by Rex Burns
Every now and then Wager forgot the reason he was at the rodeo and lost himself in the explosions of excitement and speed, but for the most part he was preoccupied. Later Jo admitted that she, too, had only partially enjoyed the show. “But I don’t know what else we could expect—it’s not the easiest thing, to tell someone his father’s dead.”
For most people that would be bad news; for these two Wager wasn’t sure. He wrapped his hands around the heat of the heavy coffee mug and felt the warmth of the large, dimly lit barroom begin to ease the cold muscles of his stiff back. Halfway through the rodeo, the shade of the bleachers had crept over their seats, and without the sun, that wind that scoured the snowfields on the fourteeners west of town began to knife through their clothes. By the time the rodeo ended, many of the spectators had given up, and those who stayed, like Jo and Wager, huddled together against the cold. In the car, they turned the heater up full, and by the time they inched their way through the traffic on the town’s single main street, they warmed up enough to stop shaking. “It wasn’t much of a rodeo anyway,” said Wager. “They had some pretty sorry-looking animals.”
Jo sipped at her steaming drink. It was a mixture of a little coffee and a lot of rum and called a Miner’s Breakfast. The waitress promised it would get rid of a cold one way or another. “A lot of these amateur rodeos don’t have any regulations to protect the stock. The flank straps weren’t even padded on most of those animals.”
Flank straps were used to make the horses and bulls buck harder. In professionally sanctioned events, a heavy sheepskin cushioned the animal’s belly. But these today were simply leather straps yanked tight, and more than once, Wager had seen the raw pink flesh of bleeding ulcers where leather had chewed into the animal. In a lot of ways, the rodeos on this end of the scale were like those sad little carnivals you could still see traveling the back roads between towns too small for the big shows. Maybe in time they would belly up; but they hung on for as long as they could, patching up what was broken, painting over what was rusted, and squeezing one more season out of equipment that should long ago have been scrapped. It was a kind of defiance, and Wager understood it. Perhaps he even admired it. But it was harder to understand or admire doing it at the expense of the animals, and Wager wondered how long the stock contractor would get away with using damaged animals. “What was the prize money?”
Jo folded the program open and tilted it to the faint light from the bar. From a speaker somewhere across the room a steel guitar quavered through an equally metallic voice that sang, “To forgive is divine and you’re making a saint out of me.”
“It’s not listed. Not much, is my guess.”
“Probably enough to cover expenses and a little extra.” Wager sipped his coffee and felt the hot liquid slide through the fading chill in his stomach. “It makes you wonder why the Sanchez boys keep doing it.”
“There’s a lot of money at the top,” said Jo. “I read where last year’s champion saddle bronc rider won over ninety-seven thousand dollars. And that doesn’t include money for endorsements and fees for appearances. Of course, that’s rodeoing full-time in the big time. I think the article said there were five thousand members in the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, but only a third could afford to do it full-time.”
“That’s a pretty good salary.”
“The all-round cowboy won over a hundred and fifty thousand.”
And that was even better. But for those few in the big money, there were a lot in these half-assed pumpkin rollers where, even when you won, you barely broke even. And if you started out like the Sanchez brothers without the schooling and totally on your own, your chances of getting up there were—as Tom had said—about as good as getting an abortion in the Vatican. Yet John and James did not give up; instead, they spent their money to chase their dream every weekend and even times in between. And they did it in a new pickup truck, using their own gear, while working for a rancher who didn’t seem to mind paying them for not working.
“Is that them?” Jo squinted through the dimness at a cluster of figures who had just come around the partition guarding the front door. The group stood a moment talking earnestly about something, and Wager saw one shake his head no. The two hatted figures turned to look over the room. Wager stood so they could see him, and the two in cowboy hats pulled away from the others, who picked their way through the chairs and tables of the half-empty room to settle in a far corner and glance at Wager.
“Mr. Wager—ma’am.”
“My name’s Jo. Won’t you sit down?”
They did, chairs pulled away from the table far enough to allow them to sprawl their legs. Neither took off his hat, nor did Wager expect them to.
“Care for a drink?” he asked.
“I don’t mind if Jimmy don’t. Hell, it’s your party.”
Wager lifted a hand for the waitress, and she took their orders. Gradually, La Hacienda was filling with cowboys and tourists and with the rumble of male voices. Here and there a girl in western clothes laughed loudly, the high sound piercing the noise, and someone started another record that sent a voice moaning, “You always were the sweetest just before you said goodbye.”
When the waitresses brought their beers and Wager’s fresh cup of coffee, Jo said, “You had a good ride on the bull this afternoon.”
John bobbed his head thanks. “Yeah, well, given the stock and all, it wasn’t too bad. We’ll see what I draw tomorrow.”
Wager asked James, “You’re not riding?”
“No. I pulled a muscle in my belly up in Culbertson. I’ll ride next weekend.”
“How’d that happen?” asked Jo.
“My spurs got hung up on a bull and I couldn’t pull loose. I could have rode today, but John said not to.”
“Next week’s a bigger rodeo,” John explained. “No sense him making that muscle any worse on a piddly-assed show like this one.”
Wager wasn’t yet willing to bring the talk around to their father. “Do you think you’ll have a good chance to make it on the professional circuit? I heard that most of the pros are college graduates now, with a lot of experience in intercollegiate rodeo.”
John’s hat brim dipped assent. “It ain’t easy, that’s for sure. But there’s still room if you’re good enough. I may not be, but I’m sure as hell going to give it a try. I tell you who is good enough—that’s Jimmy, here. This old boy’s a rider!”
“John’s good enough. He just don’t like to brag.”
“Still,” said Wager, “I remember Tom telling me it’s not like it used to be. He was afraid you boys were going to waste half your lives getting nowhere.”
“He’s a hell of a one to talk.”
“Hush up, Jimmy.” John explained it to Wager. “They’re setting up a three-level system, now—regional circuits, national, and a new one, Tournament Rodeo. The regionals are mostly weekenders—part-time riders can go to those, and they’re not so spread all over hell and gone. That’s what’ll help us out until we go national. For instance, the Mountain Circuit’s Colorado and Wyoming, and it has its own standings and its own finals up in Cheyenne in October. If we do good there, we’ll by God try full-time; we’ll go on the national circuit. That’s where the real money is, but you got to ride in a hundred and fifty, maybe a hundred and seventy-five rodeos a year. And do good in most of them.” He drank his beer and leaned back.
“That’s a lot of entry fees.” Around fifteen to eighteen thousand dollars a year for each event entered. “Plus your other expenses.”
“We got it figured, Mr. Wager. And we don’t intend to come away losers all the time.” He angled his empty glass at Wager and wagged it as he talked. “The money’s there for the best man to take, and we aim to get our share.”
Jimmy nodded. “I don’t care what Daddy told you, Mr. Wager. We’re going to get there.”
“Tournament Rodeo has teams and sponsors—they pay entry fees and some expenses, and you might even get matching money in addition to the pri
ze money. When that gets going on television, it’s going to be big! And now’s the time to start after it.”
Wager said stubbornly, “But it’s going to cost you a lot of money even to try. You must spend every penny you’ve got now.”
“We don’t ask nothing from nobody—and by God it ain’t money that’s going to keep us from making it. It’ll be us! If we can’t do it, that’s the only damned thing that’ll keep us from making it!”
“Jimmy gets kind of excited about the whole thing, don’t he, Mr. Wager?”
“Being ranch manager must pay a lot better than your daddy thought.”
“We do all right,” said John. “It’s good enough pay.”
“You have plenty of free time, too. I didn’t think a ranch manager could take off so much.”
“Depends on how good the help is, don’t it? Besides, if it don’t worry the owner, I don’t see why it should worry you.”
Jo asked, “Do you like the riding events best?”
Both had the wiry build of their father, though John was taller and heavier. The only event in rodeo where size helped was steer wrestling; for the rest it was balance and quickness and—on the bulls—the ability to cling like a tick.
“We do timed events, too,” said John. “Calf and steer roping. But that’s something that takes a longer time to build up, and we ain’t got good horses of our own, yet.”
“I’m going over to the Roy Cooper roping school next year,” said James. “We’ll have enough money for it by then.”
“Did you make or lose money today?” asked Wager.
John shrugged. “Paid for gas is about all. But I still got a chance at the average—I get that and some more day money, and we’ll break even on this one.”
The younger brother drained his beer glass, and Wager called for another round, including one for himself now that he was thoroughly warm again. Then he drew a deep breath. “The reason I wanted to talk to you …”
“You said something about Daddy being hurt?”
There wasn’t any easy way to say it. “Tom’s dead. Your father died yesterday afternoon.”
John’s brows creased together, and he slowly pushed a finger against his beer glass. James sat still and eyed Wager.
“They tried to get in touch with you, but you’d already left the ranch. So I said I’d come up and tell you.”
“Dead.” John’s glass slid slowly across the table to trail a film of water that dried quickly. “I sure didn’t expect that. He didn’t deserve that.”
“He deserved it. He deserved it and he got it.”
“Shut up, Jimmy. You didn’t know him. I did.”
“I ain’t shutting up. And I ain’t sorry he’s dead, neither. I ain’t!”
“Shut up, I said!” The words jabbed across the table like a swift punch. “He wasn’t all bad,” John said to Wager. “He left when Jimmy was so little that he don’t remember him, that’s all.”
“I remember what he did to Mama.”
“That’s enough, Jimmy.” This time the warning was quiet, almost weary. “We appreciate your telling us in person, Mr. Wager. I reckon they’ve got him in a funeral home down there?”
“The hospital can tell you which one.”
John nodded and moved to get up.
“There’s something else,” said Wager. “It wasn’t an accident.”
Both young men stared at him.
“He was beaten to death. He was hit with a blunt weapon.”
“How do you know it wasn’t a car that hit him?” asked James.
Wager tried to read his eyes. “What makes you think it was a car?”
“You told me it was an accident,” said John. “He was all the time driving, so we figured it was a car accident.”
“It wasn’t. The autopsy said it was murder.”
“Murder … You got any idea who did it?”
“I’m not on the case,” said Wager. “It’s the Chaffee County Sheriff’s Office. They’ll probably want to talk to you.”
“What about?” asked James.
“Anything that might help them out.”
John said, “That won’t be much. We didn’t see much of him.”
“Can you think of any reason why he might be beaten up?”
“No.”
Wager sipped his beer. At the table next to them a half-dozen cowboys had settled in and were laughing loudly at something and flirting with the waitress. She grinned and said, “Anytime, cowboy,” and they laughed again. “He didn’t say anything to you?”
“What about?”
“He told me he was going to visit the T Bar M.”
“He might have visited us,” said John. “But we didn’t talk much. Just about the ranch and rodeo and such.” He drank deeply. “I thought you weren’t interested in this case.”
“I said I’m not assigned to it. I am interested—he was a friend.”
“Yeah, well, we appreciate that. But there’s not a damn thing we can tell you about him.”
“How long have you been working at the T Bar M?”
“Me? A couple years. Jimmy just signed on.”
“That’s over in Ute County? On the edge of Canyonlands?”
“Yeah. Why you asking?”
“I like that country. I was thinking about taking a vacation out that way.”
“There’s a lot of country out there.” John stood, James scrambling up beside him. “We’re grateful you told us about Daddy, Mr. Wager.”
“You don’t have any idea what he might have been doing up around Salida?”
“No. We were up in Wyoming then.”
“He worried about you two. He wanted things to work out for you.”
John looked down at his thick hands and picked at something under a thumbnail. “He lived the best he could, I guess. That’s what we all do, ain’t it?” He touched a finger to his hat brim. “Ma’am.”
Wager and Jo watched them thread their way between tables toward the group they had come in with. A voice or two called from the noisy crowd, and John lifted an answering hand in their direction, but he kept walking. Pausing at the corner table, he bent to speak for a few seconds, and then the two brothers went out quickly.
Wager said, “Be back in a minute” and worked his way over to the jukebox near the table. Four men sat with their heads close together. As Wager stood in front of the glowing record player, one of them turned to stare his way. He had pale red hair whose rough fringes dangled down his forehead, and a mustache cut to arc around a thin upper lip. Perhaps late twenties, early thirties; nothing else distinguishing that Wager could see in this light. But the man was interested in Wager. He stared until he caught Wager’s glance; then he turned quickly back to the now silent men.
Wager dropped a couple of quarters into the machine and randomly poked the buttons. A few seconds later a voice wailed, “I asked for her hand, but all I got was the finger.”
“What’s this about a vacation near Canyonlands?”
“We’ve been looking for an interesting place to go.”
“I was thinking of Europe.”
“I said interesting.”
“Europe is interesting!”
“Well, maybe. But why don’t you look in one of those vacation magazines of yours and see what they have around Ute County.”
They had finally gotten a seat in a restaurant and were looking over the menu, which was decorated with pictures of miners and a languid young blonde in Victorian dress. Beyond the plate-glass window that fronted the narrow, long dining room, automobile traffic jammed up between the two traffic lights of Leadville’s main street, and a steady procession of faces moved back and forth along the crowded sidewalk. On the wall facing Wager, an enlarged photograph depicted the town during the height of silver mining, and the present downtown section didn’t look all that different from the photograph. Beside it, the same blonde stared out over the room, and beneath her was a scrolled name, “Baby Doe.”
“Mind telling me why Ute C
ounty?”
“That’s where the T Bar M is.”
“That much I’ve figured out. What I don’t know is why you want to go there.”
“Tom’s sons weren’t exactly honest with us.”
“I wondered what was going on back there—those questions you kept asking.” She closed the menu and stared at Wager. “You were interrogating those boys! Even while you were telling them their father was dead, you were interrogating them!”
Wager didn’t see anything to get excited over. “It’s a homicide. Somebody murdered Tom.”
“But they were up in Montana, at a rodeo.”
“Maybe. Maybe they gave themselves enough time to swing through Antonito before they went north—it’s about a five-hour drive at most from Ute County to Antonito. That might explain why he went willingly with his killers and why the wallet was missing: the sheriff would need time to identify Tom, and by then they would be in Montana.”
“Oh, Gabe! You’re talking premeditated murder—those boys can’t be that cold-blooded!”
“I’m talking opportunity. They might have come by to visit and things got out of hand.”
“But why would they kill him?”
Wager shrugged. “Hatred, maybe. He was pretty well worked over before he died.”
The waitress came and apologized for taking so long to get to them. “Have you decided yet?” She shoved a lock of damp brown hair off her forehead and wrote down their orders. “Be a little bit—we’re really crowded today with the rodeo and all.”
“Do you really think either of them hated their father enough to do that?”
“That’s one of the things I want to find out.”
“You believe the murder might have been accidental—that perhaps the killer only meant to beat him up?”
That was consistent with the type of bruises on Tom’s face—a series of blows that were not meant to kill. But there were murders, and there were murderers, and there were some ill-fitting pieces, too: why Tom went with his killers, why his wallet was missing if it was supposed to look like a hit-run accident. Until better evidence showed up, nothing could be ruled out. Which is what he told Jo.
She sipped at her wine and poked around in her salad. “What would they lie about?”