Smoke (22 page)

Drew clapped her hands, eager to watch the race while Ralph got up, climbed past Immy, and went to fetch some cotton candy.

“Pink,” Immy called after him. “Not blue.” She didn’t care what color, but Drew would only eat pink and she’d end up sharing it with her. And Mother.

* * *

The calf roping was finished and the boys and girls doing the mutton bust had been called down to the waiting area.

“We’d better get you cleaned, up,” said Immy to Drew. “The Pig Scramble is next.” They hurried to the restroom to dissolve some of the sticky cotton-candy sugar off Drew’s face and hands.

“I hafta have clean hands to catch a pig, huh.” Drew rubbed her hands vigorously under the stream of cold water, the only kind the sink put out. She managed to get a lot of water on her shirt and shorts, and on the floor. Immy swiped the puddle with some paper towels and they rushed to the back of the arena.

They were in plenty of time since there were still five more mutton busters to go, all small boys. Three girls had ridden this year, though. They were all eight or under, the age limit for that event. Immy hoped Drew wouldn’t want to mutton bust when she was a little older. She’d seen kids get hurt doing it.

The next boy put on his helmet and his dad made sure it was adjusted properly. A wrangler picked the boy up and, at almost the same moment the gate opened, set the boy onto the bare back of the adult sheep. The child had nothing but wool to hang onto and lasted about two seconds on the animal’s back. As soon as the sheep and the boy were out of the ring, the next one went. The clowns kept busy during this event, plucking the boys off as they slipped sideways or grabbing them when they fell to the ground, saving them from the sharp hooves of the frightened sheep.

When the last mutton buster finished, the crowd waited for the announcement of the winner. After third and second place were announced, a boy from Wymee Falls walked to the center of the ring and got his ribbon for staying on the back of his sheep for all of five seconds, the best time in the event.

Then it was time for the Pig Scramble. When the piglet handlers released the little squealers into the chute, the children, including Drew, tucked burlap sacks into their waistbands and went to stand on the opposite end of the arena.

The announcer raised his voice. “Are you ready, kids? Here they come!”

Squealing piglets streamed across the sandy surface. The kids ran towards them. Immy climbed up the fence next to the chutes so she could see better.

The little porkers were fast. Some of the children were faster, but most ran far behind the pigs. Each kid picked out a pig to concentrate on. Drew managed to trap hers in a corner.

“One minute left,” said the announcer.

“Hold on! You got it!” screamed Immy. “Grab the leg!”

Drew got it by the leg. The piglet squirmed, but Drew held tight.

“Keep it, Drew! Get the sack on it!”

Immy kept yelling and, after several tries, Drew managed to get her sack over the small head.

“Don’t let go yet!”

The roar of the onlookers was deafening, further frightening the pigs and making the ones still loose run even faster. The running children were starting to pant.

“Thirty seconds,” said the timekeeper.

But Drew still clung to the hind leg of her pig. Immy yelled louder to make herself heard over the din.

Drew inched the sack up the wriggling body until it was half way in. At that point, a clown showed up and finished the job. He stuffed the rest of it into the sack, tied the top, and handed it to Drew. She gave him a huge smile and tried to lift the sack.

The timekeeper started calling the last few seconds. Parents screamed at their kids even louder and the kids put on a last burst of speed, trying to catch up to the energized pigs.

In the end, about half the kids had pigs.

One of the clowns walked Drew out of the ring carrying her sack for her and handed it to Immy.

Drew saw Zack right when Immy did. He stood next to them, outside the arena, waiting for Tinnie, Immy guessed, who hadn’t stayed near the chute. He burst into tears.

“Oh, Zack,” Immy said, squatting down to his level. He hadn’t gotten a piglet. “Your mommy will be here in a minute.”

“I diddun get a pig,” Zack wailed.

“It’s okay,” said Drew. “You can have mine.”

When the children bagged a pig, it was theirs to keep, or it could be donated back to the rodeo if they didn’t have a place for it. Immy had assumed they would donate this one back, since they already had Marshmallow.

Immy was impressed with her daughter’s kind generosity. “That’s a good thought, Drew,” she said. “But we’d better see if Zack’s mommy will let him keep it. Or if Zack wants it.”

“Do you?” Drew asked.

Zack looked from Drew to the wiggling sack Immy held. His tears seemed to dry right up.

Tinnie arrived and Zack ran to greet her. He asked if he could keep Drew’s pig.

She didn’t answer for a few seconds, eyeing the animated sack with a dubious expression. “This isn’t a pig like Gretchen, honey.”

“I know. It’s a tiny wittle pig.”

“Yes, but it will get great, great big.”

“I wike gweat big pigs,” Zack said, “gweat, gweat big,” spreading his arms to indicate a “gweat big pig”.

Immy and Tinnie both chuckled.

To Immy’s surprise, Tinnie said he could keep it. “But let’s see if we can leave it in the pen until the rodeo’s over.”

“Move outta the way, ladies.”

Immy looked up to see a trailer containing a bull. The four of them, with the piglet, got far out of the way. Bull riding was next.

Chapter 20

Immy felt awkward standing outside the arena, next to Tinnie while Drew and Zack talked about his new pig. Especially since she suspected Tinnie of killing her own husband. After all, Tinnie had been right there when Rusty was killed—that gave her opportunity. She’d been spitting mad about his affairs—motive. Weapon? The drugs? What about where he ended up? She could have hauled him into the smokehouse after he was drugged, but she probably couldn’t have lifted him onto the hook. Unless she was fueled by anger and adrenaline. Immy had heard they did powerful things to a person.

The breeze stirred a dust devil at her feet.

Then there was Poppy. Tinnie wasn’t the one who had driven her to the motel. No, that was certainly Vern Linder. But what if Tinnie and Vern were in cahoots? Vern could have gotten the drugs, he could have helped Tinnie lift Rusty’s body, and she knew he drove Poppy to Cowtail’s Finest. Maybe he drove Poppy there after Tinnie had killed her.

Immy swiped at the sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand and edged a little farther away from Tinnie, who had summoned a wrangler to take the piglet.

Immy watched the handlers unload the bull into the chute and heard the first ride announced. This wasn’t her favorite event. The bulls, even though the tips of their horns were wrapped, were intent on trying to kill the cowboys after they fell off and some succeeded in doing quite a bit of injury. The bull riders wore protective vests, but could still get trampled and severely injured.

“Zack, you wanna see the bulls?” said Drew. She looked at her mother. “Can we?”

The rest of the animals for the bull riding event were penned about thirty feet away. Bulls can’t be all put together in a ring like a lot of other rodeo animals. They don’t like each other and will start fighting when they’re confined together. So they were kept in separate pens just before the rides. The pens were bigger than the chutes so the bulls could move around comfortably before they had to be squeezed into the chutes. Immy shuddered when she thought about the close quarters of the chutes.

Drew hadn’t waited for an answer. Immy hurried to catch up with the youngsters. Tinnie finished talking to the wrangler about stowing her new pig and followed sedately.

By the time Immy reached them, Drew was halfway up the side of a pen, climbing the wooden slats. Zack was right behind her, a few rungs down. The bull lifted his head and watched.

“Drew, don’t climb up on—”

Time slowed as Immy saw Drew balance on the top slat. Saw the bull aim his horns at Drew. Saw Drew reach a hand out to the beast. Saw the bull lower his great head and butt the fence below Drew.

Zack dropped onto the dirt.

Drew tottered, lost her balance. Fell into the pen.

Someone was screaming.

Drew was screaming. Immy was screaming.

The bull, his head lowered, turned his body sideways and swung his head back and forth. Those tiny eyes grew bigger and harder and meaner.

As Drew’s body fell, nearing the ground and the bull’s hooves, Immy shot forward, arms stretched toward her daughter.

She was jostled aside, caught a whiff of whiskey breath.

Sonny Squire. Sonny clambered halfway up the fence.

Immy was shoved aside again, harder this time.

Kyle Joe, Betsy’s bull rider.

Kyle Joe was over the fence, scooped Drew up, and was back, setting her onto her feet, before Immy could close her mouth and lower her outstretched arms.

Sonny looked down, perplexed, and slowly climbed to the ground.

“How…what…oh my god,” stammered Immy. “Thank you so much, Kyle Joe. Drew, are you all right?”

The bull pawed the dirt, gave a couple snorts, then raised his head and turned his attention elsewhere. Sonny reeled, then regained his balance. He got a hip flask from his back pocket and took a long draw.

Drew clutched Immy around the legs and wailed.

“How did you get out of there without getting gored?” Immy asked Kyle Joe.

“That bull wasn’t ready to charge yet, ma’am,” he said. The cowboy hadn’t even lost his hat.

“How do you know?”

“He had his body sideways to your young ’un. When they’re ready to charge they turn to face you.”

Betsy appeared at his side. “Ain’t he SOMETHIN’?” She bumped her upper arm against his.

Immy thought the bull might have been able to change directions pretty quick. But Drew was safe, along with everyone else. That was all that mattered.

“They don’t make up their minds in a powerful hurry,” said Kyle Joe, seeming to read her mind.

“Well, thank you for saving Drew’s life.”

“No problem.”

Betsy put her hand, tipped with blood red talons, on Kyle Joe’s thick arm. Immy felt a stirring inside. If only Betsy weren’t here, she thought.

The announcer called Kyle Joe’s name and he hurried away, Betsy in his wake.

Immy agreed with Betsy. Kyle Joe was somethin’.

* * *

Tinnie picked Zack up and dusted him off. He joined Drew’s crying chorus for the climax, then they both tapered off to gulping whimpers.

Sonny pocketed his flask and patted his grandson on the head. He, Tinnie, and Zack left with Tinnie carrying Zack while Sonny supported her by the elbow. Or maybe, Immy thought, he was supporting himself.

“Was that bull going to hurt me?” asked Drew.

“I think he might have,” Immy answered.

“He’s a bad bull.”

“No, sugar, he’s just a bull. They’re all like that.”

“They all are mean?”

“They don’t much like people falling into their pens. It scares them.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, you know what being scared is like, don’t you?”

“No, that.” Drew pointed to a dull metal object on the ground. “That gun.” She moved toward it and reached her hand out.

“No! Don’t touch it!” Immy thought, furiously fast. Where had it come from? Either Sonny or Kyle Joe must have dropped it climbing the fence. Probably not Kyle Joe, since he was riding a bull any minute now. Immy heard the loudspeaker announce the release and the crowd started cheering for him.

She had to retrieve the pistol. She picked it up by the barrel and tucked it into the outer compartment of her purse where she kept her sunglasses, presently resting on her nose.

So probably Sonny Squire. He did usually carry a sidearm. Immy’s mind kept racing, top speed. Rusty said he killed his wife’s pig. He told Vern that, according to Amy JoBeth. But Tinnie had said Rusty and her father, Sonny, had been out target shooting together that night. What if this was the gun they’d been using? Immy thought it would be worthwhile to run ballistics on it, since she had the bullets she’d dug out of Gretchen.

Now how was she going to get a ballistics test?

Her first thought, while picking it up, had been to preserve fingerprints.

Her second thought was that, since the gun belonged to Sonny, his prints were likely on it.

Her third thought was that she didn’t want hers on it. So she took a tissue from the main compartment of her purse and wiped off the barrel where she’d picked up the gun.

“What is transpiring?” Hortense rushed to Drew, breathless, and wrapped her arms around the child. “I learned, from the Squire family, of a disturbance in the bovine enclosure.”

“I fell in,” said Drew, her voice muffled by her grandmother’s upper arm. “A big, strong man got me out.”

“True,” said Immy. “A bull rider named Kyle Joe.”

Immy heard the crowd roar and the announcer yell, “Eight seconds!” A loud buzzer sounded. Good for Kyle Joe. He’d stayed on eight seconds, which meant a complete ride. He’d be in competition for first place.

“How did she fall in from here?” asked Hortense.

“She climbed up the fence before I could stop her, Mother.”

“Mommy told me, don’t do that.”

“Mommy is correct,” said Hortense.

“I wanna go home and see Marshmallow,” wailed Drew.

“That is an excellent proposal.” Hortense picked Drew up and they left the rodeo early.

* * *

The next day was Sunday, but, judging from all the Saltlickians Immy saw at the rodeo that morning, she’d bet Holiness Baptist Church was nearly empty. Her favorite event, saddle bronc, had started and she sat with Hortense and Drew in the stands, waiting for the chute gate to spring open for the next contender.

Drew slurped a lemonade loudly but neither Immy nor Hortense corrected her, since it was likely no one but those two could hear the child above the crowd.

The horse leapt out of the gate and the cowboy flopped back and forth as the animal tried to get the dang thing off its back. The first rider barely made two seconds. Very disappointing. But the next rider up was last year’s champion. This ought to be a good ride, Immy thought, scooting forward on the bench seat.