She stopped at the corral and whistled for Goldie. The old horse angled over, looking coy, but dropped her head just inside the rail where Cynthia could reach up and brush the flies away from her face. Goldie sighed while Cynthia smoothed a palm over one closed eye, then the other.
Overhead, she heard the call of sandhill cranes. She looked up into the sun-white sky, but she couldn’t see them. Their calls were ratchety and long, sounding close. But when she finally saw them, the birds were circling high, higher than jet trails, it seemed. The entire flock, maybe a hundred cranes, banked in one motion, and the sun caught their wings. Like cards for sending code, their wings flashed—brown, then gray, then silver-white—until they disappeared into the light. The whole flock vanished.
She knew what she could do. The car was forbidden, but no one had forbidden her to ride. And Goldie needed exercise. The old horse was so fat Cynthia would have thought that she was pregnant if she hadn’t known better. For years, her dad had tried to breed the mare, to get a colt with her dark palomino color, but Goldie never settled.
She slipped in through the rail and looped a piece of baling twine high on Goldie’s neck. She glanced up at her father’s window and had a sudden reckless feeling. Even if he saw her, if she moved fast, he couldn’t get down in time to stop her. She trotted Goldie to the barn, slipped the bridle on, and led her out through the gate. She took a fistful of long mane at the withers, and, just the way she’d done it as a little girl, she swung up on her back trick-rider style, in one motion. She didn’t take the lane. She cut across the pasture, out of sight of the house, and kicked Goldie into a lope. Goldie pulled at the bit and whinnied at the other horses in the field, who began to pace the fence, trotting back and forth, their tails high, as if they were jealous. Cynthia laughed, amazed at the old horse.
Her father didn’t allow anyone to run his horses. They were working animals, he said, and unless they were chasing down cattle, he made all the hands ride at a walk. Cynthia let Goldie stretch out, galloping on the soft new grass. They pounded down the fence line. At the corner, she knew she had to pull up and open a gate to cross to the next field, but she didn’t slow down. She didn’t know if Goldie could make the fence anymore. Already her breathing was labored, but Cynthia didn’t rein her in. She didn’t care. If Goldie couldn’t jump the fence, the mare would cut away at the last minute and send Cynthia headfirst over the fence.
Only feet from the wire, she felt Goldie gather herself, and she lifted into the air as Goldie jumped. They landed hard on the other side, but the old horse recovered and trotted out toward the road.
“That a girl,” Cynthia crooned at her, and watched Goldie tip one ear back to listen.
They stayed off the road and went down through the swamps toward Dill’s. At places, Goldie sank up to her knees, lunging forward out of the sucking mud. The willows were gold and deep rust colors, the leaves on the scattered aspens uncurling like tiny chartreuse roses. The streams and rivulets running into the river were thick with floating islands of watercress.
At the river, she plunged Goldie into the cold water and let her swim with the current in the deep center for a way, washing off the mud. They crossed the road and turned in toward Dill’s trailer.
She slipped off and walked beside Goldie, letting her cool down, and tied her in the shed. Dill’s truck was there. She knocked on the door, then pushed it open.
“Anybody home?” she said. A high delight spun in her stomach. She couldn’t wait to see Dill’s face. He wouldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to ride down.
She stepped around the trailer and looked out toward the dump. She hadn’t heard machinery. She walked out farther and saw the big yellow Cat. But it wasn’t moving, and Dill wasn’t in it.
She went back to the trailer and let herself in. She thought she’d wait a while. Dill might have taken a ride to town with someone. The percolator was still warm to the touch. She poured herself a cup of dark, syrupy coffee and sat down on the bed, leaving the door open wide to catch a breeze, to let Dill know she was there if he returned. She hadn’t been able to talk to Dill since the morning at the sheriff’s office.
She drank the coffee, but she couldn’t seem to sit still. She found herself prowling around the tiny trailer, looking at Dill’s stacks of old paperbacks. She often wondered why he tore the covers off, but she’d never thought to ask him. Then it occurred to her, he picked the books from the garbage.
She went to wash her coffee cup, set it in the sink. Up above, she saw a long white letter propped up on Dill’s set of plastic salt and pepper shakers, the old turquoise plastic sticky with grease. The letter was addressed to her. It shocked her, as if she’d found a love letter to Dill, something private. She sat back down on the couch, the cool envelope almost weightless in her hand. She tried to unstick the flap, but the glue held tight and the envelope came open with a ragged edge.
She wanted to look, but she was afraid to. She glanced down at the first line. “We are happy to inform you . . .” She felt herself smiling. Then stood up. Suddenly, she couldn’t keep still. This was it. She had the scholarship. They wanted her. “Dill,” she said aloud. “Where the hell are you?”
She folded the letter three times and stuck it deep in her back pocket as she left the trailer. She looked around again, as if Dill must be there, someplace. She almost went to the shed and told Goldie her news.
Dill was the only person she could tell about the letter. And there were only two places he could be, down at the mill playing cards or in the café. She jumped into Dill’s old truck and turned the key, which was welded into the ignition, laughing at Dill. In his time, people didn’t steal things, and he could never keep track of small items like keys.
She drove north of town out to the tall granaries first, pulling up in the wide yard outside General Mills. She almost went inside, though she knew the empty lot meant the men weren’t playing cards today.
She spun out through the loose gravel, bumped over the deep ruts in the dirt road, and turned back toward town. Her mother should be home by now. Cynthia thought, I should have left a note, just said, “Gone riding,” and nobody would wonder. Her dad would notice Goldie gone, but if she’d left a note, they’d have thought she was on the place somewhere.
But the news, the letter in her pocket, changed everything. She rode high on the excitement of it, the strength of her own happiness obliterating everything—the way an emergency could stop time and make people forget what they’d been doing just before.
She parked in the alley behind the hotel and went in through the kitchen door. Dill wasn’t at his booth in the corner. The café was nearly empty.
The waitress gave her a look, almost but not quite a wink, and Cynthia grinned at her. She seemed to know something had changed.
Back in Dill’s truck, an idea came to her. It seemed urgent, like an errand you remember halfway home. She drove up the old highway, both windows rolled all the way down, the wind whipping through the truck. She couldn’t get there fast enough. She knew, she suddenly knew, Kenny would be there. And she could talk to him.
She pulled in, the truck bumping and jolting across the hay field, and cut the engine. The old rodeo grounds looked deserted, but she knew Kenny was there. But for some unknown reason, she felt timid. The wide sky, the empty space around Dill’s pickup, struck her as too big, the silence too huge. She was moving too fast. She walked slowly around the truck to the rail and stood there, the sun warm through her shirt. A wash of red sunburn had appeared on the curve of her forearm.
Kenny was there. He sat up on the bleachers behind the high wire fence that separated spectators from the arena. Slowly she walked over, climbed one high step at a time, the old boards bowing under her weight, and sat down beside him.
“It’s dangerous up here,” she said.
Kenny didn’t look at her. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his hair hanging long in his eyes. Then she saw a smile break at the corner of his mouth.
“Shi
t,” he said, “it’s dangerous everywhere.”
Laughter, the whole pent-up excitement of everything, burst from her. Kenny laughed, too. And the boards underneath them shook and swayed.
“Hey,” Kenny said. “Take it easy, you’re gonna rock us off here.”
Cynthia wanted to reach out and kiss him, just lay a hand on him, touch him somewhere. She wanted, more than anything, for someone to touch her.
Kenny placed a hand on her arm, his voice quiet and serious.
“You okay?” he said.
“Yeah.” The word came out like a sigh, not so much a sound but a change in her whole body.
30
A wind came up and the dust rose off the arena, drifting like a single cloud of smoke over the bleachers. Roddy heard a click and snap, and the arc lights came on, murky yellow in the artificial dusk. He passed his tongue over his front teeth and glanced down at his beer can, where the rim was gritty with dirt. He wiped it with his thumb and tipped the can to his mouth. Arizona was the place to get rides in the winter, but this late in the spring the sand and dust were miserable. Roddy hitched the heels of his boots on the next seat down and propped his elbows on his knees.
Barrel racers were warming up, slowly circling the arena. He watched the rodeo queen and princesses, their satin blouses gleaming blue and red and white through the dust. At the gate earlier, they’d all looked as if they’d stepped fresh out of store windows, but now the heavy satin clung with sweat to their shoulder blades.
Dolly McReynolds heaved herself up the steps. Like most of the friends of his parents’, she spent winters in Arizona and tried to follow the rodeo circuit. After she caught her breath, she gave him a broad smile. She wore khaki trousers and a man’s shirt, a shapeless cowboy hat pulled down over her gray curls.
“If it ain’t our Mr. Moyers,” she said.
“Hey,” he said.
“You goin’ out there?”
He held up his card. Number 17.
“You going to win?”
“Hell, yes,” Roddy said and laughed.
The rodeo queen was angling her horse over to the rail.
“Nice-lookin’ girl,” Dolly said.
“Takes after her grandma.”
Suzy McReynolds stretched up over her saddle horn and handed her hat, the brim encircled with a tall sequined crown, to her grandmother. Dolly balanced it on her knees and offered Suzy a tissue.
Suzy blotted at her forehead, careful of her hair and makeup.
“How about a date sometime?” Roddy said. “You got any openings?”
Suzy lowered her long lashes and laughed. “Maybe next year,” she said.
“Keep after her,” Dolly said. “She won’t be queen forever.”
The bleachers across from him filled with bright shirts and cowboy hats. The color guard jostled to line up outside the gate. Tinny music blared over the loudspeakers, the gate swung wide, and the bearer of the American flag galloped into the arena. The other flags followed, then the queen and princesses. The youngest princess couldn’t be more than ten, Roddy thought. She leaned over her saddle horn, and when she kicked her horse, her short legs stuck out straight, like wings. Roddy stood up and lifted his hat. He stood beside Dolly, his hat held over his heart, as the American flag went past. The riders lined up, and a scratchy recording of “The Star-Spangled Banner” blared, loud, over the arena.
The music always made him jittery. In a minute, he’d go down and help with the barrel racing and team roping. Anything to keep his mind off his ride. He’d drawn a bronc he’d ridden before, a short, ugly thing that wouldn’t buck. Last time he’d gotten a reride. But his chances of getting a score weren’t good.
The music scratched to a close and the arena emptied. Dolly slapped her newspaper against her thigh, sending up a vapor of dust.
“Where’re your folks?” she said.
“Someplace air-conditioned,” he said. “Should be at the Silver Dollar later.”
“I’ll look for you.”
He stopped at the concessionaire to pick up a cold beer, and walked among the parked horse trailers. Riders moved lazily along the dusty road, barrel racers warming up. He circled around the trailers he recognized; he wasn’t in the mood for visiting.
He rested his boot on the lowest rail of the arena, crossing his arms across the top, and watched the barrel racers, then went to help Bill Whitcome get set for team roping. Bill partnered with his son, Angel. He found the two of them near the gate. Bill was having a little trouble with his roping horse. The mare had come up lame the week before, and Bill was walking her up and down, swearing under his breath.
“We’re up in a few,” he said. “See how the kid’s doing.”
Roddy would have laughed some other time. The kid was nearly forty, a big, square-jawed man with two or three kids, all in rodeo.
Angel glanced at his dad. “He’s in a mood,” he said to Roddy. “Damn horse ran right into a post. Swoll her knee back up. And you can’t see for the dust.”
“I’ll ask around,” Roddy said. “Maybe borrow another ride.”
Angel shrugged. “He says she’s fit, but for the knee. Should hold up.”
Roddy helped Angel saddle his horse and stood back and watched him coil and recoil his rope, shifting the balance in his glove.
Roddy climbed up on the rail near the chutes to watch the Whitcomes. When the tape came down, Bill was right on the steer, his rope swinging over his head, Angel right behind. Bill got a loop on the horns, and Angel went for a loop on the heels. Both horses backed up, and the ropes snapped taut for a second, then slacked. It looked good. They should be in it, Roddy thought. He turned toward the gate to see who was up next, listening for the Whitcomes’ score to come over the P.A. Instead he heard a wave of noise from the crowd. He was over the rail and in the arena. Bill’s horse was down. He hadn’t seen it go down, and he couldn’t see Bill either. The mare had her neck stretched out flat, her legs kicking. She was rocking, trying to get up. He could hear Bill screaming and Angel calling for a gun. Others were shouting, “Get the vet!”
Roddy sank to his knees in the dust. Angel was trying to push the horse up and off his dad. Trying to shove fifteen hundred pounds. Each time the horse heaved up, struggling to get to her feet, the men shoved, but each time the heavy animal fell harder, crushing Bill. There was a short pop, an echo, and the sulfur burn of gunpowder in the air. They couldn’t hold the dead weight of the horse; they jumped back. Then all the men together heaved, and the paramedics slid the injured body out and lifted it on a gurney.
Bill was alive. His face was dead white, pinched in pain. Angel ran beside the paramedics, his face streaked with dirt and tears. Then they were gone, the flashing light of the ambulance spinning through the dust and out of the arena.
The announcer came on. “Cowboy’s okay, folks. Let’s give him a big hand.” A scattering of applause drifted down from the bleachers. The voice went on, telling a story to distract the crowd from a tractor sent to drag the carcass of Bill’s mare out of the arena, but Roddy could hear the siren as the ambulance turned out of the fairgrounds, the sound thinning as it took the highway into town.
Roddy walked out of the arena and talked to the tractor driver, who hoisted the mare up so Roddy could unstrap the cinch, drag the saddle out. He unbuckled the bridle and lifted it off her big head. The bit was still green with hay froth. He couldn’t tell them what to do with the mare. “You’ll have to wait for Angel,” he said. He heaved the saddle up on his shoulder and walked back to Bill’s trailer.
Somebody had brought Angel’s horse from the arena and tied him up. His coat was dark with sweat and thick with dust. Roddy put the tack away and fed the horse. In the men’s room, he filled the dirty sink and washed his face. The water came off brown. He was surprised to see his own face. It was white, and even after the cool water, sweat broke out on his forehead and ran down his face. “Shit,” he said. “It was his own damn fault.”
His own ride was coming up pre
tty quick. It was dark now, the lights of the arena dim. He picked up his rigging bag and walked to the chutes.
He tried to put Bill out of his mind. Get focused on the ride. He could do it. He’d seen a lot of accidents. This was nowhere near the first, nor the worst. He sat down on the planks and flexed his legs. The calm feel he could get before a ride came back to him. He let his mind go blank.
Somebody tapped him on the shoulder, nodded. He set his rigging, checked it, and climbed up on the chute. He lowered himself and took a good grip on the handhold. “Goddamn little shit,” he said to the horse. “You’re gonna buck.” He dug his spurs in hard when the gate swung wide.
He got out clean and the bronc set up a rocking ride. Roddy caught the rhythm in the muscles of his back and stomach. He knew he’d have it if the bronc would show some fight. The buzzer sounded and the damn horse did what he should have done before—bucked sideways out of rhythm. Roddy came off hard, his back twisted and his leg crushed underneath him. He was up and on the rail when his score came. Just out of the money.
At the Silver Dollar, the music was so loud he could barely hear. His mother was asking him to go for another round of drinks. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and handed him a hundred-dollar bill. At the bar, he had to shout the order over the noise of the crowd, then make two trips back to the round table in the back. His dad was talking to Dolly McReynolds, asking after Bill Whitcome.
“Won’t ride again, that’s for sure,” Dolly said.
His father nodded. “Man’s lucky to be alive.”
“Aren’t we all,” Dolly said, and his dad laughed.
“Well, I guess,” he said.
Roddy handed his mother her Manhattan, and she looked up and smiled. She indicated the seat next to her, but Roddy gave her a signal, maybe later. His dad looked like him, except his hair was silver now. His skin tanned dark, the same sharp nose and high cheekbones. He wore a tan western suit and a Resistol. His mother never wore western clothes. He watched her for a moment from the bar. She’s like a queen, he thought. She was standing to shake the hands of some young cowboy and his wife.
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