Ride, Cowboy, Ride! Page 3

  Lick, who was right behind, dived under the table after him.

  At that moment Cooney came into the kitchen from the dining room entrance. The calf burst out of the now-trashed breakfast nook right into Cooney’s arms and knocked him flat on his back. Cooney managed to grab a hold of one foot and hung on. Down the calf went through the tiled hallway, dragging Cooney like a prolapsed uterus. Lick leaped over the scooting Cooney and grabbed the calf in a headlock. “Get me a rope, a piggin’ string!” hollered Lick to anyone who would listen. As if on cue, an ironing board fell from the wall, delivering a man’s terrycloth robe complete with matching belt.

  In two shakes of a cow’s tail Lick and Cooney had the calf hogtied.

  The calf relaxed and quit fighting. Lick and Cooney flopped back against the wall, breathing like two asthmatics climbing Pikes Peak. The screaming had stopped, and they could hear the lady dialing three numbers: 9-1-1. Lick ran into the kitchen and took the phone from her hand.

  She drew back in horror. “Don’t hurt me!” she cried.

  “Sit down, ma’am.” He uprighted a kitchen chair and set it between them. “We’ll have this calf out of here in just a moment. Can I get you a glass of water?”

  She continued to stare at him. He filled a coffee cup with water and handed it to her.

  “Are you familiar with the open range laws of the state of Arizona?” he asked.

  She didn’t respond.

  “They say that it is the responsibility of a landowner to fence any livestock out of their property. Thus, according to the letter of the law, you would be liable for any damage done to the calf once he entered your premises. I know it is a technicality, but it is certainly worth remembering before we . . .”

  She leaped out of the chair and grabbed Lick in a chokehold! They went down into the landfill that was once the breakfast nook. She was banging his head against a plastic cat food bowl. Fish and bird-shaped kitten biscuits flew around his head!

  Cooney ran to the ruckus and, seeing Lick in danger, grasped the woman’s hind leg and pulled her away from Lick. He tripped and lost his balance, slipping in the green stuff on the kitchen floor just as she threw a roundhouse right, catching him below the left ear, which sent him crashing into the cabinet below the sink!

  “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot!” said Lick. The woman turned on him, and suddenly the air went out of her. Her shoulders sagged, and she collapsed into the chair. Then she started laughing. Lick started laughing. He dropped the banana that he had been pointing at her. Soon they were all laughing uncontrollably. Cooney was still on the floor, leaned back against the kitchen cabinet. He started laughing, too.

  “Surely we can let bygones be bygones,” said Lick.

  “We’ll see what Moose thinks,” she said. “My husband. He’s the new city attorney in Benson.”

  Then she started laughing again as Lick and Cooney gathered up their captured beast and slid out through the stained carpets, broken pottery, trampled landscaping, and newly planted sod that now looked like the moon with a bad haircut.

  Forty-five minutes later Lick, Cooney, and Straight were parking the old pickup and trailer across the street from the Horseshoe Cafe complete with saddled horses in the trailer and dogs in the back. Inside they sat near the bar, and Straight and Cooney each ordered a cheeseburger and a beer. Lick had a piece of coconut cream pie and a tequila and tomato juice with a jalapeno in it. “Sort of a Mexican bloody Mary,” he explained.

  He ordered another, so Straight decided to join him. Cooney stuck to beer. Two hours later Lick was expounding on the relevance of cowboy poetry in the Third World, and Straight was staring at him starry-eyed.

  “Yessir, Son, if you know cowboy poetry you can walk into any bar from Barcelona to Bartlesville and never buy a drink. Think of Robert Service, Rudyard Kipling, Banjo Paterson, Curly Fletcher, Harold Pushkin . . . They traveled the world over and never paid a tab! All because they could recite, incite, delight, and ignite all manner of barroom brawls, lover’s quarrels, exploratory surgeries, and stays of execution!

  “It will be your window into the world of the literary, learn-ed, loquacious, and libidinous . . . because, my young friend, the girls love it!”

  “Bar maiden!” Lick gestured grandly, “bring us the damages, and we shall depart your fine hospitality.” Then, turning to his two companions he said sotto voce, “I shall cover the tab if you will leave the tip. A generous one, if I may suggest, so that you will be well spoken of in years to come. A tip that will make their eyes smile. Remember it is the waiter and not the chef that makes sure your food is hot and your glass is full.”

  They left a $20 bill with Lick’s approval. Then they walked down the block to Paige’s Palace, where Lick introduced them to their professional rodeo predecessors hanging on the wall. “Yessir, boys,” Lick expanded with a fresh beverage in his hand, “all the greats stood at this bar, spit in that spittoon, used that same leaky toilet. Casey Tibbs stood in that doorway, Hawkeye Henson sat at that table, Jack Roddy beat Harley May arm wrestlin’ on this bar, and Larry Mahan invented the fuzzy cowboy hat by staring at that scraggly javelina head mounted on the wall!”

  After Paige’s they worked their way to the Arena Bar at one end of town and the Riverside Bar at the other. During their foray Lick had the opportunity to evaluate some of Straight’s poetry attempts. They were sophomoric, lacked meter, didn’t rhyme, and were uninspired, but he noted to Straight that, although his writing lacked something, his delivery had potential. Lick’s suggestion was that Straight memorize poetry from the dead guys. He could still be a hit. It would show his ability to recite lines and make him look Hollywood cool.

  This honest but kind assessment removed a huge burden from Straight’s shoulders. He immediately relaxed and passed out.

  Cooney and Lick loaded him into the back of the pickup with the dogs, covered him with a tarp, and swung by the Chute Out for a nightcap.

  They chose a small, tall, round table and sat on stools. Lick ordered one more tequila with tomato juice and a jalapeno, while Cooney had his eighth beer of the day.

  “So, how’d you and Straight get hooked up?” asked Lick.

  “I’m from up around Buffalo, South Dakota, and he’s from Buffalo, Alberta.”

  “I’ve been to both Buffaloes,” Lick offered. “Stayed in the Tipperary Motel in one and went to a cow sale in the other. I’d say they’re both off the beaten path.”

  “We met rodeoing, at Lethbridge, I think. He’s a couple years older. He was on a college team. I had a rodeo scholarship, actually went for a semester but had trouble with the classes. The advisor said I had a learning disability. I just figgered I was stupid. Math, chemistry, man, I never did grasp it. Flunked ’em both. I made an A in English, but that wuddn’t enough. So I just went back home, worked on the ranch, and started rodeoing between gathers and calvin’ and brandings.

  “I was winning a little, then Straight and I teamed up three years ago, and we’ve been doing it full-time. He won it the first year we teamed up. He’s qualified for the finals five times in a row, and I finally qualified last year.

  “He’s hard to scrutinize sometimes, but he analyzes my every ride and has sure helped me.” Cooney paused to sip his beer. The seven o’clock news was playing on the television above the bar.

  Suddenly Cooney heard his name, and they both looked up. The screen showed a group of fancy western-dressed folks all watching Cooney and Lionel Trane being feted last night at Cleon List’s party.

  The camera closed in on the two of them; Pica D’TroiT stayed in the frame.

  “Whew! That little girl’s a looker,” said Lick.

  “Sure is,” sighed Cooney as he let out a breath.

  “Say,” said Lick, “about Straight’s poetry . . .”

  “You don’t have to say nothin’,” said Cooney. “I know how it s
ounds. You gave him good advice.”

  There ensued a long silence, then Cooney spoke. “In the name of cowboy, I ride for the brand. I watch for the tracks on the face of the sand. I glory the work all the Lord will allow. My calling is simple, I follow the cow.”

  Lick Davis, who was not clear-eyed, turned his head squarely to Cooney.

  “Where did that come from?” he asked.

  “Me,” said Cooney. “I made it up.”

  “I think that might be the beginnin’ of some fine poetry,” said Lick sincerely. “Is there more?”

  “Just bits and pieces,” said Cooney. “Some of it doesn’t hang together that well.”

  Lick stared at the young man with a new respect. He let it set a minute, then said, “I believe, Son, that your water runs deep. Let’s go to the house. Miss Lou will fix us somethin’ to eat.”

  “Don’t you reckon you better call her and see if it’s okay?” asked Cooney, realizing she might want some warning.

  “Oh, no,” said Lick. “I drag people like you home all the time; she treats everybody like a Trevor Brazile! By the way, leave a tip that will inspire this kind barmaid to nominate you to the Gratuity Hall of Fame.”

  They walked out into the clear, cool evening to the truck and trailer parked in the alley across the street. Being too tight to drive but too tired to walk, they woke Straight, locked the truck, unloaded the horses, called the dogs, mounted up, and rode the three miles cross country to Lick’s house.

  After Miss Lou’s supper of reheated chicken enchiladas and chile cheese souffle, they retired to the living room. Straight quickly fell asleep in his chair.

  “Where you boys headed next?” asked Lick.

  “Houston’s the big one, but we’re goin’ to Valley City first,” said Cooney.

  “Valley City, by gosh, home of the North Dakota Winter Show! I did a program for them. In the dead of the winter, as I recall,” said Lick, who had been everywhere. “It’s a long haul up there, ain’t it? And out of the way. There’s bound to be rodeos down south that are closer to here and Houston.”

  “We’ll pick up Austin and Houston, then Laughlin after that, but we go to Valley City every year. Make a point to. Us northern boys gotta take care of North Dakota,” explained Cooney.

  “There’s sure a bunch of you bronc riders come from up that way, on the Hi Line, and Canada, too. Never figgered out exactly why but . . .” Lick paused. “I think that’s pretty decent of y’all to not forsake your homeland. It would be easy to move to Texas. Lots of ’em do.”

  Silence reigned. Cooney fidgeted.

  “Somethin’ on yer mind?” asked Lick.

  “Oh, nuthin’,” said Cooney, shaking his head. “I’s just thinkin’ about that girl. The one that you saw on the TV. The one that was with Lionel. Did you ever have a woman talk to you with her eyes, or her face? I mean, never sayin’ a word, but still you knew she was talkin’ to you?”

  “Every day, cowboy,” said Lick.

  “Well, how do you know what they want? Or what they’re tryin’ to say?”

  “It’s too complicated to worry about, Son,” spoke the wise man to the youth, “It’s been my experience that the best way to deal with the female mind is to just live up to their expectations . . . which are pretty low. You don’t have to play dumb, ’cause the truth is you really don’t have a clue.”

  Ah, yes. Men discussing women. It’s like cavemen discussing the internal combustion engine.

  Men are grounded in the barter technique. They understand flowers for a kiss, candlelight for a hug, fraternity pin for a peek, and engagement ring for what’s behind door number 1.

  The rules governing men’s behavior are as simple as the card game of war—high card wins.

  The rules women play by cover reams of single-spaced, small-font computer printouts in which exceptions abide, words are made up, as in “change on your dresser” is called “loose change,” and clarification of “what she really means” is as comprehensible as Mongolian throat singing.

  “We have one thing going for us,” said Lick. “They need us to continue the species.”

  Not for long, noted Cooney to himself. They’re cloning sheep now.

  CHAPTER 3

  March 1 and 2, Tuesday and Wednesday

  Valley City, North Dakota

  Cooney and Straight bid Lick goodbye the next morning, Tuesday, and hit the road. On Wednesday they flew the United Express flight from Denver to Fargo and landed at 2:45 p.m.

  In Fargo, Cooney’s cousin, Sherba Norski, met them at the airport. She still lived with her mother, Cooney’s aunt, Trinka Tweeten. Trinka’s house was in Valley City, and she always expected him to stay with them during the Winter Show and Rodeo. Sherba was a full-fledged, card-carrying, lutefisk-eating North Dakota Norwegian. She was tall, large boned, full figured, pink cheeked, big handed, and had the requisite crown of light blonde hair and bubbly personality.

  The boys tossed their war bags and saddles into the back of her little quarter-ton pickup.

  “Man, Cooney,” she said, “you must’ve got in a fight with a wildcat! That’s a wicked cut on your ear. Did you put anything on it? No, of course, you didn’t. A couple of those scratches are looking red and swollen. I’ll doctor you up when we get home.” Sherba was a paramedic and had a nursing degree from Valley City State University.

  He smiled, and it hurt a little. “Whatever you say, Shur . . .” It felt good to be around her again. She would baby him a little.

  Comfortable catching up occurred between cousins as the snow-covered North Dakota plain rolled by under their wheels. The scenery was so bright that Cooney found himself squinting in spite of his new sunglasses.

  Straight had fallen asleep in the back seat compartment.

  After supper Sherba took Cooney for a drive down by the Sheyenne River that flowed through town. They parked in one of the deserted camping areas. The waning half-moon reflecting off the snow was almost bright enough to read by. It was clear, 8:00 p.m., and minus-2 degrees.

  Sitting there in the warm cab watching the moonlight dancing on the frozen river, Cooney listened to Sherba talk about her hopes and dreams.

  Finally he said, “Let’s take a stroll.”

  Out onto the ice-covered river they walked, then trotted, and slid like crazy kids.

  It was a Norman Rockwell moment. They lost their balance, pirouetted, fell, got up, and laughed. They were breathing heavily as they skated and shuffled back toward her pickup.

  Without warning Cooney felt the ice crack, and seconds later he was waist deep in a hole in the ice!

  Sherba quickly lay on her stomach and crawled over to him. His parka was bunched up around his waist, which prevented him from descending deeper, but he was soaked to the skin.

  She reached his arm and after several moments of struggling was able to pull him out onto the ice.

  Sherba pulled and pushed him over to the shore and up the bank. He was already shaking badly.

  When they finally made it to the pickup she leaned him against the bed and dropped the tailgate. Ice was forming on his jeans and on the moon boots he had borrowed from Aunt Trinka.

  “Let’s get those pants off quick,” she said, assuming her practical paramedical proficiency. She lifted and leaned him onto the tailgate.

  “Lie back,” she instructed.

  He did, and his feet stuck straight out.

  She pulled off the moon boots and his wet socks. Pushing up his parka, she unbuckled his new Fiesta de los Vaqueros championship buckle and unfastened the brass button. The zipper was frozen, but she managed to get it down partway. Ice cracked as she tugged off the Wranglers, now stiff as cardboard. With a mighty jerk they came free, the wet underwear with them.

  His legs were blue.

  “Sit up!” she said, pullin
g on his arms. “Let’s get you into the truck!”

  When she pulled him forward he screamed! She stopped pulling.

  “What’s wrong!” she asked. “Is your arm broken? Your hip? What is it?”

  The parka hood had fallen back from his head. In the moonlight he looked like he was wearing black lipstick. “S-s-s-s-sss—tuck!” he shivered.

  “No,” she assured him, “we’re not stuck. This is a four-wheel drive.”

  “N-n-n-n-n-n-no-I-I-I—um-s-s-s-tuck!”

  “You’re not stuck,” she said sternly, thinking he was delusional and imagining he was still in the water. Then it hit her like a shot of schnapps right out of the freezer! Stuck to the tailgate!

  She raised the hem of his parka and pressed his white flank where it touched the metal tailgate. She pulled up on the skin. He cried out. The skin stretched but stayed fast to the metal.

  Thinking fast, she pulled off her moon boots and slid them over his bare feet. Then she followed up by peeling off her parka and putting it over his legs. She couldn’t lift him up to tuck it under him, so she tied the sleeves around his waist.

  “Now you just hold on, Baby.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “The hospital is less than ten minutes away!”

  Across town at the Eagles Club, the North Dakota Winter Show Queen Committee was holding its celebratory banquet. Dinner had been served, and the new queen and her court had been greeted, seated, feted, and treated like the royalty they were.

  Following a grand introduction by Uncle Oley, the popular KVOC radio broadcaster, newly crowned queen Salinka Mortonmortonson strode to the microphone. The nineteen-year-old Valley State freshman was as picture perfect a rodeo queen as one could imagine. Long blonde hair, black western hat complete with tiara, handmade jewel-encrusted jacket and pants, tight tangerine boots that matched her blouse, and a smile you could mine coal by!