With Friends Like You

Hughe worked at the Grand Rodeo for a year, had walked there every day from the single room apartment he rented, and until lately, he had looked forward to his work there. His friend, Jack Martin, gave him a hard time about taking a job at the rodeo where he also competed-what the hell do you do, he'd say, besides shovel up horse crap and throw out pitch forks of hay for ungrateful horses?-but Hughe enjoyed it because he liked the horses, and somehow out of the blue, they really seemed to like him back. They whinnied and snorted at him when he walked into their stall area, they snuggled gently into him whenever he combed them, followed him out into the exercise areas even when the weren't bridled. The other rodeo workers, called wranglers, were impressed by Hughe's work with the rodeo animals, and the owners, though skeptical of him at first, had grown to count on him, and Hughe felt his work with the animals at the rodeo was work that really mattered, it counted for something important to him.

But since Jack's death, things were more tense. Even the horses were more fidgety, harder to control; his rodeo boss, Dave Morgan, seemed exhausted, just plain worn down, and always impatient with Hughe about something; and the other wranglers and competition folks couldn't stop talking about how Jack had lived and especially, how he had died. Hughe couldn't stop thinking about Jack, although it had been already two months since he died by being thrown from the back of that wild Bronc.

It was on his walk to work, at the corner of First Street and Fourth Avenue, just one block  south of the Grand Rodeo entrance, that Hughe always pictured Jack. It was on this corner that Hughe first met Jack, both on their way to ride in the Grand Rodeo event as young teenagers, dressed in spectacular, stiffly starched blue jeans, creased, long sleeved western shirts, each wearing unscuffed, shiny new boots. Back then, the Grand Rodeo seemed dangerous to them, although everyone involved with it was
polite to them, well groomed, very friendly and professional. The older riders were more confident, so sure of themselves, giving Hughe and Jack cheerful hellos from behind their over sized championship belt buckles which glowed it the light like gladiator shields. Everyone at the Grand Rodeo seemed familiar with and friendlier with them.

Jack had taken his last Bronc ride on a late Sunday night, two months earlier. By nine the next morning, two police officers, appearing very serious and thorough, came to the Grand Rodeo, and while Dave and Hughe and the other wranglers tried to keep the horses and offices running like normal, the police officers questioned the staff, one by one. The morning didn't seem to have and end to it. The wranglers and office staff carried on while the rodeo circuit grapevine shook with all kinds of rumors, the rodeo crowd being mostly a typical small community of circulating people, word spreads through them like bad grain through a horse, true or not, word got around fast.

Of course Hughe, a young new hire working the horses was questioned extensively. Officers Blakely and Coldwell led him into a dimly lit room behind the main rodeo offices. An old wooden table had been placed directly under a naked light bulb that hung low from the ceiling over the center of the table. The room was mostly plain except for the antique collection of curry combs tacked up by large nails on one wall and scattered, yellowing posters on the other walls. Two small chairs were pushed up to one side of the table. Officer Blakely motioned for Hughe to sit down in one of the chairs as he pulled it at an angle, away from the table. Then he sat way too close to Hughe, but on top of the table. The other officer positioned himself on the opposite side of the table, spread his legs further than shoulder length apart, crossed his arms over his chest while staring at Hughe and remained standing.

At first, they asked Hughe the type of questions he'd expected them to ask. Like: What had Jack's mood been like the night he took the ride on that uncertified, wild Bronc, had he been quiet, did he know if someone had put Jack up to riding the Bronc that way, were people illegally betting on his ride, had the Grand Rodeo organizers been involved with Jack's unusual ride, to Hughe's knowledge of it? What Hughe did not expect were their questions about his feelings for Jack, but of coarse he answered they were only good friends, just regular , manly, rodeo friends and nothing more!

“Who wouldn't want to be friends with Jack?” he said to them, his voice too near anger, so he added,  “He attracted all kinds of women and he shared, too.”

The officers looked at him with a raised eyebrow, each, asking Hughe, “ Was Jack just suicidal, then?”

“ I think he was happy, winning lots of rodeo events, chasing girls, and I think he was just too laid back to be that way”, Hughe insisted, “He was like that. You know, content wherever he was, but a risk taker, too.”

“Would you say he was a law breaker-you know-out of control-generally a trouble maker?” Officer Blakely asked.

“No.,” Hughe replied, growing a little more agitated with what their questions seemed to imply about Jack.

He watch as one of the other wranglers walked a large brown mare, around the exercise ring and Hughe wished he was with her, walking calmly, leading her round and round under the warm sunlight.

“Did you spend much time with Jack , yesterday?” Officer Coldwell continued asking Hughe.

Hughe lifted his shoulders to heave a frustrated shrug, and answered, “He warmed up with me before the bull riding event and congratulated me after I won the competition. Then hung around me in the arenas. He'd been mostly coming and going around me all day, I guess. Just like he always did it.”

Officer Coldwell seemed to smile. “You really loved Jack, didn't you Hughe?”

“Yeah, I still do, but as my friend-only, like I already said, he was like my brother, easy to like, that's all!” Hughe said. Then he stood up hard, knocking the chair over and he walked out of the room and headed to the chutes. As he walked closer to them, Dave slapped his back and Taihmah, his best girl, was still waiting for him. He shook Dave's hand then threw his heavy arm across Taihmah's shoulders, decided to pull her into him, kissing her, feeling he was being carefully watched.

And now, working at the Grand Rodeo was hell. Jack's body had been carried out of the side arena that night, after he had died, the Bronc was roped and re corralled, then taken away by the authorities as part of their investigation of Jack's accident and death. The coroner took two weeks to announce that Jack's death was the result of his injuries from his fall off the Bronc and onto the curved forks of the waiting pitchfork. But what no one knew was why Jack rode the uncertified Bronc illegally that night. It was so out of character for him to do it, as wild as he could be, he always acted professionally, riding only certified Rodeo horses. He, of all people, knew the risks of riding uncertified Broncs, especially to the Broncs he’d grown to deeply respect and love. All the autopsy determined was that he hadn't been drunk nor drugged before or during the illegal Bronc ride, but beyond that- there were no answers, not so far.

The investigating vet had not released her findings regarding the killer Bronc, yet as each day passed Hughe felt a heaviness growing inside him. A nagging sort of dark feeling. The kind of guilt a man knows will sooner or later land him in the dirt, under the hooves of an angry bull, with the rough rope tearing past his leather gloves and burning down into his own flesh, leaving scars.