Blossoms and the Green Phantom (15 page)

The boys were at the edge of the creek now. They had spent the morning lashing logs together with rope. That was the underdeck, and it was finished.

Vern stepped back to admire their work. His foot slipped on the slick mud. He caught hold of a tree to steady himself. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the creek to see if there was any sign the water level was going down.

Michael read his thoughts. “My dad says the creek won’t go down for a week.” Michael was wiping his hands off on his overalls. He was getting ready to use his father’s hammer.

“That’s what Pap says too,” Vern said.

“But we can’t count on that. I mean, we can’t say, ‘Well, if we don’t finish today, we can do it next Saturday or the Saturday after that.’”

“No,” Vern agreed.

He let go of the tree. He bent to give one of the knots a closer inspection. The ends of the knot were cut too short. It might untie under the pressure of the voyage.

“You got any more rope in your bag?” he asked Michael. “I don’t trust some of these knots.”

Michael checked his paper bag. “No, you?”

“No.” Vern didn’t have to check his. He knew that all he had left was a handful of bent nails. “But,” he added, “I know where some vines are.”

“Would vines work?”

“They better.”

Michael grinned. “Let’s go,” he said. He put down the hammer and pulled his hunting knife from its leather sheath.

Vern pulled out his knife too. Vern’s was one of his mother’s kitchen knives, but Vern had made a case like Michael’s out of cardboard. He had laced the edges together with brown twine. In his own eyes, the knives and cases were identical.

Brandishing their knives, whooping for joy, the boys ran for the woods.

Maggie Blossom was hundreds of miles away. She was on her mother’s horse Sandy Boy, and she was lined up for the grand entry of the 61st Annual Tucson Rodeo.

Ahead of her was a long shifting line of horses and people—the color guard with their flags snapping in the wind, the rodeo princesses, the officials, the other Wrangler Riders. At the end of the line were two clowns; one was riding a zebra, the other a mule.

Maggie could hear the whinnying of horses from the open stalls, the bawling of calves. The warm, dusty air smelled of beer, popcorn, and hot dogs.

Over the loudspeaker, the announcer was doing the pre-show, the junior rodeo. A groan came from the crowd as one of the kids missed in the calf roping.

“That’s too bad, folks,” the announcer said. “He threw the loop where the money would have been. Tough luck, Randy. Let’s pay him off, folks.” The crowd clapped as Randy ran for the gate.

Maggie shifted in the saddle. Her mom glanced around at her and grinned. She tugged the brim of her hat. Maggie did the same.

Vicki Blossom was on a yellow horse named Traveler. She had borrowed Traveler so Maggie could have Sandy Boy. “You’re used to Sandy Boy,” Vicki had told her. “I can ride anything.”

Ahead of Vicki Blossom were the other four Wrangler Riders. They wore matching white satin shirts, white hats, white boots, and skin-tight Wrangler jeans. They were the five best trick riders in the United States.

The announcer was winding up the junior rodeo events. “How about a hand of applause for the cowboys and cowgirls of the Arizona Junior Rodeo Association? Thank you. We sure do enjoy showing off our youngsters here in Arizona.

“And now, folks, at the southern gate is Joe Nevada, Rodeo Announcer of the Year, who’ll be announcing all the exciting action of the Tucson Rodeo on horseback. Let’s put our hands together and give him an Arizona welcome!”

Maggie took in a deep breath. This was it, the day she had been waiting for. Today she would be riding with the Wrangler Riders in front of thousands of people. Beneath her white satin shirt, her heart was beating twice as fast as usual. She licked her dry lips. She settled her white hat more securely on her head.

Over the loudspeaker, Joe Nevada was asking the crowd to draw in a big breath of clear, warm Tucson air and let it out in a whoop and a holler. There was a lusty yell from the crowd, and Mrs. Blossom glanced around at Maggie. She tugged her hat again; that was a kind of signal. She said, “Here we go, shug.”

The band struck up “Hey, Look Me Over.” The gate opened. The grand entry began.

Sandy Boy had been in so many rodeo parades, so many grand entries, he could probably have done it blindfolded. But, for Maggie, it had been a long, long time, of waiting and practicing. This grand entry was something special.

When Maggie was little, she used to ride in front of her mom in all the grand entries. “Smile, shug,” her mother was always saying. “Don’t be so serious.”

People used to point them out as Vicki and Maggie rode around the rodeo grounds together. “That’s Cotton’s wife and kid,” they said. “Do you mind if we take your picture?”

“We’d be proud,” Vicki always answered.

There was a newspaper picture of the two of them in the family scrapbook. There was no date, but the caption was “Vicki Blossom and daughter Maggie. Vicki will be doing trick riding this weekend at the rodeo. Her daughter is rodeo mascot.” Even being rodeo mascot had not made Maggie smile. “You look as solemn as an owl,” her mother said when she saw the picture.

But this rodeo was different. She would not be riding in front of her mom. She would not be a mascot. She was on her own, and as far as Maggie was concerned this was the beginning of her new life. For the first time, people were actually treating her like an adult.

The procession wove around the arena. Striped flags snapped over the grandstands. The crowd cheered. The horses pranced. The procession ended with all the horses and riders side by side, facing the crowd.

“And now,” Joe Nevada said in a more serious voice, “while our flag is carried around the arena, let’s stand. This beautiful banner was a gift from God. We think of the many places she’s been we didn’t want her to be and we thank her for our freedom. And now the number one song in the national hit parade, the National Anthem!”

Some of the horses were sidestepping, nervously prancing in place, but not Sandy Boy. Maggie leaned forward and patted his neck.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the other Wranglers had their hats off and their hands over their hearts. Quickly Maggie did the same.

Then, too soon for Maggie, the grand entry was over and the procession was leaving the arena. The Wrangler Riders would be coming back to perform between the bareback riding and the steer wrestling events.

Maggie paused in the sunshine to catch her breath. Behind her the gate had closed. The bareback riding event was under way.

The announcer was saying, “The handle they use is about the size of a suitcase handle, folks, but that’s where the likeness ends, ’cause I don’t think your average suitcase weighs fifteen hundred pounds and jumps around on the end of your arm.”

The crowd laughed.

“Let’s go now to the bucking chutes. First up is Pete Dobler on Jr. Garrison. Here he comes, folks.”

Vicki Blossom rode up beside Maggie. “I was nervous,” Maggie admitted.

“You?”

Maggie nodded.

“Why on earth would you be nervous? You been doing this all your life.”

“It’s different now,” Maggie said, “I’m different now.”

“Well, no daughter of mine’s going to be nervous. You can be excited if you want to, but that’s it.”

“All right,” Maggie said, “I’m excited.”

Behind them the crowd groaned. The announcer was saying, “—down too soon and he left out the back door. Back door, side door, it don’t matter as long as you get out before the house burns down. Let’s pay him off, folks.”

There was applause. “In about fifteen minutes,” her mom pointed at her, “that applause will be for you.”

“Oh, Mom.”

“It will. Smile, shug. Don’t be so serious. We’re having fun!”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1987 by Betsy Byars

978-1-4804-0269-0

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