Revenge at the Rodeo

by Gilbert, Morris

  She hurried to get Biscuit, then went at once to where Ruth and two other women were already in place. “Thought you might have chickened out,” Ruth teased with a smile.

  “Nothing I’d like better!”

  “You’ll do fine,” Ruth encouraged her. “You’re third, aren’t you? I’m before you, but I’ll hang around. We can go celebrate your victory later.”

  Dani was too tense even to smile, and as the first rider got in place, then shot out into the arena, the anxiety got worse. The time of the first contestant was announced, and then somehow Ruth was finished, and Clyde was saying, “Nothing to it, Dani.”

  She looked down to see his round face peering up at her and nodded. “You’ll do fine.” He comforted Dani with a smile, and then she heard her name. Holding the reins in her left hand, she spoke to Biscuit and was suddenly propelled into the arena. Though she tried not to think of the thousands of eyes fixed on her, she could not help it. She was out of sync with Biscuit’s gait and overran the first barrel badly; then she tried to cut back too sharply, so that Biscuit almost went down. But her spunky horse had amazing balance and scrambled to an upright position. Dani felt so confused and rattled she could not even see the next barrel—but the rust-colored horse could. That was what made a good barrel horse.

  Horses used in the other events have moving objects to follow, which capture their attention. But the barrel-racing horse has to boom into the arena, find the first barrel (often under poor light), then spot the others.

  Dani barely saw the second barrel before Biscuit was leaning into his turn, and all she could do was hang on instead of leaning into the turn to help the horse. Her poor riding made her a dead weight. Once she caught sight of the third barrel, Dani misjudged it badly and sent Biscuit too close. His shoulders struck the barrel, and even as her horse completed the turn and headed back to the gate, she saw the barrel teeter—then go down, rolling in the dust.

  “Oh, too bad for Dani Ross!” the announcer cried. “Let’s have a hand for a good try, folks!”

  Dani found herself almost weeping with shame as she slid off Biscuit’s back. She leaned against his neck, hot tears gathering in her eyes as he tried to nip her gently. She had lost before, but not in front of thousands of people.

  “It’s no fun losing, is it?” Looking up quickly, she saw the young cowboy who had been knocked out by Clay Dixon, standing close. He was wearing a black outfit and looked very young. As she dashed the salt tears from her eyes, he looked at her with a bitter smile. “At least you’re a woman and can cry when things get bad. A guy can’t even do that!”

  Then he turned and left as Ruth approached, concern on her face. “Oh, Dani, don’t mind it. We all knock a barrel down from time to time.”

  “Silly, isn’t it, Ruth?” Dani managed to smile a little. “Here I am just riding barrel to cover up my identity, then squalling like a spanked puppy when I lose!” Taking a deep breath, she went on, “I don’t like Clint’s idea.” When she saw confusion in Ruth’s eyes, she asked, “Didn’t you know? He got another call for money. Says he’s going to sleep beside the horse—with a loaded gun.”

  Ruth paled, then shook her head. “He’s so stubborn! I’m going to try to talk him out of it!”

  But she could not, which came as no surprise to anyone. Dani kept close to her, and that night after the rodeo found herself at a smoky bar with the couple—and with Luke Sixkiller. He had whispered, “We gotta work up a hot romance, Dani. Just to make it look good, you know?”

  As they danced she finally complained, “You don’t have to make it look this good, Luke! You’re holding me too tight!”

  “Oh, sorry, Dani. Just a result of my careful police training.”

  Clint drank heavily, and when the four of them left for the motel, he said, “Not me. I’m going to bed down with old Tarzan tonight.” He gave Ruth a kiss and left despite her pleas.

  “I’d sure have to love a horse to sleep in the barn with him,” Luke observed when the three of them were ready to go to their rooms.

  “He does love Tarzan,” Ruth explained in a dispirited tone. “He’s had him a long time. Good night, Dani. Good night, Luke.”

  “She’s got it bad,” Luke watched her go. “Too bad.”

  Dani glanced at him. “What does that mean?”

  “Why, nothing, I guess, except that Clint Thomas just isn’t a marrying man. Just likes women—and they like him.”

  “Ruth’s not like those women, the groupies!”

  “No, she’s not. Which probably will make it worse when he drops her.”

  Dani stared at him. She felt tired and disgusted with her ride—and was still not convinced that the undercover thing would work. “You made a good ride, Luke. Did you see my little fiasco?”

  “Bad break. You keep watching me, and you’ll see some hammerheaded horse kick my rear,” he added. “You want to cry on my manly bosom?”

  She stared at him, until she realized this was his way of trying to help. “If I don’t do better tomorrow, save a place for me—assuming I can get Megan to move over. She was like a leech on you when I left, wasn’t she?”

  “All over me.” Sixkiller nodded. “I had to give the poor kid a break. We’ve got a date tomorrow night. Better take the old bosom now. May not be available tomorrow,” he warned her hopefully.

  “Good night, Luke.” Dani smiled, then added, “I’m glad you found a room here, not halfway across Houston.”

  “Yeah, lucky break—a sudden cancellation.” Luke grinned at her.

  Dani slept poorly that night, finally dropping off to sleep about two or three. Too early, a loud knock on the door brought her up in a fright.

  “Who is it?” she called out, struggling into her robe.

  “Sixkiller. Open up!”

  She pulled the robe together and opened the door. The policeman brushed by her, and she saw that his face was tight, but his eyes were gleaming. “Somebody ruined Thomas’s horse,” he announced.

  “Luke, no!”

  “Took Clint out with a club or something, then broke both the animal’s front legs.”

  “How’s Clint? Is he badly hurt?”

  “He’s okay, but I never saw a guy hurt so much over a horse.” Sixkiller shook his head, compassion in his eyes. “Cried like a baby—and didn’t care who saw it!” Then he snapped, “Get dressed. We’re going down there.”

  He left, and Dani threw on her clothes, telling herself, It could have been worse. They could have broken Clint’s legs. The image of Biscuit with his legs broken flashed before her. She shuddered at the thought, then left the room quickly.

  7

  “Too Good to Be True!”

  * * *

  Lieutenant James Stark looked more like an unsuccessful insurance salesman than a member of the Houston Police Department, Dani thought. He was of average height, overweight, and had a pair of weak blue eyes behind rimless glasses. As he looked over the crowd that had gathered around the dead horse, he barked, “Get back there! There’s nothing to see!” and gave an irritated wave of his hand.

  Stark turned back to face Clint Thomas, who was standing with his head down. “Now, Mr. Thomas,” he demanded in a petulant tone, “let me hear this one more time. First of all, you say you were hit on the head and knocked unconscious. What time was that?”

  Thomas took his gaze off the ground and stared at the policeman. He was wearing the same blue shirt and Wranglers he’d worn the last time Dani had seen him, but they were rumpled. His hair, usually neatly combed, was mussed up, and he had a heavy growth of beard. “I don’t know,” he said angrily. “I don’t have a watch.”

  Lieutenant Stark gave him a tired glance and was about to argue, but Clyde Lockyear stepped forward, intervening, “It was four fifteen when I found him, Lieutenant.” Clyde was neatly dressed and obviously felt important as he went on, “I’d come down early to check on a sick animal, and I heard the shot. Came running in to find Clint and the horse.”

  “All right, we
’ll need a statement from you on that. Now, why did you shoot the horse, Mr. Thomas?”

  Clint stared at him blankly, then explained impatiently, “His front legs had been broken. He was hurting.”

  “And is this your gun?” Stark said, holding up a Colt .45 automatic.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a permit for it?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Lieutenant Stark shook his head and lectured Thomas as if he were a naughty schoolboy. “That’s against the law, you know. I’m afraid you’ll have to do some explaining about this weapon downtown.” Then he put the gun in a brown leather case, turned back to Thomas, and asked blandly, “Do you ordinarily sleep next to your horse and a loaded forty-five, Mr. Thomas?”

  Clint glared at him. “No. I usually sleep in bed—and it’s none of your business who I’m with.”

  “It’s my business to find out if a crime has been committed.”

  “My horse has been killed.” Clint spoke between clenched teeth. “He’s a valuable animal, and that’s a crime even in Houston, isn’t it?”

  “Not necessarily,” Stark pointed out. “He was your horse, and there’s no law that I know of against a man’s killing his own horse. Lots of people kill their pets.”

  Thomas was in bad shape, Dani saw. He had turned pale, and his hands were not steady. “I didn’t break his legs,” he spat out, attempting to get control of himself. “Look, I’ve just been hit on the head with a blackjack, my horse is dead. Why don’t you start looking for the guy who sapped me?”

  Ruth came forward and put her arm around Clint. She had been crying, and she pleaded, “Lieutenant, you’d better know that there had been threatening calls about Tarzan.”

  “Who are you? And what do you mean threatening calls?”

  “My name is Ruth Cantrell. Clint has had more than one call from a man who said he’d maim his horse if Clint didn’t pay him money.”

  “Is that right, Mr. Thomas?” Stark demanded. When Clint nodded, the policeman fussed, “Well, why didn’t you tell me? We’ve wasted a lot of time here. Tell me about the calls.”

  He listened as Thomas told him, and in the middle of the conversation Stark ordered the uniformed officer, “Monroe, get this area roped off and call the lab.” He turned back to Thomas. “Now, let’s go where we can talk without all this disturbance.”

  “Lieutenant . . . ,” Lockyear interjected, “I think you might like to know that several of us have received calls from this man.”

  Stark’s gaze went to him, then swept the circle. “Anybody else who’s gotten one of these calls come with me.” He moved away, followed only by Clint, Ruth, and Lockyear.

  “Wonder how many won’t own up to getting a call?” Luke murmured. He and Dani stood there looking at the horse. How would I feel if it had been Biscuit? Dani wondered and her chest felt a wrenching sensation.

  The officer Stark had spoken to was looking around helplessly. Spotting Dani and Luke, he came up, brow furrowed, and inquired, “Hey, know where I can get a rope to cordon this area off?”

  Tom Leathers, standing in the crowd, offered, “You can use mine. It’s right over across from the chutes.”

  The officer gave Sixkiller a quick look and seemed to like what he saw. “Hey, buddy, keep these people back while I get that rope and call the lab, will ya?”

  “Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”

  As soon as the policeman followed Leathers out of the area, the crowd broke up. Sixkiller began walking around, his dark eyes searching the ground. He said nothing, but as he completed a large circuit, he stepped closer to the place where the horse lay. Suddenly he took out a handkerchief, bent down, and picked something up.

  “What is it, Luke?” Dani asked.

  “A clue,” he murmured, holding out the handkerchief.

  Leaning closer Dani saw a brown leather object.

  “It’s a sap—a blackjack.” Luke nodded. Wrapping it carefully, he put it in his pocket, then grinned at her. “Nothing is ever this easy. It’s too good to be true.”

  “You don’t think it was used to knock Clint out?”

  “Probably was, but finding out who it belongs to won’t be easy.”

  “Not if there are fingerprints on it?”

  Luke shook his head doubtfully. “There won’t be any on the handle. It’s braided. You could only find a latent print on the end, the thick part that holds the metal. And leather doesn’t take a good print. Anyway, when’s the last time you ever heard of a crime being solved through prints?”

  Dani stared at him, then looked around to see the policeman coming back. “Are you going to give it to him?”

  “No.” Luke stared at her, saying no more. When the officer approached with a rope in his hand, he cheerfully called out, “Give you a hand with that, buddy?”

  “No, I can handle it. Thanks for watching things.”

  As Sixkiller and Dani moved away, he outlined his plan, “I’ll get this off in Express Mail to our lab in New Orleans. Should know by tomorrow if we’ve got something.”

  The news of Tarzan’s death swept over the rodeo, not only among the performers and hands, but to the world outside. When Clint’s name was called out by the announcer in the calf-roping contest, he added, “And you ought to know, folks, Clint’s not riding his own great horse, Tarzan, this time.” His voice grew lugubrious as he explained, “Clint lost old Tarzan last night—and that’s a big loss for any man!”

  Ruth, standing beside Dani muttered, “Why don’t they just shut up about it?” Her face was tense. “It’s cut Clint all to pieces, Dani. He doesn’t have any business riding today—but he won’t listen to me.” They watched as Clint came out, made a good catch, and threw the calf. The time was good, but Clint didn’t smile, and he walked off, disappearing without a word.

  Ruth herself was off, for her time was 18 seconds. She came back, not even pausing to speak to Dani. Timing was relative in barrel racing, the championship being decided by the total amount of prize money won over the season.

  Ruby moved her horse closer to Dani and leaned down to say, “She’s got to go give him a shoulder to cry on—but it won’t do any good.” Dani saw a cold look in her eyes, and Ruby added, “Clint won’t let anybody help him. I ought to know.” Her horse skittered, and she pulled him down with a firm hand. “It takes a dumb horse to make him cry! He won’t cry over a woman, I can tell you that!”

  She was, Dani saw, not sorry over the tragedy, and her ride was very good—16 seconds. Dani mounted Biscuit and watched as a black-haired girl named Tammy Bryan made her ride, but she knocked over two barrels. Coming back, the girl said in disgust, “Well, you can’t do worse than second if you don’t knock a barrel down, Dani!”

  Her name boomed over the speakers, and Dani moved Biscuit into position. She blocked her mind from everything except the ride, the world closing to a narrow opening, and commanded, “Go, Biscuit!” The horse’s muscles bunched under her, and he fired out into the arena, turning toward the barrel to the left with only a touch of her hand on the rein. Perhaps it was good that the first ride had been so bad, for this time she had no thought of the spectators. It was as though she were alone in her practice field, just she and the driving horse beneath her.

  Suddenly the joy of riding swept over her, and as Biscuit rounded the first barrel, coming so close that her right boot touched it lightly, she cried out, “Go!” and the horse responded with a blinding burst of speed. They took the next two barrels smoothly, and the crowd cried its approval as they drove back toward the entrance.

  “And it’s 15.5 seconds for Dani Ross!” the announcer boomed. “A fine ride for the little lady!”

  Dani pulled Biscuit to a halt, slipped out of the saddle, and was patting his shoulder when Hank Lowe came up to say, “Hey, now, that was one good ride, Dani!” He was wearing his clown costume, for the bull riding was the next event. He had on a huge putty nose and wore red pants held up by green suspenders. A battered round bowler perched over h
is eyes, and Dani noticed that he was wearing shoes with baseball spikes—for speed and sureness, she understood.

  “Thanks, Hank. Now you be careful out there today.”

  Her concern surprised him, and he grinned. “Sure, Dani.” Then he asked, “Think you might come over to the trailer and do a little math this afternoon?”

  “How about two o’clock?”

  “Just right!” He nodded, a grateful look in his warm, brown eyes. He moved away as the announcer began talking about the bull-riding events.

  When Dani went to the space reserved for trailers, she found Hank’s easily, as a donkey poked its head around a corner. Behind the animal, Hank was pulling at the halter around its neck. He suddenly looked up to see her. “Here’s your teacher, kids,” he yelled, and at once Cindy and Maury came piling out the door of the trailer.

  “What are you doing with that donkey?” Dani asked curiously.

  “Trying to train him,” Hank answered, wiping the sweat from his brow. “But, he’s too smart for me. To be a donkey trainer, you gotta be just a little bit smarter than the donkey!”

  “Aw, Daddy, you’re smarter’n that ol’ donkey!” Maury objected.

  “Maybe so, but I ain’t as stubborn.” Hank grinned. “Air conditioning’s on inside, Dani. Go on in. If they give you any trouble, let me know. They’re about as stubborn as Ulysses here is!” he warned her as she went inside with the children.

  The interior of the trailer, to Dani’s surprise, was neat as a pin. It was not large, but it sparkled, and she said, “You are better housekeepers than I am.” She saw a desk that had been placed along one wall, and asked, “Is that our school?”

  “If we hurry,” Maury piped up, “we can finish in time to see ‘Batman.’”

  But Dani had come prepared. She had visited a Christian bookstore earlier and made some purchases. She opened the sack and laid out several magazines, which Maury pounced on. “Hey, are these puzzles?” he yelled. Thumbing through them, he boasted, “I’m good at puzzles!”