At the County Rodeo & Fair

by Paul Hunter of Seattle, WA
a chapter from his upcoming novel Nighthawk-in-Morning

At the county rodeo and fair I happened to be hazing a steer for Perry Roamer, a big husky young hand on the Arrowhead place. Perry had a hankering to try bulldogging, for the money and fun and a fancy belt buckle about like my old one. As hazer I’d keep the steer running straight and Perry calm, and he’d lean over, hook on, drop down and wrestle the steer’s nose around till it had all four feet in the air. We’d practiced a couple afternoons a week for the past month, and Painted Bull had loaned me his best horse for the run, a nice roan quarter horse with no quirks to speak of, named Spuds. Now here we were in a line by the chute set to run, and Painted Bull had come to watch, and was up in the stands with his good black hat on. Then just before we were called to take our spots and get set, I happened to look up and saw Etta-Knows-the-Trail with my father, and there they set, talking away like old friends. As far as I knew they’d never met, and Etta and I had been together over a year now. I almost fell out of my saddle. Perry looked over, and had to ask was I ready. I got ahold of myself, and in a heartbeat or two there we went, but we got a good jump and Perry landed right, hooked the steer and turned his nose up for a clean eight-second count. Only one other bulldogger tied his time that day, so we had a runoff for the buckle. This time they gave us a bigger steer, so Perry would need to put a little more arm into it, but he grinned at me, gave a thumbs up, then nodded to the man on the chute. We were off like a shot, and Perry dropped down on the steer’s neck like a bucket of bolts. He was so pumped up that steer’s feet seemed to pop into the air, and the announcer practically shouted Six point seven! In another half hour Perry had won his steer-wrestling belt buckle, and I was nervous as a cat, climbing into the stands to see what was up.

Etta and Painted Bull were still chatting intently when I slid into their row and sat on my father’s other side. Etta didn’t just look at me, she looked way into me, all the way down, and nodded. It was like the nod Perry gave the man to send the steer out of the chute. Like she saw it all, plus something new–authority. I wanted to ask what was going on, but couldn’t make a sound. Dad turned to me, grinned and said She remembers me from the rez. The Crow Fair’s yearly parade. She said My hat blew off and he caught it. He said It was windy. She said And my horse spooked at my hat. He said It was nothing really. She said Not so. You calmed my horse and caught my hat, one hand on each. Like it was nothing, when it was anything but. I was scared silly. Painted Bull looked at her, patted her hand and said I just happened to be there.

It was a lovely little conversation they’d had, that said nothing yet meant everything. Finally he turned to me, looking like his smiling younger self and said We should have her for dinner soon. She said That might be hard. I cook for a crowd, Josh and Connie Wagoner and all their kids and grandkids. He said, Oh, we’ll find a way. And she worked her usual magic, and did come for dinner that Sunday, and brought little Alma, and while she was at it baked a berry pie in our oven to go with the roast we had fixed. From then on the two of us might still be a little shy but she was family. When I got back from taking her home, out by the fire Painted Bull said At the fair I saw the look she gave you. She has always been fetching, smart and brave, and you’re a lucky man.