The Last Cowboys by John Branch

Author:John Branch
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 2018-06-28T04:00:00+00:00

11

Out of the Money

THE ROADS AND RODEOS were strung like Christmas lights, few brighter than the rest, all tangled into nonsense until you pulled apart the knots and figured out their order. Cody did it almost by heart, year in and year out, but Rusty couldn’t name a place he was headed beyond the next one.

And now the Wrights had three trucks crossing the West—one with Cody and Rusty, one with Jake and Jesse, one with Spencer and CoBurn. All of them took in orphans—increasingly, Alex, but sometimes other Utah cowboys—to fill the cab and share the bills. They swapped occupants at rodeos or off-ramps to get cowboys to certain places at certain times. Sometimes they passed on the interstate, in the dead of night, moving in opposite directions for the same prizes, nothing but another set of headlights.

The Fourth of July holiday was a week away, and the midday temperatures in central Oregon were already in the nineties. Rusty sat in Spencer’s truck, waiting for Cody to arrive from Reno. Cody competed there the night before, got fourth in the short round and fourth in the three-head average, made about 2,700 bucks, and left town alone. He drove a few hours, slept on the side of the road somewhere near Klamath Falls, and set out north toward Prineville in the morning.

Spencer was supposed to be in Reno for the short round, too, but he hurt his groin at the rodeo before and pulled out to rest for the thicker stretch of rodeos to come. No one was sure if he’d torn something or just sored it up, as Cody put it. Spencer caught a ride home to Utah, and Rusty brought Spencer’s truck to Prineville.

Rusty got out and leaned against the back of the truck, in a sliver of midday shade. He wore a black long-sleeved riding shirt, with “Wrangler” stitched down the side. Black seemed to be his color, just as tan was his father’s, blue was Jesse’s, white was Jake’s, and red was Spencer’s. Wrangler sent Rusty all different colors, but he usually grabbed a black one. With the heat, he wished he hadn’t that day.

Now nineteen, he was making money nearly every ride and sat in fourth place in the world standings, pushing close to $50,000. Rusty tried not to pay attention to the standings, because that just added pressure. But he knew where he stood. You couldn’t help but know. The announcer at every rodeo told the crowd. Small-town newspapers liked to write about the Wrights.

Cody’s rank was deep into the twenties, probably the lowest position he’d ever been in this far into summer. Usually, by now, Cody was in the top two or three, coasting toward fall but building a cushion for December. This time, he would have to come from behind, rodeo by rodeo, dollar by dollar, mile by mile. Cody had wondered what it would be like to compete at the National Finals with Rusty, but now Rusty might be headed there on his own.

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