He winced as the bull turned back into the chutes, the bull driving Bonner down. Nate was yelling, hollering out for the bull, but it was Coke—Fearless Pharris—who was right there, screaming loud as that broken hand grabbed Bonner, threw him before Coke and the bull slammed back into the chutes.
Shit. He heard it go, something in Coke’s body cracking. Balta knew that sound intimately. He was moving before he formed a thought, but Joa stopped him.
“Nao.” Joa jumped the gate, boots first, kicking at the bull’s head.
“Joa!” He watched Coke go down, the bull kicking out of the chute again. The ground crew slammed the gate closed, and all they had to do was wait for Doc. And pray.
He leaned down, saw Coke’s eyes wide, rolling. “Tell him. You tell him it’s okay.”
Joa groaned, blinked up. “Is he talking to me, Balta?”
“I think he means Bonner,doce.” Balta nodded, not sure Coke even knew who was there. “I will tell him, Coke. I will make sure.”
“Good man.” Those words were understandable, but that was all. Coke’s eyes rolled back in his head and the man started spasming wildly, foam spraying from his open mouth.
Joa scrambled up the side of the gate, Nate screaming for Doc, Doc hollering for a backboard.
Balta crossed himself and started praying.
He won the event,stood there with the check, smiled for the cameras, but it felt false.
Fake.
Nate had left before Chris Taggart had roped the last bull, and behind the chutes, no one was smiling.
Joa rolled his shoulders, shaking the sponsors’ hands and nodding.
“There you are, huh?” Balta found him when the sponsors let him go. “We should go to the hospital.”
“Yeah. Yeah, now. Has anyone heard anything?”
No one was talking.
No one.
“I don’t think so.” Balta seemed pale under his tan, his mouth tight. It had been bad. Very bad.
“Okay.” He grabbed his gear, nodding as Eduardo ran over, saying they were going to the hospital, going to pray.
Eduardo nodded solemnly. “I will stop by the church. I have my phone on.”
Everyone liked Coke. Everyone.
“I will call when we know.”
Beau and Sam had gone ahead, but Packer and Bonner were waiting with Balta, and all of them piled in the truck, no one thinking about Brazilians or Americans or Australians.
Coke was their own.
They rode silently, knowing just where to go at the hospital because of the cluster of trucks, then hats. Troy was there, and Nate.
Nate was pacing, phone to his ear. “Ace, you get the money thing dealt with. Now. You get on the horn with Sandy and call up here or I swear to God…” The man stopped, nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I know. I’ll call as soon as I know. Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
“How is he?” Balta asked, stepping up to speak for all four of them.
“Neck’s broke, hand’s broke, collarbone’s broke. He ain’t conscious yet. They’re bringing a surgeon for it all.”
Balta crossed himself, and Packer cursed, the sound explosive and vicious.
