Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery)

by Laura Crum

  Giving Burt his head, I sent him in pursuit, and the whole world vanished in a blur of speed and power. All I could feel was the horse running, all I could see was the steer, his horns bobbing to the rhythm of his driving strides. Inexorably Burt was closing the gap. We drew closer, closer.

  I swung my rope with as much force as I knew how, trying to feel the weight of it, as I had been taught. We were on the steer now, Burt "rating" over the steer's left hip like the reliable horse he was, giving me a shot.

  I swung the rope one more time, measuring distances with my eye, and threw it, letting my body take over, doing it on automatic pilot. My mind registered that the loop went on and I pulled it tight, taking the slack out.

  Now dally the rope around the saddle horn, the dangerous part, the part where ropers lose fingers. Again my body made the moves cleanly on automatic pilot, Burt staying close to the steer, giving me the time I needed to dally safely.

  Dallies secure, I reined him off to the left, feeling him gather himself to pull as he picked up the weight of the steer and began to tow him. I looked back over my shoulder, watching the steer. Rule number two, three, and four of team roping: Never take your eye off the steer.

  The red and white longhorn made a particularly high leap on the end of the rope and Lonny delivered his loop neatly, snagging the steer's two hind feet while they were in the air. Gunner stopped hard, bringing the heel rope tight, and I whirled Burt around to face them. Time.

  Eleven and a half seconds, not bad for a beginner. I smiled as Lonny and I put slack in our ropes to let the longhorn up. He scrambled to his feet and trotted off unconcernedly; he'd been roped plenty of times before.

  Lonny looked pleased and patted Gunner's neck. "The colt did real good," he told me.

  "That's great. I didn't really get to see much of him. I was too busy keeping my end under control."

  "You done good." Lonny gave me a wide grin as we rode back up the arena.

  A familiar voice hollered at me in raucous tones from the fence. "Sweetheart, any time you want a new partner, you just let me know."

  Bronc. At least he wasn't feeling too bad to tease. I smiled in his direction and was rewarded by a wolfish baring of the teeth. Good sign.

  I got a few congratulatory comments from the other ropers and stood behind the chutes for a minute, basking in the warmth and relief of a job well done. Then it was time to prepare myself for the next steer.

  Freddy's jackpots were "three steers" and "progressive after one," which meant that if you roped your first steer you got a second one, and if your time was good on these two steers you got a "high-team run" on the third steer. Quickest time on three steers won the roping.

  I started moving Burt around at the walk, then the trot. Not too long until we would be up again.

  My heart did its pounding-in-the-chest routine once more as I backed into the header's box for my second run. The steer in the chute was black and white and had the look of a Holstein cross. Slow, I thought. Probably slow. Freddy grinned at me as I met his eyes. "Good one, sweetheart. Just for you."

  I nodded my head, Freddy opened the gate, the black and white steer galloped out. Giving Burt his head, I dashed after him. The steer was slow all right, but he was also crooked. Just as we caught up to him, he cut left, virtually disappearing under Burt's neck.

  On another horse I might have pulled up, since the wreck that ensues when the head horse stumbles over a steer and goes down is one of my worst nightmares, but Burt was that rare and unique individual-a horse that virtually won't fall. I could feel him bounce off the steer's back end, then lift himself up, avoid tangling his feet, and move over to the left, showing me the steer once more. I had a shot. I threw.

  Miraculously, or so it seemed to me at the moment, the loop settled on the steer's horns. I pulled it tight, dallied, and turned Burt. He towed the animal off easily, and I could see Lonny and Gunner come in behind it. Lonny took a quick shot, the ropes came tight, and the flagger dropped the flag.

  Eight point nine seconds-the quickest run I'd made to date. I felt a wide grin breaking out on my face as I turned to Lonny.

  He was grinning back. "That worked."

  "Yeah," I said, "it did."

  "We'll be high team out," he added. "Probably."

  Uh-oh. My high spirits took a quick dive. I'd never been high team before. Nerves would likely destroy me. If you let them, I told myself. Only if you let them.

  But I could already feel the fist clenching itself inside my gut. Only about half a dozen more teams left to run and high teams would be called. At Freddy's, high teams were run in order; the fastest time on two steers went first, next fastest second and so on, until there were no more teams who had a legitimate chance. Legitimate chance in this case translated into 6.5 seconds, which was the fastest time ever recorded at Freddy's. If a team could place with a 6.5 run, they were allowed to take a shot at it.

  I, on the other hand, was highly unlikely to rope a steer in anywhere close to six seconds. In fact, I thought a little desperately, I was pretty unlikely to catch and turn three in a row.

  That was no way to think. I knew how to do this. Quit worrying, I told myself. Empty your mind. Free your body up to do the job it knows how to do.

  Obediently, I turned Burt away from the chutes and began to walk him around. I swung my rope, loosening my muscles, and reminded myself firmly that it was just another steer. You can rope him or not rope him, it's not the end of the world, Gail.

  Almost immediately, it seemed, I heard Freddy's raucous voice calling high teams. "First out is gonna be Gail McCarthy and Lonny Peterson with twenty point four."

  Here we go. I was conscious of friendly smiles and encouraging looks coming my way as I walked toward the box. Burt's ears, red with black tips, grew stiff with tension as I maneuvered him into the back corner. Like all rope horses, he knew what was coming.

  Keeping a firm hand on the reins, I steadied him as I looked at the steer. He was white, a Charlais cross. What that meant, God only knew. Charlais were notoriously unpredictable. He might run hard, might be crooked, might even stop in front of me.

  What the hell. I increased the pressure on the reins slightly, tucked my rope under my arm, and met Freddy's eyes. Blanking every thought out of my mind, I nodded for the steer.

  The gate clanged open; the white steer jumped forward. I released Burt, who sprang forward after him like a rocket off its pad. The steer ran hard-I could feel Burt driving, accelerating; I urged him with my body and he closed the gap in a sudden spurt.

  I swung the rope, feeling the weight of it, focusing on the steer and throwing out of the swing. The loop curled crisply around the horns, I pulled the slack without fumbling, dallied, and let Burt tow the steer off, a tide of relief washing over me like a wave.

  I'd done it; I'd caught and turned the steer. I was barely aware of Lonny and Gunner coming in for the heel shot, didn't see where Lonny's loop went. I saw the rope come tight and whirled Burt around to face as the flagger dropped the flag. Only then did I notice Lonny's sheepish expression. He'd caught one of the steer's legs rather than two-an automatic extra five seconds would be added to our time.

  "Sorry, Gail," he said as we put slack in the ropes so the steer could get up. "I didn't get the loop all the way under him."

  "That's okay," I told him, still feeling the glow of happiness from the awareness that I'd got it done. I'd competed under pressure and come through. At the moment, I didn't really care if we placed or not.

  Lonny, on the other hand, shook his head in frustration. "Damn. I had a perfect shot, too. This colt worked like a champ." He patted Gunner's neck with one hand, and I looked at my blaze-faced bay horse and smiled with all the pride of a mother whose kid has won first prize at the science fair.

  Our time was announced as I5.5, which, on top of 20.4 made us 35.9 on three steers. Respectable, but hardly quick.

  I rode Burt over near the chutes to sit next to Lonny and Gunner and watch the other high teams g
o. Part of me wanted them all to miss, so that we could win the pot. The less than admirable part of me. I told myself that they all wanted and perhaps needed to win as much as I did and tried to watch the competition with a detached eye.

  Four teams had already run; everyone had missed or legged their steers. We were still winning as I watched Katie Garcia ride her gray gelding, Clyde, toward the header's box. Katie was a good roper, far more proficient than I was; she'd been raised in a roping family and had started competing in her early teens. She was also a friendly, outgoing person who had given me several helpful tips when I first started and was always supportive. I liked her a great deal, and I especially liked her horse.

  Clyde was one of those special horses who took your heart. He tried hard, had a kind eye, did his best every run, within his limitations. His big suitcase of a head didn't have any classic eye appeal, and his bulky body and thick bones made him slower than was desirable for a head horse, but he was a good one, nonetheless.

  I was watching him now, thinking what a nice horse he was and that I wouldn't mind so much if Katie was the one to beat me, when suddenly things started to go wrong.

  It happened, as most accidents do, so quickly that it was virtually unpreventable. One minute Katie was urging Clyde into the header's box, the big gray gelding dancing a little and fretting. Like many rope horses, he often had a mild attack of jitters when he was about to perform. For no particular reason he backed up three or four strides, and his rear end bumped the front of the old water truck Freddy had parked near the chutes.

  One moment he was backing and tossing his head, the next his leg was caught. Against all likelihood his right hind leg, in a backward reaching stride, had slid into the gap between the front bumper and the body of the truck. Clyde jerked his leg upward sharply in an attempt to free it, and succeeded only in wedging his fetlock immovably. Before any of us realized precisely what had happened, Katie was clinging to the horse's neck as he lunged and struggled to get loose, her face both frightened and confused.

  "He's caught in the truck," someone yelled.

  "Get off of him," came from another quarter.

  Katie bailed awkwardly off and grabbed the reins. I could hear Lonny's voice next to me, low and rough with emotion. "He's going to tear his foot right off."

  Without thinking, I jumped off Burt and moved quickly toward the struggling Clyde. "Whoa now," I said as I put a hand firmly on the lurching gray rump and leaned my shoulder into his flank, trying to force him to hold still. Running my hand down toward his hock, I took the pose of a shoer holding up a hind foot. I put all my muscles and my will into holding him there.

  To my relief, I could feel Clyde stop struggling. He stood on three legs, his right hind fetlock pinched in the vise of the bumper, my shoulder pressed against his quivering flank. Katie was holding his head and talking to him. Despite the fact that I could see bright red blood staining his gray ankle, he wasn't moving, at least for the moment.

  Several more people converged in our direction when Freddy's bellow froze everyone in place. "Don't scare him," he shouted in the voice that had become famous all over California. "Stand back. Gail there is enough."

  In Freddy's hands was a crowbar; where he'd gotten it or how he'd managed to produce it so quickly, I had no idea. Quietly he moved up to Clyde, patting his shoulder as he approached the bumper where the horse's leg was caught.

  Freddy got the crowbar under the bumper and began prying carefully. Stay quiet, Clyde, I pleaded silently as I pressed steadily against his flank.

  I t seemed to take forever. I could see the muscles under Freddy's shirt strain. That thick, stout body with its heavy ham-like arms worked against the metal, struggling to get the bumper loose. For long minutes Freddy looked anything but old as he slowly pried the bumper away from the fender, the metal giving up with a long rending screech.

  Leaning hard against Clyde's flank to steady him, I reached a hand gently down the horse's trapped leg and pulled it free as Freddy's crowbar inexorably widened the gap between fender and bumper. Clyde held his leg up for a second, trembling, as blood dripped off of it, then set the foot gingerly down on the ground and stood. I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Clyde was able to bear weight on his leg.

  "Do you want me to have a look at it?" I asked Katie.

  "Please." Katie's face was calm, as was her voice, but I could see tears in her eyes. She was petting Clyde's neck gently, reflexively, over and over.

  "I'll get my emergency kit and be right back."

  The emergency kit was in the tack box of the horse trailer. A small, waterproof chest, it contained tranquilizers, painkillers, needles and syringes, antibiotics, bandaging materials, thermometer, stethoscope, and wound dressing. At the very bottom was a kill shot, loaded and waiting. Thank God it wasn't needed now. Packing the whole chest back to where Clyde was standing, I gave him a shot of butazone in the jugular vein-to reduce the pain and keep inflammation at a minimum-then washed the wound, which was less severe than it appeared, stitched it, and applied a pressure wrap. Giving Katie a bottle of antibiotics and some bute pills, I told her, "Keep him on these for five days; the dosages are written on the bottles. You'll need to rewrap this every other day at first. Then after a week, every third day. Two weeks from now, let me or your regular vet have a look-the stitches can probably come out then."

  "Okay." Katie nodded and took the stuff. She was still rubbing Clyde's neck. "Thanks, Gail."

  I smiled and rubbed the horse's neck, too. "I think he'll be all right."

  "I sure hope so."

  Katie led Clyde off toward her trailer. He limped, but he could walk. I felt an immeasurable relief and gratitude, and said a small prayer of thanks. Lonny tapped me on the shoulder and I turned.

  "He gonna be okay?" Lonny's eyes were concerned.

  "I think so."

  "That's good." He handed me a hundred-dollar bill. "Your share. We won. It paid two hundred dollars."

  "It did?" For a moment I was confused. I'd forgotten all about the competition, didn't realize that the rest of the high teams had been taking their turns as I was working on Clyde. I hadn't even heard Freddy bellowing out the winners. Under the circumstances the money seemed anticlimactic.

  But still, my first win. Smiling at Lonny, I tried to conjure up a congratulatory attitude and felt myself grabbed and hugged from behind. Lonny's face registered only amusement; before I could react further I heard Bronc's rough voice in my ear. "Honey, I could use a roping partner like you. You bring in the money and you could stitch up my old pony when he gets hurt. You ready to trade old Lonny in on a better model?"

  Lonny howled with laughter at that. "At least you can't say younger, Bronc."

  Turning, I gave Bronc a quick hug.

  "Anytime," he chuckled. "Anytime."

  Looking at Lonny, I said, "I'll unsaddle Gunner, if you're done with him."

  "Thanks." Lonny was already getting on Pistol.

  "Don't you want to rope anymore?" he asked me.

  "I don't think so. I've had enough action for one day. I think I’ll quit while I'm ahead."

  Lonny barely heard me; he was already riding away. His mind was focused on competing and anything that didn't pertain to that he tended to ignore.

  This was fine with me. I untied Gunner and climbed on him, scanning the crowd. What I was planning to do next was something Lonny definitely wouldn't have approved of. I was going to corner Trav and have a talk.

  ELEVEN

  Cornering Trav turned out to be easy. I simply rode up to him where he sat on his little sorrel mare, watching the roping.

  Travis looked as he always did, a tall, slender kid with an unremarkable face-brown eyes and hair, fair skin, a strong chin-wearing Wrangler jeans and tennis shoes with spurs, a T-shirt that said No Fear, and a lime green baseball cap. He sat on the mare with his usual relaxed grace-the quiet, understated poise of the natural horseman. Only the expression on his face was different. Travis, normally exuberantly friendly, l
ooked somber.

  I was reminded suddenly of all the talk-that Travis was really Jack's son, the result of one of his many extramarital flings. That was why he'd hired Trav and let him live on the ranch, given him a horse and taken him roping-so people said. Just who had told me this? I tried to remember and couldn't. It was talk-stories that had clung to Travis for as long as I'd known him.

  Which was for two or three years, more or less. I'd met him on one of my first calls out to the Hollister Ranch; Jack and Bronc had both been out of town and Travis had had a colicked horse. I could still remember my first impression of Trav-young, friendly, worried, anxious to do right by the horse, eager to comprehend my instructions. Unlike a good many men in their twenties, Travis wasn't on any kind of a macho trip.

  Fortunately the horse had made a complete recovery and, ever since, Travis and I had been friendly. Not friends, exactly-I knew nothing of his personal life, and he knew as little of mine. But we chatted amiably together when we saw each other, mostly about horses, which was, of course, what we had in common, and my initial impression had only been confirmed. Travis was a genuinely nice, easygoing kid.

  "I'm sorry about Jack," I said to him.

  His eyes shifted to my face and then back to the roping. "Me too." There was a long moment of uncharacteristic silence. Finally he said, "I heard you were up there when it happened." The words seem to come out reluctantly, and he kept his eyes on the activity in the arena.

  "Yeah," I agreed. "A friend of mine was out with him the night he was killed."

  Travis looked at me briefly. "Do the cops suspect her?"

  "I don't think so."

  More uncomfortable silence.

  "What will you do now?" I asked him at last.

  "Stay on the ranch and work for Bronc." There was some emotion in his voice, something I couldn't place.

  "I hear Jack left the ranch to be part of the state park."

  "Yep." Travis didn't seem curious as to how I had heard it. "Bronc and I get to live there, just like we are, and take care of it. It's in Jack's will."