by Terri Farley
Although the rodeo wouldn’t start until noon, cowboys and cowgirls were crawling out of campers and motor homes, checking on their horses, and looking for breakfast.
Some followed their noses toward the pancake breakfast served after a church service held in the arena.
“Kinda peaceful, isn’t it?” Dallas stretched as he climbed out of the truck.
Sam nodded. She’d never been to rodeo grounds before the action began. An event program somer-saulted in the wind, and the grandstands overlooking the arena were empty.
“You’d never guess at all the “music yelling, bucking, and bellowin’ that’ll be startin’ up soon,” Dallas mused. “But this is a good time for us to look around, see if we can find Karla Starr’s fancy truck or anything else with her brand on it.”
Dallas strode past a maze of metal fences and gates, and Sam followed.
“All those go somewhere,” Dallas said. “The trick is to get the bulls and broncs headed for the right chute and the cowboy who drew ‘em.”
Dallas explained that a cowboy registered for an event and then his name was randomly matched with a certain animal.
“At small shows like this, their names are probably just drawn from a hat. In big rodeos, they use a computer.”
“Pretty high-tech,” Sam said. “But does it really matter which one you get?”
“Sure does,” Dallas said. “If you get one that bucks and you stay on, you make lots of points and money. A stock contractor’s dream is an animal that bucks hard every time. All the cowboys want to draw him.”
Sam closed her eyes in dismay. The Phantom would buck until his proud heart broke.
“Over here.” Dallas steered Sam around a bare-chested cowboy whose ribs were being wrapped with yards of white tape. “Those are the holding pens.”
A dozen horses raised their heads from a pile of hay. Still chewing, they regarded Sam and Dallas.
“Those don’t look like wild horses.”
“They’re not on the job,” Dallas explained, then added, “and not one of ‘em looks like your Phantom.”
He was right. Except for one black and one paint, all the horses in this pen were bays and sorrels.
“So, do we give up and go on to the next one?” Sam asked.
“Not just yet.” Dallas’s hands perched on his hips. He scanned the closed concession booths painted with pictures of cotton candy and corn dogs.
Professional stock contractors, Dallas explained, had many responsibilities and lots of rules to follow at sanctioned rodeos.
But this wasn’t a sanctioned rodeo, and Karla Starr fell short of being a professional.
“Sanctioned means approved, right?” Sam asked. “Who sanctions them?”
“At small, end-of-the-season rodeos like this one, it’s hard to tell. All those the manager mentioned were connected with county fairs and such.” Dallas shook his head as if he’d expected as much. “The bigger rodeos, though, for cowboys who’re tryin’ to make a living, are sanctioned by professional cowboy organizations. That’s how they get points and honors and whatnot.”
The aromas of sausage and pancakes made Sam hungry, but keeping up with Dallas kept her from thinking about it too much.
Cowboys and cowgirls were lined up at a folding table shaded by a picnic umbrella. They were paying entry fees and getting starting times for the day’s events, Dal explained.
Every time they saw the bobbing ears or shiny hindquarters of a horse, they detoured to take a look. The rodeo grounds were growing busy. Trucks and cars pulled in. Trailer gates were opened and restless horses unloaded. Dogs and children scattered, looking for companions.
Once, Sam sprinted toward a rearing gray horse, only to find she was really an Appaloosa.
“She hates having her legs taped,” a girl explained to Sam. “But it keeps her from getting banged up.”
Next, they passed a bull fighter. He wore clownish clothes and makeup, but his leg was extended and a woman dressed like a paramedic was wrapping it with tape matched to his athletic shoes.
“Everywhere I look, somebody’s getting bandaged up,” Sam said. “It looks like a hospital back here.”
“Rodeo’s a rough game,” Dallas agreed.
Before they gave up, Dallas even checked the chutes that opened into the arena. They were empty, but Sam couldn’t help noticing that inside them, the wooden walls were gouged through the paint, down to bare wood.
“Some poor horse--”
“Or some poor cowboy,” Dallas corrected.
“Yeah, but the cowboys have a choice.”
“Ya got me there,” Dallas agreed, but he seemed to be thinking of something else.
Sam crossed her arms and considered a pen of bucking bulls. They looked healthy and well fed. One dozed in the sun.
She wished she could sleep through these mixed feelings. She’d always loved the popcorn smell and excitement of rodeos, but the thought of the Phantom, terrified and confused, changed everything.
“I have one more idea.” Dallas strode toward a man with a clipboard and a walkie-talkie, “Excuse me, can you give me an idea of when the wild horse race starts?”
The man didn’t bother consulting his papers. “We don’t have one here at Sweetwater, but you could probably catch the one in Riverton. I hear they’ve put all their local businessmen in teams of three to compete against each other.” He chuckled and swept a hand over the small, busy fairgrounds. “That’d give us about one team.”
Sam tried to talk with Dal as he hurried toward the truck. “What’s a wild horse race?”
Now the smell of onion rings mingled with the smell of pancakes and sausage, making her even hungrier, but Sam still caught Dallas’s answer.
“You’ll see when we get there,” he snapped, and something in his tone told Sam she wouldn’t like what she saw.
Halfway to Riverton, Dallas stopped for gasoline. Inside the convenience store, he bought them microwaved burritos and colas.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t tell your Gram.”
“I won’t,” Sam promised. Gram thought fast food was corrupting the younger generation.
“You want one of those fried pies, too?” Dallas pointed at little greasy things that didn’t look anything like Gram’s pies.
“Can I have ice cream instead?” Sam felt greedy after she said it.
“I don’t mind spoilin’ you some.” Dallas laughed. “You were a big help yesterday. Get anything you want, just so long as you can eat it in the truck.”
Riverton’s Wild West Days rodeo was in full swing when they arrived. They hurried to the arena just as saddle bronc riding was announced.
A pale horse spun in the middle of a dust cloud. With the sun shining through, Sam couldn’t tell the color of his coat.
When the buzzer sounded, the cowboy’s free arm stopped waving and a pickup man swooped in on a sturdy Quarter horse. Smoothly, he yanked at the bronc’s flank cinch and helped the rider to the ground.
The bronc stopped bucking and ran for an open gate. His coat was a creamy palomino.
“I thought for a minute …”
“Too polished,” Dallas said. “That palomino’s been in a chute more than a time or two.”
The announcer boomed the name of the next cowboy and a horse called TNT, but there was a commotion in the chute and they didn’t emerge.
Maybe, Sam thought, maybe this is him.
It wasn’t. The horse exploding out of the chute was dark, the color of a bruise. He seemed to fly.
“A sun fisher,” Dallas said. “See how he twists up in the air so the sun shines on his belly? And that”--he pointed as the cowboy flew off over the horse’s tail--“is called goin’ out the back door.”
Sam admired the skilled horsemanship of the pickup men. She appreciated Dallas’s explanations and his offer of cotton candy, but she was losing hope.
Dallas must have noticed.
“I’m thinking the Phantom--if he’s here at all--will be in the wild horse
race. He’d be a devil to get in one of those chutes, and besides”--Dallas looked around the fairgrounds as if instinct was whispering to him--”they might not be too careful checking brands on horses that’re supposed to act wild.”
Sam and Dallas left the stands to search the holding pens.
They wandered through the dust, checking everywhere.
Unlike the Sweetwater rodeo, action was all around them here. Ropers practiced on anything that moved. A barrel racer’s horse, eager to dash into the arena, nearly trampled them. As they sidled into an area behind the chutes, a cowboy grunted. Sam snuck a look just as he leaned down to check a bull rider’s spur that had been molded on as part of a smudged and autographed cast.
“Can you believe that?” Sam gasped. The cowboy clearly had a broken leg, and yet he planned to ride.
“Sure.” Dallas nodded.” Jake’d ride, if he could get away with it.”
Sam guessed Dallas was right, but as they walked among the men preparing for the bull-riding competition, she decided they were insane. She could imagine riding a bucking horse. In fact, she’d done it, just not on purpose.
But bulls scared her. The best were “rank,” Dal said. They spun, fought, twisted, and kicked, then chased down the riders with murderous rage.
Sam was listening to a cowboy with a black eye brag that he’d earned it when a bull’s horn hooked him, when Dal’s voice interrupted.
“You feel like a break?”
For the first time all day, Sam really looked at the foreman. There was a gray cast to his skin, and he shifted from boot to boot, as if neither foot was up to bearing weight.
She’d been selfish, but if she fussed over Dallas he’d keep going, even if he was ready to drop.
“Yeah, I could really go for some lemonade, and maybe we could sit in the shade for a few minutes.”
Dal’s raised brow made Sam worry, that she’d overdone the pitiful act, but he jerked a thumb toward one of the booths.
It was three o’clock, and Sam had started worrying about Ace--the gelding was bound to be as sore as she was--when a voice announced the wild horse race.
“How they do it,” Dal explained carefully, “is put men in teams of three behind a rope barrier. All the wild horses, they put in a chute. There’s a whistle, usually, and then the men and horses kinda meet up in the arena.”
Sam and Dal found seats in the stands, and before Dallas finished, the announcer’s booming voice explained that each team must stop a wild horse and saddle him. Then one man must ride the horse over a finish line.
Three against one, Sam thought as eight horses charged into the arena. None were grays and none looked like mustangs. Probably, they were saddle and bareback broncs, just called “wild” for this event.
No fair. Sam noticed each horse wore a halter with a trailing rope. It made them easier to catch, but when the men grabbed the ropes, holding them out, Sam was afraid one of the spooked horses would come barreling through, trying to escape a pursuer, and trip.
A perfect event for the Phantom. No experience required, just energy and speed.
One team had its horse. The paint struggled as a man hung on his head and another chased him with the saddle.
Sam didn’t realize she was holding her face in her hands until the third man dodged the paint’s heels and twisted its tail. Pain made the horse still, and the saddle crashed down upon his back. Before any of the men could mount, Sam covered her eyes.
“I don’t think he’s here,” Dallas said, standing up. “‘Bout time for us to be going anyway.”
Dallas led the way back to the truck. They were already on the freeway, headed home, when Sam spoke.
“I don’t know what to hope--that Karla has him, but just didn’t bring him to this rodeo, or that the black stallion killed him, or that he just deserted his herd …”
“Not likely.” Dallas stared at the road ahead.
Sam knew she should let him concentrate. He didn’t drive in heavy traffic very often.
“If I turn on the radio,” Dal said, “think you could still grab some sleep?”
“Sure,” she said, but it didn’t happen. When Dallas spoke again, Sam was still awake.
“You and me don’t have the manpower to go after Karla Starr the way she deserves,” Dallas said, as if he’d been thinking about the Phantom for the whole hour they’d been driving. “Much as I hate to say it, BLM might be the stallion’s best hope.”
“Maybe.” Sam looked out the window. As they traveled on, she saw mud on the pavement, and water ran in channels next to the road.
There would still be flood damage to deal with at home. So she’d have lots to think about besides the Phantom.
What’s next?
Sam didn’t know she’d whispered the words until Dallas answered.
“What’s next is this: Get that Brynna Olson on your side. Wyatt says she’s half as crazy for that stallion as you are, and that’s crazy enough to defend him like a mother bear.”
Chapter Seventeen
Gram and Dad still weren’t home from the fair when Sam and Dallas pulled into the ranch yard long after dark, but Pepper met them with good news.
“All night long the local TV news has been sayin’ Darton High School is closed Monday.” Pepper was hatless and his red hair stuck out in clumps, but he looked happy for her.
“Why is it closed?” Sam rejoiced at the chance to do her homework tomorrow, instead of doing it half-asleep tonight. Then an awful thought cropped up. “The library’s not flooded, is it?”
Though most of Darton High was ordinary, Sam loved the library. Tall windows kept it sunny, and a librarian with a green thumb coaxed ferns and flowers to brighten every corner.
“They didn’t mention it.” Pepper rubbed his eyes, then yawned. “Just said the road was washed out, like it is lots of places in town.”
“Thanks for staying up to tell me. Now I can go out and check on Ace.”
“He’s fine. They’re all fine, and ‘cept for those three heifers, the cattle seem to have made it through.”
Sam’s arms felt heavy and the barn looked far away.
“Sam, honest.” Pepper must have seen her weariness. “I looked Ace over.”
“I know,” Sam said as she started walking, “but he needs to know I’m home.”
Ace neighed a sweet welcome, and Sam ran the rest of the way. “You look pretty good, but you wouldn’t turn down a massage, would you?” Sam took up the rubber curry comb and worked it over Ace’s coat. He shook his mane as if her touch gave him chills of delight.
“I didn’t find the Phantom,” Sam confessed. “Ace, what if I never do?”
She kept brushing long after his bay coat shone. Then she told Ace the truth that had ached inside her for three long days.
“It’s my fault. I let him become too tame.” Sam remembered how close the stallion had come that day when Rachel had been lost. “Dad was right, but I didn’t believe him until it was too late. The Phantom would be curious about Karla and get too close. Then I bet she caught him herself.”
Sam dropped the curry comb and leaned against Ace’s back. “I’m to blame,” she whispered, “and I don’t know what to do.”
Ace didn’t have any answers, but talking to him helped more than crying. Finally, Sam went to the house and left the front porch light on. She was ready for sleep.
Gram woke her with a kiss and a glass of orange juice.
Sam struggled up on her elbows. Gram snatched a tee-shirt from Sam’s floor and straightened some papers that didn’t need straightening. Sam had missed her.
“You won, huh?”
Gram turned, a towel dangling from her fingers, and smiled. “I did, and not only a blue ribbon but two hundred dollars’ credit at the new superstore in Darton.”
“That’s great. What are you going to buy? A rice cooker?”
Gram had been reading up on those appliances for months. She loved making Asian food, but she just didn’t have the knack with rice that s
he had with potatoes and breads.
“Land sakes, no. I’ll just put it toward our monthly food bill and it’ll be gone quick enough.” Gram’s words drifted back as she bustled out the door.
Sam slipped out of bed and dressed, thinking about Gram. The trip and the blue ribbon were reward enough for her, it seemed, but shouldn’t she buy herself a treat, too?
“Wyatt’s in the barn,” Gram said as Sam poured her cereal. “He wants to talk with you.”
“About what?”
“You’ll have to ask him.” Gram frowned at Sam’s breakfast. “You should have some fruit on that, at least. And some whole-wheat toast.” Gram held out a hand to ward off Sam’s protest. “Even if you’re not hungry.”
Dad was in the barn talking with Dallas, but Tank stood saddled at the rail, so Dad had probably already ridden out to look over the storm-damaged range.
Sam heard Dad’s voice before she saw him.
“It wasn’t a decision I made quick, but what he offered for Banjo, after we won, was just about the price those three heifers would’ve brought at market. And that’s if it had been a good market.”
“You sold Banjo?” Sam stepped into the barn. She couldn’t believe Dad had meant what he’d said.
He didn’t answer right away, and maybe it was a good thing. The look he gave her was complicated and it took her a minute to figure out. His expression said he was glad she was alive, that he would’ve liked a greeting instead of an accusation, and that her eavesdropping was out of line for a thirteen-year-old.
But all Dad said was, “Yes, I did.”
“But, Dad, you love that horse.”
“No. I love this ranch and the people on it.” Dad’s eyes wouldn’t let her wiggle away. “Banjo’s a good horse, but I have others. He made lots of contributions to this ranch.”
“I heard he won,” Sam admitted, “and you got enough to balance things.”
“More than that. After I sold him, I felt sorta at loose ends. Your Gram was in a runoff for first place.” Dad’s grin flashed, then faded. “I went to a workshop the county was givin’ and learned about drought-tolerant hay and grass seed that grows in poor soil.”