Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  Nova Skosha was frustrated. She made two trips to Canada to visit with Straight on behalf of OTT seeking his endorsement for another year. And then something unexpected happened: She and Straight found out they had more in common than a contract! Suddenly she had a conflict of interest. To be fair she called Turk and explained the problem.

  “How big a problem is it?” asked Turk.

  “You see,” she said, “I think we are not offering him enough money. If he ever gets smart enough to hire another agent, we’re going to have to pay him what he is worth.”

  “Well, it’s your job not to let that happen,” said Turk.

  “I’m not sure I can do that,” she said.

  “Well, that certainly is a conflict. How do you expect to do your job if you’re personally involved with a client? he asked.

  “Ya know,” she said, “there are other factors working here that . . . listen, could I take a month off to think this over? Who knows what’s going to happen?”

  “Sorry, Babe,” he said. “It’s us, the OTT team, your $60,000 salary, $30,000 expense account, and a future in sports marketing, or . . . what? Am I getting the drift that your sentimentality is poking holes in your ruthless marketing brain?”

  “I’ll get back to you,” she said and hung up.

  Two days later, in mid-January, Nova booked a flight to Calgary, called Straight from the airport, and said she was on her way out to the ranch with a proposal. Within one week she had convinced Straight that she could be his agent, manager, and wife! They were a perfect match, she said. She would work on a percentage. Two days later they had also signed up Pica D’TroiT (Bedlam) as a client. Then she called Turk and resigned.

  Who better than Nova Skosha to negotiate with OTT for Straight’s services? He was “hot property”!

  She would eventually work his rodeo success and “grand gesture,” as it would come to be called, into motivational speaking, self-help books, inspirational CDs, instructional DVDs, personal appearances, reality shows, commercial endorsements, guest lectures, and a line of tack, gear, and clothing. She made him into an industry . . . and a husband!

  Right away they used Straight’s visibility and integrity to publicly bring Pica’s case to the public on talk shows, interviews, Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, exploitive magazines, and the Internet. Bloggers were demanding that the Canadian, United States, and British governments right this egregious wrong. Within two weeks Nova had convinced them to lift Pica’s travel restrictions to the United States. By the time the charges were dropped, Nova Skosha had negotiated with Powder River Projectiles, makers of fine firearms, for Pica to be its Pistol-Packin’ Powder River Pawnshop Pinup Girl for a tidy six-figure contract.

  Back at the Post-Ride Party in Tucson, Cooney stood to the side of the preride cocktail and Calcutta party, watching Straight and Pica D’TroiT (her stage name) visit with Tucson’s upper-crust cowboy crowd.

  “When are you gonna let me help you with your career, Cowboy?” asked Nova Skosha. She had walked up beside him and was alluding to her two celebrity clients, whom he had been watching.

  “Ha!” he laughed. “I’m not in their league, but I shore appreciate what you’ve done. Pica’s very thankful. If it wasn’t for your relentless efforts she might still be a convict! And Straight! You’ve made his dream come true! I can see your fine hand in so many of his achievements.

  “I’ve got a lot to be thankful for, but I’m just happy for him,” said Cooney sincerely.

  “I love him,” she said, smiling.

  “I know,” said Cooney. “It shows.”

  “But back to my offer,” she persisted. “I think I could do you a lot a good, make some money on the side, get some benefits, maybe future opportunities.”

  “Truth is, Nova,” he said, “I never had it so good. I’m not a talker, inspirational like Straight. I’m not that ambitious, and I’m not pretty or organized like Pica. I just ride broncs. Long as I can do that and keep from gettin’ killed, that’s as far down the road as I can see. But Pica’s already gonna be there down the road, and so is Straight, and whether I’m punchin’ his cows, guiding her dudes, or driving their limo, whatever makes their rooster crow will be just fine with me.”

  And now, dear reader, I offer you one last ride.

  The Calcutta finished, and Cleon List took the podium: “My many friends in this great community and rodeo committee, we invite you to walk over to the grandstand and watch the premier event of the night: our matched saddle bronc riding.”

  As the crowd worked its way over, our heroes, Straight and Cooney, made their way to behind the buckin’ chutes. The rodeo producer had left one of his chute hands to bring the broncs home after the matched ride. He had already saddled the boys’ horses. Straight and Cooney put on their chaps and spur boots and stood on the catwalk when their broncs came in.

  To reduce favoritism, accidental calls, or criticism in determining the winner, Cleon had hired four judges. Each would award points to the horse and to the rider. The four would be collected after the ride, then the top and bottom scores would be eliminated and the remaining two averaged. It was a method used in the Olympics when it was more than just a timed event.

  Pica was up on the catwalk to help get them down onto their horses. They flipped to see who went first. Straight was chosen.

  Cleon had paid Benny, the stock contractor, to save him back five saddle bronc horses that were good draws. Cleon paid well enough that all five selected had been to the national finals in the last three years.

  Straight’s draw was Ace’s High, a huge black-brown Morgan-Slidesdale cross. Sweet, thought Straight, high on pride. It was not vanity or conceit, that was not in his makeup. But the self-inflicted bruises to his ego had healed since the finals, and he allowed himself to admit that he had done okay.

  At the nod and swing of the gate these two professionals, Ace’s High and Straight Line, rose to the air as one. They cleared the fog of the riding slump: the disappointment of not making the finals, the animosity of his brother, the fallout with Cooney, and the mountain of self-doubt. Straight ascended on Ace’s High, who had grown Pegasus wings, up through the smoke hole in the sweatlodge, where good broncs and good bronc riders could appreciate each other.

  From the view in the stands he made a classic ride: spine straight in the saddle, right arm thrown back, in rhythm, toes pointed, and the look of an eagle with his eye on the prize.

  “Picture perfect,” said a fan with admiration. She said it all.

  Cooney had drawn a white horse named “Virgil,” the most unpredictable lot of the five—the kind of draw Cooney liked. Being an all-or-nothing kind of guy, he’d either get bucked off or make an over-the-top ride. It was his kind of game.

  Straight had dismounted, accepted the accolades of the crowd. To heighten the excitement, his score would not be announced until both men had ridden. He returned back behind the chutes and climbed onto the catwalk. Cooney had three people helping him get down onto Virgil, so Straight stayed back.

  Just as Cooney nodded, Virgil reared up in the chute! The horse was about 10 degrees off due north vertically! The cantle kept Cooney’s butt from sliding back, and his spurs were locked into the neck. It was as if he had leaned back in a kitchen chair and had fallen over.

  Two of the cowboys reached out to keep him from banging his head on the rail! Cooney’s free hand actually clasped the vertical upright post behind him. In the photograph taken at this moment the horse appeared to be going over backward into the chute a fraction of a second before the rider became a pancake!

  The subconscious mind and finely tuned body of both horse and rider work together on autopilot in moments like these. Time goes by in nanoseconds. Horse and rider sit on the razor’s edge.

  In this microsecond Cooney saw Pica’s face on the back of Virgil’s head, right between his ears! She wa
s the redtailed hawk with the head of a fox. Her smile widened until her lips covered her face just like the Cheshire cat! “I know who you are,” she said. “You are both.”

  The rest of the ride was as haywire and chaotic as the proverbial “shot out of the box”! Virgil managed to sidestep and fall sideways until he caught his balance. In the last six seconds he tied himself in a knot, tried to roll, sunfished, bounced off the gate, swung his head, did a quarter-circle to the left, and at one point reared up like Trigger! Cooney sat there like a fly on a buzzard’s nose as Virgil kept trying to swat him off!

  When the whistle blew Virgil stopped and dropped down to one knee, and Cooney stepped off just like they had it planned.

  Oh, man, the crowd loved it! It was Cooney Bedlam at his finest. People were laughing so hard that they bent over holding their sides. How, they wondered, would a judge ever score something like that?

  Straight jumped into the arena and ran over to Cooney, who was dusting off his hat.

  “What a ride!” said Straight. “You’ll do anything to win! Unbelievable!”

  “Unfortunately,” said Cooney, catching his breath, “unorthodox never trumps classic. Congratulations, amigo. Yer the best.”

  Over the microphone Cleon List invited the two men to join him at a small table set up in front of the reserved bleachers. The two walked over that way, arms around each other’s shoulders. Camera flashes caught the friends, rodeo buddies. As close as two fingers in the cookie jar, compadres.

  “Just a minute,” said Cleon. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have seen two of the best, at their best, right here in front of you tonight, but, and that is a big ‘but,’ there has always been some suspicion, some controversy regarding the, how shall I say, the fairness of the competition.”

  Cooney looked at Straight and did an “I don’t know” shrug.

  “To clear the air once and for all,” said Cleon, “I have arranged to put the matter before you tonight. In chute number 4 let me introduce that renowned Canadian bronc rider Miss Pica D’TroiT!”

  All eyes went to chute 4.

  Pica stood on the catwalk above a blue roan bronc. She looked at these two men, so important in her life, these brothers in the band of good rodeo hands, standing over in front of the bleachers. Pica was not the same person that she had been a year ago, at this same rodeo. She had become an adult with all her inherent skills still intact, but a stronger sense of self. Her heart was bigger and braver. Her self-confidence in worldly matters had grown. Cooney’s ability to accept and enjoy life was rubbing off on her. Straight’s organized ambition inspired her.

  The scariest part of the whole preceding year had not been her hair-raising escape from Feliz. Instead, it had been the fear of being entangled in the bottomless red tape of the criminal charges she had faced. She realized how frighteningly possible it was that she could have spent years lost in the system trying to prove her innocence.

  She still suffered the occasional bad dream, but the cure was easy: just reach under the covers and touch her man, her white knight. The magnitude of his sacrifice to save her was still too big for her heart to encompass. It surrounded her like a protective cloud. She was letting it absorb slowly. It allowed her to grow closer to him with every passing day. If they were separated, he was as close as the phone. He always answered . . . always.

  Two weeks ago Nova had negotiated for Pica a three-year endorsement contract with Powder River Projectiles or, as Cooney and Powder River called her, “the Pistol-Packin’ Pawnshop Pinup Girl.” She had already made two appearances at gun shows on the way from Pincher Creek to Tucson, one in Billings and another in Salt Lake City. Her posters were circulating around the country and were wildly popular. The Elk Foundation had lined her up, as had the Federation of North American Wild Sheep and Cabela’s.

  On a personal note, Pica’s family loved Cooney! Uncle Firmy thought he was an intellectual, especially when they’d been drinking! And her dad approved. In the last several weeks she had begun to realize that Cooney and her dad were alike in many ways. Not a surprise to most, knowing how much she loved her dad.

  The voice of Cleon List brought Pica back to the present: “This year we decided to abridge the rules and include probably the most well-known woman bronc rider of our time . . .”

  As Pica lifted one spurred boot onto the rail to climb over, she glanced back at “her boys.” Straight was looking at her studiously. Cooney had a surprised grin on his face and made a “why not?” gesture with his arms.

  She blew them one big kiss from her famous lips and climbed on over. She sat in the seat, stirruped her feet, pulled back her chap legs, straightened her spine, and lifted the rein. The big horse snorted. As she nodded her head she imagined they were launching into space.

  Pinochle, she thought, isn’t the only game where you can shoot the moon!

  THE REAL END

  Pistol-Packin’ Pawnshop Pinup Girl

  She stood out from the guns and knives and other pawnshop treats

  Like a head of iceberg lettuce in a sea of sugar beets.

  It was then I pledged allegiance to what set my heart a-whirl,

  ’Twas a pistol-packin’ poster of a pawnshop pinup girl.

  I don’t know what piqued my interest, but perhaps it was that pose

  In her gunbelt bandoliers, breathing gun smoke up her nose.

  A blonde bombast of bullets with a heart of gold beneath

  Like Hemingway or Roosevelt, a rose between her teeth.

  Calm ye down! I bade my urgings, Wonder Woman was not real.

  She was just the dream of some poor fool’s imaginary zeal.

  Yet before me blazing brightly with her hands upon her hips

  She stared down from an eagle’s nest, a feather on her lips.

  She had a little smile with a quizzical appeal

  That either said, “Come closer” or “Cut the cards and deal.”

  It’s a look that men have pondered since Eve came out of her shell.

  Lancelot got lost in Guinevere’s, Pancho Villa knew it well.

  Poor fools down through the ages, be they kings or pimply teens,

  Have spent their lives and fortune in pursuit of what it means.

  Thus, she held me with those eagle eyes, as sure as with a sword

  That pierced my heart and pinned me to her bug collection board.

  Where I sit today, a captive of her Mona Lisa guile

  With her hammer cocked and ready and her lever-action smile.

  ’Cause I’ve hocked my last resistance to temptation in this world

  For a pistol-packin’ poster of a pawnshop pinup girl.

  Acknowledgments

  Editing fiction about cowboys, written in cowboy lingo can be frustrating for those who revere spell check and the Oxford Dictionary Punctuation Guide. It can be especially difficult if the author makes up words. So it is with souflacious gracissitude that I praise Erin Turner, my editor, and Linda Konner, the agent-in-charge, for turning my meandering story into a book.

  I also am beholden to the PRCA and the cowboys who have befriended me and let me be a part of the great sport of rodeo. A special thanks to Wally Badgett for saddle bronc riding quality control and a final plaudit for Carolyn Nolting, who trod the creative path of Straight, Cooney, and Pica with me as their tale unfolded. She has that special quality of being able to set aside reality where cowboys are concerned.

  It is a genetic defect. Her dad was a cowboy.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Cowboy poet and large-animal veterinarian Baxter Black says, “I was raised with the coyotes. No, this is serious. I was raised in New Mexico, did three years at New Mexico State University in Las Cruces, then four more years at Colorado State University to earn a doctor of veterinary medicine degree.

  “Throughout the summers of my college y
ears I worked at different livestock operations as ‘cowboy labor.’ To help support myself, among other things, I had a band and rode a few bulls. Upon graduation I practiced for thirteen years in the livestock business and would still be there if cowboy poetry had not hijacked my life.

  “Since poetry is virtually illegal in the United States, I have had to work around the edges of the mainstream to make a living—outside the box, as it were. For thirty years I have been successful performing cowboy poetry (think of Shakespeare rather than Robert Frost) at venues across the country and in Canada. It has all been word-of-mouth.

  “To augment my performances, over the years I have expanded into books, CD and DVD publishing, a regular column, a commercial radio program, National Public Radio and Television appearances, satellite television, and production of commercials.

  “Our entertainment business, my wife’s and mine, began in Colorado. Several years ago we moved to Arizona. I still have a heavy travel schedule, and we have five employees in our operation. Cindylou and I have a daughter and a son.

  “We live on a small ranch close to the Mexican border, and I punch cows when I’m not on the road. It ain’t a bad life.

  “This is my third novel. Rodeo has been a running theme. I have always been a fan and follow the action. The National Finals in Las Vegas is my favorite extravaganza! My thanks to the PRCA, who have always included me as one of their ‘characters.’ ”