Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (10 page)

Haltering both horses, I tied them to the fence and began the process of brushing the dried mud off their coats, combing their manes and tails, and picking out their feet. Lonny came walking down the driveway from his house while I was engaged in this activity, a wide smile on his face, ready to begin the day's fun.

He hitched his dually pickup truck to the four-horse stock trailer while I finished brushing my two horses, then we caught Burt and Pistol and I turned Plumber back out into his corral. The colt was still slightly off in his right front, the result of an injury that had been the reason I acquired him, and I didn't mean to start riding him until he was completely sound.

Gunner we loaded in the trailer, along with Burt and Pistol, and after a quick double-check of the hitch and door latch to make sure both were safely closed, I lifted Blue into the cab of Lonny's truck and we were off.

The mixed weather of the day before had cleared; the sky was deep winter blue, new grass brilliantly green on the hills. I smiled at the dazzle of wild mustard in full bloom in an old apple orchard-the almost unnaturally vivid fluorescent yellow startling against the dark gray skeleton shapes of the trunks.

As we neared Salinas, the round hills along Highway I0I slowly flattened into the broad plain of the Salinas River Valley. Lonny made the right turn onto Martinez Road, headed for Freddy's arena. Fifteen minutes later we pulled into the dirt entry road.

Trucks and trailers were parked randomly in the flat field next to the roping arena, with ropers and their horses visible everywhere. The arena itself, with its old much-repaired wooden fences weathered to silver gray, surrounded on three sides by an amphitheater of green hills, seemed even more historically colorful than usual this sunny morning.

Freddy waved a friendly hand at me as I got out of the truck, and I waved back. In some ways, Freddy himself was almost a personification of California history.

Freddy was Freddy Martinez, seventy years young; he'd been running a roping in this arena on the outskirts of Salinas for fifty of those seventy years. Freddy often said he was married to the arena (giving the exact number of years at the time); like most of Freddy's pronouncements, it was something you tended to hear expressed frequently and loudly.

He was loading cattle into the chute now, a short, stocky olive-skinned man with a look of latent power despite his age. His voice, a cheerful bellow, rose at regular intervals, scolding his help, pushing the cattle, calling to the arriving ropers. Doing what he'd been doing for generations. Freddy, the living legend.

As Jack Hollister had been, I thought suddenly, the image of Jack dousing my good spirits like a bucket of ice water. Jack, who had been murdered, shot through the head, should have been here this morning, warming up his horse in the sunshine, talking to his friends.

My eyes sought and found Bronc, riding Willy in the center of a knot of people, all of them on horseback, walking slowly around the arena. Everyone seemed to be talking at Bronc, who, uncharacteristically, looked quiet. People saying they were sorry about Jack, I thought, wanting to know what had happened, speculating on who, how.

Watching Bronc pace silently around the arena, I was struck by the fact that he looked very alone. Jack would normally have been riding next to him, laughing and telling stories in that courtly way he had, all noblesse oblige, the perfect contrast and complement to Bronc's noisy hilarity.

Where was Trav, I wondered suddenly, and then spotted him on the other side of the arena, talking with a group of kids. Well, men in their twenties. Though I wasn't much older than these guys, they always seemed like kids to me-a certain frisky, puppyish quality in their behavior lending itself to that impression. But why wasn't Trav with Bronc? The thought had barely crossed my mind when it was followed by another. Bronc had seemed strangely reticent about Trav yesterday. Was something wrong between them? Maybe I could talk to Trav.

But not now. Lonny was unloading the horses and tying them to the trailer; it was time to get to work. I helped him saddle; as soon as we were done he swung up on Gunner. At five years of age, Gunner was still pretty green as a rope horse and it fell to Lonny, as the more experienced roper, to do the training. I was barely able to manage riding my horse and roping a cow at the same time; training a young horse simultaneously would have been way beyond me.

Getting Blue out of the cab, I walked him for a while, then put him in the horse trailer where he'd have more space and ventilation. After I was sure he was comfortable I climbed on Burt and rode into the arena.

Almost immediately I was absorbed into the friendly bustle of the ropers-people saying hi, horses nickering to other horses, over all Freddy's raucous voice admonishing one John Porter to watch where he left his car parked all night, folks would notice. Everyone in the arena heard; I suspected people two miles away in downtown Salinas might have heard, too. Freddy's voice was almost as famous as he was; he'd never installed a loudspeaker at his arena and none was necessary.

Smiling at the banter, I took in the day and the crowd of horses and people and my heart lifted. Warm winter sunshine filled the south-facing bowl of hills that ringed the arena; grass glowed green on every rounded curve. Even the air smelled green. I felt as if someone had rolled spring into a ball and tossed it at me, saying "catch."

Reaching down to pat Burt's neck in the only expression of gratitude I could come up with, I grinned when he pinned his ears crossly-a characteristic response. Burt was a grouch. Tough-minded and irascible, he walked away when a human approached to catch him, humped his back when the cinch was pulled tight, and pinned his ears ferociously when he was touched or even spoken to. It
was all bluff, though. Burt was as willing and pleasant a horse to ride as could be imagined (once one warmed the hump out of his back with some easy walking and trotting). He'd taught me to rope virtually single-handedly, ignoring my clumsy signals or lack thereof, and doing his job perfectly over and over again. It
was due to him that I'd developed the confidence to begin competing.

I kicked him up into an easy lope and watched Lonny loping Gunner. In contrast to Burt's relaxed demeanor, Gunner was all eyes and ears, spooking constantly at things that struck him as "horse eaters." I wasn't surprised; this was only Gunner's fourth trip to a real roping arena; all his previous experience had been in Lonny's practice pen at home. On top of which, Gunner had a spooky streak-a strong inclination to jump first and ask questions later.

As I watched, Tommy Branco tossed his rope playfully at Gunner's heels, then laughed as the colt scooted forward abruptly. Lonny laughed, too, sitting squarely in the middle of the saddle, not even bothering to pick up the reins. That, I reflected, was one of Lonny's great advantages on a horse. His confidence gave his horses confidence.

Freddy was bellowing at us again, ordering the ropers out of the arena; it was time for the roping to begin. Compliantly the cowboys filed out; we were all well broke to Freddy's commands. As I guided Burt through the gate, I was struck by the fact that the crowd around me, though equally horsy, was a very different group from yesterday's endurance riders.

Mostly male as opposed to mostly female, clad exclusively in blue jeans, the ropers had a rough-edged look that was somehow evocative of ranches, though baseball caps were as prevalent as cowboy hats, tennis shoes were almost as common as boots, and no pretense was made, either by men or women, of the fringed and beaded look seen line dancing at Western bars. The horses, too, were horses of "another color"; while Rebby had been the lone representative Quarter Horse in a herd of Arabs, team-roping horses were predominantly of Quarter Horse breeding, and most were big and stout. All in all, there was an essential frontier spirit in the friendly group that jostled around me this morning; I could picture these ropers signing up to cross the prairie with a herd of longhorns.

"We're entered. Number thirty-one." Lonny gave me a wide smile as he rode up beside me and I nodded, feeling my heart start to pound nervously.

Par for the course. I'd only started competing at team roping a few months ago, and I always had a mild attack of nerves before I rode into the box. Turning Burt away, I walked over and parked him behind the chute, where I could watch the roping and rehearse what I needed to do.

Freddy was calling the teams out now; from my vantage point behind the chute I watched team number one, which turned out to be Travis and Bronc. They couldn't be too upset with each other, then. Trav was backing the sorrel mare he rode into the corner of the header's box. His face looked very young as he signaled with a short jerk of his chin and Freddy flipped the lever that opened the gate and released the steer.

In a split second all the poised, quiet tension of the moment erupted into violent motion. The steer leaped out the open gate of the chute and Trav's mare burst out after him, with Bronc on the heeler's side following their lead. Off they went down the arena, the steer running as fast as he could, both horses in hot pursuit.

Trav caught up to the steer about halfway to the end and roped it cleanly around the horns. Dallying his rope around the saddle horn, he turned his horse off and began to pull the steer. Bronc came in for the heel shot, Willy pinning his ears as he closed in.

Bronc threw his rope, the open loop landing neatly in front of the steer's back legs. Pulled by the head horse, the steer landed in the loop and Bronc jerked his arm back, tightening the noose. Another second and the ropes came tight; the flagger dropped the flag to record time.

Ten seconds-a respectable run. I hoped I could do as well. Hell, I hoped I could just manage to turn my steer.

Swallowing hard, I turned Burt away and began to walk him around the dirt parking lot, keeping him loose. At twelve years, Burt was old enough and had enough miles on him that his hocks tended to get stiff if he stood still too long. Thus I always tried to get him warmed up before we made a run.

Team roping moves quickly. In just a few minutes, it seemed, Freddy was on number twenty-seven. Soon it would be my turn.

I loped Burt up and down the sandy parking lot and stopped him abruptly. He checked easily in response to my cue, and I walked him out, confident he would respond to me in the course of the run. Burt was about as foolproof as a rope horse could get.

Freddy called out number thirty-one and I rode Burt through the little gate in the side of the header's box and backed him into the corner. My heart was pounding; I could feel Burt's heart pounding between my legs.

I glanced over to the heeler's box to see Lonny sitting at his ease on Gunner, who was dancing in nervous agitation. Lonny gave me a wide, encouraging smile.

Shifting my attention to the chute I fixed my eyes on the steer, a red and white spotted longhorn. Rule number one of team roping: Never take your eyes off the steer.

A longhorn-that probably meant speed. Gearing myself to drive Burt hard, I took a deep breath, steadied my hand on the reins, and nodded. With a clang, Freddy's hand dropped, the gate flew open, and the red and white steer leapt out.

Giving Burt his head, I sent him in pursuit, and the whole world vanished in a blur of speed and power. All I could feel was the horse running, all I could see was the steer, his horns bobbing to the rhythm of his driving strides. Inexorably Burt was closing the gap. We drew closer, closer.

I swung my rope with as much force as I knew how, trying to feel the weight of it, as I had been taught. We were on the steer now, Burt "rating" over the steer's left hip like the reliable horse he was, giving me a shot.

I swung the rope one more time, measuring distances with my eye, and threw it, letting my body take over, doing it on automatic pilot. My mind registered that the loop went on and I pulled it tight, taking the slack out.

Now dally the rope around the saddle horn, the dangerous part, the part where ropers lose fingers. Again my body made the moves cleanly on automatic pilot, Burt staying close to the steer, giving me the time I needed to dally safely.

Dallies secure, I reined him off to the left, feeling him gather himself to pull as he picked up the weight of the steer and began to tow him. I looked back over my shoulder, watching the steer. Rule number two, three, and four of team roping: Never take your eye off the steer.

The red and white longhorn made a particularly high leap on the end of the rope and Lonny delivered his loop neatly, snagging the steer's two hind feet while they were in the air. Gunner stopped hard, bringing the heel rope tight, and I whirled Burt around to face them. Time.

Eleven and a half seconds, not bad for a beginner. I smiled as Lonny and I put slack in our ropes to let the longhorn up. He scrambled to his feet and trotted off unconcernedly; he'd been roped plenty of times before.

Lonny looked pleased and patted Gunner's neck. "The colt did real good," he told me.

"That's great. I didn't really get to see much of him. I was too busy keeping my end under control."

"You done good." Lonny gave me a wide grin as we rode back up the arena.

A familiar voice hollered at me in raucous tones from the fence. "Sweetheart, any time you want a new partner, you just let me know."

Bronc. At least he wasn't feeling too bad to tease. I smiled in his direction and was rewarded by a wolfish baring of the teeth. Good sign.