Someone Like You (Night Riders)

by Leigh Greenwood

  “They’re off!”

  The crowd of proud parents, family, and friends shouted their encouragement as the boys and their ponies jostled one another at the start. Maria gasped when a boy on a white pony bumped Luis’s pony.

  “That boy is a natural,” Rafe said proudly when Luis held his pony together until he could regain his balance. “I’ll have to get him a bigger pony before I go back to Texas.”

  It seemed half the boys didn’t understand that they were supposed to race one another, not try to knock one another off the track.

  “Those boys don’t know how to ride,” Dolores declared.

  “They know how,” Rafe said. “They’re just trying to knock out the competition.”

  Maria thought that showed poor sportsmanship. She was so worried about Luis’s safety, she didn’t know when she grasped hold of Rafe’s hand. She became aware of it only when Luis emerged from the tangle and joined the leaders, who were more intent on winning the race than eliminating their competition.

  “He’s ridden himself out of trouble,” Rafe said. “He’s in a good position to win.”

  She would have withdrawn her hand, but Rafe didn’t loosen his grip.

  “He shouldn’t be riding in this race,” Dolores complained. “He’ll be sick with exhaustion.”

  “You should be extremely proud of Luis,” Rafe said to Maria. “The other boys used whips, but Luis hand rode his pony out of trouble. That takes real skill. Anybody can use a whip.”

  Maria didn’t know what hand riding meant and didn’t care. She cared only that Luis was in the middle of a group of boys trying to reach the finish line first. The shouts from the people around her rose to a crescendo as several boys crossed the finish line in a group.

  “Did he win?” Dolores asked.

  “I think he came in third,” Rafe said, “but he’s the best rider out there.”

  “He didn’t win,” Dolores said. “How can he be the best?”

  She headed to where Broc was waiting for Luis. Maria started to follow, then realized she was still holding on to Rafe’s hand. Embarrassed, she quickly pulled away, but he just smiled and said, “Let’s go find Luis.”

  When they reached Luis, Dolores was fussing over him, looking for possible injuries, and questioning how he was feeling. His gaze went straight to Rafe.

  “I didn’t win,” he said.

  “No, but you rode the best race of anybody,” Rafe told him. “Nobody did a better job of steadying his mount during the rough start or of getting the most out of him at the finish line. I’m extremely proud of you for finishing third against boys with far more experience.”

  “See, didn’t I tell you?” Broc said to Luis.

  Rafe’s pride in his accomplishment had the boy beaming. He had come out of the race with added confidence in his abilities. Maria realized it was worth a few moments of breathlessness to see the smile on his face, the way he walked with a bit of a swagger.

  “Rafe said it would be easy,” he told his mother. “And it was.”

  Maria had hoped Dolores would go back to the hotel, but she stayed to watch Rafe’s race. She appeared to take great pleasure in seeing him lose. Maria, on the other hand, was never more proud of him. He lost because he’d helped a young caballero whose saddle cinch broke. The youth would have fallen into the path of the horses behind him if Rafe hadn’t steadied him and stayed at his side until he’d been able to settle himself on the horse bareback.

  Maria could tell Luis was disappointed. Rafe was his hero. He couldn’t understand how his big brother could lose. Dolores attempted to use the opportunity to disparage Rafe to Luis, but that backfired when the young man and his parents came to thank Rafe for what he’d done.

  “Would he really have been killed if you hadn’t helped him?” Luis asked after the young man’s father had thanked Rafe for saving his son’s life and his mother had wet Rafe’s shirt with her tears of thankfulness.

  “He’s a very good rider,” Rafe said. “He probably could have pulled up on his own.”

  “Nobody can stay on a horse when the saddle slips out from under him,” Broc told Luis.

  Luis looked at Rafe with wonder in his eyes. “You saved his life.”

  That was too much for Dolores so she left to go back to the hotel. Besides, Broc’s event was coming up. Dolores was still trying to pretend he didn’t exist.

  Maria couldn’t understand what Luis found so enjoyable about watching Broc wrestle a steer to the ground, but the boy got so excited that he climbed up on his chair to cheer. For a time Maria thought the steer was going to win. How was any man supposed to wrestle an animal of that size? The steer dragged him around a bit, but once Broc got a good hold on the steer’s horns, he used his weight to throw the animal off balance. Rafe explained that once a steer loses control of its head, it can be brought to the ground. Maria had been doubtful, but it happened just as Rafe said it would.

  Which raised both Rafe and Broc in Luis’s estimation.

  Later in the afternoon, while they waited for Rafe’s bronco ride to begin, Broc explained that all cowboys rode bucking horses practically every time they got into the saddle.

  “My pony doesn’t buck,” Luis pointed out.

  “Your pony grew up in a stable,” Broc said. “Our horses ran wild during the war and haven’t forgotten how much they liked it.”

  “My pony likes for me to ride him,” Luis said.

  “He likes to be taken out of his stall, but he’d be a lot happier if you weren’t on his back.”

  “Oh.” Luis looked thoughtful. “Does he hate me?”

  “No. You feed him and give him a nice warm bed out of the rain and cold.”

  “One of the stable hands feeds him. I don’t unsaddle him or put him in his stall.”

  Maria was certain Broc had backed himself into a corner.

  “He knows he can depend on people, and you’re a person. As long as you’re gentle with him when you ride, he’ll do what ever you want. Now watch carefully. When they open the gate, Rafe’s horse will come out bucking as hard as he can.”

  “Will Rafe fall off? Will it hurt?”

  Maria did her best not to hear any of Broc’s explanation of what would happen when the gate opened. She could understand why a man would mount a horse that bucked if it was the only way he could get his work done, but how could being thrown about like a rag doll and probably sent flying through the air before crashing to the ground possibly be fun? There were times when she thought men had to be alien creatures. How else could you explain why they were so different from women?

  Then again maybe she was the alien creature. All around her women cheered the riders who stayed on longest and shook their heads at those who were thrown. Why didn’t she thrill at the sight of a man testing his strength and skill against a powerful animal instead of cringing and praying it would be over soon?

  The cheer that went up from the assembled throng signaled that the gate had been opened.

  Maria didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the battle. The horse, a bony animal with brown and black spots against a dirty white coat, moved with rapidity that made her dizzy as it twisted its body into positions Maria would have thought impossible.

  “That’s what a horse would do to get a cougar off its back,” Broc explained.

  Broc told Luis the names of the various movements of the bronc. When he said that some horses had been known to attack the rider after they’d bucked him off, Maria was tempted to close her eyes until it was over. Much to her relief, someone blew a whistle, which apparently signaled that Rafe had stayed on long enough. He slid out of the saddle as if it were the most natural thing in the world and strode to the middle of the ring, where he acknowledged the applause of the appreciative audience. Luis was on his feet, clapping, shouting, and grinning from ear to ear.

  Maria struggled to slow her rapidly beating heart. The ride had lasted just ten seconds, but she felt exhausted.

  “Rafe is the b
est rider, isn’t he?” Luis asked Broc. “He didn’t fall off.”

  “Several of the others didn’t fall off, either,” Broc reminded him.

  “But Rafe was better, wasn’t he?”

  “I think so,” Broc said with an indulgent smile, “but we’ll have to wait and see if the judges agree.”

  The horses bucked so fast and the rides lasted such a short time, it was hard for Maria to see any difference between one rider and another. She was just relieved that Rafe’s ride was over. She wanted him to stop bowing to all those silly women. None of them had sat through the ordeal, heart in hand, unable to take a single breath. None of them had—

  “Oh, my God!”

  Broc’s exclamation riveted her attention. “What’s wrong?”

  Broc was already disappearing in the crowd when Maria turned to him. Her attention drawn by a sudden hush, she turned back to the ring. What she saw caused her to gasp in horror.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rafe’s eyes were certain of what they saw, but his brain said it was impossible. A very large, very angry bull pawed the ground and glared at him from less than fifty feet away.

  The fighting bulls were kept in pens at the edge of the arena so they could be released directly into the ring. All the bulls had already been brought to the holding pens because the bullfights were the next and final event of the afternoon. Through some incredible accident, one of the gates must have become loose or weak enough for the bull to get out. This was not the average bull with a natural antipathy for man. This bull had been bred for his willingness to fight anything he encountered, most particularly a man on foot. Instinctively, Rafe looked over his shoulder for a way to escape. He could hardly believe his eyes when a second bull emerged from its pen and trotted into the sunlit arena.

  Nothing like this could happen—at least not by accident.

  He didn’t have time to worry about how it had happened, why it had happened, or who might have done it—accidentally or intentionally. He was in the middle of a large ring between two bulls, and he had nothing with which to defend himself. There were no picadors in the arena because the bullfights weren’t scheduled to begin until later in the afternoon.

  He was alone. It was up to him to save his own life.

  It was natural for bulls to fight each other, but it was the practice of the people who staged the bullfights to irritate, agitate, and generally anger the bulls so they would be more eager to fight the humans who’d tormented them. Someone had driven lances into the shoulders of these bulls for the purpose of causing pain to escalate their anger to near-blind rage. And there he stood, a perfect target.

  Rafe had seen bullfights, but he’d never participated in one. He’d always thought the fights were too cruel to the bull. The odds were stacked so it was almost impossible for the bull to win. Tradition dictated that the victorious matador conclude the fight by plunging his sword into the heart of his vanquished foe. But how could Rafe vanquish his foes? He needed something to attract the bulls’ attention, to give them a target, and he didn’t have anything.

  If he could move out of the center of the ring, perhaps the bulls would see each other and forget about him. When he saw a third bull emerge from its pen, pinning him at the vortex of a lethal triangle, he was certain someone was trying to kill him.

  A hush had fallen over the spectators. A child raised his voice, only to be cut off in midsentence. It was as if the whole world had stopped long enough to turn its attention on him, to watch with gaping mouths, waiting to see what would happen, certain of the inevitable outcome.

  Rafe didn’t move. He knew as long as he remained motionless, the bulls couldn’t be sure he was a real person. But that strategy wouldn’t work for long. Any moment an errant breeze could carry his scent to one of the bulls, and it would charge. Any movement would draw one or both of the other bulls into the fray. How was he going to get out of this alive?

  He’d once heard someone say you could stare down a bull, but what did you do when you faced three? He racked his brain, trying to think of something he could use to distract the bulls, but he’d removed his vest when he mounted the bronc, leaving just the red shirt Luis had insisted he wear.

  The red shirt!

  He could use that as a cape if he could get it off before one of the bulls charged. It had at least six buttons and was securely tucked into his pants. Did he have enough time?

  Being careful not to move too quickly, he brought his right hand up to the first button and undid it. At the same time he slowly turned his head enough so that, using his peripheral vision, he was able to see all three bulls. The third bull was more interested in the other two bulls than in Rafe. The second bull was distracted by the crowds. The first bull had stopped pawing the ground, but its eyes were focused intently on Rafe.

  Rafe undid a second button.

  The first bull grunted, exhaled through its nostrils, and lowered its head. Saliva dripped from its lips and the spear imbedded in its shoulder quivered. His action caught the attention of the second bull, which also focused on Rafe. It snorted and stomped the ground with a single hoof, causing the lance buried deep in its shoulder to wave about, undoubtedly causing even greater pain. Rafe could see no spear in the third bull. He hoped that would make it less dangerous than the first two, but he didn’t need anyone to tell him that wouldn’t matter if he didn’t manage to get past the others.

  He undid a third button.

  The first bull raised its head and sent forth a full-throated bellow that seemed to shake the ground. That brought the other bulls to attention, ready for a challenge from any direction. The first bull bellowed again, pawed at the ground, and lowered its head, shaking it from side to side and flinging saliva in all directions. Its actions spurred the second bull to deliver an answering bellow before lowering its head and pawing the ground.

  Rafe didn’t bother to check on the third bull before undoing the fourth button.

  Noise from the crowd penetrated his consciousness. He could hear men shouting and had a vague impression of running feet. There was no sound of a horse entering the ring, no picador coming to his rescue. The first bull sent a blast of air through its nostrils, lowered its head still more, and charged.

  Rafe ripped open the shirt, sending the last two buttons flying. He jerked it out of his pants and pulled it off only a split second before the charging bull reached him. With no time to unfurl the shirt and use it as a target, Rafe threw himself to the side just as the bull thundered by. Using the agility bred in it through generations, the bull threw his head to the side and hooked the tail of the shirt with his horn as he passed.

  The shirt was Rafe’s only weapon, his only means of defense. As puny as it was, he couldn’t lose it. Even as he lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, Rafe tightened his grip on the shirt. He heard it rip, prayed the tear wouldn’t leave him with a scrap while the majority decorated the bull’s horns. Both hands still gripping the shirt tightly, he came to his knees as the bull’s horn ripped free of the tail of the shirt.

  The sound of pounding hooves made him look up in time to see the second bull charging. Rafe wasn’t sure how he got to his feet in time to face the second bull, but he managed to wave the shirt at the charging animal. It passed so close by, Rafe could feel the heat of its breath, could smell the odor of manure that clung to it.

  The bull’s furious charge carried it well past Rafe, but Rafe barely had time to regain his balance and face the first bull as it attacked again. He was caught between the two bulls. Only great luck would enable him to continue to face one at a time. That luck would vanish entirely if the third bull decided to charge. His only alternative was to get the first two bulls to attack at the same time from opposite directions. If they crashed into each other—it would be even better if they started to fight—he would have a chance to get them between him and the third bull. That might give him enough time to reach the edge of the arena and vault over the wall to safety.

  He was vaguely awar
e of the sounds of movement outside the ring. Some of the spectators were shouting advice. Why hadn’t he been interested in bullfighting when he was a young boy? Then he might have had some notion of what to do as he struggled to evade one attack after another.

  Remaining in the center of the ring wasn’t an option. Somehow he had to attract the attention of the first two bulls without drawing the third into the conflict. Waving the shirt in front of him, Rafe moved from the center of the ring in hopes of confusing the bulls and causing them to wait before charging.

  It didn’t quite work that way. He barely had time to spin away from one bull before the other was upon him. The second bull’s horn caught his pants, ripped through the material to the flesh underneath, and spun him around and off his feet. Dragging his body up on his knees, he looked up just in time to see the third bull lower its head and charge.

  The pain in his hip wouldn’t let him stand and deploy the cape. He had to hope the bull was charging so hard, it wouldn’t have time to change course when Rafe threw himself to one side at the last second—if he was able to judge when that last fraction of a second arrived. He didn’t have time to determine the location of the first two bulls. He’d have to hope they would be distracted by the unexpected arrival of the third bull.

  Rafe owed his survival to the help of an unknown confederate. Some object sailed through the air and struck the bull on the shoulder. Thinking it was being attacked by an unseen assailant, the bull skidded to a halt and whirled to face its challenger. Despite the pain from his injured hip, Rafe got to his feet in time to see the first two bulls eyeing him from opposite sides. Grabbing what might be his only chance to escape without further injury, he waved the shirt, hoping to incite them to attack before the third bull could refocus its attention on Rafe.

  He got his wish. Both charged at the same time. Now the problem became how to move his injured body out of the way in time to keep from being crushed between the two animals. The few seconds it took the bulls to reach him felt like the oddest moments of his life. One instant the bulls were moving in slow motion, getting only a little bit closer, and the next they were charging toward him at an unnerving speed. Abandoning any attempt to control the collision, Rafe tossed his shirt into the air and staggered to one side.