“Ja? Where abouts?”
He gawked all around, as if expecting pistoleer angels wearing Stetsons and boots to materialize. Here I was on familiar ground, steering us to the area behind the bucking chutes, knowing that was where anything interesting happened until events in the arena got underway.
? ? ?
BACK THERE in the gathering place between where horse trailers and other vehicles were parked and the pole corral of the arena, it was as busy as could be wished, big-hatted Indian contestants and those from the professional rodeo circuit clustered behind the chutes, working on their riding rigging, fastening their chaps on, joshing one another about how high the bronc they’d drawn would make them fly. Calf ropers were building their loops and making little tosses at nothing. Teenage girl barrel racers exercised their horses, leaving behind increasing islands of manure. In the background, Brahma bulls bawled in the holding pens and saddle broncs snorted and whinnied as they were hazed into the bucking chutes.
Herman and I meandered through, taking in the whole scene as if we were old hands at this, our Green Stamp Stetsons blending right in with the cloud of rodeo hats. This was the best yet, hanging around the “choots,” as Herman called the chutes.
Then I saw it. If I were telling this story from long enough ago, I suppose it would have been the chariot of a god touched golden by the fire of the sun. As it was, the gleaming purple Cadillac convertible parked at the very end of a row of horse trailers and pickups stopped me in my tracks.
“Herman, look at that!” Recovering, I rushed over to the chrome-heavy car with upswept tail fins and peeked in. The seamless leather seat covers were the same deep purple as the exterior. Likewise the floor mats and door panels. And the crowning touch—on the inlaid-wood steering wheel, even the necker knob was that color. I was so excited I was forgetting to breathe. All but certain who had to be the owner of this modern heavenly chariot, I checked the hood ornament.
And yes, wonder of wonders, there it was, exactly according to reputation. The shiny replica of a livestock brand replacing the Cadillac’s stylized flying figure.
? ? ?
“SEE, IT IS!” I gushed to Herman as he came up behind me. “It’s his!”
“Ja?” He eyed the gaudy car as if it was unique, all right. “Whose?”
“Rags Rasmussen’s! The champion bronc rider of the world! He’s the most famous cowboy there is! That’s his brand, he puts it on everything—the Diamond Buckle.” The symbol of his world championships, in other words. “He’s just the greatest,” I attested as Herman puzzled out the hood ornament for himself. “My folks and me saw him ride at the Great Falls fair. I tell you, he turned that horse every way but loose.”
Babbling on like that about what a famous cowboy we were going to be lucky enough to watch in the saddle bronc go-round, I happened to look past Herman and the air sucked out of me as I gasped, “Here he comes!”
Tall and lanky except for squared-off chest and shoulders like the box the rest of him came in, the champ rider was moseying toward us with purple chaps slung over an arm. No one else in the world walks like a real cowboy, a sort of devil-may-care saunter, as if the ground was unfamiliar territory but he was making the best of it. “Would you look at them long legs on Rags,” some admirer over at the chutes remarked. “The Lord took his time when he split him up the middle.”
The object of all attention continued on his way toward the bucking chutes as if cloudwalking, his black boots with the inlaid Diamond Buckle emblem freshly shined, his lavender Stetson spotless, his plum-colored gabardine pants sharply creased. Completing his outfit, I was thrilled to see, was a shirt nearly identical to mine, emphatic purple with a blue yoke and pearl snap buttons. Talk about suave and debonair for real, he carried it on his back in a naturally fitting way that made me wish I was him so hard it hurt.
Blinking along with me at the elegant sight, Herman whispered, “Why is he called Rags?”
“That’s easy. He’s always got his glad rags on when he rides.” Herman still didn’t get it. “Look how dressed up he is.”
“Hah,” he understood and more. “Like a knight, he puts on his best for the tournament, what you mean.”
“The rodeo, you bet,” I confirmed breathlessly. “That makes him the slickest rider there is in every way, see.”
The female population of the rodeo grounds conspicuously thought so, too. Barrel-racing beauties in tight blue jeans and a performing troupe of blond cowgirls astride matching palominos called out flirtatious hellos, no small number of these contingents so-called buckle bunnies, who had an eye for winners. “Later, ladies,” the famous bronc stomper sent them with a lazy smile.