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

Now, I find myself as the mugger—again—on a Wild Cow Milking team that also consisted of a priest and a two hundred and fifty pound nun named Forbearance as the ropers, with me as the mugger and the principal of my school as the milker.

The day didn’t start all that well. We had no problem borrowing horses and a trailer to hook up to my pickup, but we had to ride all the way over to Dumas—more than a hundred miles—in a pickup with Sister Jim Bob Jesse on Father Darryl Lee’s lap. None of ‘em were too happy about that. It was even worse ‘cause we had to take all these farm roads and go through Bushland on account of how I won’t drive on Interstates and I flat out refuse to go anywhere near Amarillo—way to big for me. My palms sweat when I drive in Friona and I get short of breath driving in Hereford.

“Uh, may I help you?” the guy at the registration desk said when we went to sign in. He pronounced “help” right, saying “hep” and had a big ol’ nametag on that said he was named Clem.

“Clem,” gushed Sister Forbearance, “We wanna sign up for the Wild Cow Milking so we can win enough money to fix the upstairs girl’s bathroom at Galilee High.”

Clem had this real long cookie duster moustache that covered his lips, but I could tell he was grinning and trying hard not to show it. “Okay. Just fill out this form.”

“Let me do that,” Jim Bob Jesse snapped. “Your handwriting’s terrible.”

Forbearance looked real mad but didn’t say anything.

“Registration fee’s fifty dollars,” Clem said after Sister Jim Bob Jesse handed her the form.

The members of the clergy looked around at everything and everyone in the world ‘cept me and Clem and I understood that I was supposed to pay the fee—and this after I’d sprung for the gas my truck. I forked the cash over, glad I’d gone to the bank the previous afternoon.

“And you’re out of uniform,” Clem said. “Did you bring a change of clothes?” He actually said “changuhcloze,” telling me what I already knew—that Clem was good Texas Panhandle stock. Salt of the earth.

“Uniform?” Jim Bob Jesse looked accusingly at me. “You didn’t say...”

“Yes ma’am, I did,” I said. “Remember? Cowboy hats, jeans, long sleeve shirts that match? Boots?” I swept my arm from the top of my Stetson to the waist of my Wranglers to illustrate.

“We thought you was joking, Pete,” Forbearance said, looking worried, although I did see the tips of cowboy boots poking out from under her and Jim Bob Jesse’s skirts.

Not rolling my eyes around these two women was getting harder and harder.

Well, the organizing committee had a pow-wow and reached a compromise: the nuns and the priest—they kept calling him the “minister”— didn’t have to wear jeans, and all their sleeves were long, but the folk organizing the rodeo wouldn’t budge on the cowboy hats and matching shirt. Fortunately I am a basketball coach and always have a load of uniform stuff somewhere in my truck, and soon all four of us had on matching basketball uniforms tops that said “Lady Gophers” and “Galilee” on the back.

The hats were borrowed from other cowboys, who were only too glad to help and seemed to get a kick out of seeing a priest and nuns at a ranch rodeo.

“Don’t forget these,” Clem said when we’d finally gotten the whole uniform bit straightened out. “You gotta wear ‘em.” He held up four papers with numbers on them and a handful of safety pins.

“I’m not putting that on,” Father Darryl Lee said.

“What’s the problem?” Jim Bob Jesse wanted to know. Most people are real careful around Father Darryl Lee ‘cause he’s a priest and all, but Sister Jim Bob Jesse always talks to him all direct like he’s a person and not a Padre.

“That,” Father Darryl Lee said, pointing at the name of the sponsor printed next to the number. “Cerveza Diablo.”

“I don’t see a problem,” Jim Bob Jesse said. “I see you bendin’ the elbow over at parishioners’ houses when they have you over for a Bar-B-Q. I don’t see why you’re getting’ all Protestant about alcohol because some beer company’s sponsorin’ the rodeo.”

“Most big sportin’ events have sponsors, Father,” Forbearance said, considerably more tactful. “Remember when Texas Tech played in the Poulon Weedeater Independence Bowl?”

“It’s not the beer that’s the problem, sisters.” Father Darryl Lee looked exasperated, his pale face getting all red underneath the brim of his straw American West brand western hat. “It’s the name of the beer.”

Forbearance shrugged. “What’s the problem?”

“Cerveza Diablo?” Father Darryl Lee’s voice virtually exploded, causing a passing calf-brander to jump. “That means ‘Devil Beer.’ We represent the Church. We can’t be riding around with the words ‘Devil Beer’ on our back.”

“I see what you mean,” Sister Jim Bob Jesse said. “It’s a pickle.”

The loudspeaker blared. “All contestants for Wild Cow Milking need to come to the center ring. Wild Cow Milkers, come to the center ring.”

“Y’all are up first,” said Clyde. “Better get over there.”

Forbearance headed back to the truck to get the horses. Jim Bob Jesse turned toward the center ring. Father Darryl stayed where he was, not moving and looking like a statue would if a marble’s statue’s face could turn beet-red. I went to help Forbearance, but I woulda been happy if we were all piling back in the truck and heading back to Galilee. Not so secretly, I hoped that Father Darryl Lee’s scruples would stand.

“I have an idea,” an old cowboy said. He pulled a Sharpie out from somewhere and handed it to the Padre, tipped his hat, and started off. Then he got a good look at me.

“Pete? Pete Johnson?”

I stopped, mad and pleased at the same time. “Howya doin’, Freddy?” We shook hands.

Freddy Winchester is only like the best saddle bronc rider every in the history of three universes, and part of me was pleased that he knew my name. Then I remembered why he knew my name.

“Thought you was dead,” he said conversationally.