While he watched the saddle bronc and bareback events, he followed the cowboys on the program.
The All-Star Shootout, he learned, was designed to attract only the top cowboys in each event. Unlike the PRCA circuit in the summer, where any cowboy with a PRCA card could pay an entry fee and ride, this was invitation-only. These were the names rodeo fans knew and followed, and Joe recognized a few of the top contestants.
As he read over the list of cowboys in the bull-riding section, he saw the name Cody McCoy. He didn’t issue a voodoo curse, but he again recalled what Lucy had observed. Since she’d been right about Wentworth’s desire for Annie Hatch, maybe she’d also been right about something else.
Lucy had said there was no way that April and Dallas Cates had gone their separate ways, even though Dallas—and Brenda—insisted on it. If April never regained consciousness, it might remain a mystery forever, one of those loose ends that would always nag at him.
Joe studied the names of the bull riders. They were from all over: Decatur, Texas; Terrebonne, Oregon; Donalda, Alberta, Canada; Waycross, Georgia; Oral, South Dakota; Winnemucca, Nevada; Los Lunas, New Mexico; Roosevelt, Utah; O’Brien, Florida; Stephenville, Texas.
Stephenville was where Dallas had moved to once he went professional.
Joe thought about it. These champion rodeo cowboys lived thousands of miles apart, yet they gathered together every weekend during the winter and practically every day in the summer at some rodeo or another. They traveled together, lived together, competed together. He thought there may very well be a couple of them, and maybe more, behind the chutes at that very minute who knew Dallas, and probably April as well. Maybe one of them could clear up the discrepancy.
He slapped the rodeo program against his leg and stood up. He was glad he was wearing his uniform.
—
IT WAS CALLED the “ready area” and it was located under the stands behind the chutes, out of view from the general public. Joe worked his way down there until he encountered a security guard who wouldn’t let him through.
The guard wore a blue uniform shirt and eyed him warily.
“I’m not supposed to let anyone back there if they don’t have a credential,” the guard said.
“This is my credential,” Joe said, pointing to the pronghorn antelope patch on his arm that said WYOMING GAME AND FISH DEPARTMENT and then his badge over his breast pocket. “I just need to talk to a couple of guys.”
“What did they do?”
“They may know something about a situation I’m investigating,” Joe said, keeping it truthful but vague.
“Man, I don’t know,” the guard said, looking around.
“Here’s my card,” Joe said, handing it over. “You can see I’m legit. And if you need to call your supervisor over, go ahead.”
The man smiled. “I don’t even know who my supervisor is. I’m just a weekend rent-a-cop. The Nuggets aren’t playing today or I’d be at Pepsi Center, running one of the parking lots.”
Joe waited.
“Oh, okay,” the man said, stepping aside. “Don’t get me in any trouble.”
“I never promise that.” Joe smiled.
—
THERE WERE A DOZEN private dramas unfolding within the ready area as Joe approached. The atmosphere inside the chain-link barrier was electric and intense.
Cowboys sat on saddles on the concrete floor with one hand on imaginary reins and the other in the air, acting out a ride to come. Others slapped themselves across the face while they strode from one wall to the other like football players awaiting kickoff. Several stood with their eyes clamped shut, praying wordlessly.
As Joe entered, he stepped around a rodeo cowboy expertly taping his Wrangler jean legs around the shafts of his boots, and another tightening his riding glove by cinching a string of leather between his teeth.
He didn’t know where to start.
In the arena, the saddle bronc competition ended and the cowboys who had ridden in it streamed into the ready area. They acted differently from the ones waiting to ride because they were done. Some joked and patted others on the back, some scowled at getting bucked off, one cowboy bitched about his score and said he’d been jobbed by “that fat judge with the stupid mustache.” As the saddle bronc riders gathered up their gear, the bull riders filed out one by one. To a man, they seemed more wired and tightly wrapped than the bronc riders. Each cowboy had a friend or two with him who would help him out mounting the bull, getting set, and offering encouragement.
To Joe’s left, through thick steel panels, the bulls were herded down a runway and into individual chutes. Some of the bulls were so stout, the arena attendants had trouble closing the gates to pen them in.
Joe approached a saddle bronc rider who looked affable and relaxed. The cowboy was stuffing tape and water bottles into a rodeo gear bag he’d sling over his back and take to the airport.
“How’d you do?” Joe asked.
“I got an 88,” the cowboy said with a smile. He was missing a front tooth and he had a high, southern accent.
Joe knew the score was derived by judges in the arena who awarded up to fifty points on the animal and fifty points on the cowboy. The bull or bronco the cowboys rode was drawn at random. Eighty-eight was a good score.
“Congratulations,” he said.
“I had a good draw,” the cowboy said, meaning he’d drawn a good bronc. “I think that score’ll hold up, so I’m in the money.”
The cowboy introduced himself as Evan Lucey and said he was from Oklahoma City. He wore a necklace with a cross on it.
Joe gestured to the other cowboys in the ready area and said, “I suppose you guys all know each other pretty well.”
“Yeah, I’d say we do,” Lucey said. “I sat with most of ’em in Cowboy Church this mornin’.”
“I’m trying to find a couple of cowboys who might know a guy I know.”
“Who’s that?”
“Dallas Cates.”
At the mention of the name, Lucey physically recoiled. His affability vanished.
He looked down at his boots and said, “Yeah, everybody knows Dallas.”
“Are you a friend of his?” Joe asked.
“Can’t say I am.”
He said it in a way that suggested the conversation was over as far as he was concerned.
“Can you point me to someone who is friends with him?”
“Friends? You got me there.”
“Well, in that case, someone who knows him pretty well? I’m trying to get some information about him before he got injured.”
Evan Lucey hoisted up his gear bag and threw it onto his back. He said, “Mister, you seem like a nice guy and I wish I could help you out. But I spent all my time stayin’ away from Dallas Cates, and I’m not the only one.”
Joe frowned. He said, “Is there anybody you can suggest?”
Lucey shrugged and said, “Maybe Little Robbie. He lives in Stephenville, and I think he and Dallas might have traveled together at some point.”
“Little Robbie?”
“Rob Tassel. We call him Little Robbie. He’s up right now,” Lucey said, nodding the brim of his hat to the bull riders on deck.
“Thank you,” Joe said. “And good luck in the standings.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lucey said, tipping his hat. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”
Before Lucey left, Joe said, “What is it about Dallas Cates? Why did you avoid him?”
Lucey hesitated, then looked straight into Joe’s eyes and said, “Like I told you, these boys are good people. Just hard-workin’ ranch kids tryin’ to make a name for themselves and not step on each other doin’ it. Dallas wasn’t like that.”
“How so?” Joe asked.
“I already said too much, sir. The Lord frowns on gossips.”
And with that, Evan Lucey turned and went out through the gate.
—
CODY MCCOY SCORED a 92 and won the bull-riding competition. Governor Rulon, Joe guessed, would be beside himself. Rob Tassel got bucked off in two seconds. Joe wasn’t sure he’d be in the mood to talk about Dallas Cates.