Ropers, Milkers, Muggers, and Nuns (Part 4)

“Yup,” I said. “But I got better.”

He chuckled. “How’s the family? Still competin’?” He carefully didn’t mention my current “team,” who all stuck out like sore thumbs and the Dumas Round Up.

“Naw,” I said. “Paul’s got his own tack company now, Phil helps Daddy on the ranch, and Norbert, well, he’s got a place near Clovis.”

“Texas or New Mexico side?”

“New Mexico.”

Freddy shook his head sadly. “Your parents must be so disappointed. He don’t live in Texas no more.”

“Black sheep in every family,” I said, then shook his hand again. “Gotta go. Great to see ya.”

“Pete,” Freddy said, not letting my hand go. “Why are you here? I wasn’t jokin’ earlier. I really thought you’d died. That was the word all over the circuit.”

“I’m trying to do a favor for some nuns,” said, and, seeing Forbearance had both horses out of the trailer and struggling to hold both, I hurried over to help.

As I looked back, Freddy was shaking his head. I knew he was thinking something like ‘What an idiot that Pete Johnson turned out to be.’ Who was I to argue with a living legend of ranch rodeo?

By the time Forbearance, the horses, and I all got over to center ring, the judge was in the middle of a group of contestants, explaining the rules. I hung back with the horses while Forbearance went to join Sister Jim Bob Jesse and Father Darryl Lee.

The Sharpie had worked its magic. Instead of saying “Cerveza Diablo,” the Padre had blacked out the word “Diablo” so our numbers just said “Cerveza.” So instead of going to meet my doom with the words “Devil Beer” on my back, I would just go with the word “Beer.”

Remembering what had happened to me last time I’d competed, Father Darryl Lee’s reservations made a whole lot of sense to me all of a sudden.

The little meeting broke up and my team mates came to join me. Jim Bob Jesse quickly pinned numbers on Forbearance and me.

“We’re going first,” she said. “Does that mean anything?” she asked me.

“Organizers probably want to make sure no one else is using the ambulance when we go.”

“Ye of little faith,” chided Jim Bob Jesse.

“Pete’s such a kidder,” Forbearance said to Father Darryl Lee, who looked worried as he swung up onto his horse.

Forbearance wasn’t graceful getting on the horse, but she got up in her saddle quickly enough.

Jim Bob Jesse had her milk bottle at the ready.

“Remember what to do?” I said. They nodded.

“First up,” the announcer’s voice blared over the speakers. “The, um . . .” Most teams are announced by the name of the ranch they work. He was at a loss. Finally, he said, “The, um, Galilee Lady Gophersssssssss!”

A few people clapped. Someone cheered. One wiseacre called out, “Never heard of that ranch!”

Over at the judge’s table, the flag dropped. Our two minutes had started.

Father Darryl Lee swung into action, literally. He and the horse shot off together so fast and so smooth that it looked like the two of them were one unit, the lasso in full twirl over the Padre’s head by the mare’s second stride. It was gorgeous to watch—you can just tell when a man has been born to the saddle.

The stock was a mean lookin’ cow that could have been called “Diabla” herself—“She-Devil.” She looked at the rapidly charging priest suspiciously, tracking her head as he moved so her horns were ready. Clearly cows don’t have any respect for men of the cloth.

The lasso shot out perfectly, like a cobra striking, a perfect toss.

But Diabla had other plans in mind, ducking her head at the last second so the rope flew over her head and passed. The father had missed.

“Up to you, sister,” I said quietly to Forbearance, and she and her horse galumped off, far less smoothly than the padre had.

You only get two tries—if a roper misses, he can’t rebuild, which basically means he can’t coil up his rope and have another go.

My prayer was simple—that she missed, we got disqualified, and we all got to go home real soon.

I was running behind Forbearance, Sister Jim Bob Jesse beside me, both of us ready in case by some miracle Forbearance actually got a loop that over She-Devil’s horns. Forbearance was a bouncin’ around and jigglin’, twirlin’ that lasso but it wasn’t in the shape of a circle, like it should have been, but it looked more like a smashed Twinkie twirling slowly in the sky. I watched she released her flat-Twinkie lasso and saw it tumbling limply toward the cow.

Everything happened real quick after that.

A loud BOOM shot through the air. Later, we figured out that a passing truck had backfired.

Two things happened at almost the same time.

She-Devil just froze in her tracks when she heard the sound. Didn’t move a muscle.

The gelding Sister Forbearance was riding was spooked, though, and he sunfished, throwing his rear end in the air and then arching around so he was facing backwards all of a sudden.

Her horse-rump ejection seat flipped Forbearance up in the air, in a slow-moving front flip, the rope still clutched in her hand.

Two-hundred and fifty pounds of nun came down right on the head of three thousand pounds of cow. She-Devil might have won the weight battle, but Forbearance had momentum on her side. The nun landed bottom first right on the place where the horns go into the animal’s head.

Cow went down hard, legs splayed, tummy on the ground, nun draped across her. Then, She-Devil gave a shudder and flopped over on her side, Forbearance still cradled between her horns like a baby in a tipsy high chair.

Jim Bob Jesse and I had never stopped running. Father Darryl Lee sat still on his still horse, jaw dropped. He slowly started getting off his horse.

The crowd was real quiet.

“Well,” Jim Bob Jesse barked, “If she’s dead, the girl’s bathroom at Galilee High still has to be fixed.”

She ran over to the cow’s swollen udders, pulled hard on a teat, and held the bottle up to the stream of milk. It filled up real fast. Then, she ran over to the judge’s table, where she slammed the milk bottle down.