet. My calf was about ready to be released, and I could feel my nerves winding up in anticipation of my big moment. Yes, that was sure an odd blaze. Why would it be wet?
I grabbed the lasso, or lariat, or whatever in the fingers of my left hand and patted Vixen on her nose. Yep, it was wet. I looked at my fingers. There was wet stuff on them — white wet stuff. Paint. That was odd.
And then Vixen, staring at me, laid her ears back and rolled her red eyes, and peeled big red lips back from enormous white fangs, and:
CLOP!
I didn’t believe it.
I wouldnt believe it.
There went my calf, lickety-split.
Now! Somebody yelled.
No! Somebody else yelled. That was me.
The chutes gate sprang open.
No!
But the answer was: Yes.
Then we were moving. And I mean, moving.
And there was one more horrible, blood-curdling yell. From me:
DIABLO!
chapter fifteen
It was true, all right. Now I believed it. I was going to kill Ed Finch. If I had to come back from the next world to do it — which, clearly, I was going to have to do, because I was on my way there already.
It started with a rocket-bomb under me, exploding once, then once again. My spine went right up into my brain and pecked at the inside of my skull as, from hills far away, came back the echo:
. . . diablooo . . .
Then I was way up in the air.
Way up.
Earth and sky spun about, dotted with colorful people, and if I hadn’t been going to die it might possibly have been pretty. But I was doing a great number of things besides admiring the scenery, and I grabbed and grabbed for something to hang onto, but of course there was nothing to hang onto, not way up there.
I knew I was starting down again. Down there where the wild animal was. I got out one more yell. That’s all there was time for. Just time enough for:
DIABLOOOOO-OOOPHHH.
chapter sixteen
I knew this place.
This was a familiar place; I’d been here before. This was where all the losers came. The people here knew me, too. They all welcomed me with open heads.
Somewhere a ghast
ly voice was saying, He’s coming around, I think.
And a ghostly voice replied, He looks dead to me.
No, I saw an eyelid twitch. See, there it goes again.
Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I think youre right.
Silence. Blackness swirled into grayness. I felt my eyelid twitch. After two or three more twitches it opened. Then the other eye opened.
How do you feel? Russ said.
I looked at the thin, interested face, flowing mustache, mane of white hair. Let me think about it, I said.
I thought about it. Yes, now I remembered everything. No sickening temporary amnausea or whatever Doctor Brown had talked about last time. I hadn’t lost anything this trip. In fact, considering the added aches and pains and changes in skull structure, I’d come back with more than I’d had when I went. I guess the more often you do a thing the better you get at it. But I was getting damned tired of this.
Russ moved away, came back with a small glass. Brandy, he said. I drank it, slowly. Then he gave me another brandy. Then he gave me another. Any better? he asked.
I think I’ll live. I may turn into a drunkard, but I think I’ll live.
A few minutes later I was sitting up, apparently dead except for a splitting headache. Remembering those ghastly ghostly voices I said to Russ, I learned something interesting this time, at least. Even when I was unconscious I could hear you guys talking about me looking dead, and my eyelid twitching and all that spooky stuff. I looked around the room.
Then I said, Wheres the other guy?
And Russ said: What other guy?
We didn’t have much in common for a while after that.
But, boy, I was never going to get clunked on the head again, if I could help it — of course, you usually dont plan that sort of thing. Maybe I wouldnt even sleep, except fitfully — that wasn’t the word. Just sleep, half an hour at a time, maybe — dont give them time to grab you, that’s the ticket.
Russ, I said, hows that brandy holding out?
I sipped the brandy, thinking of the billions and billions of cells in the brain, and how, with that many, it’s natural for a few of them to lose their minds once in a while. But finally I forced my mind away from my mind — and that’s a neat trick — and asked Russ to tell me what had happened in the outside world.
The Cockeyed Corpse (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 12