Short Pants

Hardy! Where the hell are you!” Frank Knowles hollered for the third time as he approached the rear of the arena’s back pens where the animals would be kept. “Hardy! Damn it man, we need some help.”

Hardy Prescott secreted the bottle in its spot and moved into the alleyway. “Alright already, you don’t have to shout. What’s the problem?”

The older man walked toward him with a noticeable limp and a scowl on his face. Knowles was the assistant arena director and was charged with making sure all the contracted stock for the evening’s rodeo events were unloaded, placed in their holding areas, and had water available. He was also responsible for just about anything that went wrong.

He knew, like a lot of others working the rodeo, how many times a person could break a leg before not being able to walk right. “I’m a man short and need someone to help the stock contractor who can handle the roughstock. You up to it?” he asked, knowing the younger man’s ways.

“Reckon so,” came the reply. “Lots of time to get ready for my work.”

“Okay. Just so you know, one of those bulls we’re about to unload is downright mean. He’s the big brindle-colored one. Bullriders say he’s rank ‘cause he’s only been ridden once in his miserable life, but I’m telling you he’s mean. It’s in his eyes. So, you watch yourself,” Knowles cautioned.

An hour later all the roughstock had been unloaded from the stock contractor’s trucks. He finally had a few minutes to himself before he had to start to get ready. Knowles had been right about the brindle bull. He was a handful just to get unloaded and into the holding pen. He didn’t envy the rider who would draw him.

—

“What are you doing?”

Prescott jumped, startled by the loud question. He glanced around quickly looking for the source. Then he looked down and spotted the kid standing next to a steel fence panel only a couple of feet away. “I was minding my own business and taking my cough medicine,” he fired back, quickly replacing the brown pint bottle in a hidden recess where two of the arena’s support beams came together. “What are you doing here? This can be a dangerous place for a kid”, he said gruffly. “What’s your name?”

“My name’s Judd. I was just looking around to see if there were any cows or horses,” he looked down with a dejected expression.

“Not quite yet, the calves and steers will be here in about an hour. They’ll be used for the team roping and steer wrestling events,” Prescott softened and squatted down to be more eye to eye with the boy, who nodded his head in understanding. He took in the cowboy boots, shirt and hat. “You here with your folks for the rodeo? It’s going to be quite a show.”

“My mom brought me. It’s what I wanted for my birthday. I’m ten today,” he proclaimed proudly.

“Well, happy birthday, Judd. That’s a real special mom. Where’s your dad?” He could see in an instant it was a bad question. The youngster’s eyes went wet and tears started to roll down his face.

“He went away in the Army and never came home,” he sniffed and hung his head.

“Aw, Judd, I’m real sorry. Here,” Prescott pulled a blue bandana handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to him. He put a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder and stood up. “Let’s see if we can find your mom. She’s probably wondering where you’re at.”

The woman approaching them was thirtyish, slender and pretty, except for the frown. “Judd, where have you been? I hope he hasn’t been a problem, mister,” she said with a scolding tone directed at Judd.

“Oh, no, ma’am. He was just curious and wanted to see some animals. I used to do the same thing myself. He’s just being a kid and liking rodeo stuff,” he smiled, and her frown melted a bit. “Hardy Prescott,” he introduced himself as he removed his hat.

She studied him for a moment then stuck out her hand. “Amanda Trask, and I see you’ve met Judd.” Her handshake was firm.

“Yes, I did, and I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for your loss. Judd told me his dad passed away while in the Army.”

“Sort of,” she replied, with a look of sadness. “He was contracted by the military to debug a new detection system that would help spot the enemy easier. Three soldiers were assigned to escort him through a supposedly secure area in Afghanistan, but their Humvee ran over an IED.

“Now it’s just Judd and me. He loves the rodeo. His dad used to team rope and do a bit of steer wrestling. He really likes the animals,” she stopped to brush something from her cheek.

“You’re here early,” Prescott offered.

“It’s what Judd wanted for his birthday. How could I refuse?” she locked eyes with him as a bit of a smile returned. “Thanks for helping him.”

“It’s been my pleasure. Hope you enjoy the rodeo. Maybe I’ll see you out there”

“I think we’d like that,” she said in almost a whisper.

“Hardy! Better get a move on.”

Prescott sighed. Sometimes Frank Knowles could be downright irritating. “Got to go, Amanda. Was sure nice to meet you. Take good care of your mom,” he encouraged the boy.

“Yes, sir!” Judd replied as he watched the man walk away.

Knowles came up to the pair and watched as Prescott headed somewhere in the back of the arena. He turned to Amanda and their eyes met. “He’s a nice man, Miss, and has a good heart. But, he packs a lot of baggage around that he can’t let go of.” Knowles shook his head.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“He drinks a lot and just doesn’t care much about anything anymore. Three years ago, he was sitting at number one in the bullriding standings. Near the top in bronc riding, too,” he paused and sighed.

“I don’t understand.”

“He was in Las Cruces, New Mexico, riding against some really tough professionals. His wife and daughter were driving over to watch him compete. Was supposed to be a surprise,” Knowles added. “They never made it. An eighteen-wheeler crossed into their lane outside of El Paso doing close to eighty. Driver was high on meth and texting to boot. Hit ‘em head on,” he watched as a look of shock and grief transformed the woman’s pretty face. “Hardy’s world ended that night. He never rode again.”

“I’m so, so sorry. I can’t imagine.”

Knowles simply nodded and mentally kicked himself. Damn, he shouldn’t have told her all that. “Well, ma’am, I got to get going, but I have to tell you, I’ve never seen him take a shine to anybody like he did your boy this afternoon. Hope you two enjoy the rodeo,” he said, forcing a smile as he turned and limped away.

—

Scared. He was scared for the first time that he could remember. The arena lights were almost unbearable. Of course, it was the first time he had done this without finishing off at least a pint of whiskey beforehand.

He looked across the arena’s dirt floor at his partner, steady as always. The announcer was introducing the first bull rider and bull for the evening’s show. Everybody loved to watch bullriding but him. Shoving all the thoughts aside, he made ready. The chute gate swung open and out came the bull, twisting, spinning and bucking. The rider didn’t come close to making the eight second buzzer. The next rider did a bit better and covered his bull, earning a score. The third rider had the best ride of the three and performed a respectful dismount. Prescott felt his jitters fade after running around a bit, protecting the riders and hazing the riderless bulls through the arena exit gate.

The announcer stopped the action, taking time to give credit to some sponsors and make some announcements. Prescott spotted Amanda and Judd in the front row of the bleachers and made for them. “Howdy, you two,” he announced loudly. “Glad to see you!”

“Mr. Prescott!” Judd jumped up and leaned against the railing.

“Who’s that, young feller? My name’s Short Pants and that there’s my partner Long Johns,” he retorted, pointing across the arena at a man dressed in red flannel from head to boots.

“You’re a rodeo clown!”

Prescott watched as Amanda shook her head and laughed, letting the interaction between the two continue without interference. “Oh, nay there, Judd. We are professional rodeo protection athletes,” he said hooking his thumbs into his bright orange suspenders and pushing his chest out, “or rodeo bullfighters to the less cultured. Keepin’ those riders safe is a big job, you know?”

The boy nodded vigorously as the announcer focused on him. “Hey, Short Pants, you about ready to get back into the game?” The crowd laughed and applauded as Short Pants Prescott ran back to his position and leaned on a protective barrel with a big beer advertisement on it. He waved at the crowd then gave the announcer a thumbs-up.

As he stood there, in his oversize cut-off denim jeans and baggy shirt, the crowd didn’t see the expression of deep concern remake his painted smile. The next rider was ready, but the bull was pure evil. It was the brindle bull. His name was Abaddon. The name was that of a demon and meant destroyer, or angel of death. The chute swung open.

The first second ticked by mostly as expected with the bull trying to brush the rider off as he sprang from the chute, but then, it all went to hell. In the next two seconds, the bull faded, moving backward while at the same time spinning and bucking. The rider went down in the well, as riders called it, as the force of the spin pulled him down the side of the bull in the direction it spun.

Short Pants and Long Johns were running full speed toward the bull as it got worse. The rider, a tough and talented young man that Prescott respected a lot, was hung up. He couldn’t free his riding hand from the bull rope. Shoving any trace of fear aside, and with arms extended forward, Short Pants yelled and ran straight into the bull’s twisting head.

—

Slowly, an awareness returned. Heaven wasn’t supposed to smell that way. He guessed hell wasn’t either. He kept his eyes shut and listened to rhythmic electronic beeps and chirps that surrounded him. Slowly, very slowly, he forced his eyes to open slightly. The overhead lights were dimmed, so he opened them wide. His side hurt, but it wasn’t agonizing. He was thirsty but felt reasonably good. It only took a few seconds to realize he was in a hospital bed, somewhere, with a bunch of tubes doing something. A door opened, and a Hispanic man entered dressed in dark blue medical scrubs.

“You’re finally awake. That’s good, we were getting concerned. I’m Sam Moreno, your shift nurse. We keep the whiteboard on the wall updated so you know who’s who,” he pointed at the board with his name and the doctor’s printed out along with other information. “How do you feel on a scale of one to ten, with ten being a happy face?”

“I guess about a nine,” Prescott replied.

“That’s the morphine. You’ll be off that soon, but we’ll try to keep you ahead of the pain. We should also be able to get rid of most of those tubes”

“What happened? All I remember was charging a big, ugly bull at the rodeo.”

“Can’t tell you what happened, but I can tell you that you have a gouge in your side. It missed the important stuff. Then, there’s four broken ribs and to top it off, a concussion. But, we’ll have you out of here tomorrow or the next day,” Moreno handed Prescott a plastic tumbler of water with a lid and flexible straw. “Depends on what the doctor says. She’ll be here in about half an hour. There are some folks outside that would like to see you if you’re up to it. But only for a few minutes. Here’s the call button if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Sam. Go ahead and let ‘em in.”

Frank Knowles was first through the door followed by Hardy’s partner, Eddy “Long Johns” Willet. “Damn it, man!” he took Prescott’s right hand and was going to really shake it until he saw a grimace pass over his face and let go. “You’re a hero. It’s all over the news. You saved that kid’s life for certain. That was the most heroic and downright stupid thing I’ve ever seen anybody do. What were you thinking?”

“Just doing my job. At the moment, it seemed like the only thing to do.”

Eddy Willet stepped in closer. “What the hell, partner, I never seen nothing like that. Everybody thought you was dead. You hit that bull so hard he lost his balance and went to his knees. But not before hookin’ you with a horn. Tossed you a good ten feet, he did. Like Frank said, you’re a hero,” Long Johns practically beamed.

“Team effort. You must have helped the kid to safety and kept ol’ Abaddon from killing me,” Prescott said with a questioning look.

“Like you said, team effort. You’re the one who shook hands with the devil. The gate man helped the kid to safety and the latch man and I managed to haze the bull out. I think you stunned him,” Willet said, shaking his head with a big grin. “We’ll have a few drinks with the other hands tonight and toast your speedy recovery. Come on, Frank, let’s go. He’s got other company and surely seen enough of us for today.”

Prescott watched the two men leave and the door close. A minute passed and then another. Slowly, the door opened again. Two figures hesitantly entered, one small and the other pretty. Judd Trask walked slowly to the side of the bed and cautiously touched his arm. The boy’s eyes were red and looked like he had been rubbing them a lot. “Are you going to be okay, Mr. Prescott?”

“That is my sincere intention, Judd. Don’t you worry about Short Pants. I’m just banged up a bit,” he said reassuringly. “Looks like you did your job and took good care of your mom.”

“That he did,” Amanda spoke softly. “We take care of each other. I couldn’t believe what we saw you do. You hit that bull and then it tossed you into the air like a rag doll. That was a hard landing and you just laid there not moving. Judd couldn’t hold back his emotions. People around us were speculating that you were dead. It was almost too much for either of us. You were still unconscious when the ambulance came in and the EMT’s bundled you up and left. I found out where they were taking you, and here we are,” she shrugged her shoulders. “Hope you don’t mind. We were both scared.”

“Not at all. I’m glad you’re here,” he reached with his fingers and she took them in her hands as the door opened again.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Rios. How are you doing?” Amanda let go of his hand and started to move Judd toward the door.

“Oh, you don’t have to go. Family is always allowed to stay.”

Amanda looked into Prescott’s eyes and he nodded. She smiled sheepishly and thanked the doctor, keeping Judd at her side. She watched as patient listened and doctor talked, explaining that they had been able to clean the wound from the bull’s horn and there should be no problems. The concussion and healing of the ribs would take time, with absolutely no strenuous activity. She finished by telling him that he could leave the next day if his vitals and blood work were all good . . . and if he promised to stay down and had adult supervision. Turning toward the door, she winked at Amanda. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

After the doctor left, Judd took a place in one of the visitor’s chairs and watched television until he finally fell asleep. Prescott and Amanda visited for another three hours, interrupted only by Sam Moreno checking his vitals and pain level. The conversation turned to his future. Was being a rodeo bullfighter what he wanted going forward? Since that horrible night he had never given it much thought. There was no one else in his life to give any consideration to.

Before he had become addicted to bull and bronc riding, he had been a certified welder. Amanda pursued that for a while. In their part of the country, oil and gas were expanding with no sign of letting up. There were opportunities galore for welding talent. He pondered that for a bit, but she saw the uncertainty in his expression. Maybe there was hope there. Maybe.

Prescott explained that he had sold everything. He owned a diesel pickup and two-horse trailer. The trailer was his home and office. The stalls had been converted to store a bit of memorabilia and support his clown paraphernalia. He was an independent contractor, drifting from rodeo to rodeo, fortunate that guys like Frank Knowles would hire him. Being a clown seemed just right for his place in life. Maybe, fool would be a better title.

Amanda took his hand in hers and squeezed it hard. “Look, you’re smart and either very brave or bent on self-destruction, and I know why. Mr. Knowles told me. But, you need to know that there are people who care about you and where you’re going. I’m just an administrative assistant for an energy company. We live on that and a bit of insurance from my husband’s accident, but I also have a little boy that needs someone,” she choked out the words as tears began flowing down her cheeks, “and so do I.”

Prescott closed his eyes and fought to control his own emotions. . . and demons. “You and Judd need to go get something to eat and get some rest,” he paused to regroup. “The doc says I need rest and adult supervision. You think you’re up to it?”

Amanda rose abruptly and leaned over him. Their eyes locked and held for a long moment. Then, she bent forward and kissed him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

—

Amanda’s home occupied about five acres of mostly desert with large cottonwood trees surrounding a Santa Fe ranch-style house. A bit away from the home stood a fairly new metal-clad building that looked like a shop with two big rollup doors. Next to the building were a few covered but empty stalls, a round pen, and a metal postand-rail fenced arena. She watched as he took it all in. “When you’re able, you can get the grand tour. Jimmy liked to tinker. I think you’ll like the shop. It’s got just about every tool imaginable, cutting torches, a plasma something or other, and one big diesel Lincoln welder. Something to think about. For now, it’s the guest room for you and what appears to be long overdue adult supervision,” she laughed. “Come on.”

Days melted away as he healed. Frank Knowles had his truck and trailer delivered to her place. Every day that passed, he felt stronger and considered the Short Pants logo painted on the side of his trailer. Hardy Prescott was on his own emotional bull ride and the seconds were passing slowly.

Amanda continued going to work, making sure that he had everything he needed for the day. She’d rush home every evening to tend to him. Judd helped him all that he could when he returned from school, and the bond between them grew stronger. One day, he asked the boy about the empty stalls and arena. His reply sealed Prescott’s future. “My dad was going to get horses and some calves for us. He was going to teach me to ride and rope.”

A week later, Prescott started going to the shop when Amanda and Judd were away. He cleaned out the horse trailer and piled everything in a corner of the shop to deal with later. The trailer needed some work first.

On a Saturday morning three weeks later, he made an announcement after breakfast. They were going to drive to Canutillo, Texas, to look at something he needed for his trailer. Amanda gave him a questioning look but agreed. Judd was always ready for a trip, so he quickly rushed out to pull his boots on and grab his hat.

It was scorching hot when they pulled into the wagon yard of the large ranch. A little over a stone’s throw away from the Rio Grande, the ranch was well known for its quality horses. A slim man emerged from one of the stall barns and waved a greeting as Prescott pulled in. After introductions, the man suggested they get down to business. He whistled and waved toward the stall area. A minute later, a Mexican ranch hand led a handsome bay horse out of the building toward them. The gelding stood about fifteen hands high. Ears forward, he studied the group with curiosity.

Prescott looked at Judd. “So—what do you think of him, kid?”

“He’s awesome!”

The handler halted the horse, which immediately stuck its head forward, looking directly at Judd. Standing beside the boy, Prescott looked into the horse’s eyes as Judd let it sniff his outstretched hand. The eyes were kind and gentle, just as the owner had described. Amanda watched in complete amazement as Prescott handed the man an envelope. The two men walked to the front of the truck. Using the hood as a flat surface, the owner produced some papers for him to sign.

Walking back to Amanda and Judd, the boy asked, “Who’s horse is this?”

Prescott looked at Amanda, then down at Judd. “He’s all yours now.”

—

Prescott opened the back door of the pickup and watched the boy excitedly scramble up into the seat and begin fastening his seat belt. “Good job. Always fasten that seat belt, even if someone tells you it’s okay if you don’t. Got it?”

“Yes, sir!”

He surveyed the back seat one last time and closed the door. He got in the driver’s seat, fastened his own seat belt, and smiled at Amanda. “Can’t be too safe.”

She smiled back and grabbed his arm as he started to shift the truck. Pulling him to her, she kissed him. “Never.”

He glanced at the boy in the rearview mirror. “Ready, partner?” He watched as the youngster enthusiastically nodded his head, a wide grin on this face. His cowboy hat accentuated the response.

Hardy Prescott shifted the truck into drive. “Let’s take him home!”

A native of western Colorado's high country, Michael McLean has packed on horseback in Montana's high country wilderness, mined gold and silver thousands of feet below the earth's surface, fly-fished Yellowstone Park's blueribbon waters, and explored the deserts of the West. Through personal and professional experiences he has collected a wealth of information to develop story settings, plots, and characters. His work has been published in New Mexico Magazine, Rope and Wire, and The Penmen Review. His story “Backroads” was the winner of the 2012 Tony Hillerman Mystery Short Story Contest.

McLean believes the less travelled and often lonely back roads of the West offer intimate access to the land, its people, and their stories. A mining engineer by profession, McLean also has technical publications to his credit. He now works in New Mexico's oil and potash-rich Permian Basin and lives in Carlsbad, New Mexico, with his wife, Sandie. “Short Pants” is his second short story to appear in Saddlebag Dispatches.