by Baxter Black
“Looks like you’ve said it pretty well, darlin’,” said the old man. “Except maybe these good folks would like to have a word with Mr. Pantaker and the lion tamer there.”
With that Cody pushed F. Rank up to the cage door, then stepped back. “Cowboys,” he said, “stand back and let those good folks through!”
Two Arabian sheiks (the deserter had found his way back), the Asian grandmother, Southern California baseball player, Colombian drug dealer, Texas oilman, lady rock singer, and a scraped-up and bruised trial lawyer crowded into the area.
Qpid d’Art pushed her way to the front. She was carrying a beautiful hand-carved 12-gauge shotgun. It was a souvenir of the brace of bald eagles she signed up to gun down before Teddie Arizona intercepted her hunt. She stood in front of F. Rank Pantaker, who was a foot taller than she.
Qpid spoke: “When you first approached me about this exotic hunt, I saw it as expanding my horizon. After all, lots of money can help you look beyond what normal people can see. I thought I’d be testing the limits of what I could do if there were no restrictions, if no rules applied to me—if I were above the law.
“I cannot speak for that poor orange man in the corner wearing the black-and-gold loincloth and blubbering uncontrollably. Nor for these practitioners of excess gathered behind me in various states of denial and disappointment. But as for me, this woman before me, this Princess Di without Chuck, this Rosa Parks without Jesse, this Cher without Sonny, this Harley without Training Wheels, has shown me the Power, the Eloquence, the Infinity, and the Roar of Righteousness!
“She has not only stood up to your organized army of Park Avenue thugs who would destroy without remorse, she went to war without a gun, a banner, or a chance. Except, my fellow wayward sheep, she had right on her side! She has shined the light of Truth, Justice, and the American Way into this Rock and Roll heart!”
Qpid d’Art was now standing on tiptoes and breathing in F. Rank’s face. Her two large offensive guards stood behind her, one over each shoulder. Both were scowling at F. Rank.
“As for you,” she said, glaring up at him, “I want my money back. All five hundred—count-it-friends-in-cash—thousand smackeroos.” She paused, holding his gaze through his fluttering eyelids. “GOT IT?!” she screamed.
There was a roar from the crowd, clapping and cheering. Qpid turned to the other hunters and asked, “Who would also like their money back?”
It was like an octopus wedding. All eight said, “I do.”
“May I have a word with you?” T.A. asked Qpid.
“Girl, you have my undivided attention.”
T.A. took Qpid aside for a short private conversation. At its conclusion Qpid returned to speak directly to F. Rank.
“I have been asked to provide an affidavit for your ex-wife that you and your nasty little circus friend deliberately tried to induce me into committing multiple felonies for your personal gain. I will gladly, and I do mean gladly, do it, and testify on her behalf should you attempt to cause her harm in any way. It is possible that I could get Golden Boy and that tall Texan each to sign one, too. They seem to have at least a spark of decency left in them. This threat, which you better believe is a threat, should help keep your relationship with your ex-wife cordial until her warrant expires, if you get my drift.”
F. Rank resigned himself to making the best of a bad situation. “I get yer drift,” he said. “She’ll get no trouble from me.”
When the attention was finally returned to Ponce de Crayon, he was on his hands and knees in the sawdust gasping for breath. His brilliant suit was in tatters and he was barefoot. The gorilla was chewing on one of his shoes.
“Am I going to have any trouble with you, Ponce?” asked T.A.
He gagged and coughed.
“I need to know now, while Godzilla here can be my witness,” she said.
“Why you—!” Ponce screeched. The gorilla reached out and whacked him upside the head with the shoe.
“Okay, okay,” he said, cringing. “I’ll refund the money. Not because of you—” THWACK! T.A. had signaled the gorilla, who shoe-slapped him sideways again. “Well, yes, because of you. But”— he resorted to a whine—“as for the endangered species, you’re making a mistake. I was doing a lot to preserve the animals, special breeding programs and—”
She cut him off with, “Tell someone else. You just do what I say or I’ll be siccing the Endangered Species dogs on you. Your career will be blue smoke quick as you can say ‘Lock me up!’ ”
“It’s not over,” he ventured bravely.
“You lost, Ponce,” she said. “Get used to it. Lick, take me out of here.”
73
DECEMBER 13: THE NATIONAL FINALS RODEO
At 8:00 p.m. that night, Teddie Arizona was sitting in the block of seats reserved for the Old Timers Reunioneers during the ninth performance of the National Finals Rodeo at Thomas & Mack Arena in Las Vegas, Nevada.
She sat with her shoulders slumped. A shower and a change of clothes hadn’t done much to restore her energy. Even her bone marrow was exhausted. She should have been Mount Everest– exhilarated but the most she could stir up was a sea-level satisfaction. Looking in the hotel room bathroom mirror, she’d been shocked at how thin she looked. Down fifteen pounds, at least, she thought. Numb, jittery, she had a bad case of winding down.
The announcer’s animated voice seemed far away, metallic, echoing. T.A.’s meltdown continued. She’d barely noticed when an officious cowboy had come and taken Lick and Cody away during the calf roping. The old man sat on her left in conversation with whoever would listen to him. At present it wasn’t her. She closed her eyes and seemed to collapse inside herself.
Earlier in the evening when they arrived at the arena, Lick, Cody, T.A., the old man, and all the Old Timers had gone directly to the Gold Card Room as guests of the Old Timers Rodeo and Reunion.
The Gold Card Room was a living Rodeo Hall of Fame. A painting-in-progress of the sport. A buckin’ and ropin’ buffet. Eaves-droppers could hear history being rewritten between slaps on the back, drinks served, and rides rerode and reroped.
The nightly party was sponsored by those companies that sponsor everything rodeo does. The companies pay dearly to be part of the sport. They make sure those professional rodeo cowboys and cowgirls who qualify as Gold Card members are treated like royalty. Of course, since even rodeo royalty aren’t always that well behaved, the stories can get raucous and the bull manure knee-deep. Matter of fact, just havin’ the old man in attendance brings it up to your ankles.
“Why, Pickhandle here jumped off the back of a moving army tank onto a Benedictine tiger!” he told a circle of groupies who’d already heard about the morning’s endangered-species hunt. “Threw him to the ground! Last time I saw him move that fast was when them two big ol’ boys threw him headfirst out the door of that cantina in Juárez the night Benny won bronc ridin’ and broke the heels off his boots!” Et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum or closing time, whichever comes first.
Pike and Chrisantha had come along as guests at the old man’s insistence.
Cody became boisterous. He was not necessarily prone to wearing the lampshade but tonight he tried it on. The old man made sure it fit. To his credit, Cody had maintained good behavior for these first two years of his marriage. Tonight was also his anniversary, with his first child due in January, whom he planned to name Lick if it was a boy, and he was wishing his darlin’ Lilac was with him.
Lick was unnaturally subdued. It was good to be back among his rodeo peers. In that small Gold Card Room everyone knew about his spectacular ride at the National Finals two years ago on the unridden bull Kamikaze. But they also all knew of his poor performance the following year and his departure from rodeo shortly after. He was, in his own mind, and he supposed in theirs, a One-Ride Wonder. Whether he considered his condition out on Pandora’s Thumb to be the bottom of his fall, or the mountain he had to climb to find himself, is moot. Up until this last month or so, all he knew wa
s that life was shooting at him and he was layin’ low.
Then Teddie Arizona had parachuted into his self-imposed mental monasticism and tangled him in the lines. It was not until he’d lost her in Mountain City that the love bug had burst like a leaky dam inside his heart, releasing a torrent of urgent fingerling feelings all swimming upstream through the rivers of his body desperately seeking some validation that he was worth more than the algae that grew on the rocks at the bottom of Bruneau Canyon.
Teddie Arizona had moved from a basic urge in his loins into the cerebral part of his mind, and then deeper, into the bedrock of his being. Without knowing it, she had staked a claim on the mineral rights of his soul. She went from being something he could manage to something that could squeeze his heart, make him cry, and give him wings.
Love comes without a warning and proves that the intellect of man, in all its brilliance, is no match for the magic of pheromonic pollen that has guided creation before the time the apple evolved into a dumpling.
Lick had stayed close by Teddie in the Gold Card Room, protecting her in his own way. She seemed to appreciate his nearness, and though she wasn’t giddy or vociferous, relief shone from her eyes.
Now Teddie was back in the rodeo bleachers, the Women’s Barrel Racing being played out in front of her. It was fast and furious, the loud music fitting the frenetic pace of the horses. Teddie Arizona watched them mechanically, her mind a blank. At the conclusion of the barrel racing, the announcer, the ubiquitous Emerald Dune, spoke to the full house. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special presentation and would like your attention before we start the bull riding!
“As you know, the cowboys couldn’t show their skills and talent without the animals to make them look good: the calves, the steers, the broncs, the barebacks, and the bulls. What you see performing here at the National Finals are the best our stock contractors are able to produce. Some of these horses and cattle are bred, selected for desirable traits, and others are discovered at smaller rodeos, on ranches, or in somebody’s backyard.
“Every year we honor the Best Bareback, Best Saddle Bronc, and Best Bull. We did that last night, as many of you know. But even among such outstanding animals there are standouts. Once in a generation a giant comes on the scene that makes us step back in awe. The best of the best, the epitome, the pinnacle, the peak, a single beast that reminds us that no matter how good we cowboys get, there will always be some lone lion that can put us in our place. Tonight we are going to honor one such animal, who will be the first animal to actually be inducted into the Pro Rodeo Cowboy Hall of Fame.”
T.A. sat bolt upright.
“This is such an unusual presentation that I’m not sure it will ever happen again,” Emerald Dune went on. “Without further fanfare, if you will turn your eyes to chute number four!”
The lights in the arena went dark. Music reminiscent of the theme from Jaws began to pound. A spotlight began to pulse along with the music, getting brighter with each deep throb. The strobing light found chute number 4.
A lone cowboy stood behind the chute, up on the catwalk, holding a bull rope. The crowd could see a bull in the chute beneath him. A sonic crescendo rose to the occasion, then dropped to white noise. The sudden silence caused the crowd to still.
Emerald Dune broke the silence in reverent tones: “Ladies and gentlemen, after only six years in rodeo, during which he won Bull of the Year three times, Maid Brothers Rodeo Company is retiring the great KA-MA-KA-ZEEEEEEE!”
The cheering tickled the rafters!
Hard-core rodeo fans in the stands knew why such a spectacular bull was being turned out to pasture long before most others in his business would be. He was simply too dangerous. Kamikaze had shown his single-minded intent to rule by deliberately attempting to pulverize any riders who attempted to conquer him. His legacy was littered with broken bones, broken spirits, and at least one corpse.
In real life there are animals that cannot be dominated. Horses, dogs, bulls, rams, maybe boars and tomcats, too. They may be of domesticated stock, but they are a throwback to the fight-to-the-deathinstinct.
Whenever man is forced to deal with these special creatures, he assumes the position of just another challenger in the pecking order.
To these animals, life is not a game.
The chute boss pulled open the gate on chute number 4. One thousand eight hundred and ninety-five pounds of muscle and blood, skin and bone stood quietly inside. Kamikaze slowly swung his massive head so that he could look straight out into the arena. The dark stripes above his eyes looked like eyebrows on a gargoyle. The horns as big around as a man’s calf spread their wings like an evangelist at the altar call.
The announcer continued to elucidate the bull’s background, while Kamikaze continued to stand inside the chute even though the gate was wide open. He was confused. The gate wasn’t supposed to open until a victim had sat down on his back. If you could read his bovine mind, it would have said, “?”
It was then that Kamikaze recognized the scent of the cowboy standing above him behind the chute.
One could forgive Kamikaze for not identifying the atoms of Lick right away. After all, there had been hundreds of cowboys on his back. But this particular olfactory signal brought back a bad memory. Camel hair was somehow involved?
Rage or revenge is not something a bull would know anything about. Bulls have no motive to fight, save to protect their territory. And in Kamikaze’s case, his territory was . . . wherever he was. But his ponderous mind began to sift back through the mental Rolodex and it located Lick’s scent. It was, to him, as specific as the track of a crippled gnu to a hungry cheetah. The memory of their battle sluiced through his mind. Resentment stirred inside him. The competitive need to reassert his dominance rumbled to the surface like a tidal wave. He focused the feeling. Then he swung his two-hundred-pound head to the left far enough so that one big eye could see the cowboy on the catwalk behind him. Lick returned his gaze. For a supernatural moment, they entered each other’s consciousness.
After an eternal second, the bull squinted his eye to a glare. He dared into the space between them, “FEELIN’ LUCKY?”
Lick had this terrible urge to jump on Kamikaze’s back.
There are moments in everyone’s life, or at least in mine, when you become extraterrestrial. I remember hanging from a windmill twenty feet off the ground and thinking, I can fly. I can make that green light, I can eat that seventy-five-ounce steak, I can swim to shore, I can ride that horse.
Add into the mix the thrill, an audience, alcohol, a fair damsel to impress, the feeling of invincibility, and the siren that calls to people who live on the edge, and you have the formula for greatness or disaster,Apollo 13 or Little Bighorn.
My doctor once said to me, “You know how some people will have a drink to reduce their inhibitions?”
“Yes,” I replied.
He said, “You need yours.”
The sparrow of sanity fluttered in and lit on Lick’s shoulder, breaking his concentration. His head cleared and he slid slowly back to earth. Cody was standing beside him, holding on to his arm with both hands. Lick had his hands on the top board and one leg over the board into the chute.
“Come on back, Lick,” said Cody, gently. “You don’t have to ride Kamikaze . . . twice.”
The crowd had watched the exchange between the cowboy and the bull. They all sat forward when he started to climb into the chute, then slipped back into their seats in relief when his partner stopped him. Most didn’t understand what had happened. Matter of fact, maybe only Cody had an inkling. But it was nothing he could explain to anyone.
Teddie Arizona recognized Cody as the other cowboy behind the chute. She grabbed the old man’s arm when Lick swung his leg over the back of the chute.
“Al! What’s he doing!” she cried.
“Jis’ playin’ with him, darlin’,” said the old man, admiringly. “Jis’ playin’ with him.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer i
ntoned, “that cowboy scratching Kamikaze’s back is none other than the one and only cowboy in the whole wide world to ever make a qualified eight-second ride on the otherwise unridden bull. Two years ago at the National Finals, in the tenth go, he came out of nowhere, literally,” he added for the benefit of those who had been there, “and made a ninety-nine-point ride to win the average. Their names will forever be tied together and remembered by millions of rodeo fans.”
The people in the audience rose in a standing ovation.
“Raise the roof for Kamikaze and Lick—” But by then the roar of the crowd had drowned out the announcer’s voice.
Kamikaze strolled out into the arena. Lick dropped down into the chute dirt and stepped out there as well. Man and beast accepted the loving reception of a home-team crowd. It was a moment to die for, for the players and everyone in the bleachers.
We pick our heroes. It is a personal accolade dispensed often in private to someone who has affected only you. It is uncommon to find a man or beast that stirs the same adulation in a multitude.
Sports heroes are unique. They’ve saved no lives, written no constitutions,built no countries. They simply inspire us. Let us rise vicariouslyabove the nuts and bolts of life’s day-to-day maintenance and show us a facet of what our very own human race can do with the right physical gifts, perseverance, and will to achieve.
The audience’s applause was recognition of the effort two competitorsgave to a sport that sometimes lifts the cowboy way of life above Louis L’Amour and ridin’ pens at Hitch’s Feedlot in Guymon, and they poured it on.
The big bull sniffed the air and smelled the adoration. Lick did, too. Glory has its own scent. The applause died down, the exit gate was opened, and Kamikaze walked out of the dirt arena without so much as a look back.
The lights suddenly came up and Lick was swept off to the side as the ceremony came to a close.
Lick and Cody were escorted back to their seats in time to watch the last of the bull riding. Lick sat next to T.A. at the end of the row while Cody found a seat on the other side of the old man.