by Baxter Black
Unlike Lionel, Cooney was a wild-rag, rough-cut bronc rider from the land of the Sioux and the sage, where the buffalo is tough and the sheep are precious. He also rode bulls, which in purist bronc riding circles marked him as someone who might actually win a gold buckle but also never change his jeans, wear the same socks for two weeks, and pack his good shirt wadded up in a dop kit. Cooney fit the profile. He was, as they say, “purty ranchy.”
Cooney was out first and had drawn a good horse. He’d ridden him twice in the last two years and won money both times. But as he was dropping down into the saddle, positioning his feet and fitting the hack rein in his hand, he happened to glance up. Her face was floating amidst the cowboys worrying over his horse’s head. It startled him, broke his concentration. Under normal circumstances women were not behind the chutes.
Her mouth seemed too big for her face: voluptuous lips, bee-stung beauties, lush as orchid petals, creamy red, full, expectant, beckoning, “Bésame lips.” In that tick of time, that frozen moment, she held him in her power. Those insistent lips slid into that same posed poster picture-perfect insurrectionist grin. The tip of her tongue touched her front teeth, and she crossed her eyes! Crossed her eyes!
It was so goofy and unexpected that he jerked back, almost laughed, and then the big horse moved underneath him. His left hand lifted on the hack rein automatically, he set back, and the gate swung open.
In the photo taken by rodeo photographer Horatio Fuji, Cooney’s traveling buddy, Straight Line, had just released the horse’s halter. The man pulling the flank strap tight was leaned back like a water skier, his eyes closed and his jaws clenched with the effort.
The focal point for Horatio’s artistry was Pillsbury Snakeskin in midair with Cooney Bedlam on his back. Snakeskin, a thirteen-hundred-pound, shaggy black and tan gelding, was still gaining altitude. His front feet were folded back like a steeplechaser, his back hooves were two feet off the ground. Snakeskin’s flaring nostrils were just tipping over into the dive.
The braided hack rein was in Cooney’s left hand. It coursed up along the neck, went between the little and ring fingers, through the palm, and flew out over his shoulder like a cheetah’s tail. In the photograph you could see the bottom of Cooney’s left boot, oxbow stirrup snugged against the heel, spur tight against the massive neck. The left leg of his fringed chaps flew like a sheet in the wind. He was perpendicular to the horse, who was at a forty-five-degree angle.
And everything, including the long mane that stood up like the sail on a marlin, directed the eye of the beholder to the furious face of Cooney Bedlam, bronc rider. It was all captured in the moment, frozen for posterity, the outcome of the next seven seconds unknown. The Earth stopped in its rotation by Horatio Fuji, like a cave painting on a wall.
It was Cooney’s mother’s favorite photo. She made it into placemats for her family and friends.
After the match, which Cooney lost by a point, picking up $2,500 as his second-place consolation fee, he saw her again. She was on Lionel’s arm at the annual post-ride party thrown by Cleon.
Lionel was five feet ten inches, according to his stats. Pica came up to his shoulder. Built more like a dirt bike than a Harley, she had a feline muscularity, lithe but powerful.
When Lionel introduced her to Cooney, she kicked on the high beams and dazzled him with her smile. Then her eyes reached up and touched him. It was as physical as a handshake! The look was so piercing, so intimate that it could have been uncomfortable, but it tickled Cooney. He laughed! They never actually spoke a word. Someone tapped her on the shoulder; she turned and was gone.
He forgot to breathe for a full thirty seconds.
That evening after Cleon List’s post-rodeo party, Cooney and his traveling partner, Straight Line, had retired to their motel room.
Cooney had stripped and thrown his clothes onto the floor. Straight folded his shirt and packed it in his war bag. Then he went into the bathroom to floss his teeth and preen.
Straight was as fastidious as Cooney was slack. He pressed his own jeans and shirt daily, even carried an iron. Shined his boots often, brushed his hat, and was conscious of the latest cowboy fashion. He modeled himself off of Lionel Trane, who was five years and two world championships ahead of him. He was always on the lookout for an opportunity to audition to become a spokesman for Dodge or Wrangler or Copenhagen, Air Canada, shoot, even Dunkin’ Donuts, he didn’t care. He did a few runs up the musical scale and “Peter Piper pickeds.” Straight was also a very good saddle bronc rider. It was his only event. He had qualified five times for the National Finals and won the world championship three years before, but he saw a future career in broadcasting.
“I’ve been thinking,” Straight said after he’d put on his pajama top, lain down, and said his prayers, “I could become a cowboy poet. I been keepin’ track of some of those cowboy poets, and they get a lot of publicity! That’s what I need to expand my bronc riding image, make me a sort of Renaissance man, like Michelangelo or Longbrake.”
“I didn’t know Bud wrote poetry,” said Cooney.
“Sure he did!” said Straight. “I had to write a story about him in English.”
“Could you mean Longfellow?” asked Cooney.
“Yes! Maybe I could. I wonder if he rode broncs like Bud?” mused Straight. “Here’s the thing: There’s a famous cowboy poet that lives down in Benson, Lick Davis. You remember him; he rode Kamikaze. I’ve got his CDs, well, you’ve heard them. I had his book once ’til somebody stole it. Anyway, I’m thinking we don’t have to be in Valley City ’til Thursday, so we could go down to Benson. It’s on the way, right on Interstate 10, stop in and see him, get some poetry tips.
“What do you think?” asked Straight.
“Whatever bobs yer cork suits me,” said Cooney, still relaxed under the sheets. “Say, do you know that girl that was with Lionel at the party?”
“I think she’s kin to the D’TroiT brothers from Pincher Creek,” answered Straight. “Why?”
“Oh, I feel like I talked to her last night,” said Cooney, “. . . but I never said anything.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Straight.
CHAPTER 2
February 28, Monday
A Visit to Benson
The next morning Straight and Cooney took exit 303 off Interstate 10 and drove into the small town of Benson, Arizona, whose city seal for years had boasted a cow, a locomotive, and a box of dynamite. It had recently been supplanted by the less rustic and more touristy “Home of Karchner Caverns!” At the corner of Safeway and Stoplight they pulled into Hank’s Restaurant to ask directions.
“What’ll ya have, boys?” asked the waitress as they sat down at the counter.
“Oh, coffee, I guess,” said Straight. “Do you have any of those flavored creamers like Irish Cream or Hazelnut, French Vanilla?”
“Sorry, all we have is milk, or this here powdered stuff,” she said.
“Okay, that’ll do. Two coffees then. Oh, make mine decaf,” said Straight.
As she was pouring their order Straight asked if she knew where Lick Davis lived.
“Up there on Highway 90, not too far,” she told them.
“Do you know him?” asked Straight.
“Sure,” she said. “He comes in here all the time.”
“You reckon he’d mind if we went up and met him?” asked Straight.
“Probably not. You could call and warn him you’re coming, make sure he’s there,” she suggested. “His number’s in the phone book.”
They finished their coffee, thanked the waitress, and looked up Lick’s number. Straight punched it into his cell phone. “Posthole Poetry Company, may I help you?” a pleasant voice said.
Fifteen minutes later Straight and Cooney were being directed around back of a nice adobe ranch house that overlooked a mesquite-filled cany
on half a mile wide. A tall, slim figure in a cowboy hat stood poised on the edge of the rim, apparently taking in the view.
“Look,” said Straight quietly. “He’s meditating. I been thinking about doing yoga myself. He’s probably seeking inspiration, experiencing Zen. Gosh, we might be seeing a moment of poetic insight, a release of creative energy . . .”
Cooney laid his hand on his partner’s arm and stopped him. “Give him a minute, Straight. He’s takin’ a leak.”
“Howdy, boys,” said Lick, welcoming his two visitors. “I’m glad y’all came by!”
Lick Davis, former bull rider, NFR (National Finals Rodeo) qualifier, ranch hand, day work cowboy, pen rider, feed salesman, horseshoer, vet assistant, brand inspector, cattle hauler, and now best-selling cowboy poet in the universe, offered his hand. He was about five foot eight in his stocking feet and looked pretty solid considering it had been twenty years since he had rodeoed. He wore a big mustache, and it was hard to tell how old he was. There was gray in his “stash” and hair, but his face was unlined. The men shook hands and introduced themselves.
“What can I do for ya?” he asked with a smile.
“Well, to get to the point,” said Straight, “I’m considering becoming a cowboy poet, and I thought if I talked to you, you could give me some pointers.”
“Are you planning on making money at this poetry?” asked Lick with a straight face.
“No, not necessarily,” said Straight, “more to enhance my present career of bronc riding. A way to make myself a more valuable, a more attractive candidate for endorsements. Present a well-rounded appearance, able to be a better spokesman for someone.”
“Gosh,” said Lick. “I’m impressed! You’ve really got a plan.” He looked over at Cooney, who seemed to be quite comfortable staring out over the canyon, listening to the bull manure pile up around him.
Just then Lick’s secretary stepped through the door and told Lick he had a phone call.
“Tell ’em I’ll call back,” instructed Lick.
“It’s Jake,” she said.
“Okay,” Lick said and went into the house.
He returned to the backyard in less than five minutes.
“We’ve got a cow loose,” he reported. “Have you boys got time to help?”
“Sure, I guess,” they replied.
“Well, come with me,” said Lick.
It took nearly thirty minutes to get three horses saddled and the sixteen-foot gooseneck trailer hooked up. “You got chaps?” Lick asked.
“We’ve got our rodeo chaps,” said Straight.
“They might be a little delicate for this kind of work,” suggested Lick. “I’ve got some old leggin’s in the tack room. Come on.”
The chaps he unhooked from the wall looked more like rusted fenders off an old Chevy pickup. They were stiff enough to stand up by themselves. Straight borrowed a pair, but Cooney opted to wear his own purple and silver bucking horse chaps with pink fringe and his initials on the side.
“Here’s a rope for you each, and maybe you better grab your own spurs,” said Lick.
Twenty minutes later they pulled up to the EG Corrals. Jake was already unloading his horse.
According to Jake, who was the cowboy taking care of the cows on the twenty-five sections of a Tucson developer’s dream, at least one pair, maybe more, had been spotted in the fenced-off portion where the planned housing development had begun. At least thirty of the houses had been completed and were occupied, an equal number were under construction, and the remainder of the lots were marked but vacant. The area was crisscrossed with curbs, fire hydrants and streets, some paved and some gravel.
The whole development was surrounded by native untamed flora: deep sandy arroyos covered with thick mesquite, cat claw, white thorn, barrel cactus, sotol, yucca, mescal, cholla, prickly pear, ocotillo, snake weed, desert broom, guajia, hackberry, discarded plastic milk cartons, backpacks, jackets, trash bags, shoes, blankets, and all manner of clothing and bathroom artifacts, the latter compliments of the “exchange students” who crossed the border from Mexico daily on their way to the Denver Hilton, the South Point in Las Vegas, and Tyson’s meat-packing house in Dakota City.
Jake explained the situation, “One of the ladies in the built part of the subdivision said there was some cows and calves in her neighbor’s yard. She said she scared ’em away.”
Lick took Straight and went to the far side of the arroyo that ran along the north side of the development. Jake and Cooney took the sandy bottom and the south side. In less than ten minutes they found the tracks and soon spotted four cows and one calf.
“There’s a trail up ahead that cuts south of the houses to a gate,” said Jake to Cooney. “We’ll stay behind and hope for the best.”
Lick and Straight spread out from the other side and tried to keep up. The cows were movin’ at a high trot.
Riding through twenty-foot-high brush and mesquite thickets was a new experience for both Straight and Cooney. The horses they were riding seemed perfectly at home pushing through the limbs and branches and thorns, but the cat claw and mesquite tore at their clothes. There were lots of cow tunnels through the mesquite, which the horses could also squeeze through. Unfortunately, the only thing sticking out on the horse was the cowboy!
Suddenly a small-horned red cow that looked like a picnic table with the head of an anteater broke from the bunch! Her calf, a red white-face about the size of a greyhound, raced after her. Lick, who had kept his rope handy all through the drive, dug in the spurs and fell in hot pursuit! “Come on, boys,” he shouted.
Both Straight and Cooney spurred up and joined the chase. Roja con Cuernos, as the cow was called, was flying through the brush like a porpoise in front of a sloop, her calf right behind her. They were headed for the houses. Straight was trying to get a loop in his rope while crashing through the branches that slashed his face and arms and legs. Big puffs of white feathers flew off his down jacket as the thorns ripped the fabric.
Cooney was no better off. He actually was bent over like a jockey, hanging on to the horn, weaving his head right and left, back and forth, up and down, as his horse swerved constantly, ducking and diving, jumping little arroyos, plunging into tunnels, and leaping unseen chasms! Cooney lost his hat, peeled the initials off the left side of his chaps, shredded the sleeves on his NFR contestant jacket, popped the left lens out of his $12 truck stop sunglasses, and took a solid slap across the ear by a bullwhip mesquite bough.
After what seemed like days, they broke into a clearing. Lick, who was trying to get his rope untangled, was still tight behind the cow. By now she had decelerated to a trot. Lick pulled back on the reins, taking the pressure off the cow. She slowed and finally stopped, breathing heavily.
Lick eased up to her, and she turned away. He threw a long loop and caught her head and a front foot. He took his dally and set his horse.
“Get another loop on her head!” he hollered at Straight. Straight dropped one over the horns.
They settled the cow a minute and watched as Cooney finally came up out of the mesquite. His face was covered with red spots like spattered paint. The one lens left in the sunglasses gave him a pirate-like asymmetry. Twigs festooned his flyaway hair. There was a three-foot piece of broken mesquite sticking out of his collar. His pretty rodeo chaps were covered with scratches and deep gashes. Ribbons of tattered cloth feathered his sleeves like fringe. He looked like he’d been in a sword fight!
“Looks like you forgot to duck,” observed Lick. “I’m gonna go take a look for the calf. Straight, you hang on to the cow.”
Lick pitched his slack to the ground and trotted over toward the houses with Cooney riding behind him picking sticks and stickers out of his hair and off his clothes. They swung up Chango Circle, where three occupied houses sat side by side along the otherwise vacant street. Momentari
ly they heard a scream coming from the middle house—the only one on the block with green grass, newly laid sod around it. A chain link fence was under construction and now surrounded all but the front of the driveway.
Lick stopped just short of the new sod.
“It’s out back,” a lady was screaming from an open window. “I’m afraid it will tear up my new grass. You’ve got to stop it. Catch it! What should I do?!”
“Just stay in the house, ma’am,” said Lick calmly. “Can you rope, Cooney?”
“Yessir,” he replied.
“Okay, you stay here and watch the gap. If he comes racin’ around and you can get a loop on him, do it. If you can’t, just guide him over to where his mama is. I’m gonna sneak around on foot and push him out to ya. Got it?”
“Whatever jerks your slack suits me,” said Cooney.
Lick stepped off his horse and quickly hobbled him. As Lick started around the back of the house the horse hopped over to the new sod and started grazing.
The two-month-old, 220-pound, red brockle-face bull calf saw a slippery figure come into view around the corner. He studied it a moment, decided it wasn’t friendly, and trotted away, out of sight. Lick followed. Soon they were loping around the house, making boot-heel and calf-track divots in the sod. The lady of the house watched them pass by . . . three times. Then nothing.
She stepped to the front door and peered out the little window.
Lick saw her face in the glass, and, just as he shouted, “Don’t open the door!” she opened the door.
The calf, which Lick had finally trapped on the little redwood deck front porch, shot through the open door, between the lady’s legs, and into the living room. The calf leaped over the beige sofa and cornered into the kitchen, where his hooves hit the slick linoleum, and he slid sideways under the small breakfast table, scattering chairs, napkin holders, a copy of the San Pedro News Sun, and a fruit bowl into the atmosphere!