Ghost Medicine (17 page)

The flags in front of us started to march and all the riders fell in behind them, riding single file because the deputy was going to announce each of our names over the speakers. I heard the Holmes school band begin playing behind us.

I saw Luz and her family standing along the parade route, smiling and waving to people they knew. I looked right at Luz and saw her staring at me, too. She smiled, and I thought about her saying I was the handsomest rider and it made me feel real strong; and I tipped my hat at her and smiled back. I wondered if she still saw me as straight-mouthed.

And I saw my father there in the crowd, too. As I watched him, I saw people come up to him and shake his hand or hug him and pat him on the back. I knew what they were asking him—if he was okay, if I was, if we needed anything. I was glad I didn't have to hear it.

I looked for Rose, too, knowing that she would never come to Three Points just to see this parade. I looked anyway.

Then when I came up to the black-and-white Ford Bronco, I saw Clayton Rutledge sitting by his open window on a tall barstool, holding a wrinkled bundle of papers, his microphone held up to the side of his mouth as he announced the riders.

He looked at me and said, “And no, folks, we haven't made an exception to allow babies to compete this year. Riding up wearing number seven is young Troy Stotts, who believe it or not is really sixteen years old.”

I heard some people in the crowd laugh.

“And that fine-looking horse he's riding is a Benavidez cutting horse named Rita.”

He's not a cutting horse.

I could have slapped him with a hay hook right then and there. I looked over at Luz, and then I heard Gabriel yell out, “That's his own horse he's on and his name is Reno and he's a thoroughbred!”

I clenched a fist at Gabe and shook it.

“Thanks, Gabey.”

And I looked at him and he mouthed, silently, but real big so I could read his lips, “He's an idiot.”

Tommy came up behind them and I heard him yell out, “Go get ‘em, young Troy and Rita!”

And then I put my head down because that made me laugh hard.

After the parade, we all gathered at the starting line for the biathlon. Since I was number seven, I had half an hour after the start for me to check Reno's saddle and make sure we were both ready for the race. Any longer than that would have worn me down, so I was happy with my place. Number four was about to be sent, with five on deck. I'd have to move over to my spot soon.

Tommy was squatting down, checking Reno's feet.

“He looks real good. Where's your dad?”

“He's gonna be at the number two range. Standing. That's the hardest one, I think.”

“Did you see the rifles?”

“Number five,” an announcer called, meaning five was about to be sent, with six on deck.

“They're real good. Marlin biathlon rifles. They cost a lot. Really dialed in.”

“You get a thousand bucks if you win.”

I put a tennis shoe in Reno's stirrup and lifted myself up onto him. I arranged the reins back and straightened my bandana. Then I leaned over and whispered in Reno's ear, saying, “Do good, boy.”

“That's a lot of money.”

“Number six.”

“Tommy?” I started to walk Reno over to the on-deck area. Tommy grabbed my knee hard. I was going to tell him that I'd kick him if he ever called my horse “Rita” again; ‘cause I know how he's got that coyote in him. “Thanks for the bandana.”

“You already said that.” And then he spit and held up his fist, and I punched it hard so I knew it hurt him, because it made me wince, too. And then he slapped Reno on the butt and said, “Stotts, remember… turn invisible and pass them all.”

The first mile of the course was steep uphill. I had an advantage there because of Reno's strength and my size. So when I came into the first set of targets, I felt calmer and more confident than I had since I woke up.

The first station involved shooting from horse back, which can be a tricky thing if you are on the wrong animal for it. A lot of the riders put plugs in their horses' ears. But Reno knew how to hold steady, so I could prop an elbow on one knee to steady the sights. Every station was judged, too. Judges kept track of riders and their scores, and they kept stopwatches so they could give credit time if there were ever two riders showing up at the same set of targets. The targets were small iron knockdown circles, about the size of a half-dollar, set off no closer than fifty feet at any station. Each rider had five shots at five targets, and then had to reload the rifle for the next rider before leaving.

I took a long time making my shots at the first station because I was afraid of missing. I took them all down and I heard the judge say “I'll be damned!” when I did. He probably had money on someone who'd already come through, I thought. I put the five shots in the rifle's clip and handed it down to the judge and said “Thank you” before riding off on the second mile leg.

On that second leg, I passed rider number six, a woman from Holmes who looked to be about thirty-five; I'm really not good at guessing ages. I could tell she was pretty mad as Reno and I brushed past her.

It was getting hot, and I was sweating in the saddle. Reno was sweating, too, breathing hard, but loving the speed of the racing toward the next station. I untied the bandana and wiped my eyes and hands, then I tied it on to the saddle horn as we came into sight of the second station, where my dad was judging. And there he was, stopwatch hanging from a cord around his neck, a blue Dodgers baseball cap on his head, looking as out of place there as if he had been wearing a shirt and tie.

“Did you pass six?”

“Way back there,” I said. “I got ‘em all at one.”

I got down from Reno, feeling cooler from the air hitting the sweat on my jeans. My dad handed me the rifle and said, “All right, number seven. Five targets from a standing position. Only one rider's got ‘em all so far, son.”

Standing was hard because after riding two miles, you tend to be shaky and, with no rest for your elbow, shooters have a tendency to pull their shots. I tried to relax my shoulders.

“Dad, you remember what we talked about this morning?” I said. “I plan on holding you to that promise, you know. I'm going to get you on that horse.”

He had a kind of disappointed look on his face, but he smiled a little. Tried to, anyway.

“You don't have to worry about that, son. I'm proud you asked me. But you better make that horse you got extra nice. Now you better start shooting before six comes in.”

“I think the first snow'll come before six gets here.”

And then I took all five at station two, as well. I reloaded and gave the gun back to my father.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Tom Buller told me to say he owes you five bucks if you get all five,” my dad said.

“He could afford it if I get ‘em all at the next one.”

I smiled, pulled my hat down straight, and Reno and I were off on the third leg.

The third leg was mostly downhill and through the trees, in part following the shore of that river that nearly killed me on my sixteenth birthday. Reno and I took it fast and I could hear the five shots of the rider in front of me as we neared the last set of targets. Number five was barely out of there when we rode up.

Clayton Rutledge was judging the third station.

I knew he'd be there, but I kind of felt my guts shrink when I saw him standing with his clipboard, his eyes staring at me like they had that night he stopped me on my way home.

“Well, well, it's the Stotts boy,” he said. “You already been through the first two? How many'd you get?”

I got down from Reno. Clayton made no move to hand me the rifle.

“I got ‘em all.”

“That's pretty lucky shooting for a boy your size, I'd say.” Then he held up the rifle and turned it over in his hands. The barrel pointed right at my belly as he checked it. “Let's just see if that number five got it reloaded.”

He carefully removed the magazine from the rifle and squinted as he counted the bullets it held. I knew what he was doing, and I began to get a little mad but I wasn't going to say anything to him this time.

“I hope you worked out your head, boy. Chase and me don't hold no hard feelings about that mistake you made.”

I exhaled a big breath and held out my hand to get that gun. “These five are lying flat, right?”

“Five targets from a prone position. That means laying on your stomach, boy.”

He handed me the gun and I flattened out on the ground.

“The wind's coming up,” he said. “You might need to adjust for that. ‘Cause that first one on the left is a bit cockeyed. I seen two riders in a row miss that same one today, but I thought it was the wind. Maybe when I reset ‘em I'll turn it this way a bit more.”

And he just kept talking like that as I tried to take aim.

I missed my first shot. I put my face down in my hand.

“You missed!” he said. “Let's see … number seven. One penalty. You are number seven, right, boy?”

“Sheriff Rutledge, could you please stop talking?” My voice was shaking as I said it. He didn't say anything, but I could hear his footsteps as he walked up alongside my legs and then stood right beside my left hip, casting his large shadow over me.

“I'm sorry, boy. Go ahead and finish up.”

I could feel him looking at me, spilling his big black shadow on me. I re-aimed the rifle, but I missed again.

Rutledge cleared his throat. I could hear the sound of his pencil scraping the page where he tallied the misses. Two minutes. I was so mad at myself I could have howled. Clayton didn't say anything then. I took the next three targets one after the other.

“Now don't forget to reload,” he said.

My hands were shaking, he could see that. I had to somehow try to make up two minutes on the rest of the riders in that last mile, figuring there'd be at least a few who'd get all fifteen. I quickly reloaded the rifle, felt like throwing it, but handed it over to the deputy.

“I didn't think a kid your size would take fifteen of fifteen, but you did dang good, boy.”

I didn't say anything. I leapt up onto Reno and dug my heels in and we were off toward the finish at a full gallop.

That last mile came down by the bridge and the flats. I kept my head low alongside Reno's pumping neck, holding the reins loose and letting him run as fast as he could, just hoping I wouldn't slip and fall. We caught and passed number five and I even saw four cross the finish line by Papa's store about thirty seconds in front of me, so missed shots or not, I knew we'd post a fast time. I just never should have missed those shots, the easiest ones in the race.

And I saw them all there, cheering as I came to the finish line: Tommy, Luz, Gabriel, and his parents, but I wouldn't look at them as I crossed because I felt so bad I think I would have started to cry.

There was a makeshift livery for the horses behind Papa's and I went straight there with Reno. I took off his bridle and saddle and threw it over the top rail of the corral piping. I started brushing him down.

“You did real good, Reno. I'm sorry I messed up.”

Tommy and Gabe squeezed through the rails of the corral. They looked overjoyed.

“You were awesome!” Gabe said. “I missed two.”

“You?” Tommy couldn't believe it, either. “You missed
two
? Did you see your time?”

“I'm sick about it, Tom. It was at that Deputy Rutledge's station. He was
trying
to make me miss.”

“Even with two penalty minutes, you're still in first place by a long shot,” Gabe said.

I looked at my two friends. “I am?”

“I have a good feeling about this,” Tom said.

“It's ‘cause of Reno, that's all,” I said. “But there's a lot of riders still coming around.”

Then I saw Luz resting her arms on the rails of the corral, watching us. She smiled at me, and I shook my head and looked down. I walked over to where my saddle was sitting and untied the bandana and wiped off my face and neck with it, then I tied it back around the saddle horn.

“I didn't do good, Luz.”

“What do you mean? You're in first place right now.”

“Yeah. But I could've put it away. I missed two easy shots.”

“You did good enough,” she said. “I'm so proud of you. Are you hungry?”

They were starting the barbecue out on the street now.

“Yes.” But I wasn't.

We all sat together in the shade by the side of Papa's, away from the gas pumps. I kept that number seven pinned to my chest the whole day. While we ate and talked, me keeping an eye on the riders coming in behind me, George Hess, who owned the store, poured beer after beer from a row of gleaming steel kegs in washtubs of ice lining the street in front of Papa's.

When the last of the riders had come in, my finishing time was only good enough for second place, beaten by fifteen seconds. What made it even worse was that it was Chase Rutledge who had come in first to claim the thousand-dollar prize. I got five hundred for second. I guess there was lots of money bet and lost because that Texan who had won the biathlon for three straight years came in tenth overall.

I was disappointed I had let all those people who bet on me down, but when Tommy showed me the fistful of cash he had won for betting me three ways, I felt a little better.

“It would've been a lot more if you won, though, but you'll get ‘em back next year.”

“Next year I want you to be riding that big boy, too.”

“First and second, Stotts.”

“We could do that.”

I found my dad, laughing and drinking a beer with Mr. Benavidez. I asked him to hold on to all that cash for me since Tommy, Gabe, and I would be leaving for the fire pit before evening.

“You had an excellent ride, Troy,” Mr. Benavidez said, and shook my hand.