The Queen of Clubs

The Queen of Clubs: Mace Dewey

Mace wiped the dust and sweat from his eyes with his sleeve and watched as they saddled Tornado. Like most experienced bucking horses, the horse stood quietly in the chute as the saddle was cinched. He pinned his ears and cow kicked as the men worked around him, but he’d save his real fury for the flank strap. Tornado was an ugly brute, typical for a bucking horses. Two small piggish eyes glared out of his coarse head. His thick neck stopped abruptly at his shoulder, no long smooth shoulder for a comfortable ride. He was short coupled and well muscled through the loins; this added power to his leaps.

Mace had ridden Tornado several times. He was owned by the company that put on most of these crappy, small town rodeos out in the middle of nowhere. They would stay in town for a night or two, attracting the surrounding farmers and the unlucky souls stuck in these dying towns of boarded up main streets and a fast food joint at the intersection of the interstate. It was the lean season. Mace hadn’t ridden well--fucking awful was more accurate--at the last couple of big rodeos, and now he was desperate for a little prize money, no matter how small. 

Mace had been thankful to run into Trent at the last big rodeo. They had an off and on relationship, and Trent was always good for a meal. Trent wrote for one of those silly Eastern magazines that made the cowboy all romantic. Dirt, blood, cow shit, twenty below wind chill--romantic. Mace spat, thinking about it. Cowboys were only romantic in Hollywood. God, he should know. He’d tried dating a few. They were all as tough of sons of bitches as he was, or at least they were pretending as hard as he was not to be the soft, fucking queer. Trent had shrugged and smiled that easy smile of his the first time they’d gone out.

“You know back East guys don’t spend the first date trying to see who is the bigger and tougher asshole. I’m happy to concede that role to you. Let’s go have a nice dinner where everything doesn’t smell of cattle, sweat, and three day old chewing tobacco.”

Trent dated like guys did with girls. They went out to restaurants where the beer wasn’t the only edible thing on the menu. Trent knew about food. He’d been a food critic before shifting to writing about primordial man as he liked to call it. He wrote about the cowboys, and he also wrote for hunting and fishing magazines.

“Someone has to cater to those poor men’s feeling of inadequacy. It’s easy work, and it pays OK, and I like it out here. I don’t have to pretend to be interested in wine.”

Trent was a city boy by his own admission, but he could rough it with the best of them. He’d gone off to some backwoods camp every year as a boy and could hunt, fish, hike and whatever. He hadn’t really known much about horses, but Mace was fixing that. Maybe they could settle down and raise some nice horse flesh. Fat chance. Trent would go back home to civilization, and Mace would be thumbing a ride to the next rodeo.

“Cowboy, you dreaming of a hot date tonight?” the chute crew guy punched Mace’s leg. “You’re up next. You do have to ride, not just sit on the fence looking all fashionable.”

“I’m ready.” Mace pushed his hat down firmer on his head and positioned himself to drop carefully onto the horse’s back. He could do this. This horse was easy--two or three straight jumps out and then some spinning. It’d be a piece of cake. Mace coiled the rope one more time around his hand, and nodded for the gate guy to open the chute.