The Roundup
by Sally K Lehman
It's said that The Dalles was named for the Indian word for the rock formations in the Columbia River that jut up just above the water in long, thin patterns. Bill Morning Star looked over the water as it made it's way west to the ocean and thought of all the things around him, throughout his life, that had supposedly been named after Indian things. He thought of the reservation he'd grown up on and knew that he, at least, would have rather had things named for White things and his family given a better place to live.
He took a long drink from the bottle of cheap vodka he held in a plain brown bag. He knew it wouldn't cause him any trouble if the police saw the bottle, but hated to play into the stereotype of the Drunk Injun everyone in these parts believed in. Especially in The Dalles, and these other small towns along the Columbia, where he lived most of the time these days, although he went back to the reservation to see his folks and his two sisters who had chosen to live there where they could be part of the community rather than just sitting on the fringe the way Bill did. But they were all here now, in Pendleton, just like he was.
It was the family tradition to come to the rodeo in Pendleton each year - the Round Up they called it. Bill looked around him and saw as many as twenty from his Rez sitting somewhere near him - all of them drinking from a brown bag just like him. Nothing quite like playing into the expected.
Bill got up from the bench he'd been sitting on and tilted his bottle one last time to his mouth, emptying the last drops, then tossing the bag and bottle into a garbage can as he walked away. He was supposed to be at the main arena to see his sister's oldest boy ride a bull in the teen category, and they were starting up the bull riding at 1:00 sharp. Sis would have a fit if he missed his nephew's 8 seconds of fame.
As he walked over to the bleachers, several White people averted their eyes and walked away quickly. One or two children stared at him or asked their parents about the funny looking man, but were shushed and pulled away. Bill grinned a little to himself over it - his long braids and Indian style head band always got to the White folks. When he added the standard cowboy plaid shirt and shit kickers, they completely freaked out.
He walked past a fence that semi-supported a dozen or so of his old friends - too drunk now to even recognize him if he went over to say hello. Goddamned liquor was becoming the twenty first century "Red Man" anymore. He'd seen it eat away his father, uncles and just about any other Indian stupid enough to taste it. Bill would like to say the stuff didn't effect him, but he wasn't a good enough liar - even to himself - to pull off that one. He'd just thrown out one empty bottle and was already contemplating where he should go for the next. He knew he'd have to wait until after the bull riding, but the map of all the Pendleton liquor stores was well memorized in his mind.
Sarah Morning Star was sitting in the middle of the bleachers with her daughter and younger son, gesturing to her brother to come and join them in the crowd. Bill came up to their seats and Sarah shifted over to the right, bumping the lady next to her and forcing her to move. He sat down and was told that Sarah's son would be the fifth rider in the sixteen-year-old group.
God, Bill hated these things. It if wasn't for Sarah and her kid, he would be at a pier in The Dalles with his buddy that he'd left the Rez with years ago. Neither of them had made shit out of their lives there, but they at least had a drinking buddy. And since the advent of casinos, they even had the money to buy the liquor without working too hard. Only damned way being an Indian had ever paid off. That and scaring off stupid White people and their stupid, staring White brats.
The first rider was some red neck kid from some big rancher family. He was ashen faced as the handlers - a bunch of volunteers from the surrounding ranchers - carefully slid the rope around his right hand to anchor him to the bull. Bill laughed when the kid came off the bull almost immediately out of the gate. So much for promising White kids and riding bulls. The second kid could've been the same exact kid, with the same ride. Looked more and more like Sarah's kid might win the thing without even having to hold out a full 8 seconds.
The third kid was from the Rez and a friend of Sarah's kid. The white handler slid the rope around his wrist, high up on the arm, the kid loosened it and signaled he was ready. Bill and the family yelled and clapped when he held on for 5 seconds. After all, if their kid didn't win at least someone from the tribe might.
The fourth kid looked like he wanted to shit his pants before they even let open the gate. Once they let loose the bull, this one practically jumped from the bull's back instead of waiting to be thrown. His family - a bunch of red necks from the city most likely, all dolled up in fringed shirts and boots with fancy buckles on - yelled and clapped like he'd won the whole damned thing. Bill could hear them say the regular White people platitudes.
"You did your best."
"We're always proud of you."
"At least you got up there and tried."
Sarah looked into Bill's eyes when they heard them. No one from the reservation would use such weak excuses for a son who had shown so poorly. Then again, no one from the Rez would put one of their own up there unless he was ready. It was shaming to the family for a son to show that badly - especially in front of this crowd, so filled with White assholes looking for a reason to ridicule the Indians or, worse yet, to start a fight.
The two smiled at each other, and Sarah nudged her kids that their brother was getting up for his ride. Sarah's oldest, John, was looking fierce, even indestructible, as he waited for the rodeo clowns to get the last contestant off the arena and back to his family. The kid kept looking over at the bull John was getting ready to mount. Until John finally flipped him the bird that is. Bill laughed at the gesture. Sarah looked around herself, concerned about the likelihood of a fight breaking out over the small act of defiance. She didn't want trouble and she didn't want her kid to get booted out for it.
His gesture released the rope from his right wrist. A large white guy that handled the horses for one of the local ranchers grabbed John's hand and firmly slid the rope around the wrist. The handler tightened the rope, made sure that John had a secure tether to the bull, and clapped John on the shoulder as a final gesture. The go-ahead signal was given and John looked towards the ring ahead of him.
The field cleared and everything slowed down.
The gate opened. John held on for all his worth. At 2 seconds the bull had made it through the gate and into the center of the ring. At 5 seconds John slid to the right side for an instant then somehow managed to pull himself back to the top of the animal. At 7 seconds John was falling to the left and trying to release his hand from the rope holding him onto the bull's back. At 9 seconds, a cowbell sounded and the announcer hollered that he'd made it to the 8 second mark and everyone around yelled their approval. At 11 seconds the clowns were trying without much success to calm the animal and get John off - John was still trying to release his hand and had fallen off to the left side of the beast. At 15 seconds the bull had turned around and was trying to rid himself of the weight hanging to his side. At 17 seconds John was free.
John was free, but bleeding. His right hand, which had held on so well throughout the ride, was still riding. The bull had simply ripped it from John's wrist.
Sarah began to scream, but Bill didn't hear it. All he could think of, all he could see, was the blood. The blood streaming from John's hand. The blood flinging from the rope tied to the bull's neck. The blood covering the clowns as they tried to get John off the field and the hand off the bull. All that Bill Morning Star could see was the blood - bright and red and everywhere. Cheers of approval became screams and then turned into utter silence.
The ambulance that always stayed nearby came onto the field and the paramedics began to look after John Morning Star. They tried to stop the bleeding and hollered at the clowns and other hands to get the damned hand so it could be reattached. John was now covered in the darkening red blood. The dirt around him was soaked with it. John's little sister was in hysterics, screaming and grabbing her mother's arm. John's little brother threw up violently over the side of the bleachers. The bull kept outrunning the men in the arena - it's bloody souvenir dangling from it's neck.
Bill watched as the medics kept trying to help John. They had tied off the arm to stop the bleeding, but there couldn't be that much blood left in the kid by then. They were trying to insert needles and pump medicines and fluids into him. One of the guys kept yelling that they needed the hand - "get the hand", "we need that hand", "where the hell is that hand". As though yelling was going to settle the beast that had torn it from the poor kid.
Sarah looked at John and then at her brother. How the hell are we going to do this, her eyes asked Bill. Bill looked back at her blankly, then got up from his seat. He walked down the bleachers and made his way to the boy who lay bleeding in the dirt. He grabbed the kid's left hand - his only hand now, Bill realized as he took it. The boy looked at Bill, their eyes meeting, the calm needed to go through this passing from the uncle to his nephew. Their black eyes just met and held for the time that was left to them.
And Bill Morning Star thought to himself that the market a block away had a liquor store right next door where they sold vodka - the more expensive stuff this time.
copyright 2007 sally k lehman