Bull Rider (10 page)

L
ying to my folks was easier than I’d hoped it would be. I just said I was driving with Darrell to Elko, where he was picking up a motor off a guy he knew. Mom had always liked Darrell, and she even packed us a lunch—roast beef and horseradish sandwiches and a bag of corn chips to hold Grandma Jean’s tomatillo salsa. The good thing was, we were fixing to bull ride a hundred miles away from Salt Lick. There was no way anyone would see me there.

It was the kind of day you remember and keep looking back on, wondering if it was as good as you thought or if somehow it was so good it was bad. We started out before sunrise. Darrell turned up the radio full blast. We had a thermos of coffee and the road was clear and dry. The sun rose after we’d turned east from Winnemucca, and the light flashed off the snowy mountains. The air was perfect, clear like glass.

“I brought an extra bull rope for you,” Darrell said.
“We’re going to get you scored today. It don’t do to keep you practicing without knowing what you might be able to do.”

“But I just started,” I said.

“Yeah, and you’re too old to start riding and too young to be as good as you are. You just rode two tough bulls. You’re something, Cam, anybody can see that. Time to see what the judges think.”

I took a long swig of coffee and smiled.

We got to Elko midmorning and Darrell drove us to his friend’s ranch. The pickups and horse trailers were already coming in. I saw some license plates from as far off as Utah and Idaho.

“So is this a big deal?” I asked.

“Just friends getting together before the winter sets in. We do some bull riding, roping, and stuff. Steve’s been throwing this for years. I told him you were coming.”

“You didn’t know that,” I said. Darrell grinned and I thought maybe it wasn’t just Grandpa and Ben who were stubborn—maybe it was bull riders. Maybe bull riders figured things always turned out the way they wanted.

We parked and headed toward the corral. There was a big bald man there with a clipboard. “Steve, this is my boy, Cam, the one I told you about. You know, he’s Ben O’Mara’s brother.”

Steve reached for my hand and pumped it. “Ben O’Mara’s one heck of a bull rider. I can’t wait to see you in action. How’s Ben doing, anyway?”

“As well as you’d think,” I said. Did everyone know Ben?

“Well, you give him my regards, okay? That was a tough turn he took. Tell him we’re thinking of him. I’ve got you up
fifth.” He looked me over. “You’re old enough, right?”

I was about to ask, old enough for what? when Darrell said, “’Course he’s old enough. I wouldn’t bring any kids out here. He graduates this year, right? If they let him.” Darrell grinned.

Steve eyed me. “Well, you’re sure tall enough to fill the bill. Got some shoulders on you too.” He looked me over like he was summing up a steer at auction. “This ain’t school, so we don’t care.” He elbowed me and winked. “Just as long as you’re eighteen and old enough to take your own chances. I don’t need anybody’s parents suing me.”

“Mine won’t,” I said. Mom would kill me first.

The Elko bull ring had a left-and a right-handed chute. There were some folks there selling Indian tacos out of the back of a trailer and some others who’d brought sleazy T-shirts to sell that said “Bull Buster” and “Eight Seconds of Heaven.” There was a barrel in the ring for the bullfighters to dodge behind if they got in a tight spot, and some makeshift bleachers along the side. Two old guys sat at a table midway round the ring. I figured them to be the judges. The timer had an air horn to call the eight seconds. The cowboys were lining up with their gear. Steve might have believed Darrell—that I was old enough to do this—but I felt young. Real young. It didn’t matter that I was the only guy in my class who actually had to shave every week. And I could skip that too, except for the black whiskers I got from the Carl side of the family. No, all these guys looked confident and cool. Could they see how nervous I was? Darrell handed me his second bull rope. I had that feeling again—that sane men would leave.

I looked over the stock jammed into the holding corral. It seemed like they’d picked them for their size. I turned to Darrell. “They’re pretty big.”

“Nothing bigger than Quicksand.”

“Yeah, right. Nothing bigger than that monster,” I said. “Do you think I can score?”

“Shut up,” he said. “It’s bad luck to talk about it.”

“Don’t worry, kid,” a graying cowboy said to me. “Ain’t nothing a bull can do to you that a two-ton truck can’t.” He laughed.

I didn’t feel any better. I pushed my hands into my jacket pocket and felt something smooth and small. I pulled out Grandma Jean’s little packet of good-luck stuff. I reached inside and felt the baggie of Salt Lick salt. I put the whole packet into my jeans and hoped Grandpa was right—that the salt worked magic with bulls.

The stands held a handful of folks from the cowboys’ families. Steve turned on a microphone; a sturdy woman raised the American flag while we held our hats over our hearts. Then Steve announced, “Our first rider today is all the way from Nampa, Idaho. Let’s hear it for Jesse Spellman on Snowball.”

A big albino bull came out of the chute, but he was running instead of bucking. Then he kicked a couple of times and finally started to buck. Jesse was spurring him, but the bull was lazy. Jesse got a reride. See, the scoring goes fifty points for how bad the bull is to ride and fifty more for how good the cowboy rides him. You have to stay eight seconds to score at all. In this ride, Snowball didn’t do his part.

Next was a big, sunburned cowboy on a black-and-white bull. The bull was heavier than most, but you could still see his muscles move. I was standing by the fence, as I’d be fixing my bull rope soon—close enough to see the cowboy fall and hear his bone snap when he hit the ground. The bullfighters jumped in to distract the bull, and a couple of guys pulled the rider out of the ring, raising a dust cloud behind him. They set him down next to me, and someone poked around at his collarbone. He reached up to his shoulder and rocked, just a little, back and forth. His moans mixed in with the cattle’s mooing. It hit me, what if I broke something? What would I say to Mom and Dad then?

“That’s a tough break for a tough cowboy,” the announcer said. “We’ll let you know when we have word what’s happening. Meantime, there’s another bull coming down the chute, and this one belongs to Seth Yoman.”

I watched them unbutton the downed cowboy’s shirt, and before they finished taping his shoulder, a woman came running over.

“You all right?” she called. “Don’t tell me you broke something again.”

He muttered, “I’m good,” and stood up, although the color drained from his face.

“Well, after you wrecked your back last time, I was afraid…” The woman’s voice tapered off to a whisper.

“It’s just a bull,” he said. “Nothing’s gonna happen.” But I could tell from her face, she didn’t believe him.

“You’re next,” someone said to me. I hadn’t watched Yoman. I didn’t even know if he scored, but it was my turn to ride. I drew a red bull with a white face and thick horns.
He was stocky and his hair swirled in stiff cowlicks on his back. He bawled when they moved him into the chute. I climbed up to the platform, tossed Darrell’s bull rope under him, and cinched it tight. Then I waited. As the seconds passed, I kept hearing the snap of the guy’s shoulder bone.

“Next we have a young cowboy come up from Salt Lick. He’s from a bull-riding family—you might know his grandpa Roy, or big brother, Ben. And now he’s out to put his own name in the record books. Let’s give a big hand to Cam O’Mara on Rosy.” I barely heard the applause. “Cam O’Mara” was what I heard. What a rush to hear my name over the mike—even if it was in the same sentence with Ben’s.

“Time to ride,” a cowboy said to me. “Make your brother proud.”

I shook my head fast side to side to shake out his words like a curse. Geez, did they always have to put me up against Ben? I lowered myself onto Rosy and tried to put the
crack
of the big cowboy’s bone out of my mind. I drew in Rosy’s smell, roughed my rope, and felt him rock under me. “Let ’im go,” I said, and we took off.

You can think before you get on a bull, and you can think after you fall off, but when you are on, you just ride. I rode till I heard an air horn, then I ripped my rope and fell to the ground. I spit dust and crawled up to my feet. Rosy trotted around to the other end of the ring, so I walked to the fence.

“O’Mara gets the first score. Seventy with Rosy.”

“All right, Cam!” Darrell whooped. I saw him in the back, waiting for his ride. Seventy wasn’t exactly a high score. The bull was easy. But it was my first score, and it
felt great. Darrell rode and got an eighty-two. Andrew Echevarria showed up and didn’t score on his first round. Then I rode the albino, Snowball, and didn’t score either. Darrell’s second score was eighty, and Andrew got eighty-eight. Then it was done. They started the calf roping, and we bought chewy Indian tacos from a kid in the trailer and watched the action in the arena. The whole day just flew by. Then the stock was ready to load into the cattle trucks, and the cowboys were breaking out the beer.

“To one crazy sweet day,” Darrell said.

I had to agree.

I
sat with Mike on the bus after school on Monday. “Report cards are coming out,” Mike said. “Do you think you’ll get your skateboard back?”

“Yeah. I’m getting A’s and B’s now. That should be enough to cut it loose from Mom.”

“Come over when you get it. We can practice some new tricks. I found these cool skate videos online.”

“I’ll have to do my homework first.”

“Man, it’s always something with you,” Mike said. “Get your mom to let you out. If your grades are as good as you say, you’ve earned it. Come on, you’re the only one around that’s fun to board with. I’ve waited a long time.”

“Me too,” I said.

I raced home from the bus. I skipped up the porch steps, swung through the door, and asked, “Are report cards here?”

Mom looked up from her accounting and quietly
pointed to the envelope. There they were, my A’s and B’s. My afternoons studying with Favi and my tutoring with Darrell. My pass to skateboarding. To Mike’s house. To my regular life.

“Congratulations,” Mom said.

“Do I get my board back now?”

Mom took off her reading glasses and set them on her papers. “We need to talk.”

“About what? I brought my grades up.”

“About bull riding. Oscar says you’ve been bull riding.”

“How would he know?” I asked.

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you saying he’s lying? Is it a different Cam O’Mara he’s talking about?”

Favi must have said something to her father. Or maybe her uncle told him or one of the guys from Elko. I forgot to breathe.

Mom went on. “I know you’ve been bull riding and so you aren’t getting your skateboard. And you aren’t off restriction. And since we can’t trust you on weekends around here, your dad and I have decided you’ll come with us to Palo Alto.”

“This weekend?” I asked.

“Every weekend until we think different.”

“You can’t do that! I brought my grades up, you owe me my board.”

“Cam, when you act like this, I don’t think we owe you anything.”

I grabbed my report card, tore it up, and tossed it in the wastebasket. It was too good for them. I went out to the barn to blow off some steam. I put a halter on one of
the yearlings and ran him around the corral until I broke a sweat, and then I kept running.

Neil Jones pulled up in his truck. “Where’s your dad, Cam?”

“Haven’t seen him.”

“Well, when you do, tell him I came by to look at that stock he’s selling. He said they’re the ones in the back corral, right?”

“I don’t know,” I said. It surprised me that Dad was going ahead selling the stock. If Grandpa Roy found out about it, he would chase Mr. Jones right off the ranch. Those calves were O’Mara calves, with our brand. And I wasn’t feeling much like helping Dad sell them. I believed what Grandpa said about selling stock cutting at the heart of the ranch—being the beginning of the end. The way things happened lately, losing the ranch wouldn’t take long from start to finish. “I don’t think they’re for sale,” I said.

“Really? But your dad called.”

“You better talk to my grandpa,” I said. “Ask him. He’ll know.”

Now, I knew right then that I’d messed with a big sale and the money for our bills. Money Mom and Dad might need for Ben. I knew Grandpa wouldn’t sell the calves. And right then, I didn’t care.

“I saw his truck. Is he in the house?” Mr. Jones asked.

“Yeah,” I said. And then I couldn’t take it back.

So there wasn’t any reason for me to spend the weekend before Thanksgiving in Salt Lick, even if Mom would have let me. I couldn’t skateboard, and Mike was steamed.
Grandpa and Dad were hardly talking after the calf deal fell through. Mom was crazy as a dog on a scent about me and the bull riding. So it felt right, like the punishment fit me, to pack my duffel bag and sit silent in the backseat of the truck while we crossed the mountains and went back to California. Okay, so Ben was messed up, but at least he’d probably talk to me.

The motel was the same. Mom and Dad were the same. The crowds were the same. But Ben seemed different. He was talking better, and they’d fitted him for another temporary arm and were fixing on getting his skull put back together with an operation right after Christmas. You’d think that would cheer him up, but he was majorly down. I didn’t feel much like cheering anybody up, but I gave it a try.

“So where’s Burton?” I asked.

“Burton? They sent him back east for that surgery and then he’s going home.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s good, right? He gets to go home?”

“Yeah.” Ben stared at the wall. I searched around for something to talk about.

“Is there anyone else from your unit here? Anybody you know from over there?”

Ben took his time answering. “Yeah, one guy came in last week…. Two more of ’em didn’t make it this far.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“They ambushed my unit again. It was a couple of grenades that took ’em out.” He looked away. “It can tear a person up when one of those goes off at close range. I should have been there.”

“So, are your friends dead?”

“One wounded. Two dead. Like before.” Ben’s face was taut. “I should have been there,” he repeated softly. “I could have done something for them.”

“Ben, you said there wasn’t much left…. You’d be dead too. You can’t save everybody.”

“No, but I’m supposed to be there, not in this hospital. What good is that?”

“It’ll be real good when you get your new skull and come home. You’ll see. Things’ll be good again.”

“You think so?” He looked expectant, waiting for my answer, like a little kid.

“Sure,” I said, and I put my hand on his. “Mom says the doctors want you to remember stuff. You want to talk about the dumb stuff we did when we were kids?”

“Like when you, me, and Grandma Jean TP’ed Pastor Fellows’s house?” he asked.

“Yeah, or when Grandpa Roy got mad at us for running the cows around the salt lick because I wanted to see how fast they could go.”

“I don’t remember that,” Ben said.

“Sure you remember. Grandpa was so mad I though his face would burst.”

“You gotta think of the cattle first,” Ben said. He could still quote Grandpa Roy.

“So, what
do
you remember?” I asked.

He thought. Finally, he said, “I remember when Adam Carl drowned.”

“You do? I don’t remember that.”

“You were too young. But I was there. It was Adam’s birthday, and he and I were in a rowboat on Walker Lake.
Some bees came around, and he took off his life vest and dove in to get away from them. He splashed me, and we were laughing. Grandma Jean yelled at us to come in. But I jumped in the lake too. That’s when Adam slipped under the water. I thought he was playing.”

“So, what did you do?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Same as now. Only back then, I thought he was playing.”

Nobody’d ever told me that Ben had been there. “You didn’t know,” I said. Ben was crying. I handed him a tissue. “Grandma Jean says the Lord doesn’t take kids unless there’s a good reason.”

“Right,” Ben said.

“There had to be a reason,” I said.

“Right.”