And If I Die

by John Aubrey Anderson

  “I got it.” Mason looked at Missy and Patterson. “Y’all want coffee?”

  Missy shook her head, but Patterson contradicted her. “That’d be good, thank you. Both of us.”

  Missy looked at her husband first, then at Mason. “I’d like that.”

  Mason ordered the coffee, and the high school girl who waited on him asked where he was from.

  “Miss’ippi.”

  “I thought so.” The girl’s cheeks dimpled and she patted him on the hand. “You talk just like my granddaddy. You know where Rolling Fork is?”

  “Yes’m. Been there a time or two.”

  She brought the coffee, and Mason, who had wasted too much of his life minding his own business, said, “Honey, I need to ask you somethin’ important.”

  “What?”

  “If you died tonight, would you go to Heaven?”

  “Sure as shootin’,” with softer dimples and a warmer hand pat. “I accepted Christ when I was nine years old. How ’bout you?”

  “Yes’m. I was a little older, but He got it done. How much I owe you?”

  “It’ll be seventy-five cents. We have to charge a lot ’cause it’s the fair.”

  Mason handed her a twenty-dollar bill and said, “Keep the change, hon. Buy yourself somethin’ nice.”

  She could hear something he wasn’t saying. “Are you okay?”

  “Just about perfect.” He winked at her, and she watched him walk over and hand cups to a young man and woman. The black man with them said something and they moved away.

  They were approaching the arena’s east entry ramp when Patterson stepped clear of the pressing crowd. The other three followed, and the four gathered in a small circle by one of the grandstand’s metal pillars. Patterson held his cup up, “He said, ‘Do this in remembrance of Me.’ ”

  Without hesitating, his companions held up their cups. The four said, “Amen,” and a camera flashed.

  “Hi, y’all.” Kim Kerr came from behind her camera. “Have you got room for me to sit with y’all tonight?”

  Missy took the girl’s arm and moved to the ramp going into the arena. “If we don’t, we’ll just scroonch up.”

  Dee was waiting for them by their seats. Hugh Griffin walked up as they were settling in.

  Patterson introduced Griffin to Mose and Mason. The old men were both gracious and reserved. They shook his hand firmly and looked him in the eye—Washington was warm enough; Mason remained cool and aloof. The academician from California had seen pictures of men like the two—men dressed in starched khakis, their shirts buttoned at the neck—time had stooped their backs but not their backbones.

  Mason leaned close to Missy and asked, “Where’s Jeff an’ Ceedie?”

  “Jeff’s in Washington. I told Ceedie not to come.”

  “Good. How ’bout the sheriff an’ that deputy?”

  “Don’t know about the sheriff. Clark’ll be here.”

  As if waiting to be announced, Clark and Trudy Roberts chose that moment to make their entrance. Roberts was in civilian clothes—straw cowboy hat, starched shirt and jeans, and flat-heeled Ropers; his badge was pinned to his belt in front of his holster. Trudy went straight to Mose so she could show him what she had in her sack.

  Patterson stood to make the necessary introductions. Griffin shook hands with Roberts first and stepped back.

  When Mason put out his hand, Griffin watched the deputy take off his hat. “Good to see you again, A. J.” He swept his hat to include the others in his greeting. “We’re glad you’re here.”

  “It’s good to see you too, son.” He looked at Roberts’s pistol. “Lotta sidearm.”

  Roberts looked down and rested his hand on the gun. “Biggest I could find.” He let his eyes sweep the arena. The sawdust surface was carpet smooth and smelled faintly of fresh cedar and livestock. The gate under the press box was swinging open in preparation for the grand entry. “Big enough to stop a grizzly.”

  “That ain’t gonna make the difference,” said Mason.

  “Yes, sir, I know . . . but I don’t think He’d have me leave it at home.”

  Griffin heard the comment and wondered, Who wouldn’t have a deputy sheriff leave his pistol at home?

  Trudy had the waxed paper out, showing off her cattle cubes. “Mr. Erwin says two cubes won’t hurt him any.”

  “Well, I’m right sure he’ll be pleased to see you.”

  “Me too. Daddy told me a thousand times not to ask you to walk with me. Why’d he say that?”

  Mose smiled and stood up. “I reckon he wants you all to hi’self.”

  “Oh, he’s not goin’. My momma’s down there somewhere.” She pointed toward the chutes. “She said she’d take me. Will I see you after?”

  “After?”

  “After the rodeo.”

  “I hope so, baby. I’d like that.”

  Their brilliance found its source in Him whom they loved and worshiped.

  They were facing outward, standing in a loose circle around their humans, alert, listening and watching. When Roberts and his daughter walked away, one of those who remained looked at the child’s angel and said a single word: Vigilance.

  The child’s angel said, “Yes, my leader. For Him who sits upon the throne and for the Lamb.”

  Link Bledsoe came over the PA system and asked the men to remove their hats so they could pray. He said another well-read prayer, then told everyone who the first bareback rider would be.

  Kim Kerr took photos. Griffin engaged Dee in one or two short conversations; the remainder of their group was quiet. Homero Gonzales hadn’t showed.

  Michael Epstein got to his seat while the steer wrestling was in progress. He sat down behind Mose and said, “Sorry I’m late. Anything going on?”

  Mose shook his head. “Been quiet.” He glanced to his left and saw a red-faced Millie Clark marching toward them with Trudy snuggled in her arms. He watched the way Millie planted her heels as she threaded her way through the crowd and added, “’Til now.”

  “Old age is making my dadgum brain soft.” She was fuming, talking loud enough to be heard ten rows up.

  The child was clinging to her mother’s neck. She was covered with dirt and sawdust, clutching her paper sack; tears were drying on her cheeks.

  “You okay, baby?” Mose asked.

  “He wasn’t behavin’ nice. I was bein’ nice an’ he tried to butt me.”

  “Daddy always said there’s no such thing as a pet bull. He was right.” Millie’s anger was becoming the fear of what could’ve been. She was beginning to tremble.

  Missy eased over and said, “You wanna sit down?”

  Millie tried to take a steadying breath. “Maybe in a minute.”

  Bledsoe announced the first rider’s score and started his spiel about the man coming out of chute number two.

  Clark Roberts was nodding and speaking to people, working his way down the wide aisle toward his wife. Millie saw him, and her lower lip began to quiver. He started talking before he got to them. “AnnMarie told me Sweet was acting up. Are y’all okay?”

  Trudy held her arms out to her father. When he took her she buried her face against his neck.

  Millie took his free arm and held it; she was trembling again. “I wasn’t paying attention . . . not close enough. I mean, who expects . . .” She shuddered. “She was trying to get her sack open . . . had her head and shoulders between the bars . . . leaning into Sweet’s stall. I untied Tony to move him closer to the water, and he jerked free—probably to get at the sack.” She shed her first tear and reached out to touch her daughter. “The stupid horse got his nose between the rails and knocked her out of the way at almost the same instant Sweet hit the rails where she’d been standing.” She closed her eyes and held a shaking hand over her heart, forcing out the words. “I thought he got her . . . he hit the rail . . . hard enough to bend it. If Tony hadn’t . . .”

  The crowd around them watched as she leaned against her husband’s chest and sobbed.

>   The men on the front row stood so the family could sit down.

  Trudy was frowning. “He not stupid.”

  Ten minutes later, Trudy was sitting on Mose’s lap and retelling the story. Millie recovered almost as quickly as her daughter, and Missy introduced her to their group.

  During a lull in the arena, things grew relatively quiet around them at the moment Trudy told Mose, “Tony was nice.”

  “He was nicer than Sweet, honey,” said her mother, “but knocking you fifteen feet down the aisle when he snatched at the cubes is not nice.”

  “Tony wasn’t snatchin’.” Trudy frowned and wiggled out of Mose’s lap. She put one fist at her waist. “Tony was heppin’ me.”

  “Okay.” Her mother brushed at the child’s hair. “He was helping.”

  The child held out the crumpled sack. “He handed me back my sack when you picked me up.”

  People in the near vicinity knew the Robertses, and they’d been listening to the account of what happened. A few smiled at the little girl’s tale.

  Millie took the sack and stared at it. The last time she’d noticed it, it was lying in the dirt outside Sweet Thing’s stall.

  In the aftermath of the bull hitting the fence, she had run to the child and scooped her up. Trudy cried loudly, mostly out of fear and anger. She was holding the child against her, patting her back, comforting her, saying, “It’s all right, baby, it’s all right now. Mommy’s got you.”

  The little girl abruptly broke off her crying in the midst of a long wail, sniffed, and said a soft, “Thank you,” as if talking to someone who approached her mother from behind.

  Millie had turned to find Tony standing quietly at her shoulder.

  She squeezed the child close and carried her out of the stall area. “You’re so welcome.”

  Clark Roberts reached for the girl’s hand. “Tell me about Tony handing the sack to you.”

  People several rows up were leaning forward to hear what the child would say. Trudy was unperturbed. “When Mommy picked me up, he rolled it over with his nose an’ picked it up an’ handed it to me. He was very behavin’.”

  Millie was holding a hand over her mouth and shaking her head; new tears wet her cheeks. “He . . . wouldn’t . . . do . . . that.”

  “Would too,” argued her daughter.

  “He picked it up with his mouth?” asked Roberts.

  “You’re bein’ silly, Daddy,” the little girl giggled. “You know horses don’t have fingers.”

  A few people wondered at the spunky little girl’s tale; most just smiled.

  Mason listened to the child’s story without moving. At its conclusion, he leaned back and looked at Mose. Mose pursed his lips and nodded imperceptibly. Clark Roberts and the Pattersons were staring across the arena at nothing.

  Bucking animals and tenacious riders came and went. Minutes passed.

  Mike Epstein caught Mose’s eye and asked, “Did I hear that little girl right?”

  Mose nodded. “You understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Mostly, I guess.”

  Dee listened to the exchange then asked her brother, “Understand what?”

  “You don’t want to hear it.”

  “I do too.”

  “An angel or angels intervened for the kid . . . pushed her out of the way.”

  Dee watched for eight seconds as a man rode a horse that didn’t want to be ridden, then said, “You know, it’s more likely I could stay on one of those horses for an hour than carry on a conversation with you that doesn’t eventually lead to our having to talk about God.”

  “Whew!” Epstein’s shoulders sagged, and he used a hand to smooth the thick mustache. Dee could be blunt, brilliant, and brittle, all in the same breath. “Is it that bad?”

  “Only all the time.” She softened her words with a wink.

  Missy heard Dee’s words, but she didn’t see the wink. She turned in her seat and propped her arm on Dee’s knee. “Tell him you love him.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Do like you’re told,” Missy said gently. “Tell your brother you love him.”

  “He knows I love him.”

  “I think you an’ I should take turns being stubborn. I’ll go first.” Missy shook the girl’s leg with her elbow. “Tell your brother you love him, or I will make a scene.”

  Dee smiled and looked at her brother. “I love you.”

  Epstein was grinning. “I love you too.”

  Missy said, “All better,” and turned back to the rodeo.

  The Denton High School Drill Team was marching into the arena. Their boots looked great.

  Pretty girls were riding fast horses around the barrels in the arena when Morris Erwin pulled his horse near the rails in front of Millie Roberts. “Where’s AnnMarie?”

  Millie pointed in the direction of the chutes. “Down there with Clark. Why?”

  “Sweet’s cuttin’ up some. I figured to have her keep Tony close to him ’til we get him back in the trailer.”

  Millie left Trudy sitting by Mose and stepped across the aisle to Erwin. “Morris, if Sweet comes back in my yard again they’ll haul him off in the renderin’ truck. I mean it.”

  Erwin said, “I’ll talk to you later,” and rode off. Two minutes later he was leaning from his horse and talking earnestly to Berg Vaughn, the arena director. He left Vaughn to find AnnMarie.

  When he found AnnMarie she was behind the chutes holding Tony’s reins. Sweet Thing was nearby in a holding pen.

  “I brought Tony up here because Sweet’s actin’ cantankerous.”

  “You did good.” Erwin pointed at the arena. “I already talked to Berg. As soon as they get the bulls in the chutes, I want you to come out in the arena with us. Sweet can see Tony from out there, an’ it might keep him steady.”

  “What do I do?” She’d never been in the arena while an event was going on.

  “You don’t do anything—nothing; Berg made that real clear. If the pick-up men go to work, you an’ Tony stay out of the way. If a bull comes down there by us, you take Tony as far from him as you can get. Y’all ain’t out there for but one thing, an’ that’s to keep Sweet settled an’ stay clear of everythin’ else. Understand?”

  “For gosh sakes, Morris. You could’ve said all that in three words. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Naw”—Erwin’s smile was dry—“you’re a thirteen-year-old smart aleck.” He turned his horse toward the arena. “Keep that paint away from trouble.”

  “Yeah,” she mocked, “we sure don’t want any of your precious animals to get hurt, do we?”

  Erwin ignored her.

  When the bull riding started, Missy closed her eyes.

  Some of the bull riders got off easy, some were thrown hard, but only one had to be carried out of the arena by the two Tommys.

  Missy opened her eyes when Bledsoe said, “And coming out of chute number three, Bill Mann of Pilot Hill, Texas. Bill rode Straight Flush all the way to the bell last night. Tonight he’s comin’ out on one of the best bulls in rodeo, Mr. Sweet Thing himself, a Brehmer Cross out of the Morris Erwin bucking string . . . two thousand pounds of horn and muscle.” The people who knew rodeo cheered as much for Sweet as for Mann. Neither the bull nor the rider heard them. The announcer talked and Missy watched the gate man. The gate man watched the rider.

  Sweet Thing’s performance was worth the price of admission, and Bill Mann rode him all the way to the horn . . . but very few would remember the ride.

  No one would forget what happened afterward.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The horn sounded, and Mann grabbed the end of the bull rope. On the next jump, as Sweet kicked, he released the rope, pulled his hand free, and rolled to his right. Sweet felt Mann’s weight shift and twisted hard in the same direction. The bull got his head around in time to butt the rider under the chin, and Mann landed in the dirt.

  Fuzzy Miller was the bullfighter nearest the action and saw Mann take the blow. He darted in to help Mann to his
feet and pushed him out of the way while keeping an eye on Sweet Thing. The ride was over and Sweet was turning in the direction of the exit chute.

  Sweet Thing was a favorite on the rodeo circuit, a ton of tough competitor without an ounce of meanness in him. Fuzzy slapped the bull affectionately on the shoulder and told him, “Good ride, ol’ buddy, good ride.” The big gray bull shambled toward the exit with Fuzzy as an escort.

  Brent Travers picked up Mann’s bull rope and jogged to catch up with him. He handed him the rope and walked a few steps with him. Mann nodded at something he said and kept walking.

  Travers slapped the rider on the shoulder, told him the same thing Fuzzy told the bull, and turned back to his business. Fuzzy was waving at him, yelling, “C’mon, Brent, we got—”

  Travers’s arms were coming up, and his mouth was opening to yell, but it was his eyes that communicated the warning. Fuzzy whirled back in time to take the bull’s horn in the center of his chest. The blow lifted him off the ground. He cartwheeled in the air—a full, slow-motion revolution—and landed in the dirt in front of the bull. He was bloody from his nose to his waist . . . and still as death.

  Bill Mann, unknowing and unmoved, was weaving slightly, progressing steadily in the direction of the perimeter fencing, dragging his bull rope.

  Wild Bill Sanders and Brent Travers, the two remaining bullfighters, were closing in on the bull. Sweet might choose to do further harm to the man who was down, and it was their job to get control of him. They intended to do just that.

  Erwin watched his bull hit the fighter and cursed. All four pick-up men touched their heels to their horses and moved out.

  Erwin looked back at AnnMarie and said, “Take Tony down there by the exit chute an’ see if Sweet’ll follow ’im.”

  “Yes’r.” AnnMarie and Tony moved off at a lope.