A ranch hand, maybe in his twenties, lean, with a dust-smudged ball cap and boots worn smooth at the heel, steps forward to check the gate latch on the steer chute. Another one rides up beside Stedman, ready to flank the steer for the run.
“That’s the hazer,” Topper says, pointing. “Their job is to keep the steer running straight so the bulldogger has a clean shot.”
Allie leans over to whisper, “Okay, so how does this start?”
“Watch the gate guy,” Topper mentions. “Stedman’ll nod when he’s ready and the chute will fly open.”
The arena hushes, Leo raises his camera, and I hold my breath. Stedman tips his chin once and the gate flies open.
The steer launches into the arena like it’s been fired from a cannon, hooves churning up dirt in a spray of dust. The hazer’s horse peels out to one side, keeping pace. Stedman is already moving, horse galloping low and tight along the fence line. The steer is fast, but Stedman’s gaining ground.
Then, in one impossible motion, he slides off the saddle, hits the dirt, clamps onto the steer’s horns, and uses the force of his entire body to twist and wrestle the animal down. It seems like it takes all of five seconds. The steer hits the ground with a thud, flailing for a second before settling, and Stedman hollers from the thrill of it all.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Holy shit.”
Allie’s jaw is slack. Leo turns to us and gives us a thumbs up, which lets us know he got a great shot. The other vets in the bleachers hoot excitedly. Even the steer doesn’t look too mad. I make notes, trying to string together words in a poetic way to capture what I just witnessed.
One moment, Stedman Jones was galloping across the arena, the next, he launched from his horse with effortless precision, landing beside a thousand-pound steer and bringing it to a halt in one fluid, practiced motion. There was a kind of reverence in the way he moved, like he wasn’t just wrestling an animal, but honoring a legacy.
I glance up from my notes. Millie is down talking to Stedman over the arena fence. Topper and Allie are lost in their own conversation. My thoughts turn to Goose, the one being I still haven’t been able to win over. If Stedman can wrestle a steer going full throttle, I know I can bond with that damn horse.
I slip down the bleachers and join Millie at the fence, hoping I can interview her and Stedman about their experience with Bill Pickett rodeo. They agree, and Millie and I meet Stedman by some hay bales just outside the arena. Leo, Allie, and Topper eventually make their way over as well. Stedman pours us all hot coffee from a worn steel pot, and I shift in my seat so I can document the conversation.
“Okay,” I begin, my voice softer than usual. “Tell me about your rodeo—how it started, what it means to you both.”
Millie smiles, her fingers loosely laced in her lap. “Our rodeo’s been a long road. Started as a dream of Bill Pickett, but it turned into something that belongs to all of us.”
“I love that,” I say, grinning. “The Bill Pickett Invitational Rodeo has come up more than once while I’ve been here, and I’ll admit, before this assignment, I had never heard of it. After watching that bulldogging demonstration, I know it’s going to be important for others to learn more about it as well.”
“That’s partially why we do it. So folks do learn.” Stedman leans forward slightly. “Pickett was a legend. Black cowboy out of Texas who made bulldogging what it is today. He had to perform on the outskirts for a long time. Back in the day, some rodeos wouldn’t even let him compete unless he claimed to be Native American. He was known as ‘The Dusky Demon.’ He worked harder and had to be flashier than most to earn his seat at the table.”
Millie nods, reaching out to squeeze her husband’s hand. “We’ve been with the Invitational for years now. It’s the only national Black rodeo circuit in the country. It’s about riding androping, but it’s also about preserving a legacy. It reminds people that Black cowboys and cowgirls should always be part of the story.”
I scribble down notes even though Leo’s camera is rolling. “You said something at one of the Nook dinners that stuck with me, Millie. ‘If you ask most people to picture a cowboy, they don’t see us.’”
Millie doesn’t flinch. “When people think ‘cowboy,’ they picture John Wayne or Clint Eastwood. That’s fine, but it’s not the full truth. One in four cowboys in the Old West were Black, but our stories weren’t always told.”
Leo quietly adjusts the frame. Allie sits still, her usual sparkle replaced by a quiet focus as she listens.
“This is so important,” I say, glancing at Stedman.
“It is,” he says. “We ride so the next generation can see themselves in the saddle.”
As Leo wraps up the filming and Allie gives Millie a lingering hug, I glance back toward the arena where the dust has finally settled. The bleachers are empty now, but something still hums in the air, a kind of reverence. Stedman and Millie wave as we climb into the golf cart and rumble away.
Topper’s driving, one hand casually resting on the wheel while Allie scrolls through the footage on Leo’s camera. “Think we got some gold there,” she says.
“Think we got more than that,” I say, still half-lost in the image of Stedman flying off his horse and wrestling that steer like gravity had nothing on him.
We loop around the far pasture, passing the edge of the horse paddock. Beckett is still there leading Goose out of the ring and toward the barn.
“Can we stop?” I ask quickly, turning in my seat. “I want to try again.”
Topper glances at me in the rearview mirror. “With Goose?”
“Yes.” I adjust my hair in my ponytail, now more determined than ever.
“You sure?” he asks, already easing the cart to a halt.
