Desert Heat Read Free Page B

danger. The sport had begun in the late eighteen-hundreds, growing out of the ranching and cattle industry, and still carried an aura of that time.
    Tonight was an indoor, night performance beginning with the usual mounted salute to the Stars and Stripes. Riders on two big pinto horses, each carrying a massive flag, galloped full speed around the ring, spurred on by the audience singing “there ain’t no doubt I love this land,” the lyrics of “God Bless the U.S.A.” The national anthem and the Pledge of Allegiance followed, then the competition began.
    The opening event, bareback bronc riding, was a tough and dangerous event. A dark-skinned cowboy in a steel-reinforced vest worn to keep his ribs from being crushed if the horse stepped on him wrapped his neck to keep from getting whiplash and climbed up on the chute. Several other riders helped him get settled and keep from falling into the chute beneath the horse’s thrashing hooves.
    The gate opened and the horse charged out. The cowboy managed to stay on the cantankerous little pinto named Wildfire who leapt and twisted but couldn’t seem to shake him, and wound up making a high-scoring ride.
    The steer wrestling followed, a big man’s event. It took a good deal of brawn to lean down from a horse galloping at full speed, grab hold of a pair of horns, and bring down a five-hundred-pound steer. The first man out was Wes McCauley, who thundered down the arena next to his hazer, the man who rode on the opposite side of the steer to keep him running straight ahead. McCauley brought the steer to a halt in the deep black dirt in the middle of the ring, but his time wasn’t all that fast and as he rode out he didn’t look happy about it.
    The dog act followed, giving the contestants time to get ready for the saddle-bronc event.
    “You ever see Dallas ride?” Shari asked, standing next to Patience behind the fence.
    “Only on TV.” Her gaze fixed on the cute little dog in the arena standing two-legged on the handle of a broom.
    “You don’t like him much, do you?”
    She managed a nonchalant shrug. “I hardly know him. Why would I dislike him?”
    Shari grinned. “Stormy said the two of you got off to a rocky start.”
    Patience watched a second clown in a gigantic pair of Wranglers rush into the ring. “I guess you could call it that. He’s all right, I guess. If you don’t mind a guy whose ego is as big as his hat.”
    Shari laughed. “Wait till you see him ride.”
    More excited by the prospect than she cared to admit, Patience followed Shari up to the fence in the area set aside for the riders’ families.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer called out. “Please turn your attention to chute number three. Two time World Champion All-Around Cowboy Dallas Kingman on a horse called Cyclone.”
    There was a racket in the chute, the jingle of spurs as Dallas settled himself in the saddle and words of encouragement from the cowboys hanging over the gate, helping him get ready to make his ride. He pulled his hat down low across his forehead, settled himself even deeper in the saddle, and nodded for the gate to open.
    “My friends—this is a horse that can buck!”
    An instant later, the powerful buckskin leapt out of the chute and straight up into the air. Black and gold fringe went flying, spurs flashed in the arena spotlights, saddle leather creaked, and hooves pounded as the massive horse crashed back to earth. The animal spun to the right, then bolted up and twisted, kicking wildly to dislodge the cowboy on his back.
    Dallas Kingman rode him as if he were on a Sunday outing. It was impossible for a man to look graceful with a horse leaping and bucking, kicking and spinning beneath him. It was impossible, but Dallas Kingman managed to do it.
    “When he rides, they call him The King!” the announcer shouted, and Patience knew exactly what he meant.
    It wasn’t the same as watching a horse and rider on TV. Not nearly the same. As the eight seconds