by Baxter Black
Cooney had flown to Denver from Birmingham, Alabama, where he had won big money at the Bullnanza, which counted toward his National PRCA rankings.
The flight had arrived the previous Monday. He had recovered the pickup at the Centennial Airport as arranged. He stayed in Denver through Thursday with a friend, then headed north to meet Straight in Miles City. Car trouble in Sheridan, Wyoming, added one long night. He also contracted a bit of the stomach flu, which increased the frequency of his stops.
He arrived in Miles City Saturday at 2:30 in the afternoon. He located a shady parking spot along the river by the city park. The parade was over, and most of the crowd was at the fairgrounds watching the bucking horse sale.
He lay down in the camper for a short nap. He slept past 6:00 p.m. Upon waking he put on his cleanest dirty shirt and walked down Main Street. He went unrecognized into the Bison Bar and was soon involved in a $2 limit Texas hold ’em poker game at a table in an alcove by the front window. By 8:00 p.m. the bucking horse sale had concluded, the street dance had begun, and the Bison Bar was standing room only.
Cooney was at the end of the table with his back to the crowd. To his left was a sore loser who was getting drunker by the minute. His language continued to increase in profanity as the dealer politely cautioned him about his cursing.
A pretty bleached blonde displaying Caribbean tanned breasts and a turquoise necklace stood beside him lending solace, trying to calm him down.
“Now, Monty, take it easy, Baby. It’ll get better,” she cooed.
“You @#$%^&*!” Monty called her some very descriptive yet lewd names indicating her canine heritage and manipulative skills.
“He’s been drinking,” she offered helplessly to the other card players. Then to him, “Maybe we should go, Honey.”
Monty, who was a good-sized man, pushed her back so hard that she fell against the crowd.
“Go get me another whiskey and water, you @#$%^^!, and then go wait in the car! I’ll deal with you later.”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, “ said the dealer.
“Deal the #@$%@^&! cards! I’m gonna play!” Monty stormed under thundercloud eyebrows.
“Ya know,” said Cooney, “if I was as big a buzzard cloaca as you are, I think I would learn some more inventive phrases.”
Monty squinted his eyebrows quizzically at Cooney, who continued, “Obviously you were not born, merely deposited by a bat and recovered by guano miners. You epitomize those irritants that stick to the bottom of a shoe; to be washed off, depilated, or vaccinated against.
“While it is true that once upon a time a mother could have loved you, you have now become the sebum that is secreted from the anal glands of a carpet-scooting Pekinese and not fit to stain the Kleenex that you inhabit.
“As God said to Adam, ‘Cover yourself, grab your hoe, and vacate the garden!’”
THE FIGHT WAS ON!
Cards flew as Monty pushed off the table toward Cooney! Cooney was stone cold sober and queasy, but he leaned back, grabbed Monty’s arm, and pulled him by, slamming his head into the wall!
Monty had a thick skull and came back strong. Blood streamed from a cut on his forehead as he charged Cooney! Cans and bottles flew sideways as onlookers gave way!
At one point Cooney was sitting on Monty’s back, banging his head on the floor. With superhuman strength Monty rose, lifting Cooney with him.
The big man started running for the door with Cooney on his back. He stumbled and fell through the passageway, just as Monty’s sweetheart attacked Cooney from behind!
For a brief moment it looked like a conga line gone terribly wrong! Three crash test dummies going through a windshield! A gang tackle! Three frogs mating on the front lawn!
The trio slid ten feet out onto the sidewalk, peeling an inch-wide strip down Monty’s forehead and the bridge of his nose.
Cooney was trying to push himself up, but Monty’s motherly protector was bashing him on the head and shoulders, all the while screaming “#@#$%@&!”
He managed to roll to one side. She fell over onto Monty, clutching him lovingly. She turned to Cooney, who now lay flat on his back. “You, you #$%&*!” she mouthed, comparing him with a misshapen, indiscriminate vital organ. “If you hurt Monty we are going to sue you!” Then turning her attention to the still-prone Monty, she said, “Here, Baby, let Snookums help you.”
For a moment Cooney lay on the sidewalk looking up at the bar sign and street lights. The crowd formed a solid wall on both sides, creating a human fence from the sidewalk to the bar’s entrance. His shirt was torn almost off his back. One sleeve was gone. Front and back he was soaked with spilt beer and blood that he had mopped up during the melee. His hat was gone and his dark hair askew. His right eye was swelling. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Miraculously his vision began to clear.
Meanwhile Pica was leading Nova through the crush of boots and hats at the street dance celebrating the bucking horse sale earlier in the day. Pica had qualified to ride in the final go-round that afternoon and had bested five men in the competition. She was in high spirits, but simmering beneath her winner’s smile was the resentment that no matter how good she was, they would never take her seriously. She gritted her teeth every time some rodeo chauvinist congratulated her with a “pretty good for a girl.”
The two women each bore beer in a plastic cup as they made their way down the three blocks of Main Street that were barricaded for the festivities where four bands were playing on separate stages.
Many businesses were open into the street, including bars, souvenir vendors, and eating places. The mood was festive, crowded, and loud.
The two women strolled through the throng, stopping to visit at shout level with friendly passersby. Eventually they found their way into a less-crowded restaurant just off Main. After being seated Nova began: “The next step would be for you to meet Mr. Manniquin. As I have said, if this endorsement program with Straight works, OVER THE TOP may be looking for a female endorser as well. It would involve flying you to Denver for an interview, maybe a photo shoot.”
“What is the job?” asked Pica.
“Traveling, going to rodeos, events, doing photo opportunities, public relations. I’m assuming you’re not married?”
“No,” said Pica.
“Any current love interests, plans, et cetera?” asked Nova.
“None at present,” Pica answered. A vision of Lionel Trane flashed and disappeared like lightning leaves the sky. It was followed by a welling up of Cooney’s face as if rising from underwater. It caught her off guard. “Not really,” she added.
Following supper, for which Nova paid, they stepped out onto the sidewalk relaxed, full, and feeling good. As they approached the Bison Bar they heard screaming, even over the pounding of four bands and the roar of the party! The crowd in front of them stopped suddenly, throwing up their hands!
Nova and Pica were in the second row and saw it all.
A large man came running out the door in a low crouch! A second man was clinging to his back, his arms around the big man’s neck. As they watched wide-eyed, a woman—a Santa Fe-Sedona / Missoula-Monterrey rebuilt—leaped, hair flying, through the air and mounted the second man like Roy Rogers mounting Trigger!
When they hit the slick sidewalk there was a clunk, whomp, and whoosh! The threesome tobogganed to the curb as onlookers scattered!
The man in the middle rolled out from under the flailing fashionista. She dismounted him and rushed to the aid of her felled companion. She cursed the middle man.
Cooney’s stomach roiled. He tried to sit up, looked up at the crowd, and in a single moment that would remain seared in his brain, he saw Pica D’TroiT, brilliant, back lit, and beautiful, contort her face into a mask of revulsion. Her lips mouthed the word COONEY! . . . Or was it OOOKEEE? He couldn’t tell. Then he
lost his lunch.
Activity resumed like a breaking dam retaking the low ground! Nova and Pica were pushed back with the crowd. They could hear the no-nonsense commands of Sheriff High Pockets to “break it up!”
The wail of Monty’s histrionic princess carried like a tornado siren into the cool night air: “He attacked my Mon-Te-e-e-e-e-e-e . . . He had a gun-n-n-n-n-n-n-n!”
CHAPTER 13
May 21, Sunday
Miles City, Morning After
By 8:45 on Sunday morning Julie Holip had set the breakfast table with a baked biscuit, egg, and cheese casserole. The whole house smelled like home cookin’. Steve Holip, Straight, Nora, File, and Pica sat around the table. Grace was said, and conversation ensued.
“I’d expected a call from Cooney by now,” said Straight.
Pica looked up.
“Someone saw him last night,” said Steve. “He was playing cards at the Bison.”
“Who?” asked File.
“Cooney Bedlam,” answered Steve. “Straight’s travelin’ partner.”
“Yeah,” said Straight, “we’re meeting up here in Miles City. He drove our rig up from Denver. We go from here to Taber and Maple Creek. I’ve got family in the area, so we’ll go by Dad’s ranch. They’ll probably come to both rodeos. Cooney and I are entered up. Cooney won the Bullnanza in Birmingham last weekend.”
He glanced at Pica for any reaction. She kept her head down, concentrating on eating.
As if on cue the phone rang. Steve rose and went into the kitchen to pick it up.
“Holip’s,” answered Steve. “Oh, hi, Sheriff! Yeah, it was a great weekend . . . Sure, I’ll tell him. They must’ve passed out enough lip balm to chapproof the interstate! Yes . . . They’re flying out this morning. Their pilots are going to pick them up here at the airport around 10:30.
“Um, uh. He’s right here . . . You have? . . . Where is he? . . . When will you let him out? Sure, you can talk to him. Just a sec.”
Steve turned to Straight, holding out the receiver. “It’s about Cooney.”
Straight rose and walked into the kitchen, taking the phone. Steve sat back down at the table. “Seems Cooney had a good time last night!” he joked.
Pica let a moment pass, put on a smile, and said, “Well, I’d best be going. Thank you, Julie and Steve, for the place to park, your shower, and this great breakfast. Nova, you’ve given me a lot to think about. You’ve got my e-mail address if something comes up. Even if it doesn’t, it’s been an experience! Please pass along how much I enjoyed getting to know Straight.” She shook hands around, even with File, who hadn’t been very friendly to her. Without bothering Straight, who had his back to them, concentrating, she went outside.
It was a brilliant, still, verdant summer morning. The sky was as big as . . . as big as Montana! She climbed into the cab of the four-year-old, three-quarter-ton pickup her dad had helped her buy. She would pass through Lewistown, Great Falls, and Shelby before she crossed the Canadian border at Sweetgrass.
Unfortunately, she could not shake the picture of Cooney Bedlam, in disarray, throwing up on the sidewalk. There was a tiny twinge of pity for him, then she quickly tried to conjure up how someone could get himself into the position of being thrown out of a bar, totally trashed, and then arrested.
He’s either more—or less—than what I thought he was, she mused.
It’s funny what causes one person to endear himself to another person. So much depends on the receptors with which each is equipped. For instance, if one of the persons has an unnatural affinity for biker dudes, mud wrestling, taking your temperature with your finger, or a sharp skinning knife, it is possible to imagine that same person could feel compassion for a perp caught in the act of a violent, disgusting display of the complete loss of all self-control. To Cooney’s everlasting good fortune, Pica had always liked a sharp skinning knife.
Somewhere between Jordan and Grassrange, Cooney banged on the camper. Straight pulled over. Cooney took the wheel, and Straight stretched out on the passenger side.
“Feeling any better?” he asked Cooney.
“Man, I feel like somebody put me in a duffle bag full of walleye and beat me with a steel post.”
Cooney had good reasons to be having a sinking spell: the physical pounding, the injustice of spending a night in jail, the look of repugnance on Pica D’TroiT’s face, and the humiliation of being saved by Straight, again.
The two were traveling partners, all right, Cooney was a year younger, but Straight’s advanced rodeo skills and record lent a mentor-student flavor to their relationship. To Cooney, Straight was more dignified, popular, handsome, worldly, wise, serious, and “grown-up.”
Like many pairings in which one is perceived to be superior to the other, the lesser’s respect is often salted with crystals of resentment. They rise, these ulcerous crystals, unwanted but unstoppable like acid bubbles after a delicious meal of homemade venison sausage with Cajun seasoning.
Then the ultimate blow: to be told that Straight had spent the weekend with Pica, that she might get an OVER THE TOP endorsement as well and to hear that she had left Miles City that morning knowing that Straight was picking him up at the jail.
The unfairness of it all. Out of nowhere, his partner, Straight, was spending time with his obsession. Envy was trickling into Cooney’s veins like an IV drip and turning him green.
“Anything I can do?” asked Straight.
Cooney kept both hands on the wheel and stared down the highway. Like a terminal cancer patient taking a deep pull on a Camel filter, he said, “Tell me about Pica.”
Straight, true to his workaholic personality, hadn’t really paid much attention to her. He had been concentrating on saying the right thing to fans, impressing his sponsors, tirelessly being polite, and signing autographs. Pica had mostly stood in the background and smiled.
“She can smile,” he said, sounding as foolish as a customer complimenting a chef on the flavor of his salt: “You sure have good salt here.”
“Maybe she has an extra amount of teeth,” he added, “and, of course, she’s built like a brick lighthouse!”
“Did you go out and eat and . . . you know, talk?” asked Cooney.
“Not really. We all had supper at that guy’s house on Friday night. Everybody talked. Mostly the agents, PR, marketing people, all talking about how to promote lip balm.”
“So, would you and her like . . . tour together, ya know?” asked Cooney.
“They haven’t signed her up yet, hey. They are just sort of . . . considering her for a female counterpart spokesman for lip balm. But Nova, the public relations girl, sounded like she was trying to recruit Pica, feel her out.”
“Did she say anything about me?” Cooney asked, inhaling another lungful of virtual carcinogen.
“We kinda kept an eye out for you on Saturday. I’d told everyone you were coming. But you never showed. Then she left this morning while I was talking to you on the phone. I came back to the table, and she’d gone. I didn’t get to see her again.”
Cooney thought about telling Straight about his brief encounter with Pica on the sidewalk in front of the Bison Bar, but he couldn’t. “I wrote a short one last night . . . in the cell,” said Cooney. He recited from memory:
Comin’ out of the chute on a Pegasus bronc
Your mind is a falcon’s, you think you can conquer
The world as you leave it and rise to the sky,
When you ride on the edge, you think you can fly.
A shiver went down Straight’s spine.
“I don’t know how you do it,” he said with a sincerity Cooney had never heard before. “The way you write. It’s what I’m feeling like when I’m on a horse. You put it into words.”
Straight sighed, paused, and continued. “If I had a wish, it would be to hav
e your way with words. Even for an hour, just to know how it felt to be able to capture what’s swelling up in my chest. I feel so inadequate, ’specially around those reporters. I sound like those football players interviewed after a game. I feel like I’m so boring. I’d give one of my NFR buckles to be you for a day. You have such a gift.”
Cooney was speechless.
They spent the night in a cheap motel, and the next morning our heroes went north, crossing the Canadian border at Wild Horse, then up through Medicine Hat. Buffalo, Alberta, the closest town to the Chalk Line Ranch, was approximately 100 kilometers north of Medicine Hat, as the Canada goose flies.
It was Monday, May 30, at four in the afternoon when Straight steered the pickup over the two-and-a-half-kilometer dirt road that led to the ranch house. The country looked good this spring. The tanks were full, and the cows were scattered. It looked like all was right with the world, everything was in its place.
Straight was glad to be coming home. His only concern was the fact that his brother, Border, was going to be home from college, too, and they always seemed to get into a disagreement about something. To Straight, college had turned Border into an insufferable twit. It seemed that no matter what Straight said, Border had to disagree or elaborate or criticize or comment. It was a continuing barrage of one-upsmanship. Because Border had Straight outbrained and outverbiaged most of the time, for Border it was like dueling with an unarmed man.
Maybe it would be easier with Cooney here, thought Straight.
They drove up to the house, and two good-looking young women came running out to the pickup. Straight’s sisters, Tyra, twenty-two, a tall brunette with a long ponytail, and Myra, twenty, not as tall but with her dark hair cut short, both had Straight’s slender face and hazel eyes. They were screaming his name and laughing as they pulled open the driver’s side door and literally pulled him out of the truck.
They were hugging and kissing on him, giving him a grand welcome. Then they attacked Cooney, who had debouched the vehicle and had started around. It was like being mauled by puppies.