A colorfully dressed young cowboy with a slight limp shuffled past me. I stood with one hand on the railings of the rodeo corral.
I had come to see a friend I haven’t seen since my boarding school days. Seven years? The drone of the announcer’s amplified voice wore on:
“Now out of chute four, we have a cowboy from Red Lake, Arizona, ‘Ba ahii da’ had’. Clap for this young cowboy … and wish him luck.”
The sole of my boot had worn thin and the sandy heat penetrated it. I should have worn more socks. The heat spared none that July day—the sheep camp folks, the chapter officials, the winos and bureaucrats. Older men sported 30-year-old trophy buckles; occasional cries of kids pierced the dusty air like a gull cries. I had already waited an hour here for Amos. I wondered if he had changed much. I wondered if the childhood features still closed. Amos was my best friend in those brutal B.I.A. years. Along with another, Wilson, we remained a trio. We were in our early 20s and already felt the weariness of the world all about. “Are Indians anymore? Look, we are at a cowboy event. Indians are out there in the sagebrushes.”
Amos is five months younger than me. Boarding school hardened us. He had a knack for lifting lines from western action movies and singing them to some unsuspecting bully: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” He might have even used the beatings he received. He always hung out those lines like he owned them. Some guys thought him to be a smartass. We both lost our share of scuffles. Once we even fought one another for a bully’s entertainment.
“Hey is that really you!” Ane ish inii d,ii’. I looked up into a deep brown and chapped face in the shade of a wide Stetson—my old buddy.
We shook hands and gave a manly slap on the back. Hardly anyone hugged back then.
Amos possesses that voice like a low rumble; like quiet earthquakes around his sentences. He was herding sheep for a family up north and doesn’t come out much, he says. Summer ceremonies brought him out to the edge. I said I’d been hitching all over the place in the West. He laughed that low rumbling laugh. Amos wore a jean jacket in spite of the stifling heat and his jeans were worn earth-colored and striped boldly flaring out into a bell bottom exposing only the tips of his cowboy boots. I should’ve taped my boot like him. We laughed some more.
The loudspeaker continued to announce timings of the cowboys. It sounded like team roping event. The announcer laughed at his own joke. We should stay to see the bull-riding part of the annual Shonto Rodeo. It’s always fun to see guys abuse themselves.
“Shall we retire to the sagebrush and share a bottle?” L aa iish di dliil? N’laa dsaa t,aa de’. He hung the question out on the summer heat. He need not explain.
“Yes.” Ao’.
The day’s main offering was endless blue and cloudless. Didn’t it always rain during rodeo?
We moved with the rest toward the exit—bobbing brown faces, sweat stained felt hats, and colorful scarves on women. A mixture of animal sweat and cotton candy permeated the dusty heat. The announcer went on with more corny jokes lost on all except him.
Off on a rise under a young pinyon, we sat sharing his gift. I heard the announcer give his condolences to someone: “Don’t worry son, next time you’ll clinch it!” Nana go’ shi be dii sha’.
“Lets hear it for the Dennehotso cowboy!” Applause arose as the young cowboy limped from the arena and the clown ran to retrieve his hat for him.
The pint bottle of Garden De Luxe, now empty, was buried deep in the thickets of a sagebrush. The summer thunderheads were starting to build in the southwest. Traffic was flowing out of the rodeo grounds. Another year’s event is done. After catching up on our lives we slapped each others’ shoulders and wandered back into our mystery. I wandered across the West for a couple more summers. With my thumb, I saw and did what needed to be seen and done. Lives of gypsies and desperadoes, of communes and reservations. Of course, the beautiful flower children.
Amos sits somewhere beneath White Mesa, squinting far into the late light. A subtle sheep bell and wind through juniper boughs is the music of his world.
