Man of the Family by Ralph Moody

ready for ya. . . . Say, didn’t you bring your ridin’ cloze, Little Britches?”
    â€œNo,” I said, “I couldn’t ride, anyway. I’m not registered.” I didn’t want to tell him I’d promised Mother I wouldn’t try to do any trick-riding.
    Mr. Cooper got his mouth open again, but Hi yelled, “Ain’t registered! Len! you didn’t forget to put Little Britches on the book along with the rest of us? Where’s Ed Bemis this time-a-day?” He started off toward the steward’s shack as fast as he could hobble on his high heels. He was still squeezing my legs and hollering, “By doggies, this kid’s goin’ on the book ’fore ever I straddle a bronc.”
    As we started off, Mr. Cooper grabbed Hi’s arm, and laughed, “Get your tail out over the britchin’, Hi, you’ll pull a hamstring. The kid’s marked down second on the book—right between you and Ted. I ain’t saw you so het up since Juan put cayenne pepper in the apple pie.”
    For about a minute I didn’t know what to do. It was easy to see how much Hi wanted me to be in the trick-riding with him, and I knew they’d done everything the way they had so as to surprise me. And I knew how much I wanted to ride in the contest, too. I really hadn’t promised Mother I wouldn’t. She’d just said she’d worry if I planned to do any trick-riding, and all I’d said was that I couldn’t do any because I wasn’t even registered. Of course, I didn’t have any idea, then, that I was. I guess I’d have gone right ahead and ridden, if it hadn’t been for Father. I could almost hear him saying all over again, “I don’t know a man I’d rather be in business with, if you can be open and aboveboard, but I won’t have a sneaky partner.” My throat tightened up, and I pulled on Hi’s collar. When he looked up, I said, “I can’t ride the tricks, Hi. Mother’s scared I might get hurt because I’m out of practice . . . and I’m kind of her man now.”
    Hi’s face went sort of dead looking, but it was for only half a second, then he grinned. I knew he meant it to look like a smile, so I wouldn’t think he was disappointed. “By doggies, Little Britches,” he said, “your maw’s right as rain. Now, ain’t I the dang fool? Should ought to’ve been down here with Old Blue and Sky High a week ago, so’s you could get your hand back in. Oh well, what the hell, Labor Day’ll be along pretty soon, and then we’ll show them lop-eared sons a thing or two, hey, pardner?”
    Hi put me down then, and we all went over to the big corral near the stables. That’s where the riding stock was kept. The Y-B fellows—that was the name of Cooper’s ranch—had brought down a dozen head; Jerry Alder, three; and Fred Aultland, five. Some of them were cutting horses, some ropers, and a few runners. All the way over from the infield, the fellows were talking about a cat-hammed bay gelding that Fred had brought in from Kansas. He was mostly Morgan, and they said he could run a quarter mile like a lightning ball across a hot stove. Tom Brogan was going to ride him in the hundred-dollar stake race, and they had been training him on a half-circle, quarter-mile track, down by Bear Creek where nobody could see them. All the fellows were going to bet on him, and they’d come early so as to give him a workout on the fairgrounds track before the crowd got there.
    Lots of people say a horse doesn’t remember very long, but I don’t believe it. Sky High was way over across the corral when we came up to the bars, and he was tail toward us. I don’t know whether he remembered how I looked or how my voice sounded. Anyway, he lifted his head right up when I called to him, swung it toward me, and nickered. Not loud, but just a little