Everybody in Winfield had a horse, except me. Well, actually that probably wasn�t the case, but it certainly felt like it, and I desperately wanted one. Many grownups had horses and kept them in lots behind the houses. A few even had barns where we played. Every now and then, Jack Cody, who insisted that he was a descendant of Buffalo Bill, would saddle up his daddy�s small gray mare and let me ride her, but that wasn�t the same as having a horse of my own.
I�d known for years that my destiny included riding the range, roping steers, and doing battle with rustlers that were bound to be a problem with any successful spread. The Texan Theater in Mt. Pleasant had introduced me to life on the range, and I had watched spell-bound the adventures of countless cowboy movie stars. Some of them like Tex Ritter, Jimmy Wakely, Roy Rogers, and Gene Autry sang, no matter what other chores they were performing; I couldn�t sing, but that didn�t seem to be absolutely necessary, since others like Randolph Scott, Johnny Mack Brown, and Lash Larue never uttered a note. In fact, Lash Larue did not even carry a gun; he was armed with a bullwhip instead, but he could do things with that whip that you wouldn�t believe. I got into trouble more times than I can count for trying to duplicate his skill with a whip I�d plaited from binder�s twine and rawhide. The fact that I practiced on my brother Bill probably had something to do with my continuing troubles.
The Texan Theater showed westerns frequently, and I tried to see every one that came to town. The theater was notorious for its large rats that scampered across the floor in search of food, but I sat with my feet in the seat and made a pact with them. I promised I�d respect their search under my feet for week-old popcorn if they would not bother me. We got along fine. It was there on a Sunday afternoon spent watching Randolph Scott that I decided that being a saddle tramp was the life for me.
Daddy still wouldn�t talk about buying me a horse, so I borrowed an old saddle from the tack room in Jack�s daddy�s barn and strapped it tightly to my bicycle. I�d pedal as fast as I could and then coast with my feet in the stirrups. Since onlookers usually made fun of me, I�d ride out north of town and pretend I was riding fence on my own range. The hill overlooking Ripley Creek was my favorite spot because I could coast all the way down. It was worth pushing the bike and saddle back up the long slope before pedaling back to town.
In the spring of 1954, a few of the men in town who really knew how to work with horses and cattle decided to build a small rodeo arena and have a rodeo once a month. I watched with anticipation as the arena took shape and the chutes were added to accommodate bull riding and bareback bronc riding. Of course, Mama threatened me within an inch of my life if she ever caught me close to one of the bulls. She didn�t have to worry since most of them looked as though they�d like nothing better than to hurt you if given half the chance. I was most interested in just going to watch and hoping that somebody would let me ride his horse, if only to the watering trough.
Opening night of Winfield�s rodeo brought a large crowd from the neighboring towns and outlying farms. I was surprised at the number of kids who came with their own horses to participate in some event. What really caught my attention was the number of teenage girls who showed up to enter the barrel racing. I�d never really seen girls riding horses that much, certainly not pretty ones in tight jeans and brightly colored shirts. When Bill heard about the girls in tight jeans, he could hardly wait until the next rodeo rolled around.
He reckoned he might have to get a horse after all. A cowboy Bill wasn�t, but he did have an eye for the ladies even though he was, at fourteen, only two years older than me.
During the week before the next rodeo, Bill and I rode our bikes to the arena to watch some of the locals riding the bulls. As we looked through the wood-railed fence, Bill suddenly announced that he might just enter an event or two on the upcoming Friday night. I thought he was kidding, but there was a strange seriousness in his voice I�d come to recognize because of past misadventures which had usually left at least one of us hurt and both of us in deep trouble.
�I�ll ride a bull if you will,� he said.
�You�re crazy if you think I�m going to get on one of those,� I replied. �Besides, if the bulls don�t kill us, Mama will.�
Riding home, Bill said nothing else about his new-found desire to rodeo, and as Friday approached, I figured he had forgotten all about it. I should have known better. It was Friday afternoon when he told me that he had signed us up to ride steers, since the grownups wouldn�t let us ride bulls anyway.
�Are you crazy?� I asked with disbelief.
�I figured you�d chicken out,� he said, �and that�s a shame, since I�ve already told all the girls to watch for us.�
Once again Bill had gotten me into quite a fix; there are times when I thought getting me into messes like this was Bill�s calling in life. �What�re Mama and Daddy gonna say?�
�They don�t have to know if you don�t tell �em,� was all he said.
�You�ve done it to me again,� I called after him.
I made it a point to get to the arena early to find out if Bill had really signed me up to ride. I looked down the list of participants; sure enough, there was my name and then Bill�s. When Bill came riding up on his bicycle, he was grinning from ear to ear.
�Why�d you put me first, you horse tail?�
He just looked at me, still grinning, and said, �Cause if it looks too dangerous or if you get killed, I won�t ride. Nobody would blame me since I�d be grieving for my little brother.�
My fretting was quickly interrupted by the rodeo announcer warming up his microphone. To add to my worry, he announced that the children�s steer riding would be the first event. I purely did not know what I was going to do when the announcer read the list of names. Bill had been right about one thing. Girls I knew were there because several had wished me luck, and one had seemed particularly taken by my bravery. With that kind of motivation, I didn�t have much choice.
My turn came and I climbed into the chute onto the back of a steer not much bigger than I was. He looked as out of place as I did, so I hoped that he and I would make it through the next eight seconds together. I wrapped the small rope on his flanks firmly around my left hand as I�d seen other rodeo cowboys do, held my breath, and nodded for the chute to be opened. As the gate swung open, I closed my eyes and held on tight. Nothing happened. When I opened my eyes, I realized we were not moving. In fact, the little steer looked back at me with a look as pitiful as the one that probably graced my face. Then very slowly, he meandered out of the chute and walked uncertainly halfway down the arena. The crowd was roaring with laughter by then, and I�m sure he and I must have been a sight to behold, the little steer working hard to walk with me on his back, and me trying desperately to get him to buck at least once. I couldn�t spur him because I had no spurs. I didn�t even have cowboy boots, so with my tennis shoes, I kicked him once in the side. To my surprise, he bawled loudly and lay down. By then the crowd could not contain itself, and even the announcer was laughing so hard he couldn�t read the name of the next rider.
I slid out from under the little steer, patted him on the neck, and promised him that if it was the last thing I ever did, I would kill Bill, and I would do it for both of us.
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