by Aaron Latham
Goodnight stared at the bull and the bull stared back. Was he getting through? Had he struck the right tone with his voice? He realized how long it had been since he tried talking to an animal.
“That’s about all I’ve got to say,” Goodnight said. “I sure hope you’ll think it over. We ain’t gonna hurt you and you ain’t gonna hurt us. I sure hope we got ourselves a deal.”
Then Goodnight turned around and headed back to Revelie where he belonged.
68
Goodnight saw Flytrap nod that he was ready to ride, felt Revelie’s hand tighten on his arm just below his biceps, sensed another tightening inside his gut. The chute door swung wide and the bull came out sideways, bucking and twisting. Goodnight wondered what it was about this part of the country that conjured up spinning disasters: dust devils that actually weren’t so bad, tornados that could take away all you owned in an instant, and bucking bulls that could cripple or kill you. He glanced down at his watch, where the hands moved in a circle, time the worst spinner of them all, time the one that would always get you even if the others didn’t. Such gloomy thoughts made his head spin.
“Flytrap still has his mouth open,” Revelie observed. “I wonder what it would take to close it.”
“No tellin’,” said Goodnight.
But he thought he would probably have to close it if Flytrap got himself killed. Consulting his gold watch, Goodnight saw that Flytrap had been on the bull for seven seconds now. He had already beaten the time of the first rider. Old Flytrap might just win this dad-gum event. Goodnight told himself that he was likely to have to revise his impression of this open-mouthed cowboy.
“Eight seconds,” Goodnight muttered.
“Come on, Flytrap,” said Revelie. “Oh, no!”
Goodnight knew from experience that head-first falls were among the worst. Poor Flytrap lost his balance and dove right between the bull’s sharp horns. On the way, the unfortunate cowboy probably busted his balls up against his own fist, which clung to the rope. Flytrap lay on his back with his hands between his legs, clutching the pain.
Goodnight saw the bull round on Flytrap. Saw a masked Loving run between the horns and the fallen cowboys. Saw a red shirt waving. Saw the bull change targets, forget about the cowboy on the ground, and charge Loving instead.
“No! No! No!” cried Revelie.
The wife was gripping her husband’s arm tighter than ever now. Her fingernails hurt him. He was glad they hurt. He deserved to be hurt. He was responsible for the race taking place in the ring. Loving only had to get as far as the fence, which was just a few steps away. Goodnight felt as if he himself were dream-running.
“Thank God!” said Revelie.
Loving didn’t so much climb the fence as run right up it. The crowd cheered and clapped, and Revelie released her grip on her husband’s arm.
Goodnight was beginning to relax when he saw the bull turn and charge Flytrap once more. The cowboy was still flat on his back with his mouth open. Then Too Short appeared in the bull’s path. He held his red long johns by the shoulders and shook them at the bull. The long underwear looked a little like another man, an assistant who was helping Too Short with his bullfighting. This red man danced in the face of death, really kicked up his heels. Of course, he wasn’t a very modest man. Why didn’t he put on some clothes? The bull charged the red man, butted him, gored him, carried him away on his horns.
“Hey, come back with my underwear!” Too Short shouted. “Hey, you stole my long johns!”
The crowd roared with laughter. After the tension, they appreciated the humor. Goodnight laughed along with the others, and he heard Revelie laughing, too.
“Come back here!”
Too Short actually chased the bull to get his long underwear back. Goodnight couldn’t help admiring his bravery and his sense of humor, even though a little less of both would have been the wiser policy.
The longhorn gave his insubstantial victim a final toss high in the air and then let him float lifelessly to the red earth. Then the animal turned and looked for somebody else to kill.
The bull soon found Flytrap once again, who was now on his feet limping toward the fence. He pawed the earth a couple of times and then charged. Flytrap tried to run, but he was too crippled up by his bruising ride and fall.
Too Short ran in front of the bull’s horns once more, reached down, grabbed his long johns off the ground, and threw them in the bull’s face.
“He’s making him mad,” Revelie said. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“He always was short on brains along with ever’thing else,” Goodnight grumbled.
Blinded by the red underwear, the bull stopped, and Flytrap made it to the fence. But Too Short didn’t even try for safety. He was having too much fun to stop now. He stood in the middle of the corral and watched as the bull shook his head back and forth. When the red blindfold fell to the ground, the bull trampled it.
“Stop that!” Too Short yelled, pulling down his mask. “Them long johns’ve gotta last me all winter!”
Reminded of Too Short’s existence, the bull turned, stared, and wondered what a man was doing standing there evidently unafraid. The longhorn charged. It was another footrace to the fence, but luckily Too Short had a good head start. He could run pretty fast on those short legs. He was running right at Goodnight, showing off for the boss, when he grabbed his leg and pitched forward on his face.
“Oh, no!” cried Revelie.
Too Short seemed to have pulled a muscle in mid-flight. Now he was down in the red dirt, like the trampled long johns. He was so close that Goodnight could smell his fear. Loving came running from his place on the sidelines.
“No!” shouted Revelie.
Both he and the bull converged upon the fallen cowboy.
“Stop it!” begged Revelie. “Don’t let it happen.”
Goodnight saw Loving pick up Too Short in his arms as if he were a baby. Saw the bull bearing down on them both. Saw Loving stop, not even trying to run because he knew it was too late, wanting to meet the danger head on. Some instincts died hard. This one was about to.
Goodnight couldn’t believe that he was so close and yet couldn’t help. He felt impotent, useless, stupid. He couldn’t just let it happen right there in front of him.
“Stop!”screamed Goodnight.“Stop right now!”
The bull stopped. Anyway, he tried to. He stiffened his front legs and sat down on his haunches. He still bumped into Loving and Too Short and knocked them down, but then the huge longhorn just stood over them as if protecting them. Loving and Too Short crawled out from under him. Then Loving picked up Too Short like a sack of flour and carried him from the ring. The bull just watched them go.
In the end, the O Bar O cowboy won the bull-riding contest. He was a fast healer. Revelie presented him with a buckle.
69
Only two buffalo-riders remained.
The Home Ranch cowboys had been lucky in locating a small herd and rounding up a half-dozen males. Loving, the next-to-last contestant, gracefully scaled the chute wall. So far, the longest ride had lasted just five seconds. Buffalos weren’t as big as longhorn bulls, but they were harder to ride. They had odd-shaped bodies, all humps and slopes and curious angles. You couldn’t even tie a rope around a buffalo to hang on to because it wouldn’t stay on. The riders simply dug their fingers into the long fur of the hump and hung on for dear life.
Goodnight watched his friend settle on the furry back. A masked Loving nodded, the gate opened, and the buffalo swung out sideways. Goodnight was really jealous now: he couldn’t think of anything better than riding a buffalo, except maybe flying on the back of a bald eagle and seeing what this red canyon looked like from on high. Somehow the eagle and the buffalo were tied together in his mind, probably because the Humans had such a high regard for both.
Then Goodnight saw Loving flying, but not on the back of anything. He sailed through the air, hit the fence, bounced off, and hit the ground. Goodnight lo
oked down at his watch. Loving had ridden for ten seconds.
“Ten seconds,” Goodnight shouted.
“He’s the best!” Revelie said, so excited she forgot to worry if he was hurt.
“The best yet. There’s one more rider.”
“Nobody can beat ten seconds.”
“I expect you’re right, but less see.”
Goodnight studied the next rider. He remembered this cowboy. It was the same one who had fought with Loving at the snubbing post during the bronc-riding. He recognized the black bandanna. As the black-masked rider lowered himself onto the buffalo’s back, Goodnight examined him carefully.
“Revelie, you ever seen that there cowboy before?” Goodnight asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Should I have? Who is he?”
“I don’t rightly know, but I wisht I did.”
“Why?”
“I ain’t sure.”
“Oh, I know who he is.”
“Who!”
“The Black Knight.”
“What?”
“Nothing. It was a joke.”
The gate of the box swung open, and the buffalo bull charged into the center of the arena. Not wanting to take his eye off the rider long enough to glance at his watch, Goodnight counted in his head. One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand three. Black Mask pitched forward. Good. He was going over the head. But, no, he saved himself, pulled himself back from the brink, a real feat of strength. One thousand four. One thousand five. One thousand six. Who was this guy anyway? Where had he come from? What was he? The crowd was thunderously cheering him on, but Revelie wasn’t clapping. The Black Knight clung to the buffalo bull like a grass bur. One thousand seven. One thousand eight. Goodnight jumped into the air as he saw the black-masked cowboy falling sideways. Yes! Right! But again the unknown cowboy’s strength saved him. He righted himself and rode on. One thousand nine. One thousand ten. No! No!! The Black Knight lurched but didn’t fall. One thousand eleven. One thousand twelve. One thousand thirteen. One thousand fourteen. The spectators were going crazy. This was amazing! This was historic!
“Stop him!” Revelie cried.
“I cain’t,” Goodnight said. “I wisht I could.”
Then the buffalo bull stopped it. He quit bucking and came to a complete stop. He was breathing hard. He was broken. The blackmasked cowboy had done the impossible.
A roar went up from the ring of wagons and buggies. They loved it, and they all wanted an answer to the same question: Who was he?
“We better go find out who in hell he is,” Goodnight said.
“Our friend’s ride was much more graceful,” Revelie said. “That should count for something.”
“Well, it don’t, maybe next year.”
Goodnight climbed down off the chuck wagon and then helped Revelie down. They climbed over the rail fence—she being Bostoncareful of her skirts—into the arena. He hurried toward the spot where he had last seen the Black Knight, on the far side of the corral, but when he arrived, he didn’t see the winner. Goodnight looked around at Revelie, but she shrugged, just as mystified as he was.
“Where’d he go?” yelled Goodnight.
Nobody answered.
“Where the hell did he go?”
Nothing.
“The last rider is the winner. Will the winner please step forward.”
Nobody stepped forward.
“Will the winner please step forward?”
Nobody did.
“Hell!”
Goodnight looked down and saw an “RR” scratched in the red dust of the rodeo arena.
70
After the shock, after a fruitless search for the cowboy with the black kerchief, Goodnight sat under a chinaberry tree, shaken. Loving squatted beside him. Now Goodnight wished the rodeo were already over, but there was still one event left on the schedule: the shoot-out.
“You’re a good shot,” Loving said over his coffee cup, the steam distorting his features. “Why don’t you try your luck?”
“I figure you’re a better shot than me,” Goodnight said. “Just be a waste a time and lead.”
“No, I seen you shoot. You handle a gun right purdy.”
Goodnight was tempted, but he still figured he had better stay out of it. He had invited the others here and so owed them their fun. He shouldn’t interfere.
“Well, I ain’t so sure I could trust you,” Goodnight said at last.
“What?” Loving looked hurt. “What’s got into you, Goodnight?”
“I mean I’m afraid you’d up ’n’ let me win. That’s no fun.”
“What give you that idea?”
“I know you. That’s all.”
“You mean ’cause you stopped that there bull in its tracks? You figure I’d be so grateful I’d—”
“No—”
“Well, look who’s a comin’,” Loving interrupted. “Less ask her what she thinks?”
Goodnight looked up and saw Revelie walking toward them, followed by several other women. He couldn’t believe that Loving had seen her first. He was normally so aware of her, so attuned to her, that he always knew right where she was and what she was doing. And yet now she had managed to slip up on him without even trying.
“How do, Miz Revelie,” Loving called. “We got a problem we’d like your opinion on.”
Responding to his summons, Mrs. Goodnight hurried her step. She left the other women behind.
“What may I do for you?” Revelie asked when she reached the men.
“Your husband here wants to git in on the shoot-out,” Loving said. “Look, it’s wrote all over his face. And if you ask me, he needs some fun to take his mind off that there outlaw. This here shootin’ match is just the ticket for perkin’ him up.”
“Then he should do it,” said Revelie.
“But I’m the host.”
“But this is the last event, isn’t it? I believe it would be all right. Don’t you, Mr. Loving?”
“Course. Less go.”
The contestants and the spectators—women, cowboys, kids, and dogs—walked in a herd along the bank of the river. They stopped when they reached a bluff that overhung the water. It would supply shade as well as a backstop for the bullets. Goodnight didn’t want any stray lead flying off down the canyon and killing any of his cattle, or anything else for that matter.
In front of the bluff, they found the shooting gallery already set up. Fat cedar logs had been sawed up into sections about six feet long. Then these sections were stood on end so they looked like overfed fence posts. There were six of them in a row. Goodnight had decided on the posts as a precaution to absorb as much lead as possible. Bull’seyes had already been nailed to the posts at about the height of a man’s heart.
Goodnight explained the rules: Six gunmen at a time would take their place behind a line drawn in the red sand of the riverbank. Revelie had volunteered to act as starter. She would drop her handkerchief, and when it touched the ground, the gunmen could draw and begin blazing away. The last man still shooting would be disqualified no matter how accurately his bullets hit the target. The rest would be ranked according to their marksmanship. The shooter with the highest score in each group would qualify for the next round. In the finals, the rules would change . . .
Six gunmen lined up, their legs spread slightly for good balance, crouching, their hands nervously quivering over the handles of their guns. They were all from other spreads because Goodnight believed in letting guests go first. Revelie stood off to the side down by the river. The six gunmen were all staring at her more intently than was normally polite. She raised a white, embroidered, Boston handkerchief— held it about shoulder-high—and then let it drop.
When the handkerchief touched the earth, the gunmen drew and started firing. Goodnight started worrying about his herd. He hadn’t really stopped to think through how frightened they might be by all this racket. He pictured his longhorns running themselves silly up and down the canyon, confused by the echoes.
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71
Looking down at his boot, Goodnight saw that the previous shooters had trampled the line into obscurity. He had to more or less guess where he was supposed to stand. He stood back a little farther than he probably had to. He adjusted his feet to about shoulder-width. He bent his knees slightly and crouched. His surprisingly nervous fingers hung two inches above the ivory handle of his big gun. He told himself that relaxation was a gunslinger’s best friend, but telling and calming down were two different things. Especially when he was worried about letting Revelie down and about living up to Loving’s high opinion of him.
Sensing that the others were ready and just waiting for him, Goodnight raised his head and looked at his wife. She gave him a nice smile, which made him even more nervous. She looked wonderful, but her handkerchief was thoroughly dirty by now. It was red through and through and looked like the flag of war. The crimson war flag took flight. As he watched its descent, Goodnight’s fingers on his gun hand twitched involuntarily. When he saw it kiss the red earth, he hesitated because he didn’t want anyone to believe he had gotten a head start. He didn’t go for his gun until he saw the other shooters drawing theirs. Then he reached down and the big six-shooter jumped into his hand like an eager puppy. His peripheral vision registered a fanner to his right, but he wasn’t tempted to follow suit. He thumbed back his hammer. With his gun held about bellybutton–high, Goodnight stared hard at the target with his one eye. He imagined that the cedar post was Gudanuf. Pointing the barrel as if it were his finger, Goodnight remembered to squeeze rather than pull the trigger. He heard the lead thump wood, so at least he had hit the cedar post. Had hit Gudanuf. Maybe not in the heart, but he was hurting. Then Goodnight heard somebody else’s bullet whistle as it ricocheted off a rock and went out looking for a cow to kill. Still pointing his metal finger, he thumbed back the hammer again, squeezed the trigger again, and heard another thump. He kept on until he was out of bullets. Each time, he heard a satisfying thump. Gudanuf wasn’t having a very good day.