The Winslow Incident (8 page)

The audience cheered and whistled.

Indigo chuffed and snorted in his
chute as the bull rider lowered himself onto the animal’s broad back. Hazel had
heard someone in the Crock say that he was an out-of-town cowboy trying his
luck with this bull of some reputation; none of the local ranch hands would
ride him twice.

After the cowboy adjusted his
rope, he gripped it hard with his gloved right hand. His left arm hung balanced
in the air. When he nodded to Old Pete, the chute gate flew open.

In a clang of cowbells the bull
shot straight up before he slammed down and out of the chute, whipping the
cowboy back and forth. In defiance of his incredible bulk Indigo bucked high
again and the cowboy’s feet flew into the air. Somehow the cowboy recovered and
held on.

Going on three seconds now, it
looked as though the cowboy was about to break the infamous record when all of
a sudden Indigo cracked his tremendous body sideways and simply shuddered to a
stop, leaning precariously as if gravity might get the better of him and send
him crashing to the dirt.

After a moment the bull lurched
forward, taking each step gingerly as if he weren’t certain the ground would
hold him. Hazel and Sean exchanged stunned looks while the audience dropped
dead silent.

Clearly unsure as to what to do,
the cowboy remained on the bull but looked nervously around the ring while the
animal continued its slow, cautious advance.

Weaving around in his clown
barrel, Zachary danced in front of Indigo, occasionally darting closer to kick
the bull on the rump, trying to provoke the creature into more spirited action.
When even that didn’t work, Old Pete rode up on horseback and pulled the cowboy
off the bull. Zachary then scrambled the confused man off the field while Old
Pete headed toward the stage to consult with Pard, who had shut off the mic but
could still be heard shouting, “What the hell is going on?”

Hazel looked to the front of the
stage where her dad suddenly seemed smaller . . . and much farther away. In the
silence it struck her how bright everything appeared; how exposed the fifteen-hundred-pound
bull looked standing stock-still now in the stark sunlight.

And then Indigo’s legs began to
shake.

Alarmed murmurs rose from the
crowd, like sound sleepers woken in the dead of night.

“Oh, no,” Hazel whispered. The
bull was trembling exactly as the red cow had yesterday before she crumpled to
the grass. Watching the solid bull shake, Hazel feared the whole mountaintop
just might crash down on their heads next.

She looked at Sean, who was
shaking his head as if to say,
This is
not
good.

“Sit tight, folks,” Pard commanded
from the stage. “We’ve got it handled.”

Old Pete rode up behind Indigo and
the bull twisted around, lowered his massive head, and lined up his horns with
the oncoming horse. Kenny Clark came at the bull from the side and tossed his
rope, but he overshot the horns and the rope looped around the animal’s neck
instead. Rather than drop the rope, Kenny pulled it tight. Though his rope was
clearly digging into the bull’s neck, he pulled even tighter. Then another
ranch hand charged in from the opposite direction and roped the bull by the
horns.

After Pete repositioned his horse
behind Indigo, Kenny and the other cowboy turned their horses hard, yanking the
bull forward while Pete hounded his haunches, and the horses began to pull
Indigo off the field in a bawl of protest.

Shouts of outrage erupted from the
bleachers. Many stood and craned their necks. And a collective gasp sucked all
the air out of the park when Indigo’s front legs buckled and his powerful chest
hit the dirt. His back legs gave out next and his body collapsed to the ground
in an explosion of dust.

Even then, the cowboys did not
release the ropes. Instead, they dug in their spurs, urging the horses on,
dragging the bull by the horns and the neck.

“Sheriff oughta do something,”
Hazel heard a man say. She looked at her father, who stood uncharacteristically
paralyzed. Only his eyes moved, following the bull.

Blood wept from Indigo’s neck
where rope chafed flesh and the bull twisted and struggled to get to his feet
with those cowbells still clanging like mad.

Clown Zachary danced in front of
the bleachers, trying to distract the audience, failing to accomplish anything
except look like the complete idiot that he was.

Hazel glanced around at the crowd.
It was clear that while they knew the bull wasn’t right, they also felt this
treatment was very wrong. Boos and empty beer cups rained down on the field
until the audience finally lost sight of the bull behind the corral. But
everyone could still hear Indigo bellowing.

A shot cracked, and after the
horses whinnied, all was quiet again.

Until Pard Holloway’s voice boomed
in the stunned silence. “Everything’s fine, folks. Stay where you are.”

But people were leaving, heading
down the bleacher aisles toward the exit, grumbling and tossing trash.

“Hold on,” Pard ordered. “We’ll
just take a quick break here. Get things tidied up. So go ahead and grab a cold
one but get right back to your seats. Saddle bronc riding is up next.”

It was no use; Hazel could see it
on their faces. Everyone felt hot and unsettled, and the animals were beginning
to smell rank.

Sean turned to her. “That was fucking
harsh.”

“Yeah . . .” She looked first at
him, then at the stage where her dad still stood dumbstruck.

And a strange look crossed
Patience’s face right before she shot forward and vomited all over the stage,
splashing the outfit she’d fussed over for weeks along with the Sheriff’s shiny
shoes.

“Oh, my God,” Hazel gasped. “What’s
wrong with Patience?”

Sean made a disgusted sound before
running the back of his hand across his mouth. “I hope it’s not catching.”

Beside Hazel, Tilly complained, “I
feel sick too.”

“It’s that Holloway beef,” Tilly’s
husband Kohl Thacker said loud and clear. “Heard his animals have come down
sick at the ranch.”

Tiny Clemshaw stopped next to the
Thackers in the aisle, gesturing at them to keep it down. Then discreetly, as
if he didn’t want the passing tourists to overhear, he leaned in and said,
“It’s worse than that.” He glanced at the tourists again before adding: “I’m no
friend of Holloway’s, but we best keep this to ourselves, you know, for all of our
sakes.”

Hazel turned to Sean and silently
mouthed, “They know.” Relief washed over her. Though it didn’t bode well for
her uncle, at least now she no longer had to hide what she knew.

But then a cold fist clenched her
heart. Taking Sean by the hand, she whispered, “
How
do they know?”

His eyes widened.

And Hazel shuddered in sudden
panic. “Will Pard blame this on us?”

A
s soon as Rose Peabody swung open the door,
Winslow locals piled in and filled all of the Crock’s thirty-odd seats. Nearly
everybody ordered catwiches: Owen Peabody’s famous fresh-fried catfish
sandwiches.

Left with an hour’s wait for a
table in the Crock, most of the tourists decided to head out of town and grab a
bite down Yellow Jacket Pass in Stepstone Valley. Those with more pressing
hunger wandered back to Prospect Park and the Holloway Ranch barbecue tent,
where they ate beans and brownies and Maggie Clark’s cornbread. Nobody felt
much like eating burgers.

O
utside the Mother Lode Saloon, Hazel parked her
motorcycle next to the other two—horse-style in front of the hitching
post. The waxing moon slung low over Silver Hill illuminated the tumbledown
buildings on Prospectors Way, while the stagnant air trapped the day’s heat.
Still feeling disturbed over all that had happened at the rodeo, Matherston
seemed to Hazel—for the first time—genuinely ghosty.

She scooted off her bike and
hustled up to the boardwalk, worried that dallying would enable a pack of ghouls
to descend upon her as surely as a swarm of mosquitoes.

Unlike
downtown Winslow’s ornate Italianate architecture, the old miner’s section of
town consisted of simple wood-frame structures bleached gray by the sun. Some
of the buildings leaned left, some right, or as with Holloway Harness and the
Chop House Restaurant, caved in straight down the middle. Long-faded signs and
advertisements had been painted directly onto siding and overhangs.

Hank’s
Boarding House

Hot Baths ~ 10¢

Towel & Soap Free

No fussing or mussing here
, Hazel thought as she pushed her way through the saloon’s
batwing doors. Matherston had been all about business, once: mining and
assaying, shoeing horses and repairing wagons, and the serious business of
boozing, gambling and whoring.

Hazel
joined Sean, Patience and Tanner at the long pine bar, where a hand-painted
sign above the rifle rack ordered:

Check all Guns with Bartender

Sean lit a lantern with his lighter
while Tanner doled out warmish cans of beer.

Holding a can toward Patience, Tanner
said, “Quite a show you put on today.” When she didn’t take the beer, he
slammed the can onto the bar and slid it her way. “Drink up—carbonation
helps when you’re sick to your stomach.”

She groaned and pushed the can
away.

“You’re one to talk, Tanner,”
Hazel said. “Who made a bigger ass out of himself today, really?”

He scowled. “I don’t want to talk
about it.”

“Okay, so quit hassling her.” She
turned to Patience. “How do you feel now?”

“Better. Not great.” Putting a
hand to her forehead, she tilted back her head and in an overdone southern
accent declared, “Ah’m sufferin’ a toucha the vapors.”

Hazel laughed.
“Seriously—did you eat something that made you sick?”

“I’m not sure. It could’ve been
the heat and the smells and Indigo screaming like that.” Patience sighed in
disgust. “I still can’t believe I barfed in front of our whole town.”

Tanner slowly shook his head.
“Eating a burger was a big mistake. Why’d you do it?”

“She didn’t.” Sean sounded fed up.
“Veggie burger, maybe.”

“I don’t eat anything that has a
face,” Patience said.

Hazel had been weighing whether or
not to broach the subject with Tanner. Finally, she said, “I wonder how
everybody in town found out about the cattle so quick.”

Tanner stared at her as if she
were dense. Then he stuck his finger on her upper chest. “Um, that would be . .
. you.” Hazel’s heart stuttered as his hand moved past her to point at Sean.
“And you.”

Sean smacked his hand away.
“Bullshit.”

Patience shrank back as if worried
the accusatory finger would taint her next.

“Does Uncle Pard think that?”
Hazel asked, her heart refusing to settle into a steady beat.

“Hell if I know.” Tanner was
scrutinizing her face. “You didn’t blab?”

“No.” She grabbed the sleeve of
his t-shirt. “So don’t
ever
say that we did.”

“Why didn’t you?” He flicked away
her hand, then narrowed his eyes at her. “What’s Uncle Pard got on you, anyhow?”

Hazel avoided looking at Sean and
Patience, avoided speaking the name that echoed in her mind: Hawkin Rhone.
Instead, she said, “He told us he’d have us drawn and quartered if we said a
word. And scatter our body parts around the pasture for a vulture feast.” She
shrugged unconvincingly. “He’ll do whatever it takes to protect his ranch.”

“No kidding. I can’t believe they
shot Indigo,” Tanner said with zero emotion. “Wish they’d shoot that gluebag
Blackjack next.”

Patience rubbed her hands up and
down her bare arms as if she felt cold, only it was still at least ninety
degrees out. “What’s the matter with all the cows anyway?”

“Who knows?” Tanner said. “And who
cares?” He popped open another beer.

Hazel took a long swig from her
own, hoping the alcohol would dull the edge on her increasingly sharp dread.
“Doc Simmons hasn’t figured out what’s wrong yet?”

“Nope. He was poking around the
pasture all morning. Picking weeds and scooping up shit.” Tanner chucked his
can through an empty window frame. “Why doesn’t somebody just bulldoze this
whole crappy place?”

“Can’t do that.” Patience blinked
hard, as if incredulous that he’d even suggest it. “Where would the spirits
go?”

“What spirits?”

“Don’t ask,” Hazel said, grateful
for the change to a less frightening subject.

“Dead miners.” Sean seemed
relieved too. “Badass sonofabitch ghosts. You do not wanna mess with ’em.
Believe me.”

“Screw those dead miners.” Tanner
wrenched off a piece of wood from the lip of the bar and pretended to throw it
toward the casket-sized mirror hanging on the opposite side.