top of 20.4 made us 35.9 on three steers. Respectable, but hardly quick.
I rode Burt over near the chutes to sit next to Lonny and Gunner and watch the other high teams go. Part of me wanted them all to miss, so that we could win the pot. The less than admirable part of me. I told myself that they all wanted and perhaps needed to win as much as I did and tried to watch the competition with a detached eye.
Four teams had already run; everyone had missed or legged their steers. We were still winning as I watched Katie Garcia ride her gray gelding, Clyde, toward the header's box. Katie was a good roper, far more proficient than I was; she'd been raised in a roping family and had started competing in her early teens. She was also a friendly, outgoing person who had given me several helpful tips when I first started and was always supportive. I liked her a great deal, and I especially liked her horse.
Clyde was one of those special horses who took your heart. He tried hard, had a kind eye, did his best every run, within his limitations. His big suitcase of a head didn't have any classic eye appeal, and his bulky body and thick bones made him slower than was desirable for a head horse, but he was a good one, nonetheless.
I was watching him now, thinking what a nice horse he was and that I wouldn't mind so much if Katie was the one to beat me, when suddenly things started to go wrong.
It happened, as most accidents do, so quickly that it was virtually unpreventable. One minute Katie was urging Clyde into the header's box, the big gray gelding dancing a little and fretting. Like many rope horses, he often had a mild attack of jitters when he was about to perform. For no particular reason he backed up three or four strides, and his rear end bumped the front of the old water truck Freddy had parked near the chutes.
One moment he was backing and tossing his head, the next his leg was caught. Against all likelihood his right hind leg, in a backward reaching stride, had slid into the gap between the front bumper and the body of the truck. Clyde jerked his leg upward sharply in an attempt to free it, and succeeded only in wedging his fetlock immovably. Before any of us realized precisely what had happened, Katie was clinging to the horse's neck as he lunged and struggled to get loose, her face both frightened and confused.
"He's caught in the truck," someone yelled.
"Get off of him," came from another quarter.
Katie bailed awkwardly off and grabbed the reins. I could hear Lonny's voice next to me, low and rough with emotion. "He's going to tear his foot right off."
Without thinking, I jumped off Burt and moved quickly toward the struggling Clyde. "Whoa now," I said as I put a hand firmly on the lurching gray rump and leaned my shoulder into his flank, trying to force him to hold still. Running my hand down toward his hock, I took the pose of a shoer holding up a hind foot. I put all my muscles and my will into holding him there.
To my relief, I could feel Clyde stop struggling. He stood on three legs, his right hind fetlock pinched in the vise of the bumper, my shoulder pressed against his quivering flank. Katie was holding his head and talking to him. Despite the fact that I could see bright red blood staining his gray ankle, he wasn't moving, at least for the moment.
Several more people converged in our direction when Freddy's bellow froze everyone in place. "Don't scare him," he shouted in the voice that had become famous all over California. "Stand back. Gail there is enough."
In Freddy's hands was a crowbar; where he'd gotten it or how he'd managed to produce it so quickly, I had no idea. Quietly he moved up to Clyde, patting his shoulder as he approached the bumper where the horse's leg was caught.
Freddy got the crowbar under the bumper and began prying carefully. Stay quiet, Clyde, I pleaded silently as I pressed steadily against his flank.
I t seemed to take forever. I could see the muscles under Freddy's shirt
I rode Burt over near the chutes to sit next to Lonny and Gunner and watch the other high teams go. Part of me wanted them all to miss, so that we could win the pot. The less than admirable part of me. I told myself that they all wanted and perhaps needed to win as much as I did and tried to watch the competition with a detached eye.
Four teams had already run; everyone had missed or legged their steers. We were still winning as I watched Katie Garcia ride her gray gelding, Clyde, toward the header's box. Katie was a good roper, far more proficient than I was; she'd been raised in a roping family and had started competing in her early teens. She was also a friendly, outgoing person who had given me several helpful tips when I first started and was always supportive. I liked her a great deal, and I especially liked her horse.
Clyde was one of those special horses who took your heart. He tried hard, had a kind eye, did his best every run, within his limitations. His big suitcase of a head didn't have any classic eye appeal, and his bulky body and thick bones made him slower than was desirable for a head horse, but he was a good one, nonetheless.
I was watching him now, thinking what a nice horse he was and that I wouldn't mind so much if Katie was the one to beat me, when suddenly things started to go wrong.
It happened, as most accidents do, so quickly that it was virtually unpreventable. One minute Katie was urging Clyde into the header's box, the big gray gelding dancing a little and fretting. Like many rope horses, he often had a mild attack of jitters when he was about to perform. For no particular reason he backed up three or four strides, and his rear end bumped the front of the old water truck Freddy had parked near the chutes.
One moment he was backing and tossing his head, the next his leg was caught. Against all likelihood his right hind leg, in a backward reaching stride, had slid into the gap between the front bumper and the body of the truck. Clyde jerked his leg upward sharply in an attempt to free it, and succeeded only in wedging his fetlock immovably. Before any of us realized precisely what had happened, Katie was clinging to the horse's neck as he lunged and struggled to get loose, her face both frightened and confused.
"He's caught in the truck," someone yelled.
"Get off of him," came from another quarter.
Katie bailed awkwardly off and grabbed the reins. I could hear Lonny's voice next to me, low and rough with emotion. "He's going to tear his foot right off."
Without thinking, I jumped off Burt and moved quickly toward the struggling Clyde. "Whoa now," I said as I put a hand firmly on the lurching gray rump and leaned my shoulder into his flank, trying to force him to hold still. Running my hand down toward his hock, I took the pose of a shoer holding up a hind foot. I put all my muscles and my will into holding him there.
To my relief, I could feel Clyde stop struggling. He stood on three legs, his right hind fetlock pinched in the vise of the bumper, my shoulder pressed against his quivering flank. Katie was holding his head and talking to him. Despite the fact that I could see bright red blood staining his gray ankle, he wasn't moving, at least for the moment.
Several more people converged in our direction when Freddy's bellow froze everyone in place. "Don't scare him," he shouted in the voice that had become famous all over California. "Stand back. Gail there is enough."
In Freddy's hands was a crowbar; where he'd gotten it or how he'd managed to produce it so quickly, I had no idea. Quietly he moved up to Clyde, patting his shoulder as he approached the bumper where the horse's leg was caught.
Freddy got the crowbar under the bumper and began prying carefully. Stay quiet, Clyde, I pleaded silently as I pressed steadily against his flank.
I t seemed to take forever. I could see the muscles under Freddy's shirt
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