And If I Die

by John Aubrey Anderson

  Mann stopped ten yards short of the fence, dropped his bull rope, took off the straw hat, and brushed at his chaps with it. People were split between those yelling at him to run and others who were stunned by his bizarre behavior. He heard the noise the people were making but attached no significance to it—people were always making noise. He looked behind him.

  A bull was standing on the other side of the arena, looking at someone who was splayed on his back in the dirt. The bull stepped back from the body, shook his horns, then let out a half-sigh half-snort. As the sound resonated in his chest, the huge head swung slowly to his right and Sweet Thing looked directly at Mann.

  Mann picked up his rope, coiled it carefully, and slapped it on his chaps to knock the dirt off. He turned toward the fence again, and Missy jumped up and climbed to the top of the railings. She held on with one hand and gestured wildly with the other, yelling for him to hurry. He looked at her without changing his expression or pace.

  Wild Bill and Travers were shouting and waving their hats in an effort to entice the bull to follow them toward the exit chute. The mounted men moved in closer and slapped their ropes against their legs to get him started.

  The bull didn’t move.

  In the background a voice on the public-address system urged the men in the ring to move faster.

  Grant Sanders—Wild Bill to rodeo people—was the more experienced of the two fighters, and something about the bull’s eyes was worrying him. “Somethin’ ain’t right here.” He was muttering to himself, but Travers heard him.

  Travers was watching the animal’s eyes because they would always telegraph the animal’s next move. The bull was intent on something behind the two men.

  A fixed gaze by an animal in the midst of so much activity was not natural. Travers wanted to see what was attracting the animal, hoping it might prove to be something they could use to their advantage.

  Turning his back on a bull this close was tricky, but he snapped his head left for a glance behind him. In that first instant, he did not believe what his glimpse told him. Mann was barely moving—almost meandering along on the far side of the arena. A man in a long-sleeved shirt converged on the rider. He would need a wide window of opportunity to get Mann safely to the fence.

  “This ain’t good!” Travers had a feeling that the bad part of the fight was yet to come.

  “Yep! He’s zeroed in on ’im, ain’t he?” Sanders hadn’t missed a thing.

  “I’m gonna git closer.” Travers was on his toes, bouncing and weaving, moving directly in front of the bull.

  “Easy now, Brent,” warned his partner. “He don’t act like he’s buyin’ it.”

  The fighter stepped in, talking to the bull. “Okay, ol’ son, let’s me an’ you do us a little dance here”—he was a foot from the bull’s nostrils—“an’ give them cowboys a chance to head for th’ drink stand.” He slapped the bull across the eyes with his hat and kept bouncing sideways toward the exit ramp. The bull flinched, glanced only briefly at Travers, and turned his attention back to the man shuffling slowly in the direction of the fence.

  In the stands, several people watched the bull’s eyes as he watched the disoriented youngster. The two men in the clown clothes between the boy and Sweet Thing were shouting and waving their hats in an attempt to herd him toward the exit chute. The four pick-up men moved in and slapped their ropes against chap-covered legs to get him moving. The bull seemed unaware of all but one person.

  The right-hand judge, Caleb Lacey, was jogging out to help Mann. Two bull riders who had been watching from the side of the arena followed.

  When the bull didn’t move, the pick-up men changed tactics; three of them were swinging their ropes, shaping the loops. Erwin sent his loop out, and it settled over the horns of the bull; the second loop was right behind it. Both men dallied the ropes around their saddle horns and backed their horses to take up the slack. The third rider was moving into position behind the animal, his own loop already swinging. He was waiting for the bull to pick up a back foot so he could “heel” him. With the brute’s head under control they could put the bull anywhere they wanted him if they could get a rope on one back leg.

  Before the front riders could take up the slack on their ropes, the bull shook his head and one of the loops fell in the dirt.

  Erwin let his rope go slack while he waited for his partner to get back in the play. Roping yourself to a one-ton bull while you’re on a half-ton horse is a good way to get your horse hurt.

  Mann turned in time to see the bull shake off the rope and watched the two bullfighters dancing in front of the animal. The man lying on the ground hadn’t moved.

  Caleb Lacey got to Mann’s side and took his arm.

  Sweet Thing took a step toward the two men.

  Missy said, “That’s it.”

  Patterson, Mose, and Mason apparently agreed because they were getting out of their seats.

  Dee was confused. “Are they leaving?”

  Her brother stood up and said, “Not yet.”

  “Where are they going?”

  Epstein pointed at the figure out in the arena. “To get him.”

  Patterson was climbing the fence. The older men were slower, but they were right behind him.

  Dee Epstein stood up and grabbed her brother’s arm. “You aren’t going out there while that bull’s loose.”

  Epstein pulled away. “I’ll be back.”

  Mason and Mose were making good progress. Patterson was almost to the top of the fence, but Missy wasn’t waiting. She hoisted herself over the top rail and jumped. She rolled once and grabbed her lower leg.

  Patterson was kneeling by her a second later. “What happened?”

  “My ankle!” She had to yell to be heard over the screams from the stands. “Go! Go! I’m comin’! I’ll crawl!”

  Patterson shook his head. “If you’re out there, there’ll be two people to protect. Wait here.”

  Mose and Mason stopped near the couple and Patterson said, “Pull her over against the fence.”

  “No!” she was crying. “I’m the one He told to be ready. He told me!”

  “Be still, Missy,” Mose ordered. He nodded for Mason to take her other arm, and they dragged her to the fence.

  She pushed herself to a sitting position and looked at Mose. “Why did this have to happen now?”

  “’Cause God got somethin’ else for you. For now, He ’spects you to watch an’ pray.” He left her. Seconds later Michael Epstein climbed down the fence; he was carrying Mose’s cane in both hands like a rifle, looking neither right nor left.

  Clark Roberts was standing on the stairs to the press box when the ride ended. He watched Fuzzy get hooked, and when the bull slipped the pick-up man’s rope, he started down the stairs. He pushed his way through the crowd and was at the ramp to the grandstand when Missy jumped into the arena.

  The second pick-up man threw his rope again, and the bull ducked his head. The man cursed and Sweet started forward.

  Erwin knew where Sweet was going. There was no way he could stop him, but he could slow him. He let the rope tighten and reined his horse back. The bull didn’t slow. If he knew he was dragging a horse, it didn’t show.

  Caleb Lacey watched the bull separate from the cluster of bullfighters and pick-up men and stopped. Mann kept walking— oblivious and helpless.

  Erwin swung his horse up and out, thinking to pull the bull off line, and the bull began to run. Lacey moved to meet him.

  The bullfighters were sprinting, chasing the bull, yelling and waving their hats.

  Lacey had ridden over a thousand bulls before he retired, and he knew how much harm this one would do if it got to the boy. He planned to stop its charge, or at least slow it, without getting killed.

  He changed his grip on the clipboard he was holding, snapped his wrist, and launched it Frisbee-fashion at the bull’s face from twenty feet. The clipboard was still in the air when Lacey followed it in.

  The clipboard bounced off S
weet’s nose. An instant later Lacey dodged under the blunt horns and threw his weight at the animal’s right leg. The judge hit the front of the leg as it was moving forward; the bull stumbled slightly, and when his left front foot came down again it was square in the center of Lacey’s aluminum clipboard. The uncontrollable skid turned the bull. He stumbled, lost his footing, and went into the dirt on his knees.

  Erwin took advantage of the moment and backed his horse, hoping to keep the bull down. It didn’t work, but it distracted the bull. Sweet scrambled to his feet and charged the horse. Erwin threw the rope clear and let the bull chase him to the exit chute. At the last moment, the bull turned away from the chute and started back toward the people near the fence.

  Patterson and the two old men had guns under their shirts, but if they fired and missed, they would most certainly hit someone in the arena. The three of them got Mann and started back the way they’d come.

  AnnMarie Roberts could see her daddy in the stands, pushing by people, rushing to get where he could help.

  Morris Erwin was back in the arena, circling between her and the ongoing fight.

  Mose and the other men helping Bill Mann were almost to the fence.

  The bullfighters sprinted to a spot between Sweet and the people at the fence and turned to face the bull.

  A small man carrying a stick left the side of the arena and walked in the direction of the bullfighters.

  The bull was running, gaining speed.

  Sanders was shouting at Travers, “He ain’t gonna slow down for us.”

  Travers had time to yell, “What’re we gonna do?”

  “Try to not get killed!”

  The bull charged between them and they each grabbed a horn. Sanders was knocked aside; Travers was dragged a few yards.

  The bull didn’t slow.

  Mann and his rescuers were at the fence.

  The last line of defense was twenty feet from the railings—the skinny little guy with the stick.

  Mose was moving up behind Epstein, yelling, “Stab him in the face!” Michael Epstein nodded and as the bull bore down on him, he presented the stick like a bayonet-equipped rifle. The charging bull lowered his head and Epstein dropped to his knees. At the last second the man lunged forward, thrusting one end of the stick into the bull’s face while trying to ground the other.

  The bull’s momentum drove the wooden spear deep into his nostril and his head followed the weapon into the dirt—his nose dug in, and his momentum upended him. He cartwheeled, doing a half-rotation in the air, and came down on Mose and Epstein.

  Grunting and bellowing, Sweet lashed out with his legs and horns, struggling to right himself. He regained his feet and backed away from the two men in the dirt. When the men didn’t move, he jogged in a tight circle as if looking for the source of the next attack.

  Bob Pierce was at the front of a small wave of people who were coming over the fence to help.

  Morris Erwin moved his horse in to crowd the bull away from the people, and Sweet hooked it. The horse screamed and ran from the fight. Sweet charged into a cluster of people near Mann.

  AnnMarie leaned over Tony’s neck, nudged him with her heels, and said, “I guess it’s our turn, boy. Let’s get closer.”

  Some unknown number of people were mixing into the tumult at the fence. Cowboys and spectators, ranchers and grocery-store clerks were stepping into the war . . . moving the injured to the side or trying to boost them up the fence.

  AnnMarie watched Sweet find the man he was looking for. She gripped the pommel with one hand and booted the horse, crying, “Go!” Tony was running at a full gallop within three strides.

  She closed in on the battle and watched the bull bunch his muscles to hurl himself into the crowd of people. She leaned over the horse’s neck and yelled, “Hit ’im, boy!” And that’s what Tony did.

  They careened into the side of the bull, driving him bodily away from the action. Sweet turned on Tony and tore a V-shaped wound in his shoulder forward of the girl’s right knee. The horse grunted and almost went down. AnnMarie turned the horse and waited while Sweet tried to find Mann again. She could feel Tony trembling.

  “It’s okay, boy, it’s okay,” she whispered. When the bull charged again, she and the paint met him just before he pinned Mann to the fence.

  The horse fell, and she rolled clear in time to hear her daddy’s voice yelling, “Get out of the way!”

  Clark Roberts was sprinting along the grandstand aisle. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he got to the battle; he prayed as he ran.

  People saw him coming and started shouting and jerking people out of his way. As he closed in on the area immediately above the conflict, he saw the bull charging toward several people at the base of the fence. Before Sweet could hit the people, Tony and AnnMarie hit him, and the bull went into the fence without harming anyone.

  Roberts continued to yell, “Get out of the way!” While sprinting through the crowd.

  Onlookers jumped out of his way. He chopped his steps, timing his move, and pushed off with his feet as he grabbed for the railings directly above the bull. He scrambled up the rails like a lizard and was in the air, his body moving to horizontal, when the world slowed.

  He pulled on the upper rail with both hands and looked down on the bull. As his body was clearing the top rail he reached for his pistol with his free hand and looked at the place he wanted to land.

  His body continued to rotate; he was coming down perfectly, right against the bull’s left side. Particles of sawdust stood out against the black coloring around the bull’s neck; a splintered piece of wood protruded from its nostril. Roberts let his left hand touch the bull while he was still in the air, coming down in front of the bull’s hump. He used the bull to steady himself . . . when his toes touched the ground, he pressed the barrel of the gun against Sweet Thing’s side, tilting it to aim at his heart, and pulled the trigger. As soon as he heard the concussion, he remembered Pat Patterson telling him about being attacked by demon-controlled animals . . . he couldn’t stop the bull with a heart shot.

  The first shot staggered the bull. When Sweet regained his footing, Roberts triggered the gun again and broke the animal’s front leg. The bull collapsed on top of him and began thrashing and bellowing, trying to regain his feet. Roberts was pinned and helpless.

  Mason came from nowhere. He dropped to his knees next to Roberts and held his hand out for the big pistol. Roberts slapped it into his hands, and Mason used one shot to sever the bull’s spine. The jerking and twisting stopped.

  Morris Erwin was there within seconds. He knelt by Sweet’s head and rested his hand on his neck. The bull blinked his eyes and Erwin turned to Mason. “My bull ain’t dead yet, mister.”

  “I’m real sorry about this,” said Mason. “You want me to do it?”

  Erwin shook his head, and Mason handed him the gun. The bull watched his owner put the muzzle between his eyes and sighed. People who could see what the man was going to do turned away. Erwin said, “You were a good bull,” and pulled the trigger.

  When he knew Sweet Thing was dead, Erwin stood up and looked at the aftermath of the storm. Injured people were being helped by their friends . . . Millie and Trudy were in the stands, both were crying . . . people were watching Erwin . . . the brand-new arena was as silent as an empty church. He tossed the pistol into the dirt by his bull and said, “He was the gentlest animal I ever knowed.” He looked at Sweet again then walked away.

  AnnMarie stood close by holding Tony’s reins, speaking calming words to the horse; she and the horse were trembling. Erwin stopped long enough to look at the horse’s cut and say, “He’ll be okay,” and kept walking. He got several steps away before he came back to tell the girl, “There ain’t a man in here could’ve done any better’n you did tonight.” He took off his hat. “An’ I’m real proud to call you my friend.”

  The paramedics were loading Fuzzy onto a stretcher. Two off-duty firemen had another stretcher and were running t
oward the group by the rails.

  Dee Epstein was in the dirt with her brother’s head in her lap. She was holding his broken glasses in one hand and pushing the hair out of his eyes with the other. A broken piece of hoe handle and an old boot lay near his leg.

  The fireman stopped and knelt by the girl and her brother.

  They were too late.

  Missy crawled to where Mose lay and was kneeling over him. “Mose?”

  “I’m here, child.”

  She took his hand. “You’re hurt.”

  He smiled without opening his eyes. “Don’t feel too bad.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Where’s that boy at?”

  She looked over her shoulder. “He’s comin’. Pat went to get him.”

  “I needs to talk to him.”

  “He won’t remember what you say, Mose. He took a lick on the head.”

  “Then you can remember what I say an’ tell him when he’s right. Understand?”

  “Yes’r.” She watched his chest rise and fall, then said, “Mose?”

  “I’m still here, child.”

  “I never got to thank Junior for savin’ my life.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “When you get to Heaven, would you tell Junior I ’preciate him savin’ my life?”

  He smiled again. “That’s the first thing I’ll tell ’im.”

  “An’, Mose?”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “Would you . . .” She stopped to get her breath. “Would you tell him I love him?”

  “He always knowed that, baby. An’ he sho’ loved you.”