Ground Money (12 page)

Jo looked up from the program as a small band with a big drum started thumping out music from somewhere at the far end of the bleachers. Around them swirled a steady stream of excited faces and a large number of straw cowboy hats. “Do you want to go to the arena office? They might be here by now.”

Wager nodded, and they elbowed their way beneath the clatter of heels thudding on the planks above. A haze of dust sifted down, swirled up again on eddies of wind, and settled on their parkas. The announcer’s voice filtered through the crowd to welcome everyone to the first rodeo of the Lake County Jamboree Days, and the band started building up to the music of the Grand Entry. The office was a small trailer resting on cinder blocks and partially fenced off by wire mesh. A gap in the fence let them through, and Wager, looking out of place without a cowboy hat, joined the line waiting to get into the small office.

“Heyo, Dobie! What the hell you doing at this thing?”

“Picking me up some beer money. You bull riding today?”

“Bulls and barebacks, both. You seen Hugh around?”

Wager’s turn came to shuffle up the board steps into the cramped room, where a sweating man chewed an unlit cigar and wrote in tiny print on a yellow tablet. “What you need?” The man raised his voice against the sudden cheer from the crowd and his bloodshot eyes glanced curiously at Wager.

“I’d like to leave a message for John Sanchez.”

“Sure—message board’s over there. Next!”

Four or five contestants were peeking over shoulders trying to read the pieces of paper crowded on the small square of corkboard. Wager tore a leaf from his notebook and reached in to tack it up, then worked his way back out again.

Jo, waiting, caught his eye and pointed. “He’s over there—behind the trailer.”

Through the figures hurrying as the announcer’s voice ran over the last notes of the National Anthem, Wager caught a number 48 armband as it began to wink out of sight behind the steel bars of a portable stock pen and the bulky, restless animals it held. “John—John Sanchez—wait a minute!”

The face turned, puzzled.

“Just a minute, John!”

Sanchez saw him and paused, then the face said something to someone out of sight, and then it came toward Wager.

He nodded hello, his eyes touching Jo and then settling back on Wager.

“Can we talk somewhere quiet?”

“What about?”

“Your father.”

“What about him?”

“He’s been in an accident. A bad one.”

From beyond a wooden gate leading to the chutes a voice called, “Sanchez—hey, Johnny, you’re up!” And on the other side of the stands a clatter of loud applause and stamping boots swelled with the band and the announcer’s voice.

“All right—La Hacienda after the show. It’s south of town a mile or two. I got to go now—they’re calling my number.”

Jo watched the man trot away in a stiff stride. “He didn’t seem very upset.”

“They weren’t very close. You saw that when we talked to them before.”

“Still, he didn’t even ask how badly Tom was hurt.”

It could have been because he had his mind on the rodeo and his ride coming up in a few minutes. Or perhaps because he figured Wager would tell him soon enough. Or maybe he already knew.

Every now and then Wager forgot the reason he was at the rodeo and lost himself in the explosions of excitement and speed, but for the most part he was preoccupied. Later Jo admitted that she, too, had only partially enjoyed the show. “But I don’t know what else we could expect—it’s not the easiest thing, to tell someone his father’s dead.”

For most people that would be bad news; for these two Wager wasn’t sure. He wrapped his hands around the heat of the heavy coffee mug and felt the warmth of the large, dimly lit barroom begin to ease the cold muscles of his stiff back. Halfway through the rodeo, the shade of the bleachers had crept over their seats, and without the sun, that wind that scoured the snowfields on the fourteeners west of town began to knife through their clothes. By the time the rodeo ended, many of the spectators had given up, and those who stayed, like Jo and Wager, huddled together against the cold. In the car, they turned the heater up full, and by the time they inched their way through the traffic on the town’s single main street, they warmed up enough to stop shaking. “It wasn’t much of a rodeo anyway,” said Wager. “They had some pretty sorry-looking animals.”

Jo sipped at her steaming drink. It was a mixture of a little coffee and a lot of rum and called a Miner’s Breakfast. The waitress promised it would get rid of a cold one way or another. “A lot of these amateur rodeos don’t have any regulations to protect the stock. The flank straps weren’t even padded on most of those animals.”

Flank straps were used to make the horses and bulls buck harder. In professionally sanctioned events, a heavy sheepskin cushioned the animal’s belly. But these today were simply leather straps yanked tight, and more than once, Wager had seen the raw pink flesh of bleeding ulcers where leather had chewed into the animal. In a lot of ways, the rodeos on this end of the scale were like those sad little carnivals you could still see traveling the back roads between towns too small for the big shows. Maybe in time they would belly up; but they hung on for as long as they could, patching up what was broken, painting over what was rusted, and squeezing one more season out of equipment that should long ago have been scrapped. It was a kind of defiance, and Wager understood it. Perhaps he even admired it. But it was harder to understand or admire doing it at the expense of the animals, and Wager wondered how long the stock contractor would get away with using damaged animals. “What was the prize money?”

Jo folded the program open and tilted it to the faint light from the bar. From a speaker somewhere across the room a steel guitar quavered through an equally metallic voice that sang, “To forgive is divine and you’re making a saint out of me.”

“It’s not listed. Not much, is my guess.”

“Probably enough to cover expenses and a little extra.” Wager sipped his coffee and felt the hot liquid slide through the fading chill in his stomach. “It makes you wonder why the Sanchez boys keep doing it.”

“There’s a lot of money at the top,” said Jo. “I read where last year’s champion saddle bronc rider won over ninety-seven thousand dollars. And that doesn’t include money for endorsements and fees for appearances. Of course, that’s rodeoing full-time in the big time. I think the article said there were five thousand members in the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, but only a third could afford to do it full-time.”

“That’s a pretty good salary.”

“The all-round cowboy won over a hundred and fifty thousand.”

And that was even better. But for those few in the big money, there were a lot in these half-assed pumpkin rollers where, even when you won, you barely broke even. And if you started out like the Sanchez brothers without the schooling and totally on your own, your chances of getting up there were—as Tom had said—about as good as getting an abortion in the Vatican. Yet John and James did not give up; instead, they spent their money to chase their dream every weekend and even times in between. And they did it in a new pickup truck, using their own gear, while working for a rancher who didn’t seem to mind paying them for not working.

“Is that them?” Jo squinted through the dimness at a cluster of figures who had just come around the partition guarding the front door. The group stood a moment talking earnestly about something, and Wager saw one shake his head no. The two hatted figures turned to look over the room. Wager stood so they could see him, and the two in cowboy hats pulled away from the others, who picked their way through the chairs and tables of the half-empty room to settle in a far corner and glance at Wager.

“Mr. Wager—ma’am.”

“My name’s Jo. Won’t you sit down?”

They did, chairs pulled away from the table far enough to allow them to sprawl their legs. Neither took off his hat, nor did Wager expect them to.

“Care for a drink?” he asked.

“I don’t mind if Jimmy don’t. Hell, it’s your party.”

Wager lifted a hand for the waitress, and she took their orders. Gradually, La Hacienda was filling with cowboys and tourists and with the rumble of male voices. Here and there a girl in western clothes laughed loudly, the high sound piercing the noise, and someone started another record that sent a voice moaning, “You always were the sweetest just before you said goodbye.”

When the waitresses brought their beers and Wager’s fresh cup of coffee, Jo said, “You had a good ride on the bull this afternoon.”

John bobbed his head thanks. “Yeah, well, given the stock and all, it wasn’t too bad. We’ll see what I draw tomorrow.”

Wager asked James, “You’re not riding?”

“No. I pulled a muscle in my belly up in Culbertson. I’ll ride next weekend.”

“How’d that happen?” asked Jo.

“My spurs got hung up on a bull and I couldn’t pull loose. I could have rode today, but John said not to.”

“Next week’s a bigger rodeo,” John explained. “No sense him making that muscle any worse on a piddly-assed show like this one.”

Wager wasn’t yet willing to bring the talk around to their father. “Do you think you’ll have a good chance to make it on the professional circuit? I heard that most of the pros are college graduates now, with a lot of experience in intercollegiate rodeo.”

John’s hat brim dipped assent. “It ain’t easy, that’s for sure. But there’s still room if you’re good enough. I may not be, but I’m sure as hell going to give it a try. I tell you who is good enough—that’s Jimmy, here. This old boy’s a rider!”

“John’s good enough. He just don’t like to brag.”

“Still,” said Wager, “I remember Tom telling me it’s not like it used to be. He was afraid you boys were going to waste half your lives getting nowhere.”

“He’s a hell of a one to talk.”

“Hush up, Jimmy.” John explained it to Wager. “They’re setting up a three-level system, now—regional circuits, national, and a new one, Tournament Rodeo. The regionals are mostly weekenders—part-time riders can go to those, and they’re not so spread all over hell and gone. That’s what’ll help us out until we go national. For instance, the Mountain Circuit’s Colorado and Wyoming, and it has its own standings and its own finals up in Cheyenne in October. If we do good there, we’ll by God try full-time; we’ll go on the national circuit. That’s where the real money is, but you got to ride in a hundred and fifty, maybe a hundred and seventy-five rodeos a year. And do good in most of them.” He drank his beer and leaned back.

“That’s a lot of entry fees.” Around fifteen to eighteen thousand dollars a year for each event entered. “Plus your other expenses.”

“We got it figured, Mr. Wager. And we don’t intend to come away losers all the time.” He angled his empty glass at Wager and wagged it as he talked. “The money’s there for the best man to take, and we aim to get our share.”

Jimmy nodded. “I don’t care what Daddy told you, Mr. Wager. We’re going to get there.”

“Tournament Rodeo has teams and sponsors—they pay entry fees and some expenses, and you might even get matching money in addition to the prize money. When that gets going on television, it’s going to be big! And now’s the time to start after it.”

Wager said stubbornly, “But it’s going to cost you a lot of money even to try. You must spend every penny you’ve got now.”

“We don’t ask nothing from nobody—and by God it ain’t money that’s going to keep us from making it. It’ll be us! If we can’t do it, that’s the only damned thing that’ll keep us from making it!”

“Jimmy gets kind of excited about the whole thing, don’t he, Mr. Wager?”

“Being ranch manager must pay a lot better than your daddy thought.”

“We do all right,” said John. “It’s good enough pay.”

“You have plenty of free time, too. I didn’t think a ranch manager could take off so much.”

“Depends on how good the help is, don’t it? Besides, if it don’t worry the owner, I don’t see why it should worry you.”

Jo asked, “Do you like the riding events best?”

Both had the wiry build of their father, though John was taller and heavier. The only event in rodeo where size helped was steer wrestling; for the rest it was balance and quickness and—on the bulls—the ability to cling like a tick.

“We do timed events, too,” said John. “Calf and steer roping. But that’s something that takes a longer time to build up, and we ain’t got good horses of our own, yet.”

“I’m going over to the Roy Cooper roping school next year,” said James. “We’ll have enough money for it by then.”

“Did you make or lose money today?” asked Wager.

John shrugged. “Paid for gas is about all. But I still got a chance at the average—I get that and some more day money, and we’ll break even on this one.”

The younger brother drained his beer glass, and Wager called for another round, including one for himself now that he was thoroughly warm again. Then he drew a deep breath. “The reason I wanted to talk to you …”

“You said something about Daddy being hurt?”

There wasn’t any easy way to say it. “Tom’s dead. Your father died yesterday afternoon.”

John’s brows creased together, and he slowly pushed a finger against his beer glass. James sat still and eyed Wager.

“They tried to get in touch with you, but you’d already left the ranch. So I said I’d come up and tell you.”

“Dead.” John’s glass slid slowly across the table to trail a film of water that dried quickly. “I sure didn’t expect that. He didn’t deserve that.”

“He deserved it. He deserved it and he got it.”

“Shut up, Jimmy. You didn’t know him. I did.”

“I ain’t shutting up. And I ain’t sorry he’s dead, neither. I ain’t!”

“Shut up, I said!” The words jabbed across the table like a swift punch. “He wasn’t all bad,” John said to Wager. “He left when Jimmy was so little that he don’t remember him, that’s all.”

“I remember what he did to Mama.”

“That’s enough, Jimmy.” This time the warning was quiet, almost weary. “We appreciate your telling us in person, Mr. Wager. I reckon they’ve got him in a funeral home down there?”