...what anyone would'a done. (a story)

There's a breed apart, the cowboys who ride the rodeo.
They live for things no one else ever really understands.
It ain't the crowd, it ain't the money that keeps them on the go,
That makes it worth the breaks and bruises, and the ropeburns on their hands.


Tatum saw the sign almost as he reached the turn.  With a muffled oath, he dragged the shifter down from fourth to second, grinding a couple of years' life out of an already ancient transmission and throwing about fifty pounds of the road's dust into the air as he hauled left on the wheel. He said a silent apology to the horse in the trailer, circled the dirt parking lot and found a place to park that wasn't too long a walk from the sign-in.

Before he approached the entry table, he checked his horse and put some fresh water in the trailer's trough, then double-checked the lock on the tack-closet.  Last year's lesson had been bitter, learning that there were thieves even among cowboys when you were a stranger in town, and he wasn't that far ahead of break-even, this year.  Damn sure couldn't afford to lose another saddle.  When he was satisfied and turning to go sign up, he spotted a familiar, sweat-stained Stetson over the hood of a nearby Ford and hollered "Drop sump'n, Cody?"

Cody Burnet unwound his lanky frame from the crouch that had almost hidden him.  "Howdy, Jeff!" he grinned.  "Naw, jes' wond'rin' if this tire'll make Alamogordo.  How was your trip down?" 

"Smooth enuf, I guess," he replied, falling in next to his friend as they headed across the lot.  "Damn near missed the turn off I-40, though.  You'd think they'd tell folks what the sign says, not just some dang number that ain't even posted!"  Suddenly, it registered with Tatum that Cody's truck had no trailer hitched on.  "Where'd ya park yer horse?"

They'd never tell you what it is...most don't know, themselves, to say
What keeps them livin' almost homeless, town to town and ride to ride.
It's a hunger.  It's a craving that don't ever go away
For something that can slake that thirst for challenge deep inside.

"Ain't ropin'," Cody told him.  "Ain't got enuf fer entry fees for all-around; I'm here for the beef."

Jeff Tatum gave his head a slow shake, but said nothing.  Too many of his friends were making the same decision, these last years; money was tight, risking your own horse in fifty arenas a year was takin' chances, and the big money was all on the bulls.  Problem was, way he saw it, so was the big gamble.  Get tossed off a bronc and the risk was over the second you hit ground.  Get thrown off a bull and that's when the big danger started!  No sense callin' down bad luck, though.  He held his peace and reached for his wallet as they reached the entries table.

And past all of the hurts and bills, and, now and then, the wins,
Past love lost, home unknown, and what they pay to play the game,
There's a devil softly stalking them for payment for their sins...
There's hell-fire burning in his eyes.  HeadHunter is his name.

While Cody paid his C-note to ride the bulls, Jeff scanned the sign-in sheets and saw Jude Cashell's name on the barrel-racers' list.  He showed his PRCA card and wrote his name on the sheets for tie-down, steer-wrestling, bareback and saddle-bronc and was just about to ask if anyone knew where she was when her voice came over his shoulder.

"Need a heeler, Cowboy?"

He wondered how she always did that!  He hadn't spotted her rig on the lot, hadn't seen her anywhere around, but just like always, she was right there when he was wondering if she'd be around in time to sign in.  Last rodeo on the circuit before Alamogordo, she always met up with him and they were a roping team for as long as they both held out.  He flashed her a grin over his shoulder and wrote both their names on the team-roping roster.

"That'll be five hundred from you an' a hundred from the lady" the man told him, opening the cash-box.  He counted out six hundred in C-notes and twenties; Jude had covered the bill last time they rode together, in Santa Fe, so it was his turn.  She smiled as he collected his number-tags and turned from the table, then she took the lead toward his truck.

Once they'd each popped a cold one from his cooler, he offloaded Cricket, handed the lead to Jude and put his saddle over his shoulder; they walked his horse to the corrals together.  When Cricket was inside, finding her way to the feed-troughs and frisking a bit at the attention of the other horses, Jude leaned in close and said, darkly, "HeadHunter's here today."

Bull or bronc, his face may change from one place to the next,
But he's the one who'll turn, as you lie helpless in the dirt.
The clowns will never stop him once your scent has got him vexed
And he wants nothing more than all four hooves right through your shirt.

Tatum didn't waste half a thought on doubt; his team-mate had shown an instinct almost infallible, through the years he'd known her.  If she thought someone was going to take the Crush, today, he'd bet his best saddle she was right.  He said "Let's just hope he's wearin' horns, then!"

He regretted the words even as his lips closed on them!  Cody was here to ride bulls, and if Headhunter was among them, he might just lose himself another friend. 

Every cowboy who ever rode the rodeo had heard the name even if only a few knew the tale and less believed it (or admitted believing); HeadHunter was the vengeful spirit of the game.  HeadHunter would inhabit one of the beasts in the arena today, and try to add one more life to his tally.  Someone was going to be hurt, today--hurt bad.

Someone might even die.

Some say he's got a woman's soul, a woman left behind
By some circuit rider she once loved, who couldn't love her more
Than the feel of wildness under him and the lust that left him blind...
The hunger never satisfied that burned inside his core.

They all know he's waitin', but they all know, in their hearts
That they're the one he'll never catch, the one who'll beat the odds.
And maybe so, but they can't know.  They've all got their own parts
To play, to entertain the Rodeo's blood-hungry gods.

The story was, HeadHunter was the soul of a woman who’d loved a rodeo cowboy—loved him so much she grew to hate him every time he left to ride.  She’d hung herself when she heard he’d taken the Crush, and folks said she died with a curse on her lips for the Game.  Now she haunted the rodeo, carrying death back to the folk she blamed for taking her man.  Might be a bronc, might be a bull; she might even be one of the steers set for bull-dogging, if she was feeling contrary.  Mostly, it was the bulls, though.  It was a bull killed her man, and it seemed she favored ‘em, some—but you could never know. 

Tatum had met HeadHunter.  It was two years back; a bronc that had always been known to run for the other side of the arena once the rider was tossed had taken it in his head, that day, to put all four of his hooves into Jeff’s chest while he lay on the ground with his wind knocked out.  The bullfighters (they used to be called the clowns, and they still wore the greasepaint, but someone had finally decided to give ‘em the respect they deserved) had been on the ball, that day.  It had only cost Tatum four broken ribs and the rest of the year off—but he’d seen those eyes.  No horse had eyes like that!  They’d looked--dead.  A shark’s eyes, maybe, if a shark could have eyes made of blood and fire, and even so, look like eyes two weeks dead. Those eyes still came to his dreams, sometimes.  Sometimes, he woke up screaming.

He doesn't always get you, or maybe he just plays around
Knowin' that you'll always come again for 'one more ride'.
I saw those eyes myself, once, lookin' up from cold, hard ground
at a bronc-turned-devil I knew wouldn't rest until I'd died.

He shivered, then came back to today from a very long way off.  Jude was still talking. 

“…decided to go ahead and sell the ranch.  He’s just feelin’ too old to run it, and with Bobby gone—well, you know how he always said he wouldn’t see me tied down to a hunk of dirt with nothin’ growin' on it but mesquite an’ misery.”  Jeff knew, alright.  Those were Tommy Cashell’s exact words; his daughter wouldn’t inherit that ranch, Tommy had dithered on about selling the acreage ever since her brother had died in Kuwait on Red Adair’s hell-fighter crew.  He bit down on sour bile; Bobby Cashell had been one of the best, but a man who fought oil-well fires for a living was living to die, one day. 

‘course, most folk said the same about a man who rode the circuit.

Jeff stopped in his tracks.  “Jude, I ain’t heard one word in five you said since you said ‘HeadHunter’.  I don’t even think I’m all here!”

“I know,” she smiled.  “Nothin’ but bad mem’ries in any of it, though, so don’t apologize.  What I was workin’ up to is, he’s got a better offer than anyone would’a thought, an’ we’ll be movin’ off by the end of the year.  He wants to go back to Ireland.  He figgers he can live comfortable on half and set me up with the other half wherever I want, since he knows I won’t leave Rodeo Country.”  She paused, then, “I was thinkin’ about that damn mountain of yours, if I can stand the cold.”

Tatum sputtered, spraying his last swig of beer.  “You mean…?”  Jude smiled one of those knock-your-socks-off smiles of hers and said,

“I mean ‘yes’, you bow-legged sack of bones.”

~*~

Tatum hardly noticed the day going by.  He and Jude took the team-roping score by a three-point margin, and his time in the steer-wrestling event was good—real good.  He snagged good, active broncs for saddle and bareback, but wasn’t really paying attention.  He knew ‘Tigger’ Kiley beat his marks in bareback and didn’t even hear the announcement that Kiley had failed to mark out his pony, and gotten disqualified. 

He watched and cheered with the rest as Jude took second place (good for a five hundred dollar check) in trick-riding, then took first place in the barrel race, winning herself a thousand and another buckle.  He was the first tie-down roper on the roster, and didn’t even watch the other riders—his head was in the clouds.  Old friends said ‘hi’ and he absently replied.  Competitors congratulated him on what was over or wished him luck on what was coming up and he nodded, and otherwise didn’t notice.  His little spread in the pine woods between Williams and Flagstaff was a beautiful bit of land, and the house he’d built with his own hands was a thing he was fair proud of, but it had all been just a place to wait and be lonely.

Now Jude had said ‘yes’, and it was about to be a home.

All their events done, they shared a lunch of good barbecue and made slow, sweet love in her Winnebago, then returned to the arena and waited for the bull-rides to start.  Only then did he remember her premonition of that morning.  There’d been minor injuries, the worst being when one of the tie-down ropers landed wrong on his dismount and cracked an ankle-bone, but the day had gone smooth for the most part.  If Jude was as right as usual, HeadHunter was waiting among the bulls back of chute # 9.  It occurred to him that he hadn’t even seen Cody since they’d signed in together.

He saw him now, snugging the straps on his Kevlar body-armor, and gave him a wave.  Jude leaned in and said “I just did a little figgering; unless King can pull a ninety-five or better, you have All-Around in the bag!  Most of the bull riders didn’t enter but maybe one other event.”

HeadHunter's out there, waitin' for the next soul that he'll take
And he ain't made his mind up yet...he takes his time and waits.
He's watchin' for the one who'll make the tiniest mistake
Or for the one who's set to take a place among the greats.

That pricked up his ears good; he had his share and more of bronc-riding buckles, steer wrestling buckles…hell, he and Jude shared more than one State title in team-roping (which never failed to get a write-up in all the rags; it was rare enough to see a cowgirl even compete outside the barrel races and trick-riding.  Seeing one win titles was a Blue-Moon Cinderella Story!) but even down here at the county-fair level of competition, he could count his All Around Cowboy buckles on his two hands and still have his thumbs free to hitch a ride home.  This must mean he had already earned a couple thousand bucks in the individual events and not even noticed; prizes got given out at day’s end.  He might finish this day with ten grand in his pocket!

The first ride started -- and ended.  Three seconds and the rider was tossed a good ten feet.  Next ride (Jeff knew the bull, Gunslinger, and knew Mark King just might get that ninety-five if he could keep his seat and take advantage of what this critter could dish out!); when the chute popped open, man and beast exploded into a tornado of flesh and dust.  King was in good form.  His heels flailed away, showing good spur-action, he kept his spine down right to the bull’s back and he anticipated every turn.  Three seconds after the eight-second bell, he slipped a leg high, let go and used the momentum of the bucking to toss him clear.  He hit the ground walking and waving.

He hangs around at County Fairs, at Regionals and States.
He loves the Vegas Nationals, where big crowds see him kill.
Lane Frost saw his face, but couldn't stay outside the gates.
Once HeadHunter gets your scent, he gets inside and takes your will.

He barely heard the shout behind him in time to jump away as Gunslinger came charging from the left back-quarter, and the wrangler hauled him up behind the saddle while the bull-fighters tried to distract the mad-eyed bull.  One of them was knocked down and got a hoof hard on his leg, but once the bull was in the catch-pen, he was up and walking with not too much a limp and waving that he was okay.  Four more rides went without too much drama: two no-scores, one eighty-three and one eighty-six.  Mark King still had high score, a ninety-two.  Tatum still hadn’t really clicked that he had the big prize in the bag.

The announcer was telling the crowd the next bull and the next rider; Cody Burnet would be riding Spade Flush, a bull unridden in his four year career.  Cody had to be hoping hard on that fact; there was an extra bounty of fifteen thousand to the first rider to stay eight seconds on Spade Flush.  The bull was crafty, strong and fast.  A couple of cowboys had got busted up pretty good, trying to break his streak.

The critter was a bit wild in the chute; Cody took his time, settled in good.  Jeff held his breath, and felt Jude’s hand tighten on his shoulder.  Then Cody nodded, the chute-gate popped and the flanker jerked the strap -— and all hell broke loose.  Spade Flush was everywhere, up, down, around, rump high, flatspinning right and left, and Cody stayed like his butt was coated with CrazyGlue!  They were all over the arena; when the bell chimed, he wasn’t six feet from where Jeff and Jude hung on the rails.  He dismounted quick, hit the fence in two strides and was up and over.

Jeff remembered to breathe as he slapped Cody on the back while Jude gave him a bit more of a kiss than the future Mrs. Tatum had ought to, by rights—but he figgered the situation deserved it.  The announcer was hollerin’ like the Russians was comin’, and the sirens went off as “98” showed in big, lit up numbers and Spade Flush’s streak was history.

That ought to have been the end of the day, right there -— nothin’ was gonna top it.  A bullfighter in the arena was dusting off Cody’s hat as he carried it over, and the next rider was announced.  Jeff knew the name: Mendez.  Son of a big-time contract-rancher -- young feller in his second year Pro, but the bull was nothin’ special.  He and Jude were still congratulatin’ Cody when the air all around went…flat.  Everyone was still hollerin’ but it all sounded like underwater, and even the dust was moving’ slow motion.  Blood was covering the young rider's face, and the rocking motion took him the wrong way for what was obviously at least the second time.  His face smashed again into the back of the bull's head and he lost his seat entirely...but he'd twisted in falling and the straps still held his fist

Tatum and Cody were vaulting the top rail before their brains had caught up with their legs, pumping across the hard-packed ground and reaching for their Buck-knives as the rider was being flopped around by the one hand still trapped.  He was hung up good, and the bull was taking that for all it was worth.

Three other cowboys hit the spot about the same second as Jeff and Cody, and everyone was trying to get hold of something: the rider, the strap, a horn, anything that might slow things down.  Jeff saw Cody, half-slung across the bull’s back, get his blade in under the leather and start to cut; he looked left to see how the rider was faring.

That’s when he saw the eyes.  Dead eyes, like balls made of blood and flame but lookin’ two weeks dead all the same, and he froze.  Those eyes knew his face, knew they’d missed taking him once already, and promised, this time…this time…

Then he didn’t see anything.

~*~
Those eyes still come to me at night, though I'm a lucky one;
My bones gave out and took me off the circuit still alive.
But even so, I somehow feel I'm really not quite done
And I can reach the nearest rodeo with just an hour's drive.
~*~

He was propped up on pillows when he woke up, so the first thing he saw was the plaster-cast around his leg, strung up in front of him like some bizarre, white piñata.  He felt a hand holding onto his and turned to the right just a bit; when the room quit spinning from the effort, he saw Jude, trying hard to smile through the tears, and he knew.

“Cody?”

She nodded.  “He got that boy loose, but he took a horn alongside his face that laid him straight out.  The bull just stomped him out like he was a lit cigarette fell in dry grass.”  She swallowed.  “Mark King, too.  He took it in the throat.  But y’all saved that boy’s life.  His arm’s gonna be some trouble fixin’, but y’all saved him!  That’s somethin’—ain’t it?”

It was somethin’.  It’d have to be enough; every cowboy knew the entry fee was the least of what you paid to play the Game.

“It’s somethin’.  Did I win enough to cover this?” he pointed his chin toward the leg that was bound to cost a bit, before he was back on top of it.

“Probably not, but we’ll get by.”  She gave him a brave smile.  A new voice from the door interrupted.

“I don’t think I can see not payin’ for that, Amigo.  You got it savin’ my son’s life.”  The tall rancher, his complexion and trace of an accent showing his Latino side, walked into the room, hat in hand.

“It’s what anyone would’a done, Mr. Mendez.  You don’t owe me nothin’.”  Jeff Tatum was someone who never liked taking what wasn’t owed him.  Mendez smiled, knowing it.

“You take it and smile, dammit, Boy!  My boy’s life is worth it and more to me.  Besides,” he paused, looking at Jude, then back at Jeff. “way I hear it, you may need it.  Ain’t you got a weddin’ to pay for?”

“Guess I do, Sir.  I’m grateful.  Your son…he’ll be okay?”

“He’ll be okay.  Unless he ever talks about riding bull again; he does that, I’ll damn well leave him too injured to try, my own self!  HeadHunter don’t need another shot at my family!”  Mendez looked over his shoulder at the nurse clearing her throat in the doorway.  “I’ll be leaving you to rest, now, Son.  I just wanted to tell you my thanks.  I’m sorry for the friend you lost.  Vaya con Dios!”

“Thank you, Sir.  I’m glad for your son.”  He turned back to his bride-to-be.  “Think I might be goin’ back to sleep for a bit, Hon.  Feel…real tired, alla sudden.”

“You rest.  I’ll be here.”  And he knew, she would.  He closed his eyes.

His breathing slowed, evened out and he drifted.

Jude sat, her face soft in the harsh light of the room, and watched as the monitor told the tale of his heartbeat growing faster--and she knew what, in his sleep, he was seeing.


A pair of eyes…



No, I won't go.  I don't even watch.  It's only in my dreams
That I still, sometimes, think I'm good enough to win the game,
But I don't rest.  Those burning eyes still follow me, it seems
And I still scream in the night, those times HeadHunter calls my name!