Revenge at the Rodeo

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Don’t call me Son!” Hardin snapped. “And I don’t need your crummy old lobby, anyways!”

  As he turned to leave he bumped into a large man standing beside the chair. “Watch where you’re goin’!” the boy sputtered with a truculent air. He would have passed but the man put a big hand on his arm and pulled him to a stop.

  “Your name’s Hardin,” he said. “I saw you put up a pretty good ride on Firecracker two nights ago.”

  Hardin had not looked at the big man but now he did. “Oh, yeah—” he nodded, then identified the other, “You’re Sixkiller right?”

  “Yeah.” Luke saw the clerk waiting. “I’ll take care of it. No more problem.”

  “Well, it’s not my say, boys.” The clerk shrugged. “The manager—he told me no more guys sleeping in the lounge.”

  Hardin mumbled, “Who needs this old lounge!”

  Sixkiller studied the boy, noting the circles under the dark eyes and the unwashed black hair falling across the forehead. “Where’s your gear, Boone?”

  “Oh, out behind the bushes.”

  “Go get it.” Sixkiller nodded. “Got two beds in my room. No sense one of them going to waste.” He saw refusal forming in the boy’s proud eyes, then laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve camped out in a few lobbies myself, Boone. Besides, if you keep on riding as good as I saw you the other night—and if I keep on getting tossed off on my head, like tonight—you’ll probably be offering me a bed in your room!”

  The ease of the big man and the grin on the wide lips made it all right. “I’ll be right back.”

  When Boone dashed out the front door, Sixkiller wandered over to the desk. “Put down two in my room, buddy,” he ordered. “Don’t tell the kid.”

  “Sure! Hate to see young guys having it so rough.” He nodded approval at Sixkiller, adding, “No charge. Good to see you guys hang together.”

  When Hardin came back carrying a battered green suitcase, Sixkiller led him to the room. “Take that bed, Boone.” Then he directed, “You take a quick shower. I’ve gotta have something to eat.” Then he forestalled the boy’s refusal, saying casually, “Never could stand to eat alone. Get moving, cowboy, I’m starved.”

  As a matter of fact, Sixkiller had eaten after the last show, but he saw the signs of hunger on the boy’s pale face. He picked up a book and read while the boy showered and dressed, then the two of them left the motel. “There’s a pretty good little place I found over close to the arena,” Sixkiller commented as they got into the car. “Not fancy, but good chow. Cheap, too.”

  Half an hour later the two were seated at a table at Andy’s Steakhouse. “Name of the place is a little deceptive, Boone,” Sixkiller told him as the waitress came over. Then he gave the order without asking Hardin. “Bring us two chicken-fried steaks, two baked potatoes, and some vegetables to go with it, Beautiful.” He grinned.

  “Anything else?” the tall waitress returned his grin with a provocative gleam in her blue eyes.

  “I can think of a couple of things, Honey, but a gal like you has probably got a tough boyfriend. I can’t afford to get beat up, so just bring us two slabs of that good apple pie with ice cream on top.”

  She giggled, gave the order back, ending with “apple pie a la mode with ice cream on top. Right at you!”

  At first the boy tried to conceal his ravenous hunger, but soon he gave up and attacked the steak in a feeding frenzy. Sixkiller toyed with his, cutting it into two sections and finally admitting, “I’m not as hungry as I thought, Boone. My daddy taught me wasting food was the unforgivable sin. Wish you’d help me out with this.”

  After the pie, the two men sat there drinking coffee, and Sixkiller saw that the food had practically drugged the young cowboy—that and lack of sleep. Luke yawned hugely and drawled, “Like to stay up and jaw with you, Boone, but I can’t keep my eyes open. Let’s go get some sleep.”

  “All right.” Boone almost dozed off in the car, but when they got to the room and were getting ready for bed, he opened up a little. In answer to Luke’s seemingly careless questions, he told a little about himself. He spoke of his mother freely—except when he mentioned the hard life she had led. Then his voice grew unsteady, and he quickly changed the subject. He’d been raised, he said, in a small town just outside St. Louis. When he didn’t mention a father, Sixkiller asked “What about your dad? What’s he do?”

  Sixkiller didn’t miss the anger that pulled the muscles of Boone’s face taut, and the boy’s voice was spare and tinged with concealed anger as he bit out, “Never knew him.”

  At once Sixkiller changed the subject, talking about horses, and found that the boy had one blazing ambition, and that was to be All-Around Cowboy. He had undressed and slept in a pair of faded shorts. The youngster was well-built, but his wiry frame did not have the muscle that would be there in a few years. Lying there with his eyes closed, Boone’s voice grew more slurred, and finally he dropped off in the middle of a sentence.

  Sixkiller got up and took the billfold from the boy’s faded Wranglers. There were two single dollar bills, which brought a frown to Sixkiller’s face. He found four pawn-ticket stubs in one pocket, a snapshot of a bay horse with Boone mounted and smiling, and a Missouri driver’s license. In the “secret” fold that all cheap billfolds have, he found the most interesting item—a picture of Clint Thomas, the All-Around Cowboy for the past three years and a newspaper clipping in which he was quoted as saying in response to a reporter: “No, I’m never going to get married again. Women and kids slow a fellow down!”

  Sixkiller stared at the clipping and the picture and put his dark eyes on the sleeping boy. Guess every young cowboy’s got to have somebody to look up to, he thought, slipping the wallet back in the jeans. But as he lay in the darkness, the corollary to his thought came: But I wish Boone had picked one with a little more character. Then he murmured softly as sleep overtook him, “I guess character doesn’t make a guy sit on a thousand-pound horse any better!”

  The next day Boone stuck to him like a burr. Sixkiller paid for breakfast, and that afternoon the boy made a good ride. Seeing how nervous Boone was, Sixkiller stayed close to him as the saddle-bronc contest drew near. “I don’t know anything about this horse, Luke,” the younger man worried. “Don’t have no idea what to take on him.”

  “Why don’t you ask somebody?”

  “Why, I don’t want to do that!”

  “You’re a fool if you don’t,” Luke commented and, seeing Fighting Bill Baker standing close, called out, “Hey, Bill, you ever ride this hoss?”

  Bill came at once, nodding. “Shore have. Take about a thumb and a fist.” He gave Boone a nod, adding, “You can fit a ride on this one, kid, but rake him as soon as he hits the gate. He’ll soldier on you, if you don’t!”

  “About a thumb and a fist?” Boone asked, holding up a clenched fist with the thumb extended.

  “Maybe a little more. He nearly fetched me once.”

  Knowing exactly where to hold the rein on a saddle bronc was important. If a cowboy held the rein too high, he had no control, and the horse could put his head down between his feet and pitch. But if the rein was held too far toward the neck, the horse could jerk the contestant right over his head.

  “You got to share what you know with the other guys, Boone,” Sixkiller advised. “It’s a pretty select club, and you may get in a brawl with another cowboy but here at the chutes, you forget all that.”

  It was, he saw, a new concept to Hardin, and the young man sat digesting it as the announcer continued, “And your next event, ladies and gentlemen, will be cowboy saddle-bronc riding. In this event the cowboy must have his spurs in the horse’s shoulder as he passes the judges; he must spur throughout the duration of the ride; and he must not touch the horse or himself with his free hand. Neither may he lose a stirrup. Now coming out of chute number two on a mighty tough horse, King Tut, a young cowboy from Santa Fe, New Mexico, Stan Ketchell!”

  “Get on your horse, Hardin
,” Clyde Lockyear called out, and Boone took a deep breath.

  Bill Baker and Luke both positioned themselves, Bill saying, “Easy, now, hoss . . . !” The animal flinched and trembled as Boone let his weight down, and Luke shook him by the mane to distract him from what Hardin was doing. Leaning first to the right and then to the left, Boone guided his boot tips into the small stirrups. Finally he settled his full weight on the horse’s back. At once the horse started and jumped, trying to rear, but Luke held him with a firm grip on the halter.

  It was the worst moment of the whole affair, for if a rider got thrown in the chute, it was bad news. But the horse settled down, shuffling nervously. The announcer called out, “And now Boone Hardin, a young cowboy from St. Louis—coming out of chute number one on Breakneck!”

  The gate loader waited for his signal. Boone nodded, ordering, “Let me have him,” and the gate swung open. Breakneck hit the open space, and Boone spurred him in the shoulders, right out of the chute. When the horse hit the ground on the second jump, Boone hit the shoulders again, but not too high. He went to the cinch and camped for one jump as the blood pounded between his ears, all that pounding that a man had to take when he got on a bucking horse. He went to the shoulders again and from there on out spurred about eight inches in front and the same distance behind. It seemed like a half hour before he heard the gun, kicked both stirrups away, and ignoring the pickup men, vaulted off Breakneck, feeling hot and clean and happy.

  As he walked back, Boone kept his head down, until the announcer spoke excitedly. “That was as good a ride as we’ve seen from a young man in many a year, folks. Remember that name—Boone Hardin!”

  Luke was waiting for him and hit the shoulders of the young cowboy, grinning. “You son of a gun! Just for taking first money, you can buy the steaks tonight!”

  “Don’t know if it’ll be first,” Boone protested.

  “If you don’t get at least an eighty, we’ll shoot the judges!”

  Then the announcement came, “And that ride was worth eighty-seven points, ladies and gentlemen. . . .”

  Tom Leathers and Fighting Bill Baker gave the boy a slap on the shoulder, and so did several others. Then suddenly Clint Thomas came up, saying, “That was a good ride, Hardin.”

  Boone nodded shortly. Sixkiller saw the strange expression of shock and something else that washed across Boone’s face as Clint appeared. When Hardin spoke, it was a mere grunt, “Thanks,” with little life and nothing in his face.

  Thomas stared at him, surprised, then walked away toward his chute.

  Later, when Boone was standing beside the bull he was going to ride, Sixkiller carelessly noted, “You didn’t have much to say to Clint, Boone. You jealous of him?” Suddenly aware that his question had brought the young cowboy’s guard up, Luke added, “I guess all of us maybe would like to take his spot.”

  He said no more but studied the bull until Hank Lowe came to stand beside him. “Hank, what the blazes do I do with this bull?” Luke asked.

  Hank grinned broadly, “I guess it don’t matter so much what you do with him as what he does with you, Luke.” Then he stared at the banana-horned bull with a big splotch on his hip. “He’s a good one, Luke. He’ll buck straight away, but he’ll really show out for you.”

  “Must be eight feet tall.” Luke shook his head. “Don’t know if my legs will reach his belly.”

  He climbed aboard the bull and got his grip on the rope, which was looped like a noose around the animal’s middle. It was braided flat and had a handhold like the flat handle of a duffel bag. He put his gloved hand in this loop, knuckled down, and Hank, standing on the chute, pulled all the slack out of the rope. When it felt right, Luke took the free end of the rope, laid it across his palm, then wrapped it behind his hand. His glove had been resined, as had the bull rope, and with his free hand he pounded his riding hand shut.

  “How’s that feel?” Hank asked.

  “Okay.”

  Then Hank was gone with his helper, Rocky James, to get into position. When the bull shot out, they worked in tandem, racing along on each side of the bull, about four feet away from the animal, staying back far enough so as not to interfere with the ride, but close enough so that they could get there quickly when the rider finished.

  He was a good bull, bucking wild and strong, but Luke had no trouble. He stayed on until the timing horn made a loud “Uggaah!” and the ride was over.

  Somehow Luke flipped over the bull’s shoulders, doing an almost complete somersault in the air and landing close to the bull’s shoulder. But the bull rope had gotten twisted, and he was tied to the bull.

  The crowd screamed, and Luke scrambled to his feet. But the bull was so tall that he was jerked off his feet at every jump. It was a terrible strain on his arm, and he thought of one man who’d had his back broken in just such a way.

  Suddenly Hank Lowe appeared. While Rocky James kept the bull distracted, Hank twisted at the rope, and Luke fell free. The bull went bucking on down the arena, and Hank helped Luke to his feet.

  The crowd gave them a great hand, and Luke said with a straight look, “Appreciate it, Hank.”

  “Sure.”

  Despite the accident, Luke got a good score for his ride. Seeing that Boone was talking excitedly to Bake Dempsey, he decided to find Dani. He discovered that she was not scheduled to race that afternoon, and when he failed to find her at the arena, he called her room. When she answered, he suggested, “Let’s get together for some detective talk. How about the pool? Nobody would ever notice us there.”

  “I didn’t bring my suit.”

  “Neither did I, but I’ll pick up something at a store.”

  “You think I’d let you buy me a swimsuit?”

  “Hey, I read Cosmopolitan all the time,” he assured her. “Be cool.” He stopped off at the store, came out of the swimwear department in ten minutes, and was knocking at Dani’s door fifteen minutes later.

  “Slip into this little number,” he said.

  She opened the sack and pulled out what seemed to be a fat piece of black string. Her eyes widened, and she threw the suit back at him. “You idiot!”

  “You don’t like it?” he lamented, shaking his head in amazement. “The girl I bought it from said it was the latest thing.”

  Dani moved to shut the door, but he stuck his foot in it. “Here, I got this one, in case you were too prudish for the real thing.” He watched as she took out the plain, one-piece black suit.

  “Probably won’t fit,” she muttered and turned to go inside.

  “Oh, it’ll fit, all right,” he called out as the door shut. “I’ve been doing research.”

  Dani slipped into the suit, threw a bath towel over her shoulder, and made her way to the pool. Two small girls were playing in the shallow end, watched by their mother, and two women were sunning themselves on a pair of plastic benches. Luke came sauntering down the walk. He was wearing a black suit with a silver fish on it. As he walked by, both the women followed him with their eyes. Dani didn’t blame them, for he was impressive, a flat stomach ridged with muscles, an arching chest, and not a spare ounce on him.

  “Suit’s okay,” he observed, giving her a look and throwing down his towel. “I found one that fit your personality better—but it had a flaw on the knee.”

  “Race you for supper,” Dani said, ignoring his jibe. “Six laps.”

  They lined up and plunged in, but it was no contest. Dani left him behind on the first lap, and though he churned the water into froth, she ended two laps ahead of him. He pulled himself out of the water with a smooth motion, explaining sourly, “I’ve been sick.”

  Dani laughed, and the two of them lay down on towels. “Wish I were an Indian,” Dani said with an envious look at his smooth, copper skin. “I never had a good tan.”

  “We’ll have a ceremony.” He was lying flat on his back, his eyes closed. “I’ll make you a blood brother. Doesn’t hurt much. Then you’ll be a squaw.”

  They lay in the sun, t
he heat baking them, and once he got up to go get some ice water. When he came back, she told him that Ben had called. “Says we better be careful.”

  “Yeah, he’d lose his job if anything happened to you.” Sixkiller rolled over and propped his head on his elbow. He reached out and ran his fingers down her cheek. “Know what? I got a new roommate.”

  “I’m afraid to ask!”

  “It’s that kid, Boone Hardin.” He told her how he’d taken the boy in, then how he’d gone through his identification.

  “You did that when he was asleep?” she demanded. “You have no morals!”

  “Sure I do.” He nodded. “I just don’t use them much in my line of work. But it’s a good thing I don’t. Found out something about the kid. He carries a picture of Clint Thomas hidden in his billfold.”

  Dani thought about it, then shrugged. “I guess lots of young cowboys look up to Clint. He’s the champion.”

  “Sure, but later, when Thomas came over to speak to him, the kid froze up. Hardly spoke to Clint. I didn’t dream it, either. We all noticed it.”

  Dani turned over and let the sun soak into her back. “Well, Officer, what conclusion have you drawn from all that?”

  Sixkiller shook his head, saying, “Nothing.” A shadow fell across his face, and he shaded his eyes. “Hey, Megan,” he called out. He sat up, adding, “Go get suited out. I’ll race you in the pool. Already beat everybody else.”

  Megan shook her head, “Don’t have a suit.”

  Dani sat up and spoke with a straight face, “Why, you could let her have the one you bought, couldn’t you, Luke?”

  For once the muscular Sixkiller was caught without a word. “Aw, that was a joke, Dani.”

  “Make him give you the key, Megan,” Dani insisted. “But if you wear that suit, better hire a bodyguard. It’s pretty daring.”

  “Give me the key, Sweetie,” Megan grinned. “I feel like doing something daring.” She took the key Sixkiller fished out of his small pocket, then left.

  While she was changing, Dani told Luke, “Ben was right about you. He said you were the skirt chaser, not him.”