Bull Rider (17 page)

W
hat are you doing here?” Darrell asked.

“I’m signing up to ride this Ugly bull, same as you,” I said.

“Huh?”

“My cousin, Cam, told me about the challenge.” I practically glued my eyes to his, hoping he’d get it—and quick before the official came back. “He said to come on up from Hawthorne. I’m signing in, see?” With that, I shoved my entry form in his face, pointing at the name and age.

“Huh?” he said again. Then he eyed me. “Adam Carl?”

“That’s me. I’m just older than my cousin, Ben.” I pushed the paperwork into my gym bag. He started to say something, and I had to stop him. “Ben’s the reason I’m here,” I said. “I heard my cousin could use a lift and maybe some of the prize money to get his life going again. You’re friends with him, right?”

Darrell took in the two old guys who were still talking in the stands. “Right,” he said. “But you aren’t leaving with the prize money.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said.

Darrell spit out of the side of his mouth. “You’re something else,” he said. And the two of us waited for the officials at the table.

The man talked to me first. “Son, this looks a little fishy to us. I’m afraid you’re going to have to have some proof of age.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Something that will convince us,” the official said.

I looked at Darrell. He could get me kicked out or he could stand up for me and help me get in. He didn’t do anything. It was like he’d never met me. I said, “I’ll find something.”

The little kids were lining up for the mutton busting, and a stream of folks came through the gate and climbed into the stands. I sat on the bottom bench and put my head in my hands. I didn’t have anything to show them. Maybe Mike and Favi could tell the man I was Adam. I jogged to the gate where they were staking out the parking lot. “I’m sorry, Cam,” Mike said. “Darrell just went right by and there’s a bunch of guys from Salt Lick who came with him.”

“Darrell’s riding, what else would he do?” I said. “Come on, don’t worry about watching the gate anymore. I need you guys to say you know me and that I’m Adam Carl.”

“I’m not lying to the officials for you,” Favi said.

“I’ll do it,” Mike said, glaring at Favi. He followed me back to the registration table.

“This is my friend, Mike Gianni,” I said. “He knows who I am.”

“This guy’s Adam Carl. He’s from Hawthorne and comes up this way to mess around with us,” Mike said.

“So how old is he?” the official asked.

And that’s when Grandma Jean trotted up, breathless, pushed in front of Mike, and set her rose-covered bag on the table with a thump. The man jumped back a piece and I froze. “He’s nineteen if he’s a day and I ought to know. That’s my grandson you’re bothering.”

“Excuse me, ma’am?” the man said, staring at Grandma. She smoothed out her red knitted poncho.

“That’s my grandson,” she repeated. “Adam Carl. He lives with me down in Hawthorne. Do you want to see his baby pictures?” And just like that, she opened her bag and dumped it on the table. From the pile of rubber bands and candy bars, she picked out the little lavender photo holder she kept with Adam’s pictures. I couldn’t watch. She handed them to the man and said, “You can see the family likeness, I think. Some kids don’t change from baby to adult.” And then I looked down and sure enough, from those pictures, I could pass for little Adam if he’d actually grown up. “Now are you going to let my grandson ride this darned bull so we can see a real cowboy?” she asked.

The man shook his head. “Well, you do look young.”

The silver-haired man said, “He looks big enough. The kid’s probably nineteen.” He turned to Grandma Jean. “How do we know those baby pictures are him?” That was a good question. I held my breath.

“Land, you are stubborn,” she said. She opened the back
of her wallet, unfolded a piece of paper from it, and laid it in front of the official. “There. That’s his birth certificate. I had it copied, just in case you wouldn’t believe him. He doesn’t look his age to some folks.”

The man read it and looked at the pictures she’d spread on the table. “Sorry, ma’am, we have to be extra careful.” Then he turned to me. “You’re number thirteen, third to ride tonight. Get in the lineup.”

I started to say something to Grandma Jean, like, “What are you doing carrying around Adam Carl’s birth certificate?” but she shook her head at me and grabbed Mike’s arm. She turned him toward the stands and marched him away.

I walked behind the chutes. The cowboys had a space set up for their gear in a big tack room. I spotted Darrell standing in the middle of piles of protective vests, helmets, hats, and some cowboys’ lucky jeans. He had his back to me and was zipping up his vest. “Hey,” I said, “thanks.”

“Thanks for nothing,” he said. “It’s you that’s gonna get yourself whooped tonight.” The cowboy in the buckaroo hat turned and looked at me.

“That mutton buster’s riding bulls?” he asked Darrell.

“He’s actually pretty good at it,” Darrell said.

“Well, they keep looking younger. I must be getting old,” the guy said. He picked up his hat and left.

“Where is everybody?” I asked.

“They’re out at the arena, or they rode earlier in the day. With fourteen riders signed up, they divided us up into groups. We’re in the last bunch and ain’t nobody rode him
yet today. They had to stagger the rides or that poor bull would about wear out.”

“Worn out sounds good,” I said.

Darrell smiled. “Yeah, worn out or mad. And how did you get in here?”

“Don’t ask,” I said. “And call me Adam.”

“Then tell me—how exactly is your riding this bull helping Ben?”

I zipped up Ben’s vest and pulled the glove and pine tar out of my bag. “I made him a bet. Just like I did with you and the skateboarding. If I ride this bull, Ben has to get up in the morning and do something for himself. If I don’t ride him, well, he’ll just say there ain’t no reason to hope for the impossible. And with the prize money, we’re gonna set him up with a business he can do, give him something to wake up for.”

Darrell looked at me. “That so? Well, you got to beat me first.”

I knew that.

There were only four of us riding Ugly that night. Turns out the rest of the cowboys were there for the show—either team roping or riding the other bulls the stock men had brought over. And the kids had their mutton busting. They were spacing the four of us through the other events. I was number thirteen. Darrell was number fourteen. I had my shot before him, but it wouldn’t matter much, since the way they’d laid this out, any of us that rode Ugly in the Winnemucca Challenge would split the prize.

I paced around the tack room and tried to pray. The Christian bull riders on TV, they always pointed skyward or
knelt to give thanks when they came off a bull. It seemed like some good insurance to me, but I couldn’t get the prayers going when I was so wound up. Everything seemed pretty dusty and down-here-on-earth to me.

I went outside. The sun was setting and the lights were on in the arena. The announcer called, “And now for our youngest cowboys and rodeo gals. Here they are, ready to rock and roll and ride, ride, ride on the meanest bunch of woolly sheep we could find in Humboldt County. Give a big hand to the little mutton busters.”

I climbed the fence and looked around. Eight kids were lined up in their helmets. The oldest looked about seven. The announcer went on. “Here’s a big cowboy, all of six years old, Taylor Graham.” A dad opened the gate on the sheep pen and the kid shot out, arms wrapped around the sheep’s neck. He rode till he slipped over to the side and lost his grip. He landed on the ground and started to cry. “That’s a great ride for Taylor, let’s give him a hand.” He wiped his eyes and walked over to his parents. The second and third kids rode. So far, Taylor was the only one who lost it. I could so get how he felt. I wanted to cry and I wasn’t even on the bull yet. They gave a big girl in blue cowboy boots the first-prize ribbon. She grinned like she’d won the lotto.

“Well, cowboy up, ’cause we’re going to bull riding,” the announcer said. “Our first sirloin jockey is Manny Rodriguez from Bend, Oregon. He’ll be taking that challenge on Ugly. And what do you say, are you thinking it will be a cold day in August before our bull, Ugly, let’s a cowboy stick eight seconds? Good luck, Manny…and here he comes.”

They opened the gate and I got my first look at Ugly, with
Manny bumping around on his back. The bull was bigger than any I’d ever seen. He wasn’t as fast as some, but he was strong. Some bulls are turbocharged. This one was like a Hummer. He just kept tossing and taking big long rolls left and right. He pounded all four legs into the ground with a thud, Manny lost his hold, and that was that. “Okay, no score for Manny Rodriguez and another one down for Ugly. Now for some demonstration team roping.”

Ugly trotted back toward the pen. I walked around till I could get a better view of him. His shoulder was above my chin. He was brown, with some white dapples on his rump. The wattle under his neck was as wide as my arm, and it swung back and forth making time to his steps. He didn’t have a hump like a Brahma but was set more like a short horn in the front, with thick, stubby horns. His ears were fuzzy. Strings of slobber hung from his lips. But his eyes, that was what caught me. They were yellow, not gold or brown, and clean around them was a white ring of eyeball. What gave a bull eyes like that? Was it a natural craziness or was he born mean? He snorted and shook his head like he was thinking of ways to smash cowboys. Watching him pace in the pen, I wasn’t thinking he was “Ugly.” No, I’d have named him Bull-Dozer. Or better, I’d name this one
Terror-Bull
.

They finished the team roping and let a couple more riders loose on other bulls. Then they moved Ugly up to get the next bull rope on him. He barely fit in the chutes. The cowboy who’d called me a mutton buster was pulling on his glove. I didn’t want that guy to win. The music stopped and the announcer said, “Next up is our cowboy come over from
Washoe Valley, right here in Nevada. Ian Marley has made himself pretty well known around the bull-riding circuit, but he’s missed out on this bull. Let’s see if Ugly’s ready for round two.”

They opened the gate and it couldn’t have gone better—for me. Ugly ran, kicked up with his back legs, then almost sat down. Marley about slid down his back, then Ugly rolled right and did a quick left. It looked like he was fixing to shake that cowboy off. It wasn’t two seconds before Marley was brushing the dust from his britches. “Too bad for Ian Marley. Maybe there’ll be another go round, ’cause I’m not seeing this bull give up a ride tonight, are you?” the announcer asked the audience. Someone started chanting, “Ugly, Ugly, Ugly.” A section of the stands picked it up and cheered for the bull. I felt sweat dripping down my back. Some guys ran out in the arena dressed in humongous cowboy hats that came down past their shoulders and covered up their arms. They weren’t wearing shirts and they had faces painted on their bare bellies that they wiggled in time to banjo music. They danced and all the little kids laughed and yelled. I walked toward the chutes. I was next. Darrell was already there.

“Good luck out there, Cam,” he said to me.

“You mean it?”

“Sure, as long as you don’t take my prize.” He grinned.

“I’m hoping on just that,” I said.

They had Ugly in a chute for the next go round. The next ground round maybe, and that was me. Captain Hole in the Head. The fairgrounds had a fancy chute for rigging the bulls with the slits up the sides, so we didn’t have to fish
around for the bull rope. I tossed Ben’s bull rope under Ugly to the chute man. He grabbed it and we climbed up our sides of the chute to fix the rope. Ugly snorted and plopped a giant cow pie. “You tried him?” I asked the guy.

“No, you couldn’t pay me enough to ride this one.”

Great. Well you could pay me. And Ben. Right then I took a breath and shook my head and shoulders. “Okay,” I said, and they opened the slide gate and moved Ugly into the bucking chute. I stood over him on the platform and saw the width of his back. It would be hard to grip—my knees were going to sit most straight out. Just then, Ugly reared up and climbed the railings with his front hooves until his head and horns came to my eye level. I jumped back. He swung around like he was going to bash me right there. His head looked as big as a wheelbarrow, and his eye was rolled back and glowing yellow. That look, it was ugly. I swear, he was staring at me. He lunged again, and the platform jerked and rocked from the crash. Three guys took to pushing him back into the chute. They got him calmed down. But me, I could hardly catch my breath.

The announcer started, “Now it’s time for another Nevadan. This boy’s come all the way from Hawthorne to ride Ugly. He’s a newcomer to our bull ring, so let’s give it up for Adam Carl.” I looked down at Ugly. He was still. I jumped up and down a couple of times. The shaking stopped. My teeth weren’t chattering. “Go, Adam!” a kid yelled. I looked in the stands and met his eyes. It was like he looked right into me. I could do it. I felt good. I couldn’t help grinning. Cam O’Mara might be a kid who was never sure of a bull, but Adam Carl? He was fearless.

I stepped off the platform and set myself on Ugly’s back. Grandpa says you can know something from the feel of a bull, and this one felt thick and stubborn. Cam might have worried, but “Adam” pushed his butt down tighter, laid the bull rope across his palm, and pounded his fingers around it. Then one of us—maybe me or maybe “Adam”—said a prayer, a real one. I mumbled, “Okay, Ben,” and then I said, real loud, “Let him go.”

T
hey pulled the gate and this is what I remember. The lights, the dust, and pulling down with my arm and pushing into Ugly with my butt. You can’t count seconds when you’re riding, but you can feel yourself. I knew I was on, still on, swinging wide, pulling myself hard with my arm, wanting to grab something, anything, lights got brighter, my butt slipped, I struggled for balance.

Then a buzzer. A buzzer. A buzzer. I snapped the bull rope, zipping it through my hand, flew off to my left and hit the ground. It knocked the wind out of me. I came up on my knees and heard a noise like a train coming. It was bull’s hooves. I wasn’t sure which way to turn. A bullfighter ran past me and another knocked me away and back onto the ground. I looked right up at Ugly’s underside as he ran past. I jumped up, scanned for the fence, and ran. It was only when I was safe on the rails that I saw everyone standing and cheering. The announcer said, “And that, ladies and
gentlemen, is how you ride a bull. Young Adam Carl from Hawthorne, Nevada, is the winner of the Winnemucca Ugly Challenge. It’s a great day for him and a first for Ugly. That’s one fine bucking bull, and he moves on to a career in the pro bulls. We can’t help wondering if that’s where Adam’s headed too.”

I peered into the crowd. The announcer went on, “There’s only one cowboy left in the Ugly Challenge and it goes against the odds, but this next rider could tie with Carl and split the pot. Stranger things have happened, ladies and gents, so stick around, watch our antique wagons and stagecoach circle the field, and after we give that bull some R and R, we’ll be back with our last cowboy from right here in Humboldt County, Darrell Wallace.”

I don’t think anybody else was listening. Everybody was talking and moving around. Mike and Favi ran down the aisle toward me. “You did it!” Favi said. “I knew you could. Well, I hoped you could…. Who would believe?…oh, it’s so good. You did it!”

“Way cool,” Mike said. “When did you learn to do that?”

Favi threw her arms around my neck. “Oh, Cam, I was so scared for you.”

I hugged her back. Then I turned and wiped my eyes. There was dust in ’em or something. The official guy called to me across the gate. “Come down to the table and we’ll get your information for the news story and the check. That fifteen thousand is all yours unless this next guy rides him too.”

I told Mike and Favi, “Don’t leave without me,” and I followed the official past the chutes and out toward the
sign-up table. Grandma Jean was already there. Grandpa Roy was behind her. I swallowed hard.

“Good job, son,” Grandpa Roy said, shaking my hand. “I couldn’t have ridden that bull myself.” He grinned and kept pumping my hand. “You ride like a real cowboy. Like an O’Mara, I’d say. Jean, get a picture of us.”

“Excuse me,” the official said. “First, we’ll need you to sign these release forms for the press—they’ll want photos and an interview.” He handed me a long sheet of heretofores and therefores. A reporter with a fancy camera waved at me and took a step forward, smiling. Right then I knew the Adam Carl thing was going to be a big problem. They couldn’t put my picture in the paper with his name.

“I’m not interested,” I said.

“We need—” he started to explain to me.

“No, not interested,” I interrupted. “Just the check. That’s all I want. And make it out to Ben O’Mara.”

“It’s your money, son,” the official said.

“Ben O’Mara is what this young man said, and that’s what you’ll do,” Grandpa Roy said. “It’s done, then.”

I heard the announcer. “And now for our last bull rider.”

“We’ve got to see Darrell,” I said. I ran back toward the arena and watched through the fence. Ugly was in the rigging chute. The announcer went on about Darrell and his wins. Ugly banged the rails and stomped his feet. The announcer kept talking. “Darrell Wallace is one of our homegrown cowboys. He’s at home on a bronc or a bull, and he was on the local high school rodeo team….” He kept talking, and talking some more. The men around the chutes
were all yelling now. A couple of them sprinted toward the tack room. The announcer was quiet. Some people near him rustled around, whispering. Finally, the mike came back on.

“It seems Darrell Wallace has withdrawn. I’ll say it again, ladies and gentlemen, Darrell Wallace has withdrawn from the challenge. That means the Ugly Challenge prize, the full fifteen thousand dollars, goes to Adam Carl, from right here in Nevada. He’s the one who rode Ugly.”

Darrell was gone? After everything? It didn’t make sense.

“Why do you suppose Darrell withdrew at the last minute like that?” Grandpa said. He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you young people. Well, let’s go pick up that check, Cam.”

I followed him and Grandma Jean toward the gate. “How’d you know I was here?”

“Favi told me what you were up to last week.”

“Man, she promised she wouldn’t tell. She shouldn’t have told. Not even you.”

“She was worried about you,” Grandma Jean said.

“And you didn’t stop me?” I asked.

“Didn’t want to,” Grandpa Roy said.

I turned to Grandma Jean. “Is that why…”

“I was here to prove who you were. Adam Carl, my grandson.”

“Are you mad about me, you know, using him?” I asked her.

“How could I be mad? If he’d grown up, I’d want him to be just like you.”

I blushed. We walked by the tack room and I went in to pick up my gear bag. I looked around for Darrell, but his
stuff was already gone. Go figure. I’d taken his prize, and he didn’t even fight me for it. Manny slapped me on the back, and when I came out to the arena, a bunch of little kids pushed around me asking for my autograph. I took a pencil from one of them and signed a bunch of stuff “Adam Carl.” Finally, I met Grandpa and Grandma Jean back at the sign-in table. “Shall we send the check to your Hawthorne address?” the official asked.

“Don’t send that money anywhere.” I heard a rough voice over my shoulder. I turned and saw the cowboy who called me a mutton buster. “I knew I’d seen this kid. Up in Elko. He’s Ben O’Mara’s kid brother. I don’t know how he got that ride, but I’m telling you, he’s not eighteen.

“I’m Adam Carl,” I said, quietly.

Red spots popped out on the officials face, and he licked his lips like they wouldn’t quite move without the extra spit. “With a challenge to eligibility, I’m afraid we’ll have to hold the winnings until we investigate,” he said.

Grandpa Roy and I looked at each other. “I rode Ugly. That money’s mine,” I said. I’d done what no cowboy had done, and now they were keeping my money?

“We can’t pay out if you aren’t eighteen, son. And since we signed you in without any real ID tonight, if you took the money, that could be fraud. You and your family could be in some real trouble. I’d suggest, if you have any thought that you haven’t been honest here, that you let Adam Carl’s record stand and forfeit the winnings.”

He couldn’t mean it. “Can’t you just give it to me? I rode the bull!”

“You have to follow the rules,” he said. “There might be
other young guys who wanted to try this, but they didn’t. They followed the rules. You can’t make up your own.”

“But it was for Ben,” I said.

“Who’s Ben?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I shook my head. “I’ll forfeit the prize.”

Grandma Jean groaned. Grandpa Roy put both hands on my shoulders as though to hold me steady.

The official scrawled some stuff on a piece of paper saying I’d give up the fifteen thousand dollars I’d just won, and I signed it, “Adam Carl.”