Re-ride

“You entered the bull riding?” Mom exploded. “What the hell are you thinking of? You’re a bronc rider and a damned good one, Why the hell do you want to get yourself killed?”

            The questions were good ones. Dad was still a pretty good bronc rider. I had never even seen him ride a bull before. He was a bit too small according to my brothers who knew everything about rodeos and cowboys.

            “Hold on now,” Dad said. “This string ain’t all that good and Hagen won’t be riding.” Johnny Hagen was Dad’s long-time rodeo buddy. They had rodeoed all over Montana, the Dakotas, and Wyoming. Though their winnings were long gone, they had the championship buckles to show for many a good ride.

            Now Hagen had moved up in rodeo. He was promoting the Kid Curry Rodeo in Malta. We had come up a few weeks earlier to help fix the chutes and arena. There was great anticipation for what might become the biggest rodeo in the Milk River Country. Hagen seemed confident he could pull it off.

 For years Dad’s rodeo earnings had supplemented the family income. In the early days, that was important. He didn’t make much as a ranch hand. Staying employed through the winter wasn’t guaranteed. Sometimes he resorted to catching and selling wild horses to get by. The good ones he broke. The rest went to the glue factory.

Things were different now. Dad was on the railroad. He’d worked his way up from the roundhouse to Locomotive Fireman. His promotion to Engineer was imminent. The checks were good, steady too.

We kids were as happy as Mom was upset. Dad was gonna ride a snorting, bucking, mean old Brahma bull. Why he hadn’t entered the Bareback and Saddle Bronc events never crossed our minds.

We got to the rodeo early. Dad had a habit of coaching the younger cowboys and helping to get the stock sorted and penned. As we pulled up to the gate, the County Sheriff stopped us.

“Hey Rex, we found a horse with your brand down by the Breaks. What do you want to do with it?”

The horse was Mexican Joe. He was once a damn good cow pony. When Dad got the job on the railroad, he left Mexican Joe at a friend’s ranch. The horse got away and had been running wild for a decade.

“I guess you better send him to the slaughterhouse Sheriff. I s’pose he’ll wind up dog food unless some furriner eats him.”

The Sheriff shook his head. There wasn’t much use for an old cow pony these days.

Dad parked the Hudson right next to the arena. “Betcha can’t do that at Madison Square Garden,” one of my brothers commented. Small rodeos do have their advantages. Later, my brothers would sit on the top rail and watch the events. All but one event that is. With time to kill, we made our way to the play area. No, this wasn’t the kind of playground with swings and teeter-totters. This was a place where little cowboys learned their craft. A barrel was suspended on ropes between four poles. One cowboy wannabe would climb onto the barrel while his saddle pals worked the ropes. If they didn’t like you, you could get bucked off damn fast. Luckily, my brothers didn’t want to send me back to the car bawlin’.

We returned to the arena when we heard the announcer’s voice crackling on the loudspeakers, Dad was gone, probably helping with the chutes. Mom was sitting on the hood of the Hudson. My brothers climbed to the top of the board fence. They’d have the best view in the house.

“Can I sit on the fence too?” I pleaded.

Mom looked at me for a stern second. “Only for the Calf roping and Barrel Racing.” She said.

Wow! I was going to be close to at least some of the action.

The bronc riding was good. Most of the competitors were old friends of Dad’s. About half of them made the whistle. The pickup men were there to grab the riders and land them smoothly on their feet. They hauled one young cowboy off with a broken leg. One cowboy scored an 86 on Great Falls Brown, one of the better saddle broncs. Jim Billingsley tied his calf in near record time. The barrel racers wore big white Stetsons and bright satin blouses. Their horses could turn on a dime. I had to get off the fence each time there was a rough stock event. It was hot.  Mom got us some Cokes.

The announcer told jokes and bantered back and forth with the clown. There was furious activity as the cowboys loaded the chutes for each new event.

At last, the event we had all been waiting for was announced. Bull riding! The announcer assured us the bulls were the meanest, toughest, buckingest bulls this side of the Missouri. The clown rolled his padded barrel into the arena. He would spend the next 20 minutes ducking behind it. A clown needs to be quick on his feet. He has to be brave enough to put himself between a downed cowboy and a dangerous bull.

I chuckled as the pick-up man rode by ordering my brothers off the fence. We’d watch this event from the ground. At least they were there to school me on the finer points of bull riding. One by one, the bulls came out bucking furiously. Most of the riders were getting dumped unceremoniously on the freshly raked dirt of the arena. Eight seconds is a long, long time.

Finally, we heard the announcement we had all been waiting for.

“Here’s Rex Thill from Glasgow on Old Snowball in Chute Number Four.” We could see Dad straddling the chute, buck rein in hand. The bull was a nasty one. We caught glimpses of him through the wooden chute. He was a dirty white with big bloodshot eyes and a snotty nose. The chute hands were having a tough time keeping him positioned. It was taking Dad forever to mount. He’d start to lower himself and the bull would try to climb out of the chute. The hands pushed and shoved while Dad worked the buck rein. Old Snowball was an uncooperative cuss.

Finally, the bull did something no one expected. Old Snowball just laid down in the chute. Men poked at him through the gate. Others helped Dad tug on the buckrein. Try as they might, they couldn’t get him back on his feet. The other competitors were getting antsy. So were the spectators.

Someone yelled, “Turn him out!” The chute hands grimly tried once more. Old Snowball wouldn’t budge. Finally, the judge signaled to Dad. The show must go on. The ride wouldn’t happen. Dad climbed over the back of the chute. The announcer said he’d get a re-ride at the end of the go-round. We were disappointed but hoped he’d draw a better bull next time.

The bull riding wasn’t even finished when Dad returned to the car.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your re-ride?” my brothers asked.

Dad shook his head. “It’s over. I’ve ridden my last rodeo.”

A look of relief passed over Mom’s face as we boys protested. Dad was our hero. He did things, big things, brave things. Things others couldn’t do. We bragged about him and showed off his buckles. Could it all be over?

Dad wouldn’t be visiting the pay window to collect his winnings. We loaded into the car and headed home. A Hudson full of glum little kids rolled down Highway Two. Mom sang along happily with the radio. Dad thought about the old days. Wolf Point, Cheyenne, Calgary.

A week later, we found out that the gate receipts hadn’t been enough to cover the expenses of the rodeo. The winning cowboys learned that Hagen’s checks were no good. They had traveled far, paid their entry fees, and risked their necks for nothing. Dad chuckled. He was about the only friend Hagen had left in the country.

Sometimes it pays to know when to walk away.

LDT June 26, 2021

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