Death By Rodeo Part III
My name is Sunny Alexander. And I’m Henry James and we’re writers for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.
We were up at dawn Saturday morning. Instead of rousing Damen we chose to let him enjoy his down time, left a note then set the home security system and took off.
“Ugh, didn’t notice it on the trip before, but what’s with the car scent Sunny?”
“What, you don’t like lavender? I’m sorry Henry. The car wash was out of ode Slim Jim.”
“Uh, okay. I’m not about to tie into that until I get coffee and some breakfast in me. Look, pull in over there. We can get something to go.”
“There is no eating in my car Henry and if you spill your coffee on my upholstery you’ll be paying to have my car detailed.”
“Oh for the love of God Alexander.”
After a thirty minute delay for breakfast and another ten minutes of bickering because someone wouldn’t be happy unless someone else drank their coffee with a straw, we headed back to the rodeo arena.
Although early morning, the stockyards and rodeo grounds were bustling with activity. We parked along the outside perimeter and strolled among the pens of horses and cattle, unnoticed by several cow pokes of the boy and gal variety.
“I think it’s a shame what they do to these animals to make them buck.”
“Seriously Sunny? These animals are bred to do that.”
“What?”
“Yeap. Although most of them have the basic instinct to get that human meat sack off their backs, the majority of them have the bucking instinct bred into them.”
“Really, then why do they tie a rope around their genitals and tug on it?”
“Wow, where in the hell do you come up with this stuff? Are you talking about the flank strap? Those flank straps don’t come anywhere close to the genitals. All the animal feels is pressure in its flank area, a little squeeze. They’re more concerned about getting the rider off their back.”
The gates of the arena were open and we walked in and angled toward a long line of numbered gates. When we heard the pounding of hooves against the arena floor we stopped and turned.
A young lady, long braids of flaxen hair flying behind her raced into the arena on top of a sleek, muscled chestnut. We watched the rider and horse lean in unison as they tried to navigate around a barrel, tipped it over, then raced across the width of the arena, rounded a second, then a third, then rushed past us through the open gate.
“Wow I saw them do that last night, but it’s pretty amazing to see it happen from this vantage point.”
“Yeah come on.”
“Where are we going Henry?”
“Just come on will you?”
The young woman was watering her horse in an open area when we found her.
“Nice ride.”
“Thank you sir.”
“The name’s Henry James and this is my partner Sunny Alexander.”
“Sandy Jamison. This here’s Ray, Ray. Nice to meet ya.”
“So, I couldn’t help but notice you and Ray, Ray seemed to have a bit of a problem on barrel one.”
“Yeah, we hit it last night during trials too. I don’t know what’s going on. Most nights I just let him have the bit, but for some reason he’s turning on the first one too tight.”
“His head was down going into the pocket.”
“Really mister?”
“Yeah. Try it again, but this time just before you hit the edge of the pocket give him a tug straight up on the rein, just enough to get his head back up. I believe he’ll make that turn. After that he’ll remember.”
“You race?”
“Nah, just been around horses and cattle all my life. You might say this ain’t my first rodeo.”
“Real funny mister.”
Sandy mounted Ray, Ray and guided him in the direction of the arena then spurred the flanks of the horse and they darted forward. They were at full speed almost before we made it back inside. Ray, Ray bolted toward the first barrel and started to round it with his head down, but suddenly he lifted his head and cleared the barrel with room to spare. Sandy and Ray, Ray rounded the remaining two barrels with ease then hurtled across the length of the arena and thundered past us.
When we caught up with Sandy the young woman was grinning from ear to ear, and patting the neck of Ray, Ray as she tugged to loosen the cinches of her saddle.
“Gosh mister you were right as rain. Worked like a charm. I don’t know how to repay you.”
“Well there is something you might be able to do for us. How long have you been riding here?”
“Bout four years.”
“You know most of the folks? Like maybe some of the bull riders, maybe a clown or two?”
Sandy’s face hardened. She gazed at both of us, her hazel eyes piercing, her face instantly suspicious.
“Is this about what happened last night? About what happened to Randy? You two with the police?”
“No, Sandy we’re not with the police.”
“Then why are you asking questions about Randy Culpepper?”
“Did you know Randy?”
“Everybody knew Randy ma’am.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“I suppose that depends on what you mean by enemies. Everybody loved Randy. The problem is everybody also knew his story. His dad died when he was fifteen. Left Randy half ownership to this rodeo.
“You don’t say.”
“Yes sir. Randy was part owner of this entire shebang. Nobody’s talking about it, but my guess is someone wanted him out of the way.”
“Who owns the other half?”
“Not a hundred percent sure. I hear Justin Throckmorton’s been talking a whole bunch of trash lately down at 8 Seconds, ‘bout how his dad’s going to make some changes that’ll take this rodeo to a whole nuther level.”
“So where can we find this Justin guy?”
Sandy gestured toward the outskirts of the city.
“Same place you can find most of us after the arena lights go out. The 8 Seconds bar and grill about ten blocks that way.”
“Thanks Sandy. Tell Ray, Ray to keep his head up okay?”
Sandy flashed us a grin and nodded, “Sure will mister. Thanks again.”
We turned and walked back to the car, but stopped just before getting in.
“You thinking what I’m thinking Henry?”
“Scary, but yeah probably.”
“I think we need to hit the internet and start poking around for information on Randy Culpepper and this Throckmorton dude.”
“Totally agree, then this evening I’ll take you clubbing.”
“Let me guess. Our first stop is the 8 Seconds bar and grill?”
“Got to tell you Alexander. No moss growing on you.”
“I don’t even know what that means Henry. Just like I don’t know why anybody would name a bar and grill 8 Seconds.”
“Sunny, 8 seconds is how long a rider has to stay on in order to qualify the ride for scoring.”
“Oh, okay that’s makes sense now. I kept wondering why that horn kept going off in the middle of their rides.”
“Oh, my, God. Really? Can we just go back to Damen’s now?”
“I swear Henry you can be such a crotchety old white dude at times.”
“Yeah, yeah, heard it before. Just get in and drive.”
READ ON DEATH BY RODEO PART IV
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Conclusion
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