AN OLD COWBOY JUST DOESN'T KNOW WHEN TO QUIT
AN OLD COWBOY JUST DOESN’T KNOW WHEN TO QUIT
Ol’ Jughead Thompson and me were leavin’ outta Spooner, Wisconsin heading for Eau Claire for our next rodeo. It was 11:00 pm Friday, August the fourth and we had to be in Eau Claire by 10:00 am Saturday for the draw for Saturday night’s rodeo. We got a late start because we had to wait for Jughead to stop pissin’ blood.
I been knowin’ Jughead for going on thirty years now and I was hopin’ he learned a lesson in Spooner. At least he wouldn’t take a full finger tuck this time. He would play by the rules. Earlier tonight his bronc stood quietly as he pulled his riggin’. When he nodded, I opened the gate and he got wadded up into the gate. I thought they would give him another chance to nod but before he could get settled back in, that big flathead saw the crack in the gate and he blew out of the chute. His head, neck, and everything just disappeared as he bucked and kicked. For a moment ol’ Jughead actually looked like a bareback rider again until that damn flathead jerked the handhold out of his hand and it wasn’t long before Jughead was flat on his back. He was out for a few seconds and didn’t remember much when he came to. He said he recalled the horse’s head almost touching the ground and then the lights went out.
We picked him up and loaded him in my rig and then I went and got our horses and loaded them before we took off for the Spooner Hospital.
The doctor there in the ER wanted Jughead to spend the night but he didn’t want to forfeit his rodeo fee in Eau Claire, so we left. We no sooner hit the outskirts of town when I had to stop so he could piss out some blood.
My name is Bill Toft. My friends call me Buck, or when they are jabbin’ at me, Buck Toff. When I was younger, I rode saddle broncs and bare backs, but now I'm too old for that. No way I want to put myself through that pain anymore. My body hurts just gettin' outta' bed every mornin’
We arrived in Eau Claire in the middle of a heavy rain. Jughead drew #88 name of Widow Maker.
“I’m gettin’ on that son of a bitch,” Jughead declared.
“Don’t you think it’s about time you acknowledge the corn. You just ain’t made out for riding bucking stock. You have a lot of heart, little talent, and no quit in you. Like a bull, you don’t know when to quit. That’s a recipe for a quick death, little buddy. Let’s just stick to being pick up riders and hauling rodeo stock and leave the rest of this shit to the young ones. You ain’t going to like hearing this, Jughead, but…”
“Some things are better off left unsaid,” Jughead replied, glaring at me.“But you are going to say it anyway, aren’t you,Buck?”
“Yep, can’t help myself. If you do this, you will be sucking blended food through a straw for the next six months. Worse case, you’re going to end up in the bone orchard.”
“Hell, I still got some kick in me, Buck. I know I can ride this horse. Look at him. That horse looks dead.”
“So do you Jughead. I gotta say this, you lasting eight seconds on that horse is as likely as the Pope leading a gay pride parade.”
“Well, we’ll just see, won’t we?”
“Yep, common sense is like deodorant. The ones that need it the most don’t use it.”
“I assume you are referring to me?”
“Yep, Jughead, I am. Listen, if you feel yourself losing it, just choke that horn, will ya?”
“No way. Ol’ Jughead never has and never will be caught choking the horn. It just won’t happen.”
Well, that ‘ol dead horse threw Jughead ‘bout up to heaven and when he landed, he landed on his head before a hind foot from that bronc landed down on his chest.
I was looking down at Jughead in a crowd of cowboys and he gave me a warm smile as well as a thumbs up. Then I heard someone say, “Okay boys, let's get as many hands as we can under him and lift him onto the stretcher.”
They put him into what I assumed was an ambulance. I crawled in after him and we took off. The driver was cursing as we hit some pot holes.
“I don’t know if I’m going to survive this one, Buck Toft," Jughead groaned.
“You’re going to make it, Jughead. I remember that time in Noches, Texas, about twenty years ago, when you were in the recovery room and your spleen ended up in the operating room trash can. You walked away from that one. You’ll walk away from this too. From now on, we will spend our time spreading hay and hauling bucking stock, not trying to ride ‘em.”
Jughead nodded, smiled, and closed his eyes.
“You all right back there?” the driver asked, as the stretcher rolled across the floor and slammed into the side of the vehicle.
The ambulance driver wasn’t actually an ambulance driver, he was tending the beer tent and he had to close it down when they asked him to drive Jughead to the hospital. Actually, it wasn’t an ambulance, it was an old yellow cab and the driver was slurring his words.
“Damn, the gate is closed. Hey, girls, have them boys open that gate,” he yelled. I was sitting next to him. He turned around and was holding a can of Blatz Beer.
“How’s he doing?”
“Not good, he’s rolling around like a damned billiard ball,” I yelled.
“God damn right it’s rolling. We’ll get him there in no time. Now don’t let him die on me. He’s pretty old to be doin’ this, ridin’ broncs, ain’t he?”
“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell him.”
Turns out Jughead didn’t last the ride. I don’t know if it was the ride on the bronc or the ride in that old Yellow Cab that did him in, but deep down in my heart, I know’d it was his stubbornness that finally did him in. He just didn't know when to quit. I think the good Lord finally did him a favor calling him home but I sure am going to miss that boy.
BUCKAROO FROM AHEAD OF THE GAME
I wrapped the leather strap around my wrist until it was good and tight. My hat was pulled down as far as it would go and I adjusted my chaps. I was known for my hat always being on my head at the end of my rides, something I was proud of.
It was 1957 and I was leading in points for the all-around cowboy award with only two more events to go before the end of the season. Barring any unforeseen accidents, I was a shoo-in to beat Beanie Franklin who had won the title three years running. I looked forward to getting the silver buckle, silver studded saddle and bridle as well as the nice check that was waiting for the winner. Saying nothing about a chance of crawling in the sack with that little rodeo queen from Austin who was sitting in the crowd today.
It was Austin Texas and it was hot. Austin is a rodeo town, a breeding ground for the rodeo, not just for animals, but for the men who ride them as well. I am an outsider, from Wisconsin and nobody from Wisconsin had won this title. I am going to be the first.
I wiggled my seat around on the back of the big two thousand pound Brahman bull named Dirty Sam, squeezing his sides with my legs to let him know I am taking over today. The bull rolled his eyes back and looked up at me the best he could in the tight chute as if to say, “I’m ready for you. Everyone else thought they could stay on me for eight seconds but nobody has lasted more than two and you won’t be any different.”
What Dirty Sam didn’t know was that I had been studying him all season. Oh, he is one tough son of a bitch all right, but I noticed that every time he shot out of the chute, he turned to the right and dropped his head and gave one helluva twist then he would surprise everybody and turn back to the left; but I would be ready for it today; it didn’t take much to outsmart a dumb ol’ bull. Eight-seconds to fame. It doesn’t sound like much time but when you are on the back of a beast like this, it feels like an eternity.
I looked up and scanned the area in front of me. The little rodeo queen from Austin was sitting in the front row off to the left of the chute and next to her was former President Teddy Roosevelt and the famous Chief Quantah Parker, both big rodeo fans. I also noticed the three rodeo clowns standing behind the barrels in the middle of the arena chatting with one another. I looked down one last time and checked my wrap and smiled at Ike Stovall, my team roping partner and header, who was standing on the railing next to me.
“Give ‘em hell Slade. It’s been one helluva season. One these damn Texans will never forget.”
I didn’t say anything, but turned toward the front of the chute and nodded to the boy at the gate. He slipped the latch and ol’ Sam burst out like someone had just put a hot poker up his ass.
I was leaning to the right, anticipating his first move when he surprised the ever lovin’ crap outta me by turning left. He dropped his head digging his nose in the dirt and twisted his massive body, bringing his hindquarters nearly up to his nose.
Before I knew it I was flying off his back with my right wrist still securely wrapped around the leather strap that surrounded his girth. My feet hit the ground like they were shot from a cannon. My hat flew off my head for the first time that season but that was the least of my worries as I felt my wrist snap. I was bouncing along with Dirty Sam, my feet touching the ground every time his hindquarters landed and lifting off every time he kicked up. I kept pumping my legs running as fast as I could, trying to keep up with him and keep myself from falling. If I fell, he would drag me around the arena and I would end up shredded like a head of lettuce.
Then Dirty Sam lived up to his reputation of being one mean son of a bitch as he slammed me up against the wall right in front of the little rodeo queen from Austin. Not once, but three times, breaking my ribs and busting my nose. It was as if he knew I had my eyes on that gal and he was letting her and me know that I wasn’t that tough cowboy I thought I was. Where in the hell are those damn rodeo clowns, I thought as Sam slammed me one more time for good measure. I felt my left eye swell up and close.
The last thing I remember was my wrap finally loosening up and me high flying it in the air over the arena and looking down at the astonished look on the face of that little rodeo queen from Austin and me wondering if I ever would end up in the sack with her.
I was about to enter my first competition in the Tri-Cities Rodeo Classic in Wisconsin Rapids, Wisconsin. The announcer introduced me to the crowd of nearly 9,000 fans who packed the State Fair Arena that night.
“Next on his maiden ride, we have Stanley Herdlin, from Brookfield, Wisconsin. He’ll be riding #12, outta' Wheatland, Wyoming, a bronc named Peaceful, but I can assure you, that little bronc is anything but peaceful.”
A shiver ran down my spine, was I really going to do this? I looked at Juan Guitterez, my coach and noticed he was smiling.
Nearly all the spectators were either standing or perched on the edge of their seats. Suddenly, the crowd grew eerily silent as they released my bronc into the chute, but it wasn’t the bronc I had drawn the night before. It was a big black stud named Black Smoke.
“Hey, what’s this? I drew number 12, the little buckskin bronc.”
“Yeah,” the handler said, “but he kicked out the side of his stall last night and cut up his leg. We had to pull him. This here fella is his replacement. I know he looks pretty mean, but he was rode last night by Ferrell Bannister who pretty much rode the buck outta him. You’ll be fine, pardner.”
“Joo sure joo want to do this, gringo?” Juan asked. “Joo might geet hurt, reel bad.”
“No, but I’ve come this far and can’t see myself backing out now,” I replied.
Juan spent the past six months teaching me how to ride saddle broncs and now I was ready to try it out.
“The first time eez alweez dee hardest, gringo.It geets“ better, I promeese,” Juan laughed.
I stared at him and couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just shook my head.
“Joo ain’t got nothing under joo hat but hair, gringo. You see how beegs that flathead eez? Heez goin' to keel you, gringo. If joo” die, can I have joo saddle?”
I looked over at Juan as I climbed the chute and said, “Sure, it’s your's Juan. I appreciate your vote of confidence. Coming from my instructor it gives me a positive feeling.”
“Ha, ha, joo crazy, gringo. Thanks for jour saddle.”
As I stood on the fence, I looked down at this big flathead horse wishing I had the little bronc I had drawn the night before.
I eased down into the saddle, holding the buck rein in my riding hand and bracing myself with the other hand on the chute. I put one foot in the stirrup that was easiest to get to. Then I gently moved Black Smoke over so I could get my other foot in the stirrup. He looked up at me as I eased my feet up to the front of his neck, and I could see the whites of his eyes and knew you could hurt your eyes trying to find any compassion in that face. I was careful not to touch him with my spurs as that might have caused him to rear over backward.
I didn’t make any noise or quick jerking motions, remembering what Juan had told me, “Don’t joo speek out loud joo sceer your horse in the chute.” So I kept my mouth shut, for once.
When my feet and riding hands were in position, I leaned back and down in the saddle and tucked my chin to my chest. If Black Smoke reared out, I could still keep my balance. Juan told me if I didn't keep my chin tucked and the horse throws his head back, I would be thrown off balance, lose his swells, and miss spurring the horse on the way out of the chute. How well you spurred your mount was part of your overall score.
When I was finally sitting on Black Smoke, I looked down on his head knowing a horse had to follow his head; if he rears, his head gives you the clue first. If he ducks you’ll be able to determine it earlier than if you aren’t looking at his head.
Finally, I was ready and nodded at Juan to open the chute gate. The big ol’ horse was watching me,
Everyone thought I was gonna get bucked, and Black Smoke wouldn't just buck you. If you didn't get out of the arena, he'd camp onto you something fierce. Then he'd go wipe out the barrel. Both Juan and I were scared.
Then Juan flung the chute open. The ride started out well. Black Smoke bolted from the chute with four straight high kicks and I stuck like glue. Then the bronc lunged to the left and jerked the rope out of my hands. I hung on with the tail of the rope, shifting to the left with each whipping turn.
I was doing real good, raking his neck with my rowels; then right before the whistle blew, I found myself too far to the inside. He caught me off balance and turned me a flip and while still soaring through the air, I heard the eight-second whistle. My final thought before I landed all wadded up on my back, breaking my collar bone was, “You almost made it Herdlin.”