smiling and their twinkling green eyes were locked on Roger. Everyone but Roger had returned to watch the end of the current ride.
Trying to look in control while thinking of a comeback, Roger released one hand from the fence and down he went. His foot had slipped off the metal rung of the fence and he found himself in the dust at their feet.
Just then, there was a loud rattling bang behind him, followed by four cowboys joining Roger on the ground. The bull in the ring had thrown its rider, lost its footing and crashed into the fence with two thousand pounds of force.
The girls giggled at the sight of five men floundering in the dirt and walked off, their jabbering interrupted only by the occasional chortle. The cowboys got right back up and dusted off. Roger sat there watching the girls trundle off toward the barrel racing ring.
“You’re real lucky you fell off the fence when you did. That bull’s head hit right where you was standing. You’da been stuck for sure,” one of the competitors said in a Texas drawl.
Roger looked up to see the source of the voice. A young man, dressed like the competitors, hat, jeans, denim shirt, boots, and a big number 51 on his back stood over him. Roger recognized him as the kid about his own age standing next to him on the fence. The kid turned and joined the other three cowboys who had already got back up on the fence.
Roger looked back to see where the girls went. Apparently they had saved him from serious injury, maybe even death. He had to find them to say thank you. The bull riding was entertaining but those two were the best sightseeing he had done so far on this vacation. He doubted the Grand Canyon would be as awe-inspiring. So he got up, dusted himself off and with an urgency in his stride, he headed in the direction he had last seen them.
“Fella, yer outta yer league.” Roger looked back to see number 51 looking down from the fence. He gave the cowboy a wave and walked away.
Roger walked the length of the bull riding ring, circled the calf roping enclosure and scanned the grandstand of both events. All the while the announcer’s voice echoed through the grounds. “Let’s have a hand for Tommy” or “That should get the newcomer to the next round.” Roger barely heard any of it. He had a mission, but there was no sign of those girls. He turned toward the concession stand, the line was long. If they were getting anything to eat or drink they would still be in line. Slowly he made his way along the line. Nothing. There were hundreds of people wandering the rodeo. Finding his rescuers would be a needle in a haystack effort.
After three or four laps around the grounds Roger found himself back at Bill’s truck. He decided it was a sign to get back on the road and opened Bill’s horse trailer to retrieve his backpack. What he saw inside made him weak in the knees. He’d left his pack hanging on a hook at the front where the horses head would be. Now, the pack lay open on the floor of the trailer, his belongings strewn around it. He leaped inside, and began to inventory his things. Everything remained but his money. What he now had in his pocket would definitely not be enough to get him home so the canyon was out of the question. He had no choice; he would have to phone home for money. There would be some “I told you so’s”. He knew his parents struggled hard to get their money and he hated asking for more. What choice did he have?
Roger repacked his stuff, and then counted the cash in his pocket. He had less than thirty dollars. He would grab a bite at the concession stand then try to hitch a ride into town. He needed to find a phone.
The line for food looked like it stretched all the way back to Vermont and Roger just didn’t have the heart to join the queue. He leaned against one of those wooden poles with the loud speakers at the top and slid down to the ground.
He had been there for just minutes, staring at the tops of his shoes listening to the
Trying to look in control while thinking of a comeback, Roger released one hand from the fence and down he went. His foot had slipped off the metal rung of the fence and he found himself in the dust at their feet.
Just then, there was a loud rattling bang behind him, followed by four cowboys joining Roger on the ground. The bull in the ring had thrown its rider, lost its footing and crashed into the fence with two thousand pounds of force.
The girls giggled at the sight of five men floundering in the dirt and walked off, their jabbering interrupted only by the occasional chortle. The cowboys got right back up and dusted off. Roger sat there watching the girls trundle off toward the barrel racing ring.
“You’re real lucky you fell off the fence when you did. That bull’s head hit right where you was standing. You’da been stuck for sure,” one of the competitors said in a Texas drawl.
Roger looked up to see the source of the voice. A young man, dressed like the competitors, hat, jeans, denim shirt, boots, and a big number 51 on his back stood over him. Roger recognized him as the kid about his own age standing next to him on the fence. The kid turned and joined the other three cowboys who had already got back up on the fence.
Roger looked back to see where the girls went. Apparently they had saved him from serious injury, maybe even death. He had to find them to say thank you. The bull riding was entertaining but those two were the best sightseeing he had done so far on this vacation. He doubted the Grand Canyon would be as awe-inspiring. So he got up, dusted himself off and with an urgency in his stride, he headed in the direction he had last seen them.
“Fella, yer outta yer league.” Roger looked back to see number 51 looking down from the fence. He gave the cowboy a wave and walked away.
Roger walked the length of the bull riding ring, circled the calf roping enclosure and scanned the grandstand of both events. All the while the announcer’s voice echoed through the grounds. “Let’s have a hand for Tommy” or “That should get the newcomer to the next round.” Roger barely heard any of it. He had a mission, but there was no sign of those girls. He turned toward the concession stand, the line was long. If they were getting anything to eat or drink they would still be in line. Slowly he made his way along the line. Nothing. There were hundreds of people wandering the rodeo. Finding his rescuers would be a needle in a haystack effort.
After three or four laps around the grounds Roger found himself back at Bill’s truck. He decided it was a sign to get back on the road and opened Bill’s horse trailer to retrieve his backpack. What he saw inside made him weak in the knees. He’d left his pack hanging on a hook at the front where the horses head would be. Now, the pack lay open on the floor of the trailer, his belongings strewn around it. He leaped inside, and began to inventory his things. Everything remained but his money. What he now had in his pocket would definitely not be enough to get him home so the canyon was out of the question. He had no choice; he would have to phone home for money. There would be some “I told you so’s”. He knew his parents struggled hard to get their money and he hated asking for more. What choice did he have?
Roger repacked his stuff, and then counted the cash in his pocket. He had less than thirty dollars. He would grab a bite at the concession stand then try to hitch a ride into town. He needed to find a phone.
The line for food looked like it stretched all the way back to Vermont and Roger just didn’t have the heart to join the queue. He leaned against one of those wooden poles with the loud speakers at the top and slid down to the ground.
He had been there for just minutes, staring at the tops of his shoes listening to the
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