The Deadliest Outdoor Show on Earth

By Randy McCharles

Peter Galloway’s pursuit of his mother’s killer brings him back to Calgary, where he determines the accidental death of a rodeo star at the Calgary Exhibition and Stampede is in actuality murder. Enlisting the aid of RCMP Sergeant Angela Ford, his investigation into the workings of the international rodeo circuit leads to an attempt on his life as well as an answer to the 20-year-old mystery of who killed his mother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randy McCharles
• Release date: Oct 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005926205

Randy McCharles

RANDY MCCHARLES is a full-time author of speculative and crime fiction.He is the recipient of several Aurora Awards (Canada's most prestigious award for speculative fiction) and in 2013 his short story Ghost-B-Gone Incorporated won the House of Anansi 7-day Ghost Story Contest.Randy's most recent publications include the 2016 Aurora Award shortlisted novel "Much Ado about Macbeth" from Tyche Books, the short story "Murder at the Mall" from Coffin Hop Press, and the 2017 Aurora Award shortlisted novel "The Day of the Demon".Upcoming books include the Peter Galloway soft-boiled detective series and "A Connecticut Gumshoe in King Arthur's Court".In addition to writing, Randy organizes various events including the award-winning When Words Collide Festival for Readers and Writers.

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Galloway / McCharles / 225 of 225

THE DEADLIEST OUTDOOR SHOW ON EARTH

A Peter Galloway Mystery

A novel by

Randy McCharles

Copyright © 2020 Randy McCharles

First edition. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage & retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover illustration by Jan Serne

THE DEADLIEST OUTDOOR SHOW ON EARTH

1 – Good Pay for Eight Seconds’ Work

Ladies and gentlemen, cowboys and cowgirls, please welcome our next contestant, 22-year-old Roy Rogers from Longview, Alberta.

Galloway grinned as the 17,000 people that filled the grandstand rose to their feet, clapping, whistling, and hooting.

Wow! Ford cried, standing up beside Galloway. Somebody likes this guy.

Local boy makes good, I said, raising my voice to be heard above the crowd. I didn’t have to say more, as the announcer, former rodeo star Dave Poulsen, did it for me.

"Roy made a big splash on the rodeo circuit last year, appearing out of nowhere and winning buckle after buckle, and purse after purse, including the Canadian Finals Rodeo trophy. Many fans favour Roy to win the bull riding event here at this year’s Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth."

As we settled back into our premium seats on the third level of the infield south annex, I told Ford, Roy’s not his real name, of course. Roy Rogers was an actor and singer back in the ‘40s.

Believe it or not, Ford said, I knew that. My dad loves old westerns.

Makes me wonder though, I said, why Rogers uses a nom de plume. Do you think he’s got something to hide?

Ford laughed. You’re far too suspicious. It’s just a marketing ploy. Who’s gonna forget a rodeo star named Roy Rogers?

I’m sure that’s it, I said.

Laughter rose from the crowd as a man dressed in yellow and blue overalls, wearing a blue-haired wig and white face paint, performed summersaults across the infield.

I take it that’s not Roy, Ford said.

I shifted my gaze to the chutes where the bull riders entered the field. Nothing. Must be a delay at the gate. These bulls don’t take direction well, after all.

I can imagine, Ford said. I don’t understand rodeo clowns, though. Under the big top, sure. Kids love clowns. But people are here to watch manly men and strong women pit their strength against a thousand pounds of equine or bovine muscle. Not… not this.

A second clown entered the field wearing an oversized coat that seemed sewn from scraps of bright green and yellow cloth. On his head sat a wicker cowboy hat coated with feathers. He waved his hands in the air, then lowered one arm and pointed at the first clown, who began running. A chase ensued.

After several yards, the blue-haired clown turned and placed his hands against the side of his head in an impression of horns. The second clown skidded to a stop and stood looking perplexed, watching as the pretend bull stamped one foot, then raced back toward him. Instead of running, the target clown reached into a pocket of his oversized coat and rifled out, hand over fist, a giant red cloth that he waved like a cape. The pretend bull ran past, brushing through the cape as the crowd shouted "Olé!"

I have to agree with you, I said to Ford. Clowns aren’t my thing. But when there’s a delay, the organizers have to distract the crowd somehow. Besides, entertainment isn’t the clowns’ real job. They’re trained to protect the riders, which is dangerous work. I suspect the whole clown thing is to help the audience forget how dangerous their job actually is.

A horn sounded, and the two clowns jogged over to the chutes where they stood with their hands on the fence rail, ready to jump to safety if necessary. I returned my gaze to the chutes.

Sorry for the delay, Poulsen said over the PA. Riding Fu Manchu, one of the meanest bulls in the pen, courtesy of Braithwaite Ranches, a local boy from Longview, Alberta, weighing 150 pounds, Roy Rogers!

The crowd quieted as all eyes focused on the chute, waiting for Roy Rogers to nod his head. When the cowboy was ready, his hat dipped down, and the chute man swung open the gate.

Two thousand pounds of muscle and sinew erupted onto the infield. Clinging to the animal’s back, a smallish man in jeans, long-sleeve cowboy shirt, and black cowboy hat, gripped a braided bull rope with his right hand, the other swinging through the air above his head. I noticed how Rogers bent his arm, holding the rope against his chest, using it to keep his torso as close to the bull’s back as possible.

It was like a work of art. As the bull raised its head in preparation to buck, Roy shifted his torso forward. Then, when the animal’s hind end came up in an attempt to throw him, Roy’s hips followed without him throwing his shoulders back like novices so often did when riding mechanical bulls in a bar.

The audience cheered as Poulsen provided colour, his smooth voice bursting with excitement. I knew Rogers’ waving arm provided counterbalance and vented some of the momentum generated by the bucking bull, but most of it had to be absorbed by his body. The black hat stayed on, so Rogers must have secured it, probably to the protective strap-on helmet riders were required to wear these days.

Eight seconds. That’s how long Rogers needed to stay on the bull. Then he would release the bull rope and jump away from the animal, landing on the infield and hightailing it to safety. The clowns who had performed tricks earlier would help the pickup riders herd the bull toward the exit at the centre of the infield. The judges would rank not only Roy’s performance, but that of the bull as well. The winner of today’s event would walk away with a bronze trophy and a $5,500 prize. Good pay for eight seconds’ work, though of course a whole lot of training went into that short ride on a bull, not to mention the risk.

I wasn’t sure which happened first, the sharp rise in Poulsen’s voice, or the shocked quieting of the viewers in the stands. Time seemed to slow as I watched, mesmerized as Rogers slid backward and sideways off the bull. The animal was still kicking as the cowboy hit the ground, the hind hooves falling dangerously close to Roy’s head and torso, kicking up dust that partially obscured the scene.

Galloway! Ford cried, her fingers digging into my arm. She wasn’t alone. Cries of shock and dismay rose all around us from the stands, though most voices, like mine, were rendered speechless.

He’s thrown! Poulsen shouted over the PA. Roy Rogers has been thrown!

Dust settled over the unmoving cowboy as Fu Manchu loped further away, snorting dangerously as it turned its head toward the infield exit. The two clowns from earlier appeared on the hard dirt between the bull and rider. They waved their arms and shouted, not so much to steer the animal toward the exit, but to keep it from coming back toward Rogers.

In almost no time at all, the mounted pickup men herded the bull off the field. Then medics and other rodeo staff raced across the hard ground to reach the thrown rider.

No need to worry, folks, Poulsen continued, Riders get thrown all the time. A few scrapes and bruises. Roy will be back in no time at all, good as new. May I draw your attention to the pickup men…

I stopped listening as Ford spoke, her voice almost a whisper. He’s dead. I’m sure of it.

Returning my gaze to Rogers, I saw he still wasn’t moving. As the last sluggish cloud of dust settled around him, two paramedics, one checking his pulse, the other checking his eyes, shook their heads at each other. The black cowboy hat that had remained on Rogers’ head during the wild ride, now lay on the dirt several feet away. Poulsen was still talking over the PA, his voice calm and smooth, but I couldn’t focus on the words. Despite the announcer’s assurances, it seemed likely that Roy Rogers, the man who could have been the star of this year’s rodeo, was dead.

2 – I Hardly Saw the Body

As various rodeo officials wandered like the survivors of a train wreck between the north annex building and the tent, voices rose from the infield bleachers and the grandstand across the field, rumbling like the swarming of bees. The only words I could make out were from the galley seating in the suite next to ours—two women debating how this tragedy would impact the rodeo. Since most of the suites were occupied by corporate sponsors, I could forgive them for that being their first concern.

A squelch came over the PA system, followed by a much subdued Poulsen. Listen up folks. I’ve been informed that Roy is being taken to a hospital, just to play it safe. You know how it is. The rodeo will resume in just a few minutes. Sorry for the inconvenience. If you look at your program, you’ll see…

I’m glad the kids are at the midway with your sister, Ford said.

I nodded. Ford’s two children, Danielle, 13, and Scotty, 10, had seen enough trauma in recent months, what with their father’s mental illness, their parents’ pending divorce, and well, me entering their lives. I’d hoped a vacation away from Fort McMurray that included a week at the Calgary Stampede would be a nice distraction for them. A rodeo injury, or death, had been the last thing on my mind.

They’ll find out about this eventually, I said.

Ford snorted. The news is full of doom and gloom. That’s not the same as watching it happen right in front of you.

True. Few people knew that better than me. When I was 12 years old, I discovered my mother’s body on the kitchen floor of our house. She’d been murdered. Stabbed to death. The experience gave me scars that still hadn’t healed. I don’t think I can just sit here not knowing if the rider died or not. Let’s go downstairs and have a look-see.

They won’t let us onto the infield, Ford said.

We’ll just have to see about that.

A service corridor behind our suite took us outside to the roof behind the infield bleachers. From there, VIPs who booked the annex could see the animal pens and barns where the horses, bulls, and steers were housed for the day’s events. Covered steps took us to ground level where a path had been fenced off from the stock area to allow ticketholders access to the bleachers.

Several dozen spectators who had left their seats were shuffling along the path. A few stood at the fence watching animals and rough stock handlers out in the pens. Taking Ford by the elbow, I led us the other way, back toward the infield access lane.

Several young men lingered near the lane entrance, speaking together in soft voices, and caressing cigarettes between their fingers. They wore dusty jeans, cotton shirts, cowboy hats, and tall leather boots. But they looked nothing like the urban cowboys that haunted Calgary’s bars and restaurants throughout Stampede week. These were the real deal. Not only could they ride horses, they could corral them and join them up them if need be.

They watched as Ford and I approached, then broke off their conversation. One of them, a tall man who may have been the oldest, stepped toward us. Sorry folks. I know you’re curious, but we can’t have looky-loos back here. It isn’t safe.

I threw him my best smile. My mother is Katherine Grant.

The guy stood for a moment, dumbfounded. I guessed no one had tried that one on him before.

Commissioner Grant, I amended. On the Stampede Board.

He turned his head a bit, but nothing came out of his mouth.

We’re not looky-loos, I said, hoping a blunter approach might work.

The man finally found his tongue. It don’t matter who you are. I still can’t let you in.

Should I go get my mother? I asked. I can do that.

He shook his head. You can run to your mother if you like, but I still can’t let you in. We got safety regulations. Maybe you could go speak with the nice folks at the security office. I’m sure they’ll be happy to give you some kind of special pass. The office is—

I know where it is. I began to turn around, already formulating a plan to talk the security staff into giving us a pass without getting my faux-mother involved.

Ford grabbed my arm. We don’t have time for this. Digging into her fanny pack, she pulled out her RCMP ID and showed it to the cowboy. I think this trumps a pass from your security office.

The cowboy looked at the badge, then at Ford, who was dressed in black Wrangler jeans and a blue denim shirt. You a cop?

Off duty, Ford said.

The cowboy scratched his head. I dunno.

Ford hardened her gaze. When a man is injured, off duty cops go on duty.

Uhm. The cowboy looked again at Ford’s badge, then glanced over his shoulder at his buddies. I can’t really leave my post to escort you.

We know the way, I said. Probably better than you do. I practically grew up here.

Augh! The cowboy threw down his cigarette and stomped on it. You’re gonna get me fired.

Believe me, I said. The brass have more important things on their minds right now.

The cowboy gave a half-hearted wave that indicated we should go past him, and we wasted no time doing so.

Thanks for the backup, I said.

Ford smiled. I can’t let you do all the heavy lifting.

The access lane was short, maybe 30 yards long, with sunlight filtering in at both ends. Ceiling lights helped alleviate the feeling we were in a tunnel. I’d walked the infield access lane on past visits, but never during the actual rodeo. It felt a whole lot different with the smell of animals in the air, the sound of people in the bleachers overhead, and the sight of the larger grandstand, filled with rodeo fans, not 100 yards away.

Though I had experienced the tour when I was younger, I couldn’t remember ever being taken into the chute area beneath the bleachers. I specifically didn’t remember the complex arrangement of gates that were used to lead animals to individual chutes. Ford watched me stare at them, and nearly broke out laughing when I scratched my neck below one ear.

Do you know what you’re doing? she asked.

Haven’t the slightest, I said.

She looked over to the other end of the access lane. I thought you were going to try to get us onto the infield.

Not yet, I said. Roy Rogers can’t tell us anything.

But someone in there—she nodded toward the gates—can?

Maybe.

Should we ask those cowboys for some help?

I rested my hand on one of the metal bars and pulled it back. Sure enough, it was a lever mechanism, unlatching one section of the gate in two places. The gate swung inward on durable hinges. I think I’ve got it.

Fortunately, I had chosen the correct section of gate. It opened into a corridor that ran along the back wall. Other sections led into an array of metal and wood that could be manipulated to lead an animal to any of the several chutes designed to launch bulls, steers, and horses onto the infield.

I couldn’t see anyone in the chute area’s dusky interior. The space wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t as bright as the access lane. No people. No animals. The only thing of interest was a wide, doorless entrance into some kind of locker room or changing area.

The recessed room wasn’t any brighter. No windows. A few 40-watt bulbs in the ceiling. A long bench lined the far wall, where a chest-high ledge formed a shelf containing towels, boots, hats, and other paraphernalia, none of which looked new. I suspected they’d been abandoned in weeks and months past, but they did lend the otherwise austere room a nostalgic air.

The space at either end of the bench was taken up by banks of metal lockers. They were the tall and narrow variety, with a vertical sliding bolt designed for a padlock, and a small ventilation panel near the top. I hadn’t seen anything like them since high school. Most of the lockers appeared to be in use, secured with locks much newer than the lockers themselves.

Like the chute area, the changing room was abandoned, except for a single person sitting on the bench, a young boy maybe 15 years old. He sat with his head down and his hands clasped together, but with our arrival jerked his head up and stared at us with wide eyes. Who are you? he demanded.

Friends, I said. Where is everyone?

They’re all on the infield, the boy said, apparently taking me at my word. You know what happened?

We know, Ford said. What’s your name?

John.

So, tell me John, Ford asked, are you a cowboy?

He nodded. My dad’s a bullfighter.

Ford turned to look at me. Bullfighter?

One of the clowns, I said.

John’s expression darkened, and anger filled his voice. He’s not a clown. He works with the bulls. That’s more dangerous than what clowns do. Or horse wranglers. Horses aren’t dangerous.

I grinned. I’ll remember that next time one is trying to kick me in the teeth.

John just shook his head.

Tell me something, I asked. There was a delay before Fu Manchu left the gate. What was that about?

Gloves, John said. Roy couldn’t find his glove. His spare wasn’t in his kit either.

I blew air out between my lips. A bull rider’s glove is like a catcher’s mitt. They don’t lose their glove.

You’d think, John said. Roy was royally pissed. But McIvor wasn’t gonna let him go out to his truck for his backup, backup glove. Said it would take too long.

So, what did Roy do?

McIvor made him wear his old discard. John glanced up at the shelf of abandoned doodads. Roy was none too happy. Munson offered to let him wear his glove, but Roy was too ticked off to be reasonable. Said a strange glove was a strange glove, and his old discard fit well enough.

That’s good to know, I said.

Ford had a notepad out and was scribbling away. She needn’t have bothered. I had engaged the recorder on my phone before we were stopped by the cowboy deputies.

Let’s go out to the infield and see what’s happening, I suggested to Ford.

John shook his head. You can’t go out there. Not allowed.

I laughed. "Not allowed is my middle name."

We left the locker room and went back the way we’d come. Ford had been right—we needed to go out on the infield. I’d been hoping to speak with the chute boss or some of the other competitors before facing what had become of Roy, but life was never that easy.

After navigating back through the gate into the access lane, we walked several yards toward the infield before encountering another cowboy. He looked older than those standing guard at the east entrance. His face was tanned, handsome in a roughneck way, and wore a tall white hat over unruly reddish-brown hair. He also smoked a cigarette. He reminded me of the Marlboro Man from the old commercials.

Sorry folks. No one’s allowed on the infield.

You work here? I asked, wondering why he was alone when there were three deputies by the pen area.

He smiled. Don’t matter if I do or don’t. You’re still not allowed on the infield. You could get hurt. If not hurt, then arrested. You shouldn’t be back by the chutes either. How’d you get in here?

We need to go out on the infield, I said, ignoring his question.

He just shook his head and dropped his cigarette, crushing it out with his boot. I suspected he’d like nothing better than to throw a punch at me.

Ford cocked an eye. Your mother or my badge?

I sighed. Your badge.

Ford retrieved her RCMP ID from her fanny pack and held it out.

The cowboy squinted at the ID, then looked us up and down. Cops huh? We had an accident, not a crime.

Ford just looked at him. It’s my job to make that determination.

A smile reformed on the cowboy’s thin lips. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. He stepped aside and pulled a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

Are all cowboys smokers? Ford asked as we walked past him and made our way the remaining few yards to the end of the lane. I realize I’ve only seen four so far, but all of them were ignoring the public smoking bylaws.

I thought about that. Arguably, yes, though many opt for the chewable variety. Tobacco is a part of the culture, alongside alcohol and square-dancing. All the cowboy stereotypes, really. Clichés have to start somewhere.

Bright sunlight partly blinded me as we left the shelter of the access lane canopy, and it occurred to me that in all my years attending The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth, both as an attendee and on the occasional VIP backstage tour as Commissioner Katherine Grant’s guest, I had never once stepped out onto the infield while the rodeo was in progress. As the Marlboro Man had said, areas where cowboys and cowgirls matched wills with wild horses and irate bulls were too dangerous for public access.

In front of us, the grandstand filled the horizon, all 17,000 seats of it. The lower sections had been coloured to spell out CALGARY STAMPEDE, though most of the deep red letters were currently obscured by denim shirts and cowboy hats. The bleacher area ran almost twice the length of a football field and rose seven stories, blocking out the rest of the Stampede grounds and all but the tops of the tallest downtown buildings.

Looking up and behind me, the infield bleacher seating was much smaller by comparison but offered a better view of the daytime rodeo events.

Though we received curious looks from many of the officials and cowboys dallying on the infield, Ford and I walked unchallenged to the temporary tent that covered the scene of the incident. An ambulance with the Aaron Paramedical Services logo on the side stood parked near the tent’s opening. Two cowhands standing guard gave us the evil eye but made no move to stop us until we came within arms’ reach.

Whoa there, partner, the taller of the two said, raising a hand as though that was enough to keep us from stepping further. You best turn around and go back where you came from.

Police, Ford said, holding out her badge.

The cowhand squinted at it. We didn’t call no police.

I know him, the other cowhand drawled, a stooped older man with thinning hair. Pete. Pete Galloway, isn’t it? You’re Commissioner Grant’s kid.

That’s right, I said.