And If I Die

by John Aubrey Anderson

  When she felt the bull was thoroughly ministered to, she said, “Okay, that’s enough.”

  Mose helped her down, and she used a short finger to lecture the animal. “You play fair tomorrow. And don’t be mean or I won’t feed you any more cubes.”

  She took Mose’s finger in her sticky little hand and led him back to the grandstands.

  They made it back to the stands in time to watch a young girl wave a camera at the empty place between Missy and Patterson and ask, “Is anyone sitting here?”

  Patterson pointed at Mose. “Yes, ma’am, that man coming right there.”

  “Shoot!” She looked at the seats behind Patterson. “How about right there?”

  Hugh Griffin had taken the ticket, but failed to use it. They were left with an abundance of seats.

  “I think we’ve got seats to spare,” said Patterson. “Why don’t you help yourself?”

  “Thanks a bunch.” The girl scrambled into the seat next to Homero’s girlfriend.

  Kim Kerr put the camera to her eye and looked out at her field of view. She would be shooting directly across the area in front of the bucking chutes; the Jason Groves Motors sign was displayed prominently in the background. The only obstructions between her spot and the advertisement were the horizontal railings that bordered the arena. She experimented with sitting, standing straight and stooping; Jake’s big sign presented itself perfectly at two different elevations.

  The excited professional photographer told no one in particular, “This is perfect,” and snapped a picture as a lean deputy sheriff stooped over so his daughter could peck him on the cheek. The man touched his hat brim to the people in front of her and let the small child lead him away.

  Kim tapped Patterson on the shoulder and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Kim Kerr. I appreciate the seat.”

  Patterson introduced himself and the rest of their group.

  The steer wrestling started while they chatted, followed by team roping, then saddle bronc riding. The Denton High School drill team put on their boots to do a routine during what Dee called “halftime.”

  “What comes next?” asked Dee.

  “Calf ropin’,” Missy answered.

  “Calves? As in baby cows?”

  “Not quite babies . . . just small cows.”

  Dee pointed at the far end of the arena. “Those men on those horses are going to rope babies?”

  “They aren’t babies, Dee. They’re calves.”

  “Won’t it hurt?”

  “Usually not.”

  Dee was holding her clenched fists in front of her face and biting her lower lip when they turned the first calf loose. The cowboy’s loop fell over the calf’s head, and the cowboy was off his horse and closing in on the small animal when the rope snapped taut; the calf flipped into the air and landed hard on its back. Dee flinched.

  The man pinned and tied the bawling animal.

  The PA system announced the roper’s time, then gave the audience the next cowboy’s name and a little of his history.

  Seconds later, the gate snapped open again, and the next calf bolted for freedom. The cowboy was a second behind him, swinging his loop, but most of the people within thirty feet of Dee Epstein were not watching the man on the horse.

  The pseudo West Texas ranch-raised girl with the dark hair and new boots was jumping up and down screaming at the calf, “Run! Run!” It was the beginning of a modest rebellion.

  When the third calf came out, Missy was on her feet laughing and yelling with Dee. By the time the fifth calf was making his run, most of the women and some of the more fun-loving men were standing and shouting encouragement to the calves. Even the more serious western folk enjoy a good time, and when the last calf made his run, everyone in the stands was cheering for what they were calling “the underdogie.”

  Cowgirls came out next and conspired with their agile mounts to make barrel racing look easy. When they were finished, the announcer said, “Well, folks, it doesn’t get any more exciting than what you’re about to see next. Our final event this evening is the most dangerous sport in the world . . . bull riding. You boys be getting the racing barrels out of the way, and we’ll turn loose tonight’s first rider.”

  While the men were making the bucking area ready, the little man who’d been entertaining the crowd did a few tricks with his dog and swapped banter with the announcer. Minutes later, he took his dog in his arms and fixed his padded barrel so he could get into it quickly. As he was arranging his gear, three more men in bright costumes made their way into the area.

  Dee pointed at the new men and asked, “More clowns?”

  Missy seemed distracted and didn’t answer.

  Homero Gonzales leaned forward and spoke over Dee’s shoulder, “Ellos son hombres.”

  She understood part of the Spanish but not the implication. “They’re men?”

  “No.” Gonzales smiled patiently and pointed at the clown standing in the barrel. “That is a barrel man . . . a clown.” He pointed at the other men who wore the ridiculous costumes and the painted faces. “Those are bullfighters . . . tough hombres.”

  Dee didn’t understand, but she nodded.

  Missy was thinking that bull riding is always the last event on the card because it’s the most popular event. It’s the most popular event because it’s the most dangerous.

  Dee’s bafflement regarding the clowns was not uncommon. First-time spectators at a rodeo almost always misunderstand the role of the men in the funny costumes—the ones who stay so close to the action during the bull riding.

  The real clown is safe in his padded barrel when the bull and rider are turned loose. As often as not, the showman and his little sidekick will come out to amuse the crowd if the time between rides begins to drag. Their act is funny and entertaining, and the crowd always loves it, but the real clown is back in his padded haven before the bucking chute opens.

  The other men wearing the clown costumes are not clowns—and they are not there to amuse anyone.

  In Texas and all across North America there are two events on the rodeo circuit that take people into heart attack country. One is bullfighting; the other is bull riding. In any one rodeo, the odds of a contestant getting butted, stepped on, gored, or possibly killed are better than excellent—it’s practically guaranteed.

  Every man who competes in these professions is probably asked once a day why he chooses this way of life. Most of the answers they come up with have something to do with fun, challenge, money, or all three. The average rodeo fan is able to comprehend what would drive a man to match his wits and skill against twenty-two hundred pounds of angry muscle, bone, and horns.

  The bullfighters’ wild attire and ludicrous greasepaint are camouflage for serious men. Cat-quick athletes with animal instincts and the courage of a mongoose, these men are present for one reason—to protect the bull riders. They wear clown regalia, but that’s where the fun stops; when the bull explodes out of the chute, what they do looks like entertainment, but it’s all business.

  To do the job well calls for at least three men— one on either side of the bull’s head, and another one nearby to come to the aid of the rider if he gets in trouble, gets thrown, or when he dismounts. The bullfighters want to make sure at least one man is free to attract the attention of the bull when the bull rider gets off.

  In those rodeos where they have their own event, bullfighters compete to see who can be the most daring. In simple terms, this means they have a contest to see which man can come closest to causing fatal heart attacks among the spectators without getting himself hurt or killed.

  The first rider came out and lasted two seconds before the bull managed to sling him out of position during a tight turn. The rider hung on long enough to get thrown at the top of the next jump. He was splayed out, ten feet in the air, when the bull kicked, hurling the rider into the rails by the bucking chutes. The cowboy was still in the air when the bullfighters moved in front of the bull. They worked the animal away from the cru
mpled heap in front of the rails and hazed him into the exit chute. People ran to the aid of the bull rider, but he was already getting to his feet. They led him from the arena while Bledsoe reminded the crowd how dangerous bull riding was and began giving the spectators the name of the next rider and his bull.

  There were eleven more rides. Missy looked at her feet while the men rode and the crowd cheered.

  On the next-to-the-last ride, when the arena was ready, the PA system clicked and Bledsoe said, “Our next bull rider is Bill Mann. Bill hails from right up the road in Pilot Hill, Texas, and this is his first year in rodeoing. For his first ride in big-time rodeo, Bill will be coming out of chute number six on Straight Flush out of the McMillan string. Straight Flush is . . .” Bledsoe continued to ad lib while two stock handlers moved to chute number six to help out with whatever problem was holding up the rodeo.

  A minute later, Bledsoe said, “Looks like we’re all set. Keep your eyes on chute number six, folks . . . it’s Bill Mann on Straight Flush . . . the man against the bull. And here he comes!!!”

  Collin Turner told Bill Mann and Will Pierce that only two things can prepare a man for what a bull ride is like. The most realistic would be a bull ride. Letting your friends tie you to a barrel and roll you down a rocky slope might be a close second, provided the boulders try to run you down and trample you.

  Straight Flush wasn’t a big bull, but that wasn’t necessarily advantageous for the rider. Because he was smaller, the bull could move more quickly than most of his larger counterparts. Every time he landed, he was on his way into the air again. The really outstanding bulls were always unpredictable—Straight Flush was good, but he wasn’t outstanding. One of his most noteworthy attributes was the gift of being able to snap his body from side to side while in the air, thus ending most rides before they began. The little bull’s other major trait endeared him to rodeo promoters almost as much as his athletic ability—he hated anything on two legs, especially bull riders.

  Rodeo promoters know something most spectators would hesitate to admit—the onlookers want to see riders get in trouble. When you pit the strength of the bulls, their horns, and their villainous temperaments against the men tied to their backs, you end up with a guaranteed formula for disaster. Having Straight Flush on the card was good for business because the people who were familiar with the bull’s reputation knew he was going to go after whoever was in the vicinity as soon as he got rid of his rider.

  The bull was leaving the ground when he came out of the chute. Mann knew Straight would probably snap in the opposite direction at the top of the jump, but he had spent hours telling himself not to anticipate what the bull might do. The world around him was silent. He couldn’t hear the crowd’s screams. He couldn’t see the people. Straight Flush snapped to his right and immediately back to his left more quickly than a hooked fish. Mann stayed in the middle. The bull landed hard on all four legs and left the ground in a hard turn to his left; Mann and his mind went with him. There were no colors in the world; there was only the bull and the abrupt rise, fall, and tilt of the horizon. The bull grunted and heaved, turning hard, landing harder, but the man stayed fixed to his back. A loud horn made itself heard in the man’s head, and he waited until the bull was kicking before releasing his hand and rolling free to the bull’s right. Straight Flush felt the rider leave his back and wrenched around in the direction his enemy took.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mann landed on his hands and knees in the sawdust. The bull reversed his turn and was directly over him. The animal’s fore-feet were on the ground, and from the angle of its legs, Mann figured its rear hooves were still about fifteen feet in the air. Even as he was deciding on an escape route, he could see the animal sweeping his head back to the right, and the young rider knew who the big, bad bull was looking for.

  Uh-oh.

  Collin Turner’s words were in his mind as he started to roll to his left. If you end up under the bull, start rolling. Get clear, glance over each shoulder while you’re gittin’ to yore feet to find out where the bull is, and then head for the fence. An’ don’t be takin’ off runnin’ without knowin’ where he’s at. I seen Billy Jack Costello git throwed out in Childress back in ’53. He got up an’ run right spang into the side of the bull so hard it near broke its ribs. That bull belonged to ol’ man Carlson’s string—an’ he gave Billy Jack “what fer” for tryin’ to hurt his “baby.” Mann rolled once more for good measure, and started scrambling to his feet.

  He was just coming off his hands when a bullfighter grabbed his belt and arm, yelled, “Git outta here!” and half-shoved, half-threw him toward the arena’s eight-foot-high barrier.

  He came erect at a full sprint and heard an angry snort from the bull; it was right behind him. He could hear the crowd now, and they were screaming. Another shout from the bullfighter, urgent with alarm, penetrated the thunder from the stands. He felt, or imagined, the hot breath of the bull on his neck. Mann didn’t think he could run faster, but his speed increased.

  Looking back would only cost him speed—the fence didn’t seem any closer—in fact, it looked like it was an additional ten yards away. Bull riders who’d been squatting along the arena fence were scrambling up the railings to get out of the bull’s reach. From the corner of his eye Mann saw the pick-up men spurring their horses in his direction. The pandemonium behind him was gathering energy—snorts and grunts from the bull and horses, yells from the riders telling him to run, and shouts by the bullfighters as they battled the enraged bull traveled in slow-motion from his ears to his brain . . . This is what a war sounds like. The crowd was on its feet, adding multiplied panic to its screams and yells. The fence was close—almost within reach. The sounds from the crowd increased in pitch—their terror told him he wasn’t going to make it. He felt the breath of the bull on his back and made his jump while reaching for an upper rail with his outstretched hands.

  His hands closed on the rail third from the top, and he timed the thrust of his leg to coincide with planting his foot on one of the lower rails. His chest slammed into one of the rails, and his face hit the next one up while his body was still moving at sprint speed—the air was emptied from his lungs by the force of the impact. He scrambled up a couple of rails until he felt fairly safe. The crowd cheered with relief, and he turned to check on where the bull was.

  Straight Flush knew from past experience that if a rider beat him to the fence the race was over, and the bull lost interest in Mann the second his boot touched the railing. The cowboy-hunter went looking for someone more accessible and squared off with one of the bullfighters.

  The bullfighter was amusing and frightening the crowd by trying to hang an old straw hat on one of the animal’s horns. The bull was intent on wearing something a little bit more substantial.

  “You got out of there pretty quick.” Clark Roberts was standing on the other side of the rails. He was grinning at Mann.

  “What’d you do the first time you got in front of one of those guys?”

  The deputy’s smile faded. “You were slow.” The rider looked at him for a moment, then both men laughed.

  The lawman jerked his head toward the bucking chutes. “You wanta see this last ride?”

  Mann was climbing back down into the arena. “Uh-huh. If I got somebody to beat, it’ll be him.”

  The pick-up men hazed Straight Flush to the exit chute, and the announcer said, “Another man from Pilot Hill, Texas, folks. Coming out of chute number five is Will Pierce on Hurry Sundown. Will is another newcomer to the professional ranks, and we’re glad he’s here. Hurry Sundown is from the Chilton string; he’s been out ten times since the last time a rider heard the bell. Here he is, folks, Will Pierce!”

  The gate-man pulled the rope, and the bull came out in a rolling right turn and then snapped to his left. While all four of his feet were still off the ground he twisted back to his right and came down with bone-jarring ferocity on his front feet. He was humping his back for the next plunge befor
e his rear feet came in contact with the dirt. It was eight seconds of warfare, but the man on the bull handled it well. When the horn sounded, he released his grip and dismounted to the right, landed on his feet, and folded to the ground. Hurry Sundown knew when the game was over and turned toward the exit chute. Will got off the ground and limped toward the rail. He stopped a few feet short of Mann.

  Roberts spoke while Mann watched the bull being hazed out of the ring. “Good ride, hoss. One of the best t’night.”

  “Yeah. Not bad for a rookie.” Mann grinned at his rival.

  Will straightened slowly. “Well, it might’a been jest what the doctor ordered for you, ol’ buddy,” he said between clinched teeth, “I did something wrong on that last jump an’ I think I busted one o’ my ribs.”

  Bright and awesome, an angel waited until Hurry Sundown was almost to the throat of the exit chute and appeared in front of him.

  The bullfighters and stock handlers watched in amazement as the bull skidded to a halt ten feet short of the chute. Sundown lowered his head and pawed a shovel full of dirt and sawdust twenty feet into the air while letting out a long, questioning bellow. When one of the men slapped him with a hat, the bull pivoted and headed back into the arena. Fuzzy Miller, the closest fighter, grabbed at a horn and missed. Sundown charged through the group of astounded men, bawling and shaking his head.

  Mann watched the bull break through the line of tenders and gallop for the center of the arena. Once there he braced his legs and slid to a stop. He swapped ends, looked back the way he’d come, then shifted his gaze and shook his head. He was looking at Will Pierce.