4. Indie
Chapter 4
Indie
T he Bismarck PRCA Rodeo only lasts two days and I’m already a day behind. When my plane lands, I immediately call a rideshare and head out to the event center where it takes place. Before any of the rodeo has started, I’m already on location and scouting out the best places to see the contestants.
I flash my press badge to the security guards and they let me on through, gesturing for me to hurry up while they rope the passageway off again. I’m one of about three dozen media personnel meandering around the arena, and no one pays me any mind. I’m an hour early, just early enough to get to witness the busy rush of everyone preparing.
I check the schedule of events to see where The Crimson Three will be. Ramiro Mondragon will be participating in the saddle bronc riding, the third event once the rodeo starts. I missed yesterday, but Mondragon had qualified so he will be riding today. Bull riding is after barrel racing, so I’ll have plenty of time in between the two events to try and find Tripp Savage. Beau Rogers is another matter entirely. I don’t know if he’ll be in the arena for the entire event or if he only comes out at certain times. There’s no standard when it comes to his performance, only that he typically is on the dirt during the more dangerous sports like bull riding.
Many of the journalists are clustered in different places throughout the arena, some at the chute waiting for the bareback riding to begin, others in the stands. A large group of them are on the edges of the arena in a fenced off area labeled “press.” That’s where all the photographers huddle, their cameras around their necks ready to be used. In their mass, I spy Zander and Kim, the two of them laughing together. I don’t know if Frank warned them I was coming or not. Hopefully, they’ll be okay with giving me a ride to the next event. That’s usually how these things go. Besides, their gas is being paid for by the magazine so it would make sense.
As I look around the arena, I’m reminded again of how much I don’t fit into this world. My denim jacket might have fit in if it wasn’t covered in tons of patches from around the world. It’s well-loved and I still add new patches whenever I travel somewhere I’ve never been before. Some of the patches have bigger meanings. Some of them mean very little. It’s my lucky jacket. I couldn’t leave home without it. Past that, nothing I wear matches anyone else. My combat boots are a contradiction to the cowboy boots surrounding me. The women wear fancy, bedazzled ones while the men wear everything from pointy to square-toed boots. Pretty much everyone either wears a cowboy hat or a well-loved baseball hat despite the frigid air outside begging for a beanie. Even inside the arena, it’s cold enough that most people wear heavy jackets. Carhartt’s are everywhere. So are plaid patterns. I’ve never seen so much plaid together in one place. I probably should have at least attempted to blend in, bought a cheap cowboy hat or something, but part of me doesn’t even want to bother. What does it matter if I look like them or not? I’m here to do a job. A hat doesn’t make me do that any better.
Unless it’s an IHPS helmet that is. That shit’ll save your life.
Still, I stick out like a sore thumb in this place. Ripped black jeans, combat boots, an army t-shirt one of the squadrons I’d traveled with in Iraq had signed and given me, the cluttered denim jacket. Hell, even my ethnicity is odd here. I might as well be a walking billboard for an outsider, and the eyes that watch me slip through the crowd tell me they notice.
The press is only allowed in certain areas. I’m not allowed in the cordoned off prep areas where the contestants are getting ready. That’s reserved for the contestants and their people. The journalists get to stand outside of the area and try to get pictures of them putting on their chaps and praying. Maybe they get lucky and catch a hug from afar on camera.
The lights dim overhead, and I realize I need to make my way to the floor with the rest of the press or else I’m not going to get a good spot. I don’t have a photographer or a fancy camera, but I have my phone and the camera in this thing has come a long way.
“Welcome to the Bismarck PRCA Rodeo,” the announcer says, his voice booming through the arena. “Are you ready to see some cowboys?” The crowd goes wild, screaming and cheering. “I said, ‘are you ready to see some cowboys?’” he repeats. The crowd screams louder. “Then grab your popcorn and your belt buckles, because you’re about to witness the hardest ride some of these cowboys and cowgirls have ever done! Ladies and gents, it’s time to rodeo!”
Ramiro Mondragon competes in both bareback bronc riding and saddle bronc riding, but this event, he’d only signed up for the saddle bronc. Sometimes he signs up for the other one, but he’s generally considered a master at both events. He’s older than many of the other competitors, for sure older than all of the bull riders, but he still manages to hold his own among them despite the toll on his body the sport takes. Hell, even Tripp Savage is aging out of his sport, but he doesn’t show any signs of slowing down soon. Legacies tend to continue until they can’t from what I gather.
I don’t pay much attention to the two events before saddle bronc riding. While I need to write articles for Frank every week, I hardly think the first two events are going to give me anything to go off of. It isn’t until the announcer booms that it’s time for the saddle bronc riding that I get my first view of one of the Crimson Three.
And it’s not even Ramiro Mondragon.
“You’ve heard of him. You’ve seen him on your Tick Tacks and your Face Journals. You’ve probably had a dream about him at some point in your life. Let’s give a huge round of applause for the famous rodeo clown from Fairview Acres in Wyoming. . . Beau Rogers!” The announcer’s voice is nearly drowned out by the arena’s cheers as a man comes running from one of the shoots onto the center of the dirt. He spins, showing off his hot pink, rhinestone tasseled, leather crop jacket as the crowd goes wild.
My brows shoot up. I’d seen pictures, but they really don’t do this man justice.
He wears no shirt under the bright jacket, revealing all his black ink tattoos in all their glory, including a large cow skull along his rib cage and twin revolvers pointing at his crotch that disappear into his blue jeans. His cowboy hat perches on his head, balanced just so. Where most rodeo clowns have a varying degree of messy clown makeup, Beau’s is neat and carefully drawn on. One eye has a large blue star painted over it. The other has classic clown points. His nose is barely painted red, just enough to give him the clown look, and there’s a red strip from his bottom lip to his chin. I watch as he fawns over the crowd, doing fingers guns at the women clamoring for his attention. He does at least three hip thrusts at them, making them scream even louder. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black zippo lighter before grabbing a cigarette from his hat band and tucking it between his lips. Only then does he make the motion above his head for the event to begin. He lights the cigarette just as the first horse is released.
Most rodeo clowns have a barrel they can get inside of for safety and while there are a few scattered around the dirt, Beau stands near none of them. With the cigarette firmly hanging from his lips, he leaps into action when the first cowboy is thrown from his horse in only three seconds. A terrible time. He probably won’t even qualify for the prize pot.
Bareback Riding is considered one of the most physically challenging events of any rodeo. It’s all about pure strength and technique and while plenty of men seem to know what they’re doing, plenty struggle as well. I watch man after man get thrown from the Quarter Horses and Mustangs, their walk of anger off the dirt there for us all to see. Saddle bronc riding is vastly different. It emphasizes finesse and timing over raw power. The judges score both the rider’s technique and the horse’s bucking ability. Your score depends on both.
Eight seconds. That’s all they gotta stay on. It seems like such a small number, but the more men who are thrown off or lose their grip or technique before that makes me think it’s not quite so easy. Each time, Beau rushes forward with two other normal looking rodeo clowns to corral the horses back into the shoot. It doesn’t take much work. The horses are well trained and manageable, not like the bulls that’ll come later.
“That Quarter Horse doesn’t like anyone on his back and it shows,” the announcer booms when the cowboy rushes off the dirt, one of the first to make it to eight seconds. “This next cowboy has worked his way up from the bottom. At the ripe age of thirty-nine, he’s the oldest competitor here, but age is just a number. The Mustang he rides is notorious for throwing his rider if he’s not ready and ranking high when his rider is. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome another one of the Crimson Three. It’s Ramiro Mondragon!”
The chute opens and the Mustang immediately leaps into the air high enough to surprise me. I immediately pull my phone out and take a few pictures as Ramiro beautifully follows the horse’s lead, his rhythm impeccable even to my uncultured eye. The timer counts down, the whistle blares, and the eight seconds finish like it was nothing. I watch as he springs off the bucking horse with the grace of a goddamn ballerina. Beau comes rushing up, distracting the horse long enough to send it on its way before clapping Ramiro on the shoulder with a huge grin.
They both look at the scoreboard, waiting for the score to pop up. The numbers tick before “ninety-one” pops up. The crowd goes wild as I snap a picture of the two men staring up at the screen.
“That places Mondragon at the top of the scoreboard. That’s gonna be hard to beat!” the announcer says, stating the obvious. I don’t doubt that Ramiro will go home with some of the prize money. He clearly knows what he’s doing.
“While we wait for the barrels to be brought out, who wants to see Beau Rogers do some of his tricks?” The crowd goes wild. “Steven,” he says in the deepest voice I’ve heard yet. “You heard ‘em. Release the bull.”
Ramiro hardly has time to leave the dirt before a different chute opens and an angry bull comes rushing out. There are no straps on him, so this is clearly just an extra bull they had waiting in the wings. The moment that bull gets free, he rushes onto the dirt, looking for a target.
And he finds it with Beau Rogers.
He’s got another cigarette in his mouth, the tiny tendril of smoke rising into the air as he tenses and faces the bull. The bull rushes forward at a punishing speed, aiming his too-sharp horns right for Beau. Who doesn’t move. He stands as still as a statue.
“Run!” the crowd begins to scream as the large bull closes in. “Get out of the way!”
Hell, even I’m tense as I watch, my phone in front of my face recording so I can take camera stills later. Just before the bull can make contact, Beau dances to the side, the horns just barely missing scraping across his back. And it only makes the bull angrier. It slides to a stop and turns, pawing at the dirt.
“Beau Rogers is a celebrated rodeo clown well on his way to the Rodeo Hall of Fame,” the announcer says. “And it’s easy to see why. He dances around rodeo bulls like it’s a choreographed show. It may look easy, but make no mistake that what he does is two parts skill and twenty parts agility. Ladies and gentlemen, don’t try this at home.”
The bull takes off again and I watch as Beau reaches into a little pouch hanging from his hip. He grins around the cigarette hanging from his mouth and when his hand comes out, it’s covered in blue chalk. It trickles from between his fingers, dotting the red dirt. The crowd goes apeshit at the sight of it, like they know what’s coming. I’d done my research. I know what the blue chalk is, but it’s one thing to read about it and another thing to see it.
I lean forward, my camera forgotten as I watch this man effectively prepare to perform a dare devil stunt. Rodeo bulls are powerful, bred for their muscle and their ability to buck. This bull is no different. He’s massive, heavily muscled, and big enough to make me nervous as he closes in on the rodeo clown. I say nothing. I don’t scream like the people around me do. I just watch, like I’m staring at a car wreck about to happen.
The bull reaches him, its head tilted down to gore him in the side with its horns. I watch, enamored, as Beau Rogers places his open hand on the bull’s head, right between his horns, and flips up and over its back. He sails through the air, blue chalk flying in the air from his closed fist. As he flips over the back, he finally opens his hand and slaps it against the ass of the bull, leaving behind a large open blue handprint. He lands on his feet behind the bull, the cigarette still in his mouth, a grin on his lips. All that he lost was his hat as he flipped, which sits unharmed in the dirt a few feet away.
The arena loses its shit. I’ve never heard a crowd cheer more loudly than it does in that moment, and I’ve been to plenty of large events. I watch as women scream and reach for him, as some of them throw their literal freaking bras onto the dirt like this is a rock concert. I stare in disbelief as more than one of them scream, “I wanna have your babies!” at this complete stranger of a man. As everyone loses their minds, I stare at the man they worship. He watches it all, his eyes glittering dangerously, and something seems playfully sinister about him. I can’t name it. But the way his hand twitches as offerings and items rain down on the dirt makes me think there’s more to this man than meets the eyes. While everyone screams for him, I raise my phone and snap a picture, the rhinestone tassels glinting in the bright lights, his hair disheveled. His eyes snap to mine as I watch him, as if drawn to the one person not clamoring for his favor. He tilts his head, studying me and the way I stand out among the ridiculously bedazzled people around me. The screaming fades into the background. . .
. . . and then he looks away, back to his fans, bowing dramatically before picking up his hat, dusting it off, and plopping it back on his head. A true legend. One who will likely live on in infamy when he finally retires.
All that excitement fuels the rest of the event. The crowd is more feral, more rabid as event after event takes place. The cowboys and cowgirls who compete seem to live for the cheers and their performances seem to get better, more determined. As if Beau Rogers stepped up their game.
When it finally comes time for the bull riding, the atmosphere feels electrically charged. I’m from Arizona so I’m no stranger to bull riding. Hell, plenty of clubs and bars have the bull riding machines set up so they can watch women without supportive bras be thrown around. None of the bull riders on these bulls wow me in the way watching Beau Rogers did.
Not until Tripp Savage comes up.
“You’ve met Ramiro Mondragon. You’ve met Beau Rogers. Now, it’s time to meet the final member of the Crimson Three,” the announcer begins. “He’s the legacy of Steele, Wyoming, following in the footsteps of his granddaddy, the late Fredrick E. Savage, Senior and his own father, Fredrick, Junior, but don’t let that fool you into thinking he doesn’t deserve to be here. Tripp Savage has earned his place among the greats inducted into the Rodeo Hall of Fame, and you’re about to witness why.”
The cameras zoom in on Tripp Savage adjusting his hold in the chute, his head tilted down, his cowboy hat obscuring his face. He nods, and someone jerks the gate open, releasing the beast he rides. Immediately, the bull wants him off his back, but Tripp doesn’t release his hold. I snap a few photos, understanding right away that he knows what he’s doing. The eight seconds go by without incident despite the bull bucking with the best of them. When the horn blares, he dismounts and rushes away back to the gate, his fancy chaps flaring out around his legs as the clowns corral the bull. From his place on the gate, he turns and looks back and I get my first real look at his face.
Tripp Savage is a conventionally attractive man. His beard is neat and trimmed close to his jaw. His eyes are framed by long lashes that would make most women jealous. But he doesn’t smile as he looks up at the score board. He doesn’t look nervous or anxious like the rest of the contestants. He just looks. . . mildly interested.
When the score comes up higher than everyone else, he doesn’t celebrate. He doesn’t even crack a smile. If anything, he looks annoyed. He just climbs over the fence and disappears despite the cheers for him.
Of the three men, Tripp Savage is by far the most mysterious one. Beau has his whole persona he puts on for the rodeo, which is probably a cover for who he really is, but something tells me he may be exactly the daredevil he portrays. Ramiro seems the most reserved of the three and is the only one to talk to any press at all. Short and sweet talks, but it’s at least something. Tripp though? He’s a complete mystery.
The rest of the journalists stay in the press area, but I immediately tuck my phone into my pocket and leave, heading back over to the sectioned off prep area. I wait there, at the gate, until I see them start to walk out, long before the rodeo ends, long before it’s time to claim prize money. They’re not even gonna stick around to see it.
“Excuse me,” I say when they appear, and all three men look at me.
This close, I get the full impact of just how they look. I’m tall for a woman at five eight, and like most bull riders, Tripp Savage is barely an inch or two taller than me. Ramiro is a few inches taller than him, and Beau is the tallest of the three, easily six foot. The moment I speak, three sets of eyes focus on me with various emotions.
“My name is Indie Chen and I’m a journalist for Saddle & Spur Magazine,” I continue. “I was wondering if you had a minute and could talk to me.”
“No interviews,” Tripp growls, immediately turning away.
Ramiro looks at me apologetically. “Sorry about him, ma’am. We appreciate you being interested in us, but he’s right. We don’t do interviews.”
Beau wiggles his brows at me. “I saw you out there, little outsider. If you like what you see, I’m willing to tell you anything you want if you put those pretty lips to the tip of my guns.”
He presses his hands against his pelvis where the tattooed revolvers are inked to make sure I get his meaning.
“ Chingada madre ,” Ramiro curses and smacks Beau upside the head. “Leave her alone, pendejo . She’s trying to work.”
“So am I,” Beau teases with a wink to me. “Gotta get my cardio in and these buckle bunnies here just don’t cut it.” He leans closer. “You look like you’d make me beg for it, little outsider. I like that.”
I snort. I can’t help it. The laughter comes bubbling out before I can stop it. Beau’s eyes light up at my laughter. “As tempting as that sounds, I’ll have to pass,” I say. “I am indeed working.”
“Another time then,” he says with a grin.
Ramiro looks at me curiously, but he doesn’t comment on my words. “ Vamos ,” he says to Beau.
“Why don’t you guys do interviews?” I ask, trying to get anything I can out of them. “What are you trying to hide?”
Beau is the one who laughs. He’s also the one who answers.
“Demons, silly goose,” he says. “Like everyone else.”
And then they leave, and I miss out on getting the interview at this stop. Fuck. I’m going to really have to chase the circuit then, aren’t I?
I turn away once they disappear and search for Kim and Zander, knowing I’m going to have to suck it up and play nice if I’m going to catch a ride with the two.