Collection 1988 - Lonigan (v5.0) (16 page)

Yet when the official announcer announced his own name, and he heard that voice rolling out over the arena, something leaped inside him.

“Folks, here comes Rowdy Horn, of the Slash Bar, ridin' that greatest ropin' horse of all time—
Silverside
!”

The calf darted like a creamy streak, and Silverside took off with a bound. Instantly, Rowdy knew that all he had heard of the horse he bestrode was only half the truth. With flashing speed, the black horse with the splash of white on his side was after the fleeing calf. Horn's rope shot out like an arrow, and in almost the same breath, Rowdy was off the horse, grounding the bawling, struggling calf and making a quick tie. He sprang away from the calf.

“There it is, folks!” Weaver's voice boomed out over the arena. “Eleven seconds even, for Rowdy Horn on Silverside!”

Bart Luby's eyes narrowed. It was a tough mark, yet he had tied it twice. He was off like a streak when his calf darted away from the chute. He roped, flopped the calf, and made his tie.

“Eleven and one-fifth seconds!” Weaver bawled.

Luby swore softly, his eyes bitter. With a jerk he whipped his horse's head around and rode off to the stands. These were only preliminaries, and the final test was yet to be made. But he had never believed that Rowdy Horn would beat him, even by a fifth of a second in a tryout, and he didn't like being beaten.

While the band played and the clowns ripped and tore around the tanbark, mimicking the performances of the preceding event, the contestants headed for the shack to draw horses for the saddle bronc riding contest.

Vaho was waiting for Rowdy near chute 5, from which he would ride. He found that he had drawn Devil May Care, a wicked bucker that had been ridden only twice the preceding year in twenty-two attempts, and not at all in the current season. Bart Luby had drawn an equally bad horse, Firefly.

“You were wonderful!” Vaho said, as Rowdy walked up. “I never saw anyone move so fast!”

He grinned a little. “It's got to be better, honey,” he said honestly. “Bart Luby has done that well, and he'll be really trying next time.”

“You can do it!” she insisted. “I know you can!”

“Maybe,” he said. “But if I do, it will be that horse. I'll know him better next time. Let's just hope I draw a calf that's fast.”

“How about this event?” she asked, worriedly. “You drew a bad horse.”

“Just what I wanted. You can't win in these rodeos on the easy ones. The worse they buck, the better the ride—if you stay up there.”

Bart Luby was first out of the chute on Firefly, and the horse was a demon. It left the chute with a rush and broke into a charge, then swapped ends three times with lightning speed and went into an insane orgy of sunfishing. Luby, riding like the splendid performer he was, raked the big horse fore and aft, writing his name all over its sides with both spurs. At the finish he was still in the saddle and making a magnificent ride. He hopped off and lifted a hand to the cheers of the crowd.

R
OWDY STARED OUT through the dust and touched his tongue to dry lips. He mounted the side of the chute and looked down at the trembling body of the sorrel, Devil May Care. Sheriff Ben Wells stood nearby, and he looked up at Horn.

“Watch yourself, boy. This horse is a mean one. When you leave him, don't turn your back or you're a goner.”

Rowdy nodded and, tight lipped, lowered himself into the saddle and eased his feet into the stirrups. His fingers took a tighter hold on the reins, and he heard Weaver's voice booming again.

“Here it comes, folks! Right out of chute five! Rowdy Horn on that bundle of pure poison and dynamite, Devil May Care!”

Rowdy removed his hat and yelled, “Let 'er go, boys!”

The gate tripped open and Devil May Care exploded into the arena in a blur of speed and pounding hoofs. His lithe body twisting in unison with the movements of the horse, Rowdy Horn got one frenzied view of the whirling faces of the crowd, then the horse under him went mad in a series of gyrations and sunfishing that made anything Rowdy had ever encountered before seem a pale shadow.

The sorrel outlaw was a fighter from way back, and he knew just exactly why he was out here. He was going to have this clinging burr out of the saddle or know the reason why. Devil May Care swallowed his head and lashed at the clouds with his heels and went into another hurricane of sunfishing, all four feet spurning the dust, his whipcord body jackknifing with every jump. He swapped ends as Rowdy piled up points, scratching the sorrel with both spurs.

Suddenly, with less than a second to go, the sorrel raced for the north wall and swung broadside in a wicked attempt to scrape his rider off. In one grasping breath, Rowdy saw that the horse was going to miss the wall by inches. He kept his foot in the stirrup, fighting the big horse's head around. Devil May Care came around like the devil he was and, as the whistle sounded, went into a wicked burst of bucking that made anything in the past seem mild by comparison.

CHAPTER 7

Unlisted Event

R
IDERS RUSHED FROM near the judges' stand, and Rowdy kicked loose both feet and left the horse just as all four feet of the sorrel hit ground. Wheeling, teeth bared, Devil May Care sprang for his rider, but the horsemen wheeled alongside and snared the maddened bronc. With cheers ringing in his ears, Rowdy Horn walked slowly back across the arena. The crowd was still cheering when he walked up to chute 5.

Wells grinned at him. “That horse must be on your side, son,” he said. “Goin' for you like that sure impressed the crowd, and the judges too! Showed he had plenty of fight!”

“If he's friendly”—Rowdy grinned—“deliver me from my friends!”

Wells spat. “You've got a couple of mighty good friends, son. And neither of them are horses.”

Luby was standing nearby. He turned, his elbows on the crossbar of the gate.

“You were lucky,” he said. “Plain lucky.”

Rowdy's eyes darkened. “Maybe. If so, I hope my luck holds all day. And tomorrow.”

“It won't,” Luby said flatly. “Your luck's played out! I've protested to the judges. I told them that allowin' a killer to ride would ruin the name of the show.”

“Killer?” Rowdy wheeled. “Why, you—”

Bart Luby had been set for him, and too late Rowdy saw the punch coming. It was a smashing right that caught him on the side of the jaw. His feet flew up and he hit the dust flat on his back. Bart lunged for him. Rowdy rolled over and came up fast, butting Luby in the chest and staggering the bigger man. Bart set himself and rushed, smashing Horn back against the gate with a left and right, then following it up with a wicked hook to the head that made Rowdy's knees wobble.

Ducking a left, Horn tried to spring close, but Luby grabbed him and threw him into the dust. His face smeared with blood and dust, Rowdy came up, and through a fog of punch-drunkenness, he saw the big rancher coming in, on his face a sneer of triumph.

The man's reach was too long. Rowdy tried to go under a left and caught a smashing right uppercut on the mouth. Bart, his face livid with hatred, closed in, punching with both hands. Then Rowdy saw his chance. Luby drew his left back for a wide hook and Horn let go with a right. It beat the hook and caught Luby on the chin with the smash of a riveting hammer.

The big man staggered, his face a study in astonishment, and then Rowdy closed in, brushed away a left, and smashed both hands to the body, whipping them in with wicked sidearm punches, left and right to the wind. Luby threw a smashing right, but Rowdy was watching that left. It cocked again, and he pulled the trigger on his right.

Bart hit the dust on his shoulders. He rolled over, and Rowdy stood back, hands ready, waiting for him to get up. Blood dribbled from Rowdy's mouth and there was a red welt on his cheekbone, but he felt fine.

Luby was up with a lunge and caught Rowdy with two long swings, but Horn was inside of them, smashing a left to the body and a right to the head. Luby backed off, and suddenly, sensing victory, Rowdy Horn closed in. He chopped a left to the head, then a right, then another left. He smashed Luby with a straight left, and as Luby cocked a right, knocked him down.

Bart Luby lay there in the dust, thoroughly whipped. Reaching down, Rowdy jerked him to his feet and shoved him back against the corral bars. He cocked his right hand to smash the bigger man in the face, then hesitated.

Coolly, he stepped back.

“Nothing doing, Bart,” he said calmly. “You started this, and you've had a beating comin' for a long time, but I'm givin' you no alibis. I want your eyes open because I'm goin' to beat your socks off out there in the arena. When I win, I'll win on the tanbark!”

Deliberately, he turned his back and walked toward the stables.

Bending over a bucket he bathed the dust and blood from his face and combed his hair. He scowled suddenly, remembering Neil Rice. What had become of the printer? In the hurry and confusion of being arrested, and then the rodeo, there had scarcely been time to think. Still, Rice might be back at the ranch by now.

What did Ben Wells have up his sleeve? Who were the friends he had mentioned, and had they effected his release to compete in the rodeo? He was puzzled and doubtful, and recalling the finding of the body in his cabin, he realized how desperate his situation truly was. Aside from Vaho, he had no evidence of any kind. To the sheriff, as well as to people generally, his story of killing a man in a remote canyon and then finding his body in his own cabin would seem too utterly fantastic.

Deliberately, he forced his thoughts away from that. First there were the contests. Each thing in its own time.

The next event was bareback bronc riding, then came steer wrestling and bull riding. After that, the finals in calf roping. Four men would compete in the finals: Cass Webster from Prescott and Tony Sandoval from Buffalo, Wyoming, besides Bart Luby and himself.

Bareback bronc riding was a specialty of Rowdy's, and he took a fighting first, riding Catamount, a wicked devil of a horse. Luby took second, with Webster a close third. Luby won the steer wrestling, beating Rowdy by two fifths of a second. Sandoval, the Wyoming rider, won the bull riding, and again Rowdy took a second, with Luby a third.

Sweating and weary, he walked slowly back to the corrals at the day's end. Tomorrow would decide it, but he was ahead of Luby so far.…

M
ORNING CAME, AND the air was electric with expectancy. Even the other contestants eyed Rowdy thoughtfully as he strolled quietly down to the stables. Silverside nickered softly as he came up, and Rowdy Horn stopped to talk to the horse as it nuzzled him under his arm with a delicate nose.

Cass Webster stopped nearby.

“This killin' stuff don't go with me, boy,” he said quietly. “I don't savvy this fuss, but you stack up A-one where I stand.” He ground his cigarette into the dust. “Luby washed himself out with me down to White Rock last year. He's dirty, Horn. You keep your eyes open.”

“Thanks,” said Rowdy.

His attention had turned from the cowboy and was centered on Vaho Rainey, who was walking toward him, followed by the admiring glances of everyone.

“We've visitors,” she said, “so be careful what you say.”

His frown was puzzled. “I don't get it,” he protested.

“You will.…Look!”

As she spoke, he turned his head. A small group of Indians was approaching. The first was old Cleetus, and the others were all men of his tribe, except one. That one, carefully concealed by a blanket, was Cochino!

“Glad to see you here,” Rowdy told the Indians sincerely. “Very glad. If there's anything I can do, tell me.”

They looked at Silverside and talked in low tones.

“They were here yesterday, too,” Vaho whispered. “They watched you ride.”

Suddenly, Cochino spoke to the girl, swiftly, with gestures. Her eyes brightened and she turned quickly.

“Oh, Rowdy! He says you can keep the horse! He is a present to you!”

“Good glory!” Beside himself with excitement and delight, he could scarcely find words. “But what'll I say? What can I give him?”

“Nothing. That is—well, he asks only one thing.” Vaho was blushing furiously.

“What is it? Whatever it is, I'll do it!”

“I—can't tell you now. Later.”

She quickly hurried away, and the old Indian chuckled. Cleetus smiled, showing broken teeth, but his eyes were grimly humorous.

An even bigger crowd swelled the arena to overflowing, and men crowded every available space. Pete Drago and his Demon Riders did their trick riding, their ef-forts augmented by the clowns, some of them rivaling Drago's amazing riders for sheer ability and thrills. The chuck wagon race followed, and an exhibition with bullwhips.

By the time the finals in the calf roping came around, Rowdy Horn was up on Silverside and ready. This time he was following Bart Luby. The piggin' strings he kept in Silverside's stall were checked, and he brought them out ready for the tie. Momentarily, he draped them around the saddle horn, and at a call from Wells, walked over to him.

“Soon's this event is over,” the sheriff said, “I want to see you.”

Rowdy nodded grimly. “Sure,” he said, “I'll look you up. It was mighty fine of you to give me this chance, Ben, and I'll be ready to go back to jail.”

D
ESPITE THAT, HIS heart was heavy as he walked back to his horse and swung into the saddle. Thoughtfully, he stared out at the arena. Eleven seconds, the time he had made yesterday, was fast time. It was fast enough to win in many shows, but could he equal it today?

He picked up the piggin' strings and kept one in his right hand. The other he put in his teeth. Suddenly his consciousness, directed at the arena where Bart Luby had just charged out after his calf, was jerked back to himself. His lips felt something strange with the rawhide piggin' string. Jerking it from his teeth, he stared at it. Both strings had been carefully frayed with a file or some rough object. When drawn taut, to bind the calf's legs, they would snap like thread!