“Lord love a Cajun.” He jogged over to the chute, grinning up at Sammy. “Get him out of the chute quick, Sammy, huh?”
Sam Bell, Beau’s traveling partner, grinned his amazing little grin and nodded. “Yeah. Won’t do to have him in there too long.”
“Nope.” He winked and jogged back, shoulders moving. There was something in the air, always was at this event.
Nate was still bouncing, and behind in the back-up position, Cooper Riley was back with them, stretching and rolling his neck.
“Okay, boyos. Three more on this group, then we get a drink.” The gate open and Beau went spinning, little bitty legs spurring like mad.
Five, six, seven… Score. Beau flipped off to the rear, and Coke and Nate moved in, waving and shouting. Bossman was a bull who knew his business, though, heading right for the gate.
“You go, Cajun.” He hooted, clapped Beau on the back, grinning at Sammy who was hollering as the ninety-two and a quarter score came up.
Dillon came be-bopping over to give Beau a punch on the arm, and Beau grinned at all of them, taking off his hat and waving to the crowd. Man had manners, after all.
Things went a little easier after that. Hell, even Sammy rode for a respectable eighty-eight and three-quarters. The crowd was with Dillon, waving signs and singing, a sea of cowboy hats bobbing along.
Dillon was really having at an old Bon Jovi song, stalling a little for Don, who couldn’t seem to get out of the chute. Bushmaster wanted to go over the top, not out the gate. He walked over, grabbed one horn and jerked it. “Come on, you ass. Look over here.”
Don grinned at him, teeth missing. “Thanks, Coke.”
“Anytime.”
They got the bull straight in the chute, which mattered not one whit, because Don came down in less than two seconds. Wham, bam, thank you Bushmaster.
Coke grabbed hold of Don’s collar as Bushmaster turnedback, horns lowered. He swacked at the big snotty nose. “You get back.”
Bushmaster snorted, but flipped his tail and headed for the gate. Don popped up like a rubber ball, laughing like a loon.
“Lord have mercy. Get on and wave to your fans, son.” He chuckled, swinging back to grin at Nate. Lord, those bulls.
Don nodded and waved to the clapping crowd, watching the playback on the big screen. The kid grimaced when he saw how close that old bastard’s hooves had come to his head.
“You gotta watch that, man. You need that brain.”
The exit gate swung open again, Adam Taggart’s horse backing up quick, head tossing. Bushmaster came whirling back out into the arena, heading right for Nate, whose back was turned. “Nate!”
Coke jumped in, grabbing ahold of Bushmaster’s tail, pulling hard to give Nate that extra second or two. His heels dragged but hard through the dirt, and for a second it was like he was surfing the floor. Then those hind legs came up, catching him in the chest and sending him whirling in a somersault. Oh, he did not think so.
He rolled up, banging into Don with a slap. “Git out! Are you stupid?”
Bushmaster roared, the sound more lion than bull, and turned back to go for Adam’s horse. The safety man spurred out of the way, and Nate shot through the middle, drawing the bull after him. But Nate wasn’t going to find the pocket.
God damn motherfucker.
He dug in, slamming against Bushmaster’s side, enough to make the bull stumble and glare toward him, eyes rolling.Come on, big boy. Play with the cowboy. Right here. You look right here.“Bushmaster! Come on! Here I am, now.”
If he waved his arms any harder, one was gonna pop off.
Coke heard the whistle of Adam’s rope, but it only hooked one horn, just enough to make Bushmaster kick backand turn the other way. Which pushed that hard-assed hind end into him.
He landed hard on his backside, bones rattling inside him, breath going out in awhoosh.Damn it.
Nate was hollering, screaming really, but Coke couldn’t make out the words. His bell was rung, chickens scattered like a pen after a spring tornado and he could taste blood in his mouth. Sucking copper pennies, Lefty woulda said. Their third bullfighter, Cooper, flew through the air, spinning like a rag doll, landing six feet to his right then laying dead still.
“Fuck me.”
He got up on his feet—or really his knees, because his ankles weren’t cooperating a bit—because there wasn’t a choice. Coop was down, and Coop was one of theirs, and Coke had to get to him. He crawled across the dirt, then threw himself over Coop’s body, hunkering down over the hooking that was coming.
