The Wedding Dress

Jackson sat in the rocker on the front porch of his sun-bleached single-wide trailer and reread the letter. He brushed a sleeve across his eyes and took a long pull on his Lone Star bottle.

“What is it?” asked Harley.

“Aw, damned wind. Got a bit o' sand in my eye is all.”

“How long we been partners, Jay Bee?”

“I dunno. We started riding and traveling together back around 'eighty-three, or maybe 'eighty-four, I guess. Why?”

“I reckon I've knowed you long enough to tell when something’s got you riled. What's in the letter?”

“It's nothing, Harley. Just someone wanting a donation is all.”

“The hell, you say,” he snatched the letter from Jackson's hand.

“Give it back, Harley.”

“You gonna tell me about it?”

“No. I ain't.”

“Then you ain't getting it back, neither. What's the big deal about some old send-us-the-money letter anyway?” He glanced at the envelope. “Hey, this ain't no sales letter. This is from Crissy.”

“Give it, Harley.”

“I'd never have took it, if you told me who it’s from.” He handed the letter back. “She hittin’ you up for more child support?”

“No.”

“Well, what then? Dammit, Jackson. Something's got you all twisted up. When you gonna face-up to it? You’re still in love with her. Always have been.”

“That rodeo was last year. I blew it and let myself get throwed. That’s not what this is about.”

“Then, what?”

“Julie's getting married.”

“Your little Julie? She can't be old enough. If you need to kill some sumbitch, I'll alibi you.”

“She's nineteen, Harley.”

“My God. When did that happen?” “February. Her birthday's in February.”

“So, you gonna go?”

“I don't know. They didn't exactly invite me.”

“Then, why the letter?”

“Crissy wants to know if I can help with the dress.”

“Aw, hell, Jackson. Crissy knows you ain't got a pot to piss in. Why's she laying it on you?”

“Because, dumbass, the parents of the bride are supposed to pay for the dress and the reception. Crissy says the restaurant where she works will help her with catering and she can afford the cake. She's been saving her tips, but the dress is twelve hundred bucks and Julie has her heart set on it.”

“Damn, Jay Bee. What are you going to do?”

“I don't know. I surely don't know.”

He finished off his Lone Star and dropped it in the bucket behind the cooler next to his chair, then leaned over and fished around in the ice for another. He pulled two out and silently passed one to Harley.

“Did she tell you anything at all about the guy she's marrying?”

“Said he's a nice kid. He just got a bachelor’s degree from Baylor. That’s how they met, and Julie's been seeing him for almost a year.”

“College kid, huh? That's something.”

“Yeah. It’s something.”

The two men sat in companionable silence drinking their beers, watching fireflies and half-heartedly slapping at the occasional mosquito.

The sun slid behind the pecan trees as Harley dropped his empty in the bucket and stood up.

“I reckon I'd best git on home. Mary will have supper waiting on me.”

“Take it easy. Deputy Johnson got a new ticket book the other day and he's just itching to fill it.”

“Humph. That kid ain't never seen the day he could catch me on any of these ol' back roads.”

“Uh-huh. Call me if you need to make bail.”

“Right. See you around.”“

Uh-huh.”

The next morning, Jackson called in to work and told them he couldn't make it. He took a shoe box from the top shelf of his closet and hobbled out to his pick-up truck. Mornings were always difficult. All the

old injuries made even the thought of movement almost unbearable. After pumping the gas pedal a couple of times—the fuel pump was just about shot—he cranked it over until it finally sputtered to life in a cloud of blue smoke. He backed it up on the remains of a lawn and turned down the muddy, once-graveled driveway, bounced over a half-dozen ruts and turned onto the county road. Ten minutes later, he pulled into a parking in front of Lone Star Pawn and Gun.

Jackson laid the shoebox on the counter and waited.

“What have you got there?” asked the manager.

He opened the box, removed an old sock and carefully slid something out and laid it on the counter. It was a large, heavy, silver belt buckle. The engraving on it said San Antonio Stock Show Rodeo—Champion 1987. It sported a raised carving of a bull rider in gold.

“Nice. What else you got?”

Jackson removed six more socks and buckles from assorted rodeos around the country. All were engraved, and all for bull-riding.

“You wanting to pawn 'em or sell 'em?”

“Sell 'em.”

“I'll give you a hundred and fifty.”

“Mister, don't insult me. Look at 'em again. Look at this one right here.” He picked up one of the buckles and offered it to the man. “That there is from Cheyenne, the granddaddy of 'em all. You'll probably never see another one in this lifetime.”

“Uh-huh,” the pawn broker inspected the buckles like he was interested, but only killing time to make his next offer more attractive. “Alright two fifty, but that's the best I can do.”

Jackson stared hard for a minute, then reached down and unbuckled his belt. He laid it out on the counter. “How about now?”

The belt was embossed with a fancy western pattern. Burned into the back, was his name, J.B Stark.

A gold buckle adorned the end of it. The buckle read Pro Rodeo Cowboys Association, J.B. Stark, World Champion—1985.

“Three fifty,” said the man, a little too eagerly, as he examined the buckle. “Four.” “I'll meet you halfway.” Jackson nodded and offered his hand.

“Three seventy-five and you can keep the belt. I can't sell it,” said the man. They shook hands.

“Come on over here and I'll get the paperwork and your cash.”

Jackson pulled his battered pickup into the parking lot in front of the Tex-Star Bank of Converse.

“I'd like to close my account,” he said, shoving his passbook to the teller.

“Just a moment, Mr. Stark.” The teller took the passbook and walked back to the manager's desk. After a brief conversation, the manager came back with her.

“Good morning, Jackson. I understand that you're closing your account with us.”

“That's right.”

“Jackson, you've been with this bank for over thirty years. Is there something wrong?”

“Nope. I just need the money.”

“Alright, but we hate to lose you and would love to be of service in the future.” He nodded to the teller, shook hands with Jackson and went back to his desk. The teller opened the passbook and typed some information into her computer.

“Mr. Stark, with interest accrued through today, your balance is $132.17. How would you like it?”

“Cash.”

“I meant, would you like any large bills?”

“Just cash will do. Make it easy on yourself.”

Jackson took the money, added it to the cash from the pawn shop, put a rubber band around the whole thing, and shoved it in his jeans. He drove north on Route 1604 and took the Kitty Hawk Road exit. A few minutes later, he sat down at the counter of the Lunch and Lounge Cafe.

“Hey, Jackson. Don't usually see you on a weekday,” said the waitress with a smile.

“Took the day off, Darlene. Couldn't wait to see your smiling face.”

“Uh-huh. Piling it high today, are you? You want the usual?” “Thanks.” Jackson pulled a newspaper out of his back pocket. Rodeo Sports News. He shook his head thinking how silly he had been to keep his subscription and membership going all these years. It was his way of denying that he was getting old. He spread it on the counter, opened it to the rodeo schedules and ran his finger slowly down the column. He stopped at the first July entry.

July 2, Mesquite Champion Rodeo, Mesquite, TX. Bull-riding $2,500 added. Fee $250. Open. Limited entry first 72 entries.

The phone number followed. He tapped his finger on it, took a ballpoint from his pocket and circled it.

Darlene watched him as she poured his coffee.

“You got a telephone here, Darlene?”

“Naw. We haven't had a pay phone in twenty years. Hang on a minute.”

She walked down to the register, bent over and dug around underneath the counter. She came back and laid a cell phone on the counter.

“Here, use mine.”

“It’s long distance.”

“Don't worry, hon. I've got unlimited minutes.”

“Alright. Thanks.”

He looked at the entry he'd circled and carefully punched in the number. There was a short conversation, then he laid the phone on the counter and dug into his breakfast.

“See ya Saturday, Darlene. Thanks for the phone,” he said, placing some cash on the counter next to the phone to pay for his breakfast.

Harley called the Auto-Zone. Jackson would be tore up about that dress until he came up with a plan.

“Hey, Butch. It's Harley. Is Jackson available?”

“Nope. He called in sick. I'm having to have Charlie deliver parts and it’s got me busier than a one-armed paper hanger.”

"Alright. I won't keep you then. Thanks, Butch."

“I called the Auto-Zone looking for you today. They said you'd called in. You feeling okay?

“I had some errands to run.”

“Alright. You're probably gonna catch hell tomorrow. Butch didn't sound a bit happy about having to let Charlie deliver parts.”

“He'll get over it.”

“Uh-huh. That the latest copy?” Harley asked, pointing to the folded Rodeo Sports News on the bench next to Jackson's chair.

“Yeah.”

“Well, you gonna let me look at it.” “Nothing interesting in it.”

“Let me look, anyway.”

Jackson handed it over and Harley thumbed through it slowly as they drank their beers.

“What the hell? What did you do?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The hell you don't. That circle right there with the line through it. You know damned well what that is. That's how we used to mark the rodeos we were riding in. One line through the circle for you and one for me when the entry fees are paid. Now, give.”

“Alright. I thought I might take a little ride up to Mesquite in July.”

“Didn't you forget something?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Dammit, Jay Bee. Did you forget that you're fifty-two years old? Did you forget that you haven't been on a bull in twenty-five years?”

“Is that right?”

“Aw, hell. This is about that dress, ain't it?”

“So, what if it is?”

“Jay Bee, you're gonna get yourself killed. This ain't no piddling jackpot rodeo. Them boys are bucking professional stock.”

“You'd rather help me rob a bank, Harley?”

Harley looked him up and down. His eyes stopped at the simple buckle on his belt.

“What happened to your belt buckle? Aw, hell. You're really gonna do it, aren't you?”

“Entry fees are in the mail. So, you gonna help me or not?”

There was total silence except for the cicadas for nearly half a minute.

“What do you need, dammit?”

“Day after tomorrow, I thought I'd go over to Billie Ray's. You want to come along?”

“Why, shore. Hell, I ain't never seen a bull kill a man before.”

Saturday morning found them pulling up to the bucking chutes at Billie Ray's ranch. He had a string of average and a scattering of above-average bucking bulls and horses that he ran around to a few local Chamber of Commerce rodeos. Jackson and Harley knew him from their days on the circuit. Billy Ray had been a slightly-better-than-most rider, but more careful with his winnings than others. He greeted them as they got out of the truck.

“I got your phone message. Figured it was some kind of a joke.”

“No joke. I need to ride some practice bulls.”

“My insurance agent would have my ass if I let you anywhere near a bull.”

“Who’s gonna tell him? Besides, I'll sign a waiver.”

“You're serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“That's a likely outcome. Alright, it’s your funeral.”

Twenty minutes later there were four bulls in the bucking chutes and Harley went to helping Jackson set his bull rope on the first one.

“When you get through there, Harley, get ready to pull the flank strap,” said Billy Ray picking up a stop watch and a megaphone.

Jackson straddled the chute and set his butt down on the little Angus bull. He sensed right away that the bull was too calm, but he continued anyway. He warmed the rosin on his bull rope by running it back and forth through his gloved hand. He slid his hand into the hand hold and, with Harley's help, pulled the rope tight. He took a loop around the back of his glove and gripped the tail of the rope in his fist beating on his fingers to get the tightest grip possible. Ready, he scooted up onto the rope and nodded for the gate.

The gate popped open and the bull flung himself into the arena butt first and set a left-hand spin bucking half-heartedly. The bullhorn buzzer went off at eight seconds and Jackson let go of the rope. He landed, dropping to one knee then watched as the bull continued to buck and jump across the arena. He shook his head as he picked up his bull rope and walked back over to the chutes.

“I'm wasting my time, Billy Ray, if that's the best you've got. You used to have better stock than that.”

“Alright, alright. I was just making sure you were serious. I don't want to see a friend get hurt.”

“So now you know. This next one any better?”

“They're all better.”

Three-quarters of an hour later, the score was tied at bulls two, Jackson two.

“Can I have four more?”

“Yeah, just don't wear 'em out for me, okay?” “I'll try not to. Uh, Billy?”

“Yeah?”

“I appreciate you doing this for me.”

“Hell, Jackson, I figure you're going to Mesquite one way or another. This way, at least, you have a chance of surviving.”

“Yeah, its real nice having all my friends tell me what a great has been I am.”

Four more bulls and the score now stood, bulls five, Jackson three.

“Can we set something up for next Saturday?”

“Yeah, I guess. I won't be here. I'm taking a string to the Chute Out in Gustine, but I'll have Brady and his kid run you through. How many you want?”

“I reckon eight is about my limit.”

“Just remember, its six miles to the nearest hospital and we don't have a bullfighter.”

“You're a real comfort, Billy Ray. Thanks, brother.”

“You can thank me with a six-pack after Mesquite.”

“You got it.”

Jackson showed up for work at the auto parts house on Monday with his right shoulder wrapped in an ace bandage and a Lorocet sloshing around in the coffee in his gut. He made it through the day somehow and drove home to find Harley waiting for him with a six-pack chilling in the cooler.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Just checking to make sure you ain't dead.”

“Not yet.”

“Tough day?”

“You could say that.”

“It ain't over,” said Harley.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you need to put your running shoes on while I look at that shoulder.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Either you get in shape for this thing, or I'll rope and tie you and you flat won't go.”

“Aw hell, alright.”

He went inside the trailer and came back in a few minutes with a pair of tennis shoes that looked like his dog slept on them. They were covered in dust and dog hair. He started to pull his boots off and winced in pain. Harley grabbed him by the boot heel and pulled them off then watched as he laced up his sneakers.

“Where am I supposed to run at?”

“Half-mile to the county road. I clocked it on the way in. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Jackson looked at him in disbelief, then turned around and started jogging. When he got back, Harley sat on the porch with a beer in one hand and a stop watch in the other. “Seven minutes, fifty-two seconds. Getting old, ol' son.”

“Give me a break, Harley. That's good time for a man my age with a broke wing.”

“Maybe, but you need to shave at least two minutes before Mesquite.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You asked for my help. Now, are you going to keep jawing at me or sit your butt down and drink a beer?”

For the next month, Jackson trained as hard as he ever had. He ran every evening, worked out with his bench weights, did sit-ups and jumping jacks. He even installed a pull-up bar between two pillars of his porch. He ate better and cut back to one or two beers of an evening. When June rolled around, he started going out to Billy Ray's two nights a week after work as well as Saturdays. He could get in a couple of rides before dark then come home and run two miles before supper. Most days he rolled into bed right after he ate feeling like he'd been mugged with a baseball bat. On the days when he felt a little better, he'd pop in a PBR video and watch the pros ride. He obsessed with his upcoming ride.

On the twenty-third, Harley pulled up in the drive just as Jackson was finishing his run. He watched as Harley climbed out of the car with a six-pack and a paper bag.

“Hey, Harley. Give me a minute to shower the stink off. There's some cold ones in the cooler.”

He emerged ten minutes later snapping a clean short sleeved western shirt with the tails out over his clean jeans. He snagged an icy beer out of the cooler and sat down twisting the cap off. “What's in the sack?” Harley reached into the bag and pulled out a Po'boy. He passed it to Jackson and pulled out another for himself.

“Man. Now that's what I call a friend. You must want something.”

“I called Billy Ray, today.”

“Yeah?”

“I told him you were done out there.”

“You did what? I've only got one more weekend before Mesquite.”

“You're as ready as you're gonna be. Cut back the runs to a mile a day and nothing after next Thursday. I want you nice and rested when you get to Mesquite.”

“But—”

“No buts. You're ready or you ain't.”

Jackson took a long pull on his beer then unwrapped his sandwich while he thought about it.

“Ya think?” he asked.

“I think.”

“Alright then. Let's not let these sandwiches go to waste, and Harley...?”

“What?”

“Thanks, man.”

“Like Billy told you, you can thank me after Mesquite. If you're still alive, that is.”

Sunday evening in Dallas, a telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Crissy?”

“This is Christine. No one's called me Crissy in years. Who is this?”

“Uh, its Harley, Crissy.”

“Oh, my God! What happened? Is he alright?”

“You happened.”

“I—what the hell are you talking about? Are you drunk, Harley?”

“Listen to me, Crissy. You wrote him a letter. The one about a wedding dress for Julie.”

“Yeah. He doesn't have the money, does he?”

“No, he don't but he's got an idea how to get it.”

“Uh-oh, what kind of harebrained scheme has he cooked up this time? He going over to Tunica and make the casino pay for it?”

“Knock it off, Crissy. I'm not kidding around.”

“Alright, Harley. What's going on?”

“He's gonna ride, Crissy.”

“Right. He's more'n fifty years old. Quit pulling my damn leg.”

“I ain't pulling your leg. He's entered in the bullriding next Sunday in Mesquite. He sold his buckles for entry fees.”

There was a long and profound silence on her end of the phone.

“Crissy?”

“You're not kidding me, are you, Harley?”

“Not a bit.”

“But why? He's been retired for years.”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you. He wants to buy his daughter a dress.”

“But he'll be killed. How could you let him do this?”

“You know him. There weren't no stopping him. I'm helping him train. He's been riding out at Billy Rays for almost two months now. He's eating good, running, lifting weights. He wants this, Crissy.”

“Ah, the damned fool.”

“Probably, but I thought you ought to know.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Harley. You're a good friend.”

“You gonna be there, Crissy?”

“You're damned right I'll be there.”

“Go to the rodeo office when you get there. They'll have tickets for you and Julie.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Uh, one more thing, Crissy?”

“What?”

“Don't tell him I told you.”

“Don't...Now how in the hell am I supposed to talk him out of this if I can't even let him know that I know?”

“You're not. His mind is made up. Seeing you before he rides would only distract him. Give him a break. Let him do this his way.”

There was another long silence on the phone.

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Alright. I'll see you Sunday.”

She hung up the phone and shuddered as the sobs came in waves. She realized now that she hadn't written the letter because of the dress. It was only a convenient excuse. She wanted to see him again. With that realization, the sobs grew louder. Damn you, Harley Taylor. You told me this day would come. There were only two men in her life in all the years since Jackson. Neither measured up. After a beating by the last one, she packed up Julie and her things, and moved to Dallas where she lost herself in a new job, new friends and being a single Mom. Dear God, Please, don't take him. Don't take him now.

Saturday morning Jackson threw his war bag behind the seat of his truck and climbed in. He heard a car horn sounding. It seemed to be getting closer. He looked around to see Harley's Bronco bouncing down the drive.

“You didn't think you were going without me, did you?” Harley leaned out the open window.

“Naw. I'm just going over to the Lunch and Lounge for breakfast.”

“Throw your war-bag in here, pardner. We can stop on the way.”

“Alright. You sure you want to take your Ford?”

“I'd prefer it. I don't think that ol' rattle-trap of yours would make it.”

“Hey. Watch what you say about my truck. She's sensitive.” Jackson patted the hood affectionately.

“Yeah, sensitive. I'll bet.”

“Gimme just a minute. I've got an overnight bag packed inside. Here, take my war bag.”

He came back in less than a minute and tossed his bag onto the back seat.

“So, did you make reservations anywhere?”

“No. I sorta figured to sleep in my truck. We still can, you know.”

“I got us a room at the Ramada.”

“Thanks, Harley. I'll pay you back.”

“Don't worry about it. Been too long since we took a road trip together.”

“Not so long that I forgot how you snore.”

“Alright, look. We'll stop for gas and breakfast then head on up. It’s about four hours so we'll get there early afternoon. We can grab a bite to eat and go check out the arena before we check into our room. Sound good?”

“Sounds fine to me. You always were better at the planning. I like to fly by the seat of my pants.”

“There'll be plenty of flying tomorrow. You just make sure that the seat of your pants stays stuck to that bull. Leave the flying to the other guys.”

After breakfast, they headed north toward Dallas. They found a decent diner for lunch. An hour later, they arrived at the Mesquite Championship Rodeo and Resistol Arena.

“Changed a bit since we were here last,” said Harley following the signs to the contestant parking.

“Looks like. Hell, the whole danged arena used to be over there somewhere.” Jackson gestured off in the distance across a parking lot.

“That there's the contestant entrance,” said Harley nodding his head. “Anything else you want to see today?”

“Naw. I'm good.”

They drove back to the Ramada Inn and spent the remainder of the day playing cards and watching bad television.

The next morning, they headed back out to the rodeo grounds to try for a decent parking spot. It seemed to be filling up fast.

Jackson could feel the old nervousness coming back and he went right into his routine to shake it. He closed his eyes and pictured the ride he was going to make. In his mind's eye, he countered every move the bull made, sitting up with his chest pushed out and his head down, he made it look easy.

Harley found a parking and slid the Bronco into it.

“You ready?”

“I reckon.”

“Let's go check in with the rodeo secretary and see what you drawed.”

“Drew. It’s what I drew. I been telling you that for thirty years and you still get it wrong.”

“Tomato, tomahto. Who cares? You coming?”

“Yeah.”

It took a bit of talking, pleading and rodeo name-dropping, but they got a “behind the chutes” pass for Harley as well so that he could help pull Jackson's rope and keep an eye on his nerves. They found out that Jackson had drawn a bull called Misty Maple Desperado. It was a good sign. Misty Maple only bought naming rights to the very top tier of bucking bulls. Jackson would have his hands full, but this was a bull he could win on. He would be the sixth bull-rider out of the chutes. Harley pinned Jackson's contestant number to the back of his shirt.

They made their way through a milling crowd of cowboys and stock handlers and climbed up behind the bucking chutes. There were numbers painted above each of the eight chutes, and they moved down to the one with the six above it. Jackson dropped his gear and dug out his bull-rope. He flipped it over a rail and tied it off with a slip knot so that the tail hung loose, then sat down against the back wall and pulled his hat down over his eyes, sucking in the comforting potpourri of hay, manure, sweat, fear and freshly-graded dirt.

Harley mingled with the crowd, visiting with the cowboys to see what he could learn about the bull Jackson was riding. Cowboys are always willing to help each other, and it didn't take long to find a couple of boys who had drawn the bull before. They told him what they knew and what they thought they'd done right or wrong when they tried him.

Jackson and Harley watched the bareback and saddle bronc events and killed time during the roping events and barrel racing discussing the information gleaned from the other riders.

They learned about the bracket type format adopted by the new Elite Rodeo Athletes Association. Jackson wasn't a member, and wouldn't be eligible for points towards the championship, but he would qualify for any prize money in the go-round. There was over two thousand dollars going to first place. During the barrel racing, Harley made sure that Jackson was getting ready. He watched him putting new rosin on his bull rope and warming it up with his gloved hand.

The chute boss came by and reminded them of the new thirty-second clock rule designed to keep the rodeo moving. If a cowboy took too much time in the chute before nodding for the gate, the chute boss would start the clock and thirty-seconds later the cowboy would be disqualified.

When the barrel racing started. The contractor ran the bulls into the chutes. Jackson ran his eyes over the big brindle Brahma-cross bull. He had horns like a roping steer, but they’d been sawed off at about ten inches. His muscles rippled like a posing body-builder as he shook off the flies. The bull watched Jackson out of the corner of his eye like he was sizing him up, too. He pawed the dirt in the chute like he was pleased with his assessment.

Harley helped Jackson set his bull-rope as the announcer proceeded to get the bull-riding started, introducing the first bull and rider. They watched as the rider bucked off at five point two seconds and the bullfighters went to work. They seemed to know what they were doing and helped the cowboy up and away from the bull quickly.

Jackson nodded his approval then climbed up and straddled the chute while he continued to warm the rosin on his rope.

“Just ride him one jump at a time, Jay Bee.”

“I know. I'm as ready as I'll ever be.”

When the fourth chute popped open, he sat down on the bull, and with Harley pulling the rope, he took a wrap on his hand and pounded the glove closed tight. He started working his foot down between the bull and the chute gate. The bull leaned against the gate making it difficult and one of the rodeo employees stuck a four by four fiberglass bar in between the bull and the gate and began to lever the bull away so that Jackson could get his foot down. The announcer's voice came over the P.A. system again.

“Folks, we've got a real treat in store for you today. Coming out of chute number six is Jay Bee Stark, World Champion Bull-rider from 1985. You heard me right. 1985. This truly is a sport for all ages. Jay Bee's fifty-two years old and he's been away for more than twenty-five years. If that sounds crazy... well… it is. He's drawn a bull some of you may have heard of, Misty Maple Desperado. This bull is no stranger to the National Finals himself and this should be a great match-up for these two champions. Let's give them both a big Mesquite Championship Rodeo welcome.”

The fans erupted in a roar and Jackson scooted up on his rope and nodded for the gate.

Desperado exploded out of the chute and planted his hooves ten feet out in the arena kicking for the sky. That jump would have slid most riders back off their rope giving the bull all the advantage, but Jay Bee dug his spurs in and pulled hard on his bull rope.

Jackson's field of vision blurred and narrowed to a small spot directly in front of him and behind the bull's head. The sounds of the arena faded completely and all he heard was the grunting and farting of the animal beneath him.

Desperado kicked high then lunged hard for the middle of the arena trying to tip him off balance.

Jackson sat tall and straight with his chest forward, head down and free arm swinging shoulder high to counter the centrifugal forces. He threw his hooks forward for a new grip.

The bull set a left-hand spin keeping his nose near the ground and slinging snot as he flung his hind end around in a tight circle.

Jackson used his free arm for balance, spurring with his outside leg, and stayed with him.

After two complete spins, Desperado lunged hard again changing his rhythm in another wild attempt to unseat the rider.

Jackson was ready for him and flung his chest out further and pulled hard on his spurs and rope.

Desperado bucked hard again and flung his head back trying to smash Jackson's face with his head. It was the move that had disfigured Tuff Hedemann on Bodacious at the PBR World Finals in '95. He missed by millimeters and Jackson could smell the sweat in the hair on Desperado's neck.

Changing direction, Desperado went into a righthand spin trying to tip the rider down into the well. Jay Bee’s butt started to slide that way before his outside spur caught and he pulled himself back to the middle. It was close, but he kept his seat to the buzzer.

When the buzzer went off, he yanked the tail of his rope as he opened his hand and took a dive off the left side of the bull. He scrambled to his feet and turned toward the chutes when a horn slammed into his left arm. It felt like a bullet went through him and he dropped to the ground with the wind knocked out of him.

He lay there willing himself to move and seeing the bullfighters dash in jumping over him to draw the bull away. He caught a breath and his vision began to clear some. Harley was there, helping him to his feet and turning him toward the arena gate. The sports medicine team swarmed around them, but Harley held on and insisted they walk out the gate.

“Not yet, Harley.”

Harley knew what was coming and let go except for the back of Jackson's belt.

Jackson turned painfully around and with his gloved right hand removed his hat and waved to the crowd as the electronic scoreboards flashed a rerun of his ride and a score of eighty-eight and a half points.

The crowd came to their feet giving him a thunderous ovation. Jackson waved his old brown Stetson as he slowly turned away and let Harley and the medical team help him from the arena. Two women stood outside the gate blocking his path. They looked familiar as he squinted through the pain.

“Jay Bee, you damned fool. You could have been killed. What in the hell did you think you were doing?”

He recognized her now. “Crissy? What are you doing here?”

“We came to see an old fool break his damned neck.”

He looked at the other woman. “Julie? Is that you?”

She nodded.

“Excuse us, ladies, but we have to get him back to the sports medicine room and check him out. You can talk there.”

They walked him back to the aid station and told him to sit down in a folding chair.

“Wait just a minute, Jay Bee. Let me have your wallet,” Harley said. He fished Jackson's wallet out of his jeans and walked off with it.

Jackson's shirt was torn when the horn hit his arm. They cut it away.

“Waste of an expensive new shirt,” he said trying to sound aggrieved. His whole bicep was already purple and black and beginning to swell.

“Guess I'm lucky they trimmed those horns. Would have made a pretty good-sized hole,” he said as Crissy and Julie walked up.

“You didn't answer my question. What in the Sam Hill were you thinking?”

“I haven't been around probably as much as I should have. Julie deserves to have her dress.”

The doctor examined the arm, “I need you to move over here to the table and lie down, Mr. Stark.”

Jackson did as he was told.

“Alright, this may hurt a little.” He pulled hard and twisted on Jackson's arm, snapping the bone back into place. “Now just hold still while I put a cast on it.”

“You gonna be at the wedding?” asked Crissy.

“I don't know. I haven't been invited.” Julie ran to him and flung her arms around his neck with tears streaming down her face. “It’s not customary to send an invitation to the man who'll walk me down the aisle, Daddy.”

The doctor was just finishing up with the last piece of plaster gauze when Harley returned shaking his head and looking glum.

“I guess my score didn't hold, huh?” asked Jackson.

His old friend's face lit up. “It held, all right. First place in the go-round.” He fished a check out of his hip pocket. “Two thousand, one hundred and seventeen dollars and seventy-five cents. Oh, and one more thing.” He fished around in the pocket again and pulled out a gold buckle. It was engraved. Pro Rodeo Cowboys Association, J.B. Stark, World Champion—1985.

“Where'd you get that?”

“Right where you left it. Consider it an early Christmas present.”

Their eyes met, and something passed between the two old friends. Jackson nodded.

Crissy slipped an arm around Jackson and planted a kiss on his lips that turned his face red and made the hairs on his head tingle.

Head swimming, Jackson looked at Julie and smiled. “You still want that dress?”

Dennis Doty, a Southern California native, has been writing fiction since 2004. His stories spring from a vivid imagination, but many have a basis in his many life experiences, including growing up in a small town, the decade he served in the Marine Corps, and stories from two years riding on the old Southwest RCA rodeo circuit.

Dennis presently lives in Appalachia, with his wife and their two dogs, where he divides his time between writing, swapping lies with the other old timers, and yelling at kids to get off his lawn.

After submitting his first short story, "White Buffalo Woman" to appear in the Spring, 2017 issue of Saddlebag Dispatches, Dennis so impressed Publisher Dusty Richards that The Ranch Boss invited him to join the magazine staff on a permanent basis. He now serves as Managing Editor, and as Deputy Publishing Director of Galway Press's parent company, Oghma Creative Media.

Dennis blogs on a regular basis on a multitude of subjects, not the least of which is quality in editing. You can learn more about Dennis and his writing at www.dennisdotywebsite.com