Craig Johnson: Divorce Horse

Pogo-hopping on one foot, the young man was scrambling to get both legs up, but with only about a hundred feet to go, it looked like he only had maybe two hops left.

He wasn’t going to make it.

It was so evident that he wasn’t going to make it that I reached for Cady’s hand in an attempt to distract her from what appeared to be Jefferson’s imminent death. Her hand was already reaching behind her for mine, and I felt her grip as Tommy post-holed one miraculous stamp on the ground and barely slithered past the abutment, his calf grazing the steel fence.

The crowd, which I thought might’ve exhausted itself, went ballistic. All four thousand were standing as Tommy rounded the far corner and actually appeared to be gaining on the Coleville rider, the rest of the field a far third.

Through the back straight, I could see the warbonnet of the Spokane Indian traveling across the ground as if by magic, levitated above the infield and the far railing at close to forty miles an hour. But there was a vengeance that followed him, a Crow centaur who rounded the far corner and blew into the straight like an arrow. You could see Tommy’s head tucked into the horse’s mane, allowing them the most aerodynamic advantage, or maybe it was the whispering of the Indian’s voice that carried them along like Crow chain-lightning.

The Spokane rider, feeling the breath on the back of his neck, turned to get a glimpse of his pursuer, and when he did, the warbonnet he wore inverted, the eagle feathers tunneling around his face like shaft-shaped blinders. His arm came up to catch it at the crucial moment when they turned the near curve, which caused the Appaloosa to go wide and miss the apex.

Tommy, taking full advantage, veered his pony to the inside, and the two were neck and neck.

From our ground-level viewpoint, it looked as if they were headed straight toward us, and as they drew to the corner it appeared as if the Colville rider had the advantage. When they rounded the curve nearest us, though, Tommy made up the distance on the inside, and they were once again running as if the two horses were in traces.

They crossed the finish line, no one able to tell which horse, the chestnut or the Appaloosa, had finished in first place. We had to take the judge’s word on it.

Tommy had lost by a nose.

Henry turned to look at our little group. “It was not for lack of trying.”

“No.” I spoke to Ken. “How long till the next race?”

“Oh, it’s a good hour. They’re doing the Fancy Dance competition down here in front of the grandstand as soon as they pick up the poop and smooth the track over with the grader.”

“Can we cut across to the infield and talk with Tommy?”

“If you give me a dollar.” He smiled. Then he opened the gate and ushered us through.

Saizarbitoria was waiting on the other side. “Did you guys see that?”

I nodded. “I guess he had at least one life left, huh?”

He fell in step as we approached the heated conversation going on over by the announcer’s tower, the gist of which was that Tommy was going to burn the announcer’s booth down with flaming arrows if the judges didn’t change their opinion as to which horse had crossed the finish line first.

Tommy’s demeanor was amplified by his leg, which was bleeding and streaking the chartreuse war paint he still wore. “You fuckin’ Indians are trying to rob me!”

So much for Native American discrimination.

“Now, Tommy, calm down. .”

The Colville Agency, far from home and deep in enemy territory, had wisely chosen not to attend the unofficial inquest, so the two camps in contention were Tommy and his muggers-two men almost a big as Henry and me-and the three judges, one of whom was giving extra attention to the rules since he was Tommy’s uncle.

The head judge, Richard New Grass, glanced over his nephew’s shoulder at me, and perhaps more important, at Henry. He nodded at the Bear and turned his attention back to the agitated rider. “It was an electronic finish, Tommy; there’s nothing we can do about it. The Colville rider won fair and square, and that’s all there is to it.” Tipping his trademark black cowboy hat back on his head, Richard turned his patrician face toward me, effectively ignoring his nephew. “Can I help you, Sheriff?”

“I understand there’s been a robbery? Something about a horse?”

Tommy danced himself between us and jerked his head in emphasis with every word. “You’re damn right there’s been a robbery-these sons-a-bitches are tryin’ to take this race away from me.”

Tommy made a dramatic display and turned on the heels of his moccasins, ignoring his uncle and walking between Henry and me toward Cady, who had been standing behind us. “And not only do these damn Indians steal the race, but one of my best horses is gone.”

The muggers walked off to wipe down the sweat-marked horses. I shrugged at Richard and the rest of the judges, but they were leaving as well, most likely relieved to be rid of the New Grass entourage.

Tommy was walking with Cady, and they were both laughing-and I had the feeling I was about to lose a point.

At the outside edge of the infield, they walked past a trailer that was attached to a white Dodge half-ton painted with the green stripes of the New Grass team, next to an event tent festooned with the banners of the team’s sponsors, most prominently BUCKING BUFFALO SUPPLY COMPANY, HARDIN BAIL BONDS, and H-BAR HATS. There were a number of energy drinks and sodas in a fifty-gallon cooler, and, after a few plunges into the ice, Tommy finally pulled out three power drinks, one for Cady and one each for Henry and me. “Here, supplied by one of my sponsors.”

Cady handed hers back. “Do you have diet?”

Tommy sighed. “That shit’s bad for you.” And retrieved a bottle of water. “All I got.” Then he scooped off his coyote headdress, threw himself into a lawn chair, and looked down at his bloody calf. “Oh, man. .” He stuck out his tongue in play exhaustion and exhaled a quick breath toward Henry. “Hey, throw me one of those horse bandages, would you?”

Henry did as requested and even wrapped the leg of the young athlete. “I am sorry you lost.”

Tommy shook his head. “Just for show-we won the first heat and Colville came in seventh. We were second in this one, so all we have to do is place higher than they do by less than that in the next heat and we win it all. Lots of money riding on this one-could keep us going into next year’s competition.” He reached over and slapped the Cheyenne Nation’s shoulder as Henry taped up the rider’s bandage. “Gotta keep these Indians honest, right Bear?”

I watched as the Cheyenne Nation stood, but stooped a little and appeared to be looking closely at Tommy’s face. “So they tell me.”

Tommy, aware he was being inspected, grinned widely. “Haaho . New teeth.”

Henry nodded. “I thought so.”

“Big Horn County Jail. The meth ate them out, so they gave me new ones.” His hands stroked his arms and then brushed against each other in a demonstration of purification. “I’m clean.” His head bobbed and his eyes darted to Cady. “Damn, you look good, girl. Hey, you know I’m free, right?”

Her face looked sad when she responded. “That’s what I heard.”

“Yeah, it was a long winter.” Jefferson glanced at me, obviously embarrassed at the episodes that had included the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department and assorted Durant officials. “I still miss her, you know?”

Cady nodded and stood next to his camp chair. “Yeah.”

Tommy looked up at her. “How about you, are you seeing anybody?”

I got the glance as she showed him the ring. “Yeah, I’m engaged to a guy back in Philadelphia-Dad’s undersheriff’s brother.”