Buckles

It all came down to buckles. That was how Caleb saw it. Grandpa still wore his 1972 state championship calf-roping buckle. Dad wore his college bull-riding buckle. When cowboys got together, they tacitly displayed their rodeo prowess and past glories by their buckles. Momma called them cowboy calling cards. Buckleless, Caleb wore a lot of untucked T-shirts.

Sitting on the fence, he watched his little sister, Misty, practicing her barrel racing in the family’s homemade arena. Blaze, her horse, thundered around cans, flying hooves trailing dirt clods and dust as she navigated the cloverleaf pattern of barrels with speed and precision.

Misty’s long, blonde mane fanned out from under her hat and behind her. Girl and horse worked closely together, each hypersensitive to the other’s signals. Dad watched his daughter with pride.

“I’m telling you, that girl’s a cinch for the Junior Barrel Championship this year. Heck, I’d be surprised if the WPRA didn’t invite her to Waco for the world finals this November.”

He patted his son on the shoulder, a not-so-subtle jab at Caleb’s recent misfortune in the arena. Already a senior in high school, Caleb didn’t need to be told he was running out of time. He wanted to attend his dad’s alma mater, but that would require winning a scholarship.

Their ranch was modest by Texas standards, most of it scrubland. Grandpa and Dad had always managed to eke out a subsistence living from the land, but that didn’t cover luxuries like college. It also didn’t cover bucking machines or rodeo clinics.

Fortunately, the barn had an exercise room where both Caleb and Misty could lift weights, do cardio and core workouts.

Momma had scrimped and saved enough money to buy Caleb a mountain bike, which he rode around the ranch to build stamina. There were times when he dreamt of ditching horses and rodeos and becoming a cyclist.

As if reading his thoughts, Dad observed, “You need to put in more time on the spur board. Your riding is fine—it’s your technique that needs work, son. Trust me, that’s what wins purses.”

Nodding in agreement, Caleb watched Misty and Blaze finish their run. Dad tapped the stopwatch.

“Not bad, baby girl, not bad at all. You keep riding like that, and you’ll be the queen of the WPRA.”

He pushed his hat back on his head and rewarded his daughter with a big smile. Caleb gave his little sister a thumbs-up and climbed down from the fence. There was still time to put in some work on the spur board before helping Dad feed the cows.

The next morning at breakfast, Dad was predicting Misty’s upcoming laurels when Momma observed, “Just the other day at the grocery store, Mrs. Haley was saying how the McElroys have always been champions, and now with Caleb and Misty, this family is going to be rodeo royalty.”

She beamed at her family. Giving his mother a peck on the cheek, Caleb left to cycle and check fence lines.

Pedaling down the narrow two-lane county road, Caleb heard the car approaching before he could make it out in the shimmering heat waves radiating off the asphalt. Seconds later, a red Corvette LT2 sped towards him, bass speakers booming a rap song.

As the car pulled alongside, he saw Rory Ashford behind the wheel and in the seat next to him, Ruby Preston. She had been Caleb’s girlfriend, but the temptation to ride around in a hundred-thousand-dollar sports car had proven too hard to resist.

Coming to a stop, Rory’s lips twisted in a lop-sided grin. He pushed a button, lowering his window.

“Maybe one of these days you can afford something with a motor, McElroy.”

Ruby giggled from the passenger seat.

The sound waves emanating from Rory’s car made Caleb’s chest feel like his bones and internal organs were vibrating. Pretending deafness, he cupped an ear and shook his head.

“Yeah, right. See ya around, loser.”

“Rory revved the motor and sped away, tires squealing, leaving a cloud of dust and grit in his wake.

Rory’s father, Chuck, had allowed an oil company to drill and frack on his land, making their family overnight millionaires. Other ranchers, inspired by his windfall, were talking about leasing the mineral rights on their properties.

Grandpa had scowled when he heard the news.

“The old code is fading away—greed has taken over the world.”

The McElroys had been approached by oil executives eager to cash in on the crude beneath their feet, but father and son had rejected all offers, holding to a creed of conserving the land.

Caleb was cycling again when the Sunset Limited passed him, headed west to Los Angeles. Tourists gawked at him from their windows, some taking photos with their cell phones.

Sometimes he wondered what it was like to ride the rails, chasing the sun to a land of palm trees and endless beaches.

As he was returning home, he met Misty, taking Blaze for an amble around the yard to let the horse warm up its muscles before training.

“Think Blaze will be ready Saturday?”

“Shoot, yeah. You going to be there to watch us compete?”

“Of course. McElroys stick together.”

After parking his bike, Caleb was about to report to his father when Momma yelled, “You’ve got a call, Caleb!”

Wiping the dust off his hands, he strode into the house.

It was his best friend, Ethan Lowry.

“What's up?”

“Hey, bud, remember I told you about that guy I met who works for the PRCA? Well, turns out he runs the program that assigns horses to riders. And check this out – he’s in a bind for money to keep his new pickup. Just got married, bought a house, and now he’s overextended himself.”

“What’s all that got to do with me?”

“Well, for a small, phenomenal fee, you could pick your horse for the Comanche Springs competition. It’s strictly a one-off deal. What do ya say, cowboy, you in?”

Caleb tried to rein in his racing thoughts. A win at the Fort Stockton rodeo could earn him a place at the Texas High School finals in Abilene in June. Likewise, getting caught cheating would not only disqualify him, it could also end his career. He exhaled heavily.

“How much?”

“He needs $750. I know it’s a bite, but if anyone ever found out…”

Ethan let the implied consequences trail off, unspoken.

The bribe would put a big dent in Caleb’s savings.

“I heard Sidewinder is going to be there,” he remarked.

“That’s the rumor, but you don’t want to ride that rank horse, bud.”

“Well, if you can’t run with the big dogs…”

“Stay on the porch. Yeah, I know, but Caleb, that horse has hurt riders.”

“Which means the cowboy who does ride him can choose which college he goes to.”

“Sure, provided you’re not too busted up and broke down.”

“Yeah, I know. Let me think about this. When does he need a decision?”

“Like yesterday, but I can put him off until tomorrow.”

“Okay, I’ll give you a ring in the morning. Thanks, Ethan. I appreciate ya.”

Hanging up the phone, Caleb walked into the yard, thoughts scattered like a covey of quail. The idea of cheating had always seemed alien. Grandpa and Dad had very strict rules about that. Ethan’s offer was a go-for-broke proposition.

He needed to put in extra time on the spur board this afternoon.

That evening, nursing sore thighs and calves, he drove Misty into town to get a soda at the drive-in. With no other place to congregate, the Dairy Queen was a favorite hangout for local teens. Being Saturday, kids rolled in from ranches strewn across the county. Misty was visiting with some friends when Rory and a couple of sidekicks sauntered up.

“Hey, you girls looking for some fun tonight?”

Without waiting for a response, Rory continued, “How about taking a spin with us?”

His friends lived in town and both owned sports cars.

Emily was Misty’s best friend. Her eyes narrowed as she firmly responded, “No thanks, Rory.”

“Aw, c’mon, you’re not afraid of fast rides, are you?”

He grinned and winked at his buddies, letting the double entendre hang.

Noticing Ashford hanging around his little sister and her friends, Caleb drifted over.

“How about it, Misty? That blonde hair would go real pretty with my ride.”

“Get lost, Rory. Nobody wants to be seen with you. Where’s Ruby anyway?”

They had been friends once. That was before all the oil money and Ruby leaving Caleb for Rory.

“The last I seen, she’s fine. Probably at home painting her nails. Sometimes a guy just likes to dabble a little if you know what I mean.”

He gave Misty a leering grin.

The sound of Caleb’s fist smacking into Rory’s jaw carried across the parking lot. He sprawled onto the asphalt, looking stunned. Scrambling back up, he threw a wild punch at Caleb’s face.

Stepping inside his swing, Caleb drove a fist squarely into his solar plexus, forcing all the air out of his lungs. His friends stepped up as if to jump Caleb when several cowboys trotted up.

“You don’t talk to my sister like she’s trash, Ashford.”

Grimacing with pain, Rory stood, glaring at Caleb. Nodding at his friends, the three stalked off to their cars. The sounds of engines revving and tires spinning out filled the night air as their cars roared off in the dark.

Misty gave him an amused look.

“Thanks, big brother, but I can take care of myself, you know.”

“I know, I was just in the mood to hit somebody, and—there he was.”

The girls laughed as he walked back to his pickup.

One of the constants of ranch life was fence mending.

“You know, it’s not the end of the world if you don’t earn a buckle this year,” his Dad observed. They were repairing an interior fence. His dad stretched the wire while Caleb hammered the fencing staples into the posts.

“Heck, I was in college before I earned mine. In high school, I just made every rodeo I could and earned enough points to catch the eye of college coaches. I know your grades are good enough. A couple of good rides, and you’ll be in there—I’ve got faith in you, son.”

Caleb nodded his appreciation. A single, legendary ride on a nationally known bronc would advance the McElroy name into another generation. Thanks to Ethan’s contact, he had the means. Now he just needed to cowboy up and get the job done.

“I heard you tied into Rory Ashford last night. Ever since they came into money, they've been looking down their noses at people. Proud of you for taking up for your little sister.”

That afternoon, Caleb phoned his friend. “Take the deal and I want Sidewinder.”

Ethan sounded hesitant. “If you’re sure, bro. I’ll tell the guy to match your name in the drawing.”

On Wednesday, the PRCA announced the results of its drawing. Caleb McElroy drew Sidewinder.

Hearing the news, Grandpa hitched up his jeans and spat into the dirt before observing, “I’ve heard of that Sidewinder. You be careful there, boy.”

Dad didn’t say anything, but Caleb could see the worry etched in his features. It was a gamble, but the payoff would be huge if he could last 8 seconds.

Momma and Misty were quiet that night at supper. Like Dad, they were worried. Sidewinder had earned fame not only for unseating cowboys but for the way he did it. When he jumped, front to back, his body twisted in mid-air, earning his name. Nobody had died trying to ride him, but more than one cowboy had been carried out of the arena.

The rodeo was Saturday, in Fort Stockton, sponsored by an oil company to foster good relations with area residents and gain some positive PR to distract from the criticism fracking engendered.

“Well, seeing as how they’re paying, I guess we’d be fools not to take their money,” Grandpa observed.

Misty increased her training regimen in preparation. This was a big event, and a win here could influence collegiate scouts. It would also pave the way for entrance into Open 4D races with big purses. Blaze seemed to intuit her rider’s nervous energy, blowing hard and straining to race around the cans faster.

Caleb also upped his training, and Ethan’s father let him ride some of their rougher stock, not quite saddle-broken.

“So, I guess you’re going to be one to finally break Sidewinder’s streak and show him who’s boss, huh?” His friend ribbed him.

“Just another horse needing to be ridden,” Caleb responded laconically.

Momma made sure both her athletes were well-nourished, serving meals with lots of Texas-sized bread, beans, and grilled and smoked meat. She also made sure each had trail mix for snacks and carried plenty of bottled water to stay hydrated.

Saturday morning, the McElroy clan rolled out early. After a quick breakfast, Misty and Caleb inspected their gear while Dad attached the horse trailer to his pickup. Grandpa offered Caleb a ride. Silently accepting, he crawled into the aged, single-cab, two-door Chevy Fleetside.

The old man still liked his country music in the classic style, which meant George Jones and Merle Haggard. It was a long drive, over a hundred miles, and they were more than halfway to their destination before Grandpa said anything.

“You've got a man-sized job ahead of you today, son. I hope you’re ready.”

Caleb assured him he was. Taking a deep breath, he stared out the window at the passing countryside, silent. They rode like that the rest of the journey.

Fort Stockton had banners across its streets, announcing the rodeo and welcoming visitors.

The parking lot at a Western Wear store was jammed. The oil company had made sure its sponsorship wasn’t forgotten, with signs signaling support for the cowboy way and concern for the environment. Regular townspeople were turned out in cowboy hats and boots, tacitly supporting the event.

A savory aroma of meat grilling over mesquite filled the air. Kids playing and yelling, with adults trying to talk over them, created a cacophony of noise. Everywhere was a festive atmosphere.

In the trailer ahead, Caleb could see Blaze’s head bobbing. Not used to loud noise, away from familiar surroundings, the horse was agitated. Misty would have to find a way to calm her before the competition.

Parking at the Pecos County Coliseum was already filling up when they arrived. Grandpa found a parking space while Dad drove on to the holding stalls to unload Misty’s ride. Grabbing his gear, Caleb made his way to the check-in point while Grandpa went to lend a hand with Blaze.

Standing in the queue, another cowboy noticed the name on his paperwork.

“McElroy. You're the one who drew Sidewinder?”

“That’d be me.”

The other contestant chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to be in your boots today, cowboy.”

Around them, other entrants chuckled and offered words of commiseration.

Barrel racing was the first scheduled event of the day. Misty was speaking in a low, soothing tone to her nervous filly. Blaze repeatedly chuffed, her tail lifted, anxious in the unfamiliar surroundings.

“How long before we compete?”

Misty spoke in a calm monotone to avoid spooking Blaze, but her face was tense.

“A little less than twenty minutes,” Dad replied. “You’ll be fine. Once Blaze sees the arena, she’ll settle down. You’ve got this, baby girl.”

Momma was talking gently to Blaze, trying to help her daughter. In the crowd passing through the pens, she spotted Chuck Ashford, talking loudly, braying laughter.

Standing akimbo, eyes narrowed, speaking sotto voce, she observed to her family, “Look at that. All dressed up like some rhinestone cowboy and never rode in a rodeo in his life.”

With a last look of disdain, she turned away.

Twenty minutes had stretched into half an hour. Nervous but poised, Misty and Blaze burst out of their chute and began racing around the three barrels in a cloverleaf pattern. Under Misty’s subtle guidance, the young filly expertly navigated the course. Then they raced back to the finish line.

The announcer blared through the speakers, “Just a hair over 15 seconds. Not a bad time for a first race. Let’s have a big hand for Misty McElroy and her horse, Blaze, folks.”

“Well, it’s not a record, but that’s a durned good time for their first race,” Dad proclaimed.

It fell just short of the winning time by less than half a second. Unfortunately, a last-minute contestant finished a quarter of a second faster, bumping Misty and Blaze to third place. Experience had defeated youthful talent. The purse they won would barely cover expenses. There were only buckles for first and second-place winners.

Momma hugged Misty close. “There will be other rodeos, sweetheart.”

“Heck, this is just your first race. If that filly weren’t so agitated, I’d bet money you’d have won. Give her some seasoning, and you two are going to knock their boots off,” Grandpa predicted.

Dad glanced at Caleb. “What time are you competing?”

An hour later, applying black rosin to his gloves and bronc rein, Caleb concentrated on the details of his gear, mentally focusing for the competition.

His spurs jangled as he walked to the bucking chute. His nerves were taut, but he kept his face stoic. Climbing over the rails, he gently lowered himself onto Sidewinder’s back. The horse’s muscles bunched under him, and it chuffed, ready to start bucking.

Caleb carefully measured his hand placement on the rein, mentally gauging how much slack he would need to counter the horse’s motion. He gave his helmet and Kevlar vest one last pat. Taking a deep breath, Caleb nodded at the chute laborer, who signaled the gateman.

The gate burst open as rider and horse exploded into the arena. Making sure to time his move with the bronc’s jump, Caleb began marking out Sidewinder with his spurs. One thousand one, one thousand two. The horse landed with a crash that rattled the teeth in his head and immediately launched into a second jump.

Living up to his reputation, Sidewinder wasn’t just moving from front to back; he was rolling, pitching, and making unpredictable lateral moves. One thousand three, one thousand four. Clamping his legs tight, Caleb rode him to the ground.

On the jump back up, he raised his spurs above the horse’s shoulders. One thousand five. As rider and mount rose, Caleb felt himself gaining air. He tried to clamp his legs, but it was too late. Suddenly, he was flying at a right angle away from Sidewinder. His head slammed into the steel arena rails first, followed by his body.

He lay on the ground for a second, dazed. Using his arms to push himself up, he got to his feet and waved to the crowd, who cheered his effort. The clowns chased Sidewinder to the other end of the arena, where pickup riders guided him to the exit. Still wobbly on his feet, another clown helped him to an exit gate. The crowd continued to applaud as he left the arena.

It was a long drive home, both silent and painful. Mesquite, still dormant from winter, stretched lifeless as far as Caleb could see. An arid country, it was desolate, save for the cactus—ageless and impervious to the world’s petty dramas.

The afternoon sun sat low in the sky, turning the highway into a blinding glare. In the rearview mirror, his parents looked stoical, accepting the day’s results with the resolve of people used to circumstances beyond their control. Misty was out of sight, undoubtedly grieving her loss.

A heavy weight seemed to pull Caleb’s shoulders forward and down. He felt doubly ashamed. His best effort had failed and worse, his cheating might well have prevented another cowboy from the glory of a winning ride and the buckle that went with it.

Pulling down the pickup’s visor, Grandpa cleared his throat and opined, “Well, never let it be said that a McElroy backs down, no matter how big the challenge. You did your best, son, and I’m proud of you.”

For some reason, the words felt like acid etching the epithet, Cheat, across his heart. He had deceived the people who mattered to him the most. It wasn’t how a McElroy handled up. He stared at the floorboard as the confession poured out: he had bribed the PRCA official to fix the drawing so he could ride Sidewinder.

His grandfather’s eyebrows knitted fiercely, the skin across his cheekbones tightening, pulling his nose into a sharp, upward crinkle. Jaw muscles bunched, Grandpa replied in a tight, constrained voice, “We’ll discuss it with your father when we get home.”

It wasn’t an invitation to talk; it was a pronouncement. The silence felt worse than the berating he deserved. Caleb nodded in understanding. Outside his window, the Sunset Limited trundled along, its wheels making a click-clacking on the rails as it rolled westward to vistas he would never see.

BIO: M Pauchet lives and writes in the scorching hinterland of the United State of Texas. In his spare time he ponders artistic license limits and whether they apply to both sides equally.

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