by Rex Burns
“It was a rank horse. Anybody ought to ride good on a horse like that.”
“A lot of riders didn’t stay on at all,” said Wager.
“Well, I’d of liked to done better.”
“Is the stock a problem at these rodeos?”
“Yes, ma’am. It ain’t very consistent. And the best ones go on up to the big rodeos pretty quick.”
“I thought you should have had a re-ride on the bull.”
“He had his mind set on running, didn’t he?” He unlocked the camper door, and they shoved the bag into the truck. “But I should have rode better even at that.”
“At least you didn’t break your arm like that one rider,” said Wager.
James gave a little laugh. “Yeah—third time, same arm, for him. He just got the cast off last week.”
Wager glanced at the saddles and ropes lining one side of the truck bed. “All that equipment’s yours? It looks pretty expensive.”
“The rigging? Yeah, it’s best to have your own. And it does cost, that’s a fact.” He folded up his shirt sleeve and began unwinding tape from his right arm. “Anything particular you wanted to see us about, Mr. Wager?”
“I’m a friend of your dad. I told him I was coming up here, and he asked me to say hello, that’s all.”
James carefully folded the elastic tape and reached down to unbuckle the straps that held his dull spurs on scarred and deeply creased boots. “Haven’t heard much from him in a long time.” He straightened, the rowel clinking against its stop, and looked at Wager with eyes that flatly masked any feeling. “In fact, I didn’t even think he knew we were alive.”
“He wanted to get up here,” Wager lied. “But he had to go to Oklahoma for some stock.”
“Yeah, right. Well, that’s nothing new. He always did have something better to do.”
“Who has something better to do, Jimmy?” A taller cowboy rounded the side of the truck. A couple of years older and heavier across the shoulders, he had the same dark hair and eyes. But the chin on this one was bonier and longer, and bore a thin white scar just above the jaw line like an old knife wound. “You the one that left the note for us?”
James introduced them to John. “He says Daddy asked him to say hello.”
“Oh?” John’s mouth widened slightly in a polite smile. “Thanks. That nice of you. Nice of him to think about us.”
“We enjoyed the rodeo,” said Jo. “Do you have another one next weekend?”
John’s eyes went up and down Jo’s shirt and jeans with a practiced glance before he smiled. “Sure do. We’ll be over in Utah. Week after, down in Walsenburg. Maybe we’ll do a little better there—I sure hope so. That’s a PRCA rodeo.”
“Are you PRCA members?” she asked.
“I got my permit. Jimmy’s got to wait until he’s eighteen for his. If Ma signs for him.”
Jo had told Wager about the certification rules: after a rider obtained his beginner’s permit, he had three years to win a thousand dollars in PRCA-sanctioned rodeos in order to earn his full membership card. “If she won’t,” said Wager, “maybe your dad will.”
“We don’t need him to sign,” said James. “We don’t need him for nothing, now.”
“Jimmy, these folks ain’t interested in that. What line of work you in, Mr. Wager?”
“I work for the city of Denver. Do you rodeo all year round?”
“We aim to in time. I guess it runs in the family.”
“Can you make a living at it?”
“Didn’t look that way today, did it? Cost us some money today, didn’t it, Jimmy?”
“Do you win enough to pay expenses?” asked Jo.
“Not yet. We work a ranch over in Ute County.”
“Which one?” asked Wager.
John hesitated, eyeing Wager. Then he shrugged. “The T Bar M.”
“They let you off every weekend to rodeo?”
“Well, yeah. I’m the ranch manager and I work it out so’s we can rodeo.”
“That’s lucky.”
“Right. Jimmy and me, we’re real lucky.” John gestured to his brother to take off the number pinned to the back of his shirt. Then he did the same for James. Behind them, three cowboys watched a long-legged blond stride through the parking lot. She saw them looking at her and spit a stream of brown juice their way. A worn circle marking a tobacco can rose and fell on the smooth, taut curve of her jeans. One of the cowboys punched the other on the shoulder and said, “Gawdamn, Hern, how’d you like to swap slobber with that one?”
“Just what kind of work do you do for the city of Denver, Mr. Wager?” asked John.
“Police.”
“Police? Well, now.” He tied a coiled rope with a thong and laid it carefully in the camper. “Wouldn’t have thought Daddy’d have a policeman for a friend.”
“We grew up in the same neighborhood. I’ve known him a long time.”
“Can’t say Jimmy or I have. But no hard feelings—a man does what he’s got to do, right, Jimmy?”
“Right.”
“Maybe you and Tom can be in the same rodeo sometime,” said Wager. “I know he’d like that.”
“Might work out that way. We’ll see what happens.” John touched a forefinger to his hat brim. “If you’ll excuse us, ma’am. We got to turn in our numbers and then get on down the road.”
They watched the two cowboys walk with their stiff-legged gait toward the arena secretary’s office, the tailored yokes of their western shirts rolling slightly from side to side. James’s hat bobbed with the strength of what he was saying, and John’s Stetson wagged a brief negative as they turned out of sight.
“Did you ever notice,” Wager asked Jo, “how friendly civilians are after you tell them you’re a cop? It’s almost as warm and cozy as saying you have herpes.”
“You could tell them you have AIDS.”
“That’s not my kind of disease, kid.”
“We’ve got a whole weekend to find out.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1984 by Rex Raoul Stephen Sehler Burns
cover design by Michel Vrana
978-1-4532-4793-8
This edition published in 2012 by Open Road Integrated Media
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