D. Graham - Rank

Cole was hung up.

He was dangling by one arm and Freight Train was slamming him against the fence. I couldn’t move. My mouth went dry and my knees felt as if they were going to give out on me. The image of my dad being hung up flashed. Then I blinked and saw Cole again.

Adrenaline flooded into my veins and snapped me out of my paralysis. I jumped into the arena and ran across the thick soft dirt to the other side, but Freight Train changed directions before I got there. Ron and Tyson headed him off and made him veer away from the fence. Cole was still hung up bad and his legs were getting trampled.

Three more cowboys jumped into the arena, but none of us had experience bullfighting. Tyson was able to release the flank strap. All that did was stop Freight Train from kicking. He was still sprinting around and ramming Cole against the rails. Freight Train came straight at me, so I waved my arms to slow him down. He dropped his head and tried to horn me. I lunged to the left, but he got close enough to brush me. I wasn’t wearing a protective vest, so he tore right through my shirt. When he circled around, I jumped on his shoulder and tried to free Cole’s bull rope. It wasn’t possible to get a good hold of it because the bull jerked in the other direction and took Cole with him, knocking me on my ass.

Before I had a chance to stand up, a palomino horse blew by me at full speed. It was Shae-Lynn riding bareback on her barrel horse, Harley. She raced around the arena to catch up with Freight Train. It took her a few attempts before she was able to manoeuvre her horse to nudge the bull off the rails and pull in alongside. She tried to lift Cole by his Kevlar vest, but she wasn’t strong enough to carry his weight. Cole attempted to kick his leg up onto Harley. His arm hung like it was made of string, though, and he couldn’t get enough momentum. When his legs dropped back down, they got stomped by Harley’s hind hoof.

“Free the rope,” I yelled.

Shae-Lynn leaned over and tugged at the rope, but Freight Train turned into Harley and the jolt almost threw her over the front. Tyson stepped into the sight of the bull to redirect him back. Shae-Lynn repositioned, then tugged at the rope one more time.

Cole fell to the ground.

“Get up,” I shouted as I ran towards where he was lying in the dirt. “Get up!”

Freight Train spun around to face Cole. He snorted air out of his nostrils and hoofed the dirt getting ready to charge. Cole scrambled to his feet and hurried to the fence with his right arm flopping around. I ran between Cole and Freight Train. My plan was to distract him long enough to let Cole get to the fence — I distracted him all right — he forgot all about Cole and stampeded full speed at me before ramming his massive rock hard head into my ribcage.

He lifted his snout and launched me into the air.

After what seemed like eight seconds, gravity kicked in and the ground finally collided with my body, crushing all the air out of my lungs. My throat made a horrible sucking sound, but it didn’t actually pull any oxygen into my chest. I couldn’t move.

“Get up, Billy!” Cole shouted, frantic.

As I stared up at the darkening sky, waiting for my body to start working, I thought about how they were all going to mock me for getting freight trained by Freight Train. I was about to laugh at the irony when a huge hoof slammed down on my cheek.

The left side of my face shattered like a dropped teacup.

At first, everything was silent except for my pulse thudding through my ears. The side of my face felt warm and wet. When my hearing came back, I heard shouting. Then Shae-Lynn whimpered. “Oh my God. Billy.” She knelt beside me and her hand wrapped around mine. “Call an ambulance,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Somebody call an ambulance!” She started crying.

“Oh shit,” Cole said. I couldn’t see him. I could only hear the panic in his voice. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Ty, it’s bad. He’s hurt bad. It looks bad.” He kept his distance because he couldn’t handle the sight of blood. He never could handle it, but it got worse after we both witnessed our dad get killed. “How bad is it?”

Tyson crouched on my other side and took an objective look at my face. He scrunched his nose. “He’s conscious, but his face is caved in.”

“Oh my God. There’s so much blood,” Shae-Lynn whispered. “We have to get him to the hospital.”

“Shae-Lynn,” I tried to say, but it sounded like a gurgle because blood was pooled in the back of my throat. I turned my head and coughed out thick dark red liquid. Unfortunately, the coughing made the broken bones shift around. It hurt real bad. I stuck my fingers in my mouth and pulled out the tobacco along with three teeth. I squeezed her hand. “Make sure he takes his medication.”

“I will. Don’t even worry about anything.”

“That —” I had to cough again. “— was dangerous.”

“Yes, it was. You’re an idiot.”

I tried to smile, but moving my face made blood gush out. “Not me. You.”

“Don’t talk, Billy. Oh God. Cole, do something. He’s bleeding to death.”

“Where’s the damn ambulance?” Cole yelled.

That was the last thing I remembered.

Seven Months Later

I was in my room at my mom’s house messing around on my guitar when Cole opened the door without knocking. He leaned his shoulder on the doorframe and grinned like he was up to something.

“What?”

“Is your bag packed?”

I shook my head, knowing he was going to launch into another round of high school peer pressure tactics to convince me to go on tour with him. “I told you, I’m not going. My vision is still messed up in my left eye.”

He dismissed my excuse with a wave. “The doctor said you’re fine to ride.”

“I think I know if my eye is too messed up to ride better than she does.”

His posture collapsed into phase two of his pressure tactic, which was whining. “Come on, Billy. Don’t be a buzz kill. What are you going to do around here until September?”

“Work and take care of Mom,” I said for likely the millionth time since I told him I was retiring.

“We can hire a nurse for Mom. You’ll make more money on the circuit than what you make at the bar.” Logic. Phase three.

“Hank Pollert needs a ranch hand. I told him I could help out during the week, so I’ll be making two incomes.”

“You don’t want to be stuck here all summer doing that.”

“You’re going to be stuck here all summer doing that, too. Your shoulder is still too messed up to ride.”

“What are you talking about?” He patted his arm roughly to prove its sturdiness. “It’s as good as new.”

“You haven’t even been on a bull in seven months.”

“I’ve been training.”

“On saddle Broncs and mechanical barrels. It’s not the same. You’ll go one go on a bull and be done for the season.”

“Come with me just this weekend. If I get tossed, you can come home. If I win, we go on tour.”

Bargaining. That was an angle he hadn’t tried before. He must have been getting desperate. Not interested, I strummed the strings of my guitar. “No thanks.”

“You weren’t really serious about quitting, were you?”

“I didn’t quit. I retired.”

“You can’t retire. You’re twenty years old.”

“Well, I did.”

“Fine. You can be retired from bull riding and still come with me as my manager.”

“No.”

“I got a surprise for you. Look out the window.” He held the curtain back and pointed like a hyper kid.

When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to leave unless I looked, I rested my guitar on the bed and walked over to the window. Attached to the back of his pickup was a silver camper.