Apologies to anyone who is actually involved in the rodeo, hopefully you can graciously overlook my obvious lack of knowledge! ;)
1956
Sodapop Curtis is eight years old and sitting next to his dad. Soda is a beautiful child with a radiant smile. His father is handsome, but lays no clam to his son's almost ethereal features.
Their grins are both wide, but look closer. Soda's grin is mischievous and joyful; Darrel's devil-may-care-grin is carefree for now, but capable of bursting into a shout of anger at a moment's notice. They each have their dad's smile.
Neither one can sit still. Soda shifts back and forth in his seat. He stretches his arms above his head, then in front of his body. His dad follows his lead, stretching his own arms and then tapping his feet on the ground. Soda joins him. Fingers are next. Soda taps his fingers against his thighs, a rapid drum roll. Darrel taps his fingers against each other, hitting the soft cling of his ring.
Their rhythm is a high strung melody, filled with fast beats and surprise crescendos.
Father and son are restless, anxious for the competition to begin.
Soda's dad is thirty-two, he looks younger, and his wide set grin only serves to accentuate his youthful appearance. He wears a slight scruff of a beard, the result of a weekend without shaving, that the result of a weekend out gambling and maybe a little bit of too much drinking, he doesn't remember.
Anger bubbles up inside of him as he thinks of all the whiskey he drank. He can usually hold his liquor and usually knows when to stop. Not that weekend. He feels ashamed. No, it's deeper than shame, it's revulsion. As a child he promised himself he would not end up like his father.
His three day stubble only makes him look like a young man painfully growing his first whiskers, not like the married father of three boys that he is.
The boy is blonde and the man has dark hair. But under their matching cowboy hats, tan, both lay possession to the same dark brown eyes that move rapidly back and forth taking in everything in sight.
It's rodeo time.
1931
Darrel Curtis is six the first time he participates in a rodeo. He loves it all: sheep, horses, bulls. Even the lambs, although that's for the babies, tickle him.
Especially this lamb named Poppy, he ate right out of Darrel's hand!
He's already won a tin whistle for placing first in a calf roping competition. Everyone cheered for him. It made Darrel feel mighty big and special. He puts the whistle in his pocket. Maybe Daddy will teach him how to play "Home on the Range" when they get home? Mama doesn't let him sing those songs anymore, she calls them 'wicked' but Daddy still sings.
The man with the straw hat and red gingham shirts asks Darrel is he wants to ride a calf.
"She's a bit of a spirit, son, you want to give her a spin?"
Darrel nods. He helped Mrs. Stead milk a cow once, and sat on top of a cow at the County Fair, a meandering thing called Mrs. O'Leary, but he's never rode a baby bull before.
Holding on to Darrel by waist and placing him on the calf, the red gingham man asks Darrel, "who are ya, sonny?"
Who is he?
Darrel is six years old. He is the son of Dale and Laura Curtis and the younger brother of Patrick Curtis. His neighbor calls him a "little dickens" just because he accidently threw his ball into her flower bed. Mrs. Stead calls him "spirited." His teacher calls him "incorrigible," he doesn't know what that word means, luckily, neither does Daddy. His brother calls him Pony Boy. His Mama, when she's in a good mood, will hold him close and call him her "little lion."
She hasn't been in a good mood much of late.
But, on top of the calf he's no longer Darrel Curtis. No, he's out on the open range. He can hear the sound of the cattle in the background, his tin whistle is his Colt .45, his overalls and shirt are his chaps and vest, his hair is his cowboy hat, the calf is a full grown ferocious bull; and he is a cowboy.
"I asked you a question, what's your name?" The man slaps Darrel on the back, hard.
"Darrel Curtis, mister." He snaps back to reality.
"Hold on, Darrel." The man releases the calf (and Darrel) from the chute.
For a little bitty thing, she sure does move fast. She bucks him off. He lands in a pile of dust.
"You okay, sonny?"
Darrel's body is throbbing, "yes, mister, I'm okay." He tries to keep the sting of the tears out of his eyes.
"Well, then, git up! You fall, you just gotta git yourself on up again." The man's voice is rough, like sandpaper.
The man helps Darrel stand up. He brushes the dust off Darrel's pants.
"You cryin' son?" His voice is teetering between annoyance and disgust.
He gives Darrel a little pat on his bottom.
Darrel lies and shakes his head no. "No, mister, I ain't cryin' just got some dust in my eyes."
He kind of wants a hug right now. But he's not a baby, or a girl.
The man laughs. "Well, what are you waiting for Darrel Curtis? Git back on that calf!" His voice is harsh and firm.
Darrel nods and gets back on the calf.
He falls two more times.
Each time the man helps Darrel get back on the calf. Each time the man barks at Darrel to "hold on!" But each time his voice is filled with less annoyance and more encouragement and pride.
The fourth time he doesn't fall. The man cheers "yahoo!" The man pounds Darrel on the back and tells him, "You're doing great sonny!"
The celebratory back pounding hurts more than falling off the calf.
But, Darrel grins.
He doesn't fall off the fifth time, nor the sixth.
By the seventh time the man and calf are far more exhausted than Darrel, who could do this all day if given the chance.
"Darrel, you're going to need to give me a rest; besides there are other children who want a ride."
Darrel looks around and there aren't many kids around. He figured the man is just tired.
The man shakes Darrel's hand.
"I suspect I'm going be hearing a lot about you in a few years. Maybe even here about you performing in this rodeo as a cowboy." He has a twinkle in his eyes.
Holy Gee, a cowboy!
At school the next day the calf becomes a steer, who by recess turns into a bull, who on the walk home transforms into "the meanest bull ever!"
Nobody believes him, except for Ernie Petersen, who believes anything; but that's okay, Darrel was there, he knows, he remembers what the man told him, he's a cowboy.
1936
Darrel Curtis was eleven years old when he decided to skip school in order to see Lee Dwayne ride bull at the rodeo in Dewey. Darrel pulled his big brother into his scheme, "oh come on Paddy be a pal. Besides, it ain't like Mrs. Warner is even gonna notice I'm gone, she's so senile anyways!"
To get to Dewey he stole a ride on the freight, a talent he learned from his father.
Not having enough money for a ticket, Darrel jumped over the low fence; the cuff of his jeans snagged on a piece of barbed wire.
But it was all worth it to see Lee Dwayne in person.
At 5'3 Lee was a scrubby old sonafabitch, with corn yellow hair and sky blue eyes that reminded Darrel of the wide, wild prairie lands. He never backed away from the toughest bull, hell, he got offended if he got a tame bull.
Lee wasn't stupid though. He respected the bull. When he was out in the arena he played an almost duet with the bull: buck, spin, hold, dismount. It was, according to eleven year old Darrel Curtis, "the damn most beautiful thing I ever seen!"
Most of the people in Dewey that day were there to see Lee Dwayne, even the other cowboys stopped what they were doing to watch Lee work his magic.
And work his magic he did. He had the crowd eating out his hand, not so much cheering him on like they did with other riders, but mesmerized by the hypnotic movements of man and bull.
It was his third time in the arena that afternoon. The bull was named Sister Belle, and Darrel couldn't help but snicker and think of Sister Ruth back at Friends of Yahweh. Yup, they both had the same snot nosed expression and angry snort.
Darrel is sitting crossed legged, his knees hitting against the fence that separates the rodeo from the crowd. He likes to get right up in the action.
The announce Lee Dwayne and Sister Belle.
Darrel jumps up and cheers for them both. He can't sit still when Lee is on.
He lasted six seconds.
He fell off the bull landing with his legs in the air like a fell calf. The rodeo clowns started to dart in trying to distract Sister Belle. Lee started to scurry away from Sister Belle, as an old pro he knew that the first rule of bull riding was to GET BACK UP OR GET AWAY. It wasn't just a nice philosophy; it meant the difference between a broken leg and a broken neck.
But before he could get up, before he could crawl away, before the rodeo clowns had a chance to make their move, Sister Belle stomped on Lee's chest, two tons of angry bull.
It made a godawful sound. Not Lee. Any sound Lee Dwayne made was muffled by the sound of broken bones and the shrieks emerging from the crowd. One lady threw up. And Darrel pressed his hands against ears, still hearing that echo of the crush in his mind.
The announcer, his voice shaky and high pitched, had the crowd pray for Lee and most dutifully went along, but Darrel thought it was stupid; after all, it wasn't like their prayers were going to do Lee any good now.
Some of the crowd were looking down at their feet, perhaps they were still praying, but a good number of them were staring at Lee, just at hypnotized by his broken form as they ever had been by any trick.
Darrel didn't look at the floor or at Lee, but he looked at Sister Belle. Darrel figured they would kill Sister Belle and Darrel felt kind of sorry, even if she did kill a man. Three men were trying to pry Sister Belle off Lee Dwayne.
But sitting on Lee, Sister Belle didn't look angry either, in fact, she looked like she was almost at peace. Darrel thought she looked like someone fluffing up their pillow before hitting the hay, only this time her pillow just happened to be a man's chest.
They ended the competition early that day and sorryfolksbutnorefunds. Darrel felt his back pocket for his pen and piece of paper, he had planned on asking Lee for his autograph. He threw the pen and paper on the ground, wasn't no use for it now.
The ground was covered with disregarded ticket stubs, popcorn, peanuts and fried pickles.
As they were leaving the arena the quiet shock and murmurs of sadness gave way to increasingly loud complaints about the lack of refunds.
The man in front of Darrel, a slender cowboy with a full moon face, started to grumble. "Well, dang. I was promised an afternoon of bull, not no six seconds of watching a man being stomped to death. You better believe these bastards are gonna give me my money back."
Anger blared out of Darrel.
"HIS NAME WAS MR. LEE DWAYNE AND HE WAS THE GREATEST BULL RIDER OF ALL TIME!"
A few people turned around to look at Darrel, and some of those people looked down with shame that they were going on about a lack of refunds when a man just died.
But not the cowboy.
The cowboy turned faster than a caught jack rabbit to face Darrel, "who the hell are you, his kin?" He sneered at Darrel.
I wish, Darrel thought.
"No, sir."
"Then you best just shut the hell up."
"Damn kid got his petticoat all bunched up his ass" the cowboy said to no one in particular.
Darrel shut the hell up. He wanted to take a swing at the man, but he shut the hell up. He'd seen too blood much today.
Other men talked about Lee like they were philosophers, "he died doing what he loved, ain't no crying 'bout that," a stocky middle age man told his friend.
The friend, an even stockier cowboy in dirty chaps, just nodded in agreement, "when the good Lord calls your number you ain't got no choice. You just go."
The first man placed his fingers on his chin, "yup, Siree, better to doin' something you love than in a blasted dust storm, or out in California."
And like that, Lee Dwayne was mourned, buried, disregarded and forgotten by the crowd that just a short while ago was going nuts over him.
Not Darrel. He can't stop thinking of Lee. His cocksure smile, the way he waved to the crowd, his broken body.
Darrel made the reverse trip back into town. He hardly spoke two words at dinner. He doesn't look at anyone, just stares down at his plate. Darrel, who usually had the appetite of a bull, could barely finish his meal.
He readied for bed in silence.
At first, Patrick Curtis was relieved that his brother was quiet for once. Darrel Curtis's loquaciousness annoyed his brother at times, especially when Patrick Curtis was trying to read, but his silence was even louder.
Darrel looked at the cheap, plastic bull that stood on his nightstand. He drew his finger over the chipped red-brown paint, looking at the bull's missing left eye.
He didn't look at his brother.
Patrick put down his copy of The Three Musketeers and asked his brother, "how was the rodeo?"
AAAHHHH!
Darrel takes the toy and throws it across the room.
He lets out a scream. It's a frenzied, guttural sound.
Mama tells the boys to be quiet, and then asks if everything is okay.
Darrel looks at Patrick. His eyes have a wild look to them, they dart back and forth.
Patrick quickly says yes to his mama's question. He hates lying.
Harsh, angry breaths rack through Darrel's chest.
Paddy took a few deep breaths himself. His legs started to shake. He's never seen his brother look like this.
The anger. The fury. The hopelessness.
Paddy doesn't want to admit it, but in that moment Darrel looks a bit like Daddy. It scared him.
Sobs echoed through Darrel's chest, his shoulders and arms tensed up and snot bubbles blew out of his nose like steam on the locomotive.
He hates crying. Only sissies and little girls cry. That's what Daddy said. Darrel hardly ever cried, not even when he fell out of a tree and broke his arm or when Daddy beat him with a belt.
But he cries now.
He didn't know why he was crying. Yeah, he was sad about what happened to Lee, but it was more than that.
Everything fell apart.
Daddy was drinking more and more, Mama was going on benders of her own-Bible benders, and even Patrick started to seem more distant.
Darrel didn't have anyone. Not even cowboys like Lee would come to his rescue.
But Darrel didn't want to talk about any of that with Patrick. Not tonight.
Patrick looked almost as broken as Darrel felt. Patrick always looked real sad when his brother was in pain.
Darrel climbed into Paddy's bed.
"You don't think I'm too old for this do you," he asked between hiccups and gulps.
Patrick did think that eleven was a bit too old to be climbing into bed with other people, but he shook his head no and made room for his little brother.
He was glad when after a few minutes his brother calmed down.
Patrick laid on his side, his hand propping up his head. Darrel laid flat on his back.
Tossing aside his book, there was no way he was going to get through it tonight, Patrick asked Darrel "what's wrong?"
Darrel shook his head, thinking of Lee's smashed, broken body, "everything is so broken Paddy."
And Patrick Curtis, thinking of his own internal brokenness just stared up at the ceiling.
"I know."
1938
Darrel Curtis is thirteen when he learns to ride bull. His relationship with his mother is as broken as Lee Dwayne's body. He feels anger boiling up inside of him. He doesn't know what to do with it. He was usually a happy kid. Now, he doesn't know what to do. So, he rides bulls. He takes the falls.
When he's on the bull he's not angry, he feels nothing but a rush. He's free. It's only afterwards that he feels the anger and the sadness.
1939
Her real name was Karen, but she went by her middle name, Josephine. She was cousin or something to Mrs. Stead and she and her family lost everything in a dust storm up in Kansas. Her family moved in with Mr. and Mrs. Stead and she and her siblings got jobs helping out at the stables and with the cattle.
I had a lot of friends, but Jo was the only person, besides Paddy, that could shut me up.
She didn't shut me up by talking ether, she did it by listening. She was the first person since Paddy who listened to what I had to say; who didn't look bored or listless when I started to talk about my horses.
And the more questions she asked me about horses and the rodeo, the more I wanted to shut up and learn more about her.
But she won me over by being a real nice gal, even to, especially to, Paddy. I love Paddy, but if you don't know him, he's kinda cold when you first meet him. But Jo was just real nice to him, and Paddy told me that he liked her. If she got his seal of approval, she was A-okay in my book.
She wanted me to teach her how to barrel race. I just shook my head. Jo is a tough girl, and a real smart cookie and part of me was afraid that she would outdo me in riding just like she managed to outdo me in everything else.
I wasn't good at much, but I was good at rodeo. I didn't want no one to outdo me. Even Jo.
But Jo is not the type of person you tell no to. She's a stubborn gal. And without saying a word, she walked right over to the stall and started to put the saddle on Bucket, a not so very calm horse.
"Oh come on Jo, you can't ride Bucket, you're gonna get hurt!"
Jo just looked at me with this look of determination and anger, and let me tell you something, as sweet as she is, her anger is not something I want lay claim to.
"Rollo, get the barrels out!" Rollo was Jo's younger brother, he's a good kid, but a bit meek. But with a big sister like Jo, I guess it's hard not to.
I turn to Rollo, "you really gonna do this? Come one, bud, your sister never rode barrel before in her life. Heck, has she ever ridden a horse before? And, I ain't talkin' about no pony ride at the county fair either."
Rollo just shrugged his shoulders, "Curtis, one thing I learned is to never doubt my sister."
Cripes, what a little push over.
Jo knocked down all of the barrels. If she was competing she would of gotten a big fat zero. It took her a long time to get around the pattern. At one point Bucket just sat down. "Come on Bucket, come on boy, let's go."
Jo's face turned bright red with embarrassment.
Jo tried to prod Bucket, but he just stayed there. I laughed at her, just like Jo to pick the most stubborn horse.
She scowled at me and then looked like she wanted to cry. Boy howdy, did she look angry. And hurt. And embarrassed.
"She thinks you're making fun of her," Rollo told me.
"Why the heck would she think that?"
"She always thinks people are laughing at her." I hear a hint of annoyance in his voice.
"I ain't making fun of her, heck; I think she's pretty brave."
And stubborn. And pigheaded. I didn't say that part out loud though.
Jo was just too damn sensitive. She took herself way too seriously.
But she stayed on that horse.
And I did the one thing I could; I stood up and cheered for her, as loud as I ever cheered for any cowboy, louder than I ever cheered for Lee Dwayne.
She smiled at me. A real smile too.
"Way to go Jo! You're doing great! Come on! Keep on going! Don't give up!"
And she never did.
From that moment Bucket was Jo's horse, and Jo, though she didn't know it yet, was my girl.
Now, if only someone could teach her to not be so damn sensitive of all the time.
1940
By the time I was fifteen Mr. Stead was training me to be next Lee Dwayne. But it was clear to anyone with half a brain that I was never gonna be like Mr. Dwayne. I just didn't have the patience. When I barreled out that chute I couldn't think straight, I just relied on pure adrenaline and this manic energy that lasted long after I left the arena.
"Darnit Curtis, you take 'em any hotter and you're going to get burned."
"Ah, you know me Mr. Stead, I like my horses hot and my bulls hotter. Ain't no use in riding if there ain't some excitement involved."
Mr. Stead just shook his head at me, but he was smiling. He knew, after all he was a cowboy himself.
The result was that I had endured two broken legs, a fractured arm, numerous bruises and cuts; and still refused to give up my bulls. I was a stubborn SOB.
1940
I play hooky from school a lot. No one notices, or cares. My grades drop, but I still manage to pass all my classes. I think my teachers just want to get rid of me.
I got suspended a week for fighting. I beat up a punk who made fun of Jo's teeth. They're kind of messed up. But that's okay, she has gorgeous gams, pretty good tits, a nice face and long blonde hair. He shouldn't have done that. I didn't just beat him up because she's my girl, but because I hate when idiots make fun of people. Now, he's missing two front teeth himself, so what goes around, comes around.
Buddy Smith, by virtue of being able to get me some high quality reefer from Tulsa became my best friend.
I don't talk at all to my mama, or rather, she don't talk at all to me. It's just the way things are.
I smoke a lot, but I don't drink, I ain't gonna be like my Daddy. Lousy drunken cheat.
I still get along with Patrick, my anchor, but I see him less and less.
Mr. and Mrs. Stead are real good folks and I spend as much time with them as I can, but I know I overstay my welcome.
And Jo and her family. Her family is kind of kooky, they're pacifists, which mean they don't believe in fighting,which is real rank, if you ask me, but they're nice folks.
Jo is nice. She's real funny too, unless if she's the butt of the joke, in which case she gets bull-hoppin' mad. It's kind of annoying. But, I still like her.
One day Jo takes a seat next to me in homeroom. Because Jo is smart and I'm lazy, homeroom is the only class we have in common.
"Heard you have a rodeo competition tomorrow," she looks right at me. She has on a plaid skirt that goes down to her ankles. I think she should wear shorter skirts. She has light blue eyes. I never really noticed them before.
"Yeah, you wanna come and watch?" I thought maybe we could see a movie afterwards, or just look at the stars. Jo loves looking at the stars and the clouds and the sunset. I think looking at 'em stars is a real grind-they don't do nothing, but Jo likes them, and she's my gal.
She shook her head, "I have to work. Darrel, just be careful."
I give her a grin, "aww, Jo, you ain't got nothing to worry about, I'm an old pro at the rodeo by now. Them bulls are scared of me!"
I give her a smirk and puff my chest up. I'm a little bit scared of one of the bulls, Sinister, that I'm gonna be riding, but she don't need to know that.
I laugh.
She doesn't.
"I wasn't only talking about the rodeo, Darrel."
I knew that. I may be lazy and a troublemaker, but I wasn't stupid.
S.E. Hinton owns
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