Page 27 of Rough Ride

If he ever shows up to Billy Bob’s again.

The Dickies Arena was electric tonight, filled to capacity and with an excited buzz in the air. Tonight’s event was Saddle Bronc Riding, where competitors attempted to ride a bucking horse for eight seconds. It was one of the most traditional rodeo events, originating from the practical skill of breaking and training a wild horse. The cowboys were given scores based on their own control and style, and based on how hard the bronco bucked. The more violent the horse, the more points the rider could earn, up to a maximum of 100 total points.

I was selling beer in the upper deck tonight, giving me more of a top-down view of the arena floor. A hush came over the crowd as the first cowboy prepared to begin the event, every eye opened wide with excitement. As I poured a beer for one customer, I kept an eye on the arena below.

The cowboy, whose name I had missed, was in the starting chute. He gripped a braided rope that was attached to the horse’s halter. The horse fidgeted impatiently in the chute while the cowboy readied himself. Both of them became still for a brief second before the chute opened.

Then the door flung wide, and chaos followed.

The crowd roared as the bronco lunged forward, twisting and kicking with raw, untamed power. The rider held on for dear life, his boots set high on the horse’s shoulders, body rolling with the animal’s every violent move. Even with the crowd noise, I could hear the bronco’s hooves pounding into the dirt, and the creak of leather as the cowboy fought for control, his free arm slicing through the air for balance. I imagined what it was like to be in that saddle, each buck from the horse jolting through my spine.

The sound of a buzzer cut through the noise, signaling an end to the ride. It had only been eight seconds, but it felt like thirty. Two rodeo assistants on their own horses galloped forward, bracketing the bucking bronco on either side until its violent motions ceased and it calmed down. By the time the cowboy had dismounted, the two judges were announcing their score: 72 points. 32 for the rider’s skill, and 40 for the difficulty of the bronco.

The crowd reacted with a scattering of cheers.

As cowboy after cowboy competed, I paid less and less attention. After a while, it all looked the same, and I didn’t recognize any rider names. So instead, I focused on smiling to the patrons in the stands and earning as many tips as I could.

But I paid attention when one name boomed over the loudspeakers: “Your defending champion…Chris Appleton!”

He exploded out of the chute in a flurry of dirt, the bronco kicking its legs back in an attempt to throw him off. My eyes were glued to the man, praying that he would fall from the saddle. But after the first few bucks, the horse seemed like it wasn’t trying all that hard. Appleton smoothly maintained his saddle, waiting until the buzzer flared before sliding off the horse.

I turned back to my job, but then the crowd reacted with cheers—and a few surprised murmurs. I looked at the score and did a double-take.

Rider: 43

Horse: 45

Total: 88

“Forty-five fucken points?” one fan shouted. “That horse barely moved!”

“It was like a joy ride out there,” another fan agreed. “I’m telling you, it’s rigged. They want Appleton to win because he’s the face of the rodeo.”

I shook my head and continued along my section, holding up a can of beer. One more reason to dislike the reigning champion; added to an ever-growing pile.

Appleton’s score remained the one to beat for the first half of the night, with only one other competitor scoring above an 80. There was a short break, and then the second half of the evening began.

And the first rider was Elijah Hawkshaw.

I was in the middle of serving four beers to two men in suits, but I kept one eye on the arena floor. Eli was in the starting area, his normally easygoing smile gone and his face pinched with concentration.

The chute flew open and the bronco lunged into the arena, immediately trying to catapult Eli off its back. A few fans gasped; this horse was easily the most violent one we had seen all night. Somehow, Eli managed to stay in the saddle, the muscles in his right arm as taut as a wire as he struggled to hold on.

I glanced at the clock. Five seconds. Six. I found myself praying that he would make it…

The buzzer screamed, signaling the end of the ride. And a split second later, as the bronco bucked one final time, Eli’s grip slipped and he went soaring over the horse’s head. I held my breath as he hung in the air, suspended for an impossible amount of time. He hit the dirt on his back, twisting it into a roll that carried his momentum a few more feet before he went still.

The dust settled, and then Eli pushed himself to his feet and gave the crowd a wave to show he was okay. Only then did I breathe easier.

The rodeo was a lot more fun when I didn’t know anyone participating.

More groans passed through the arena in a wave as the fans saw his score.

Rider: 41

Horse: 42

Total: 83

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