The Thousand-and-One Rides of the Devil's Horse

By Eric Alan Westfall

Diablo. Big as one o’ them beer-pullin’ horses, quarter horse sleek, blacker’n the blackest black ya kin see inside yer head er elsewheres. They said as how he was the best saddle bronc ever, ‘n’ weren’t nobody gonna stay on him.

Ha! He was the Devil hisself made horse.

How else ya gonna explain as how the bosses was right? Nobody stayed the eight seconds when the Devil’s horse were buckin’. Weren’t no big deal, him tossin’ riders them first ten, twenny times, with the prize the bosses offered goin’ up a grand each time. But then he bucked off forty, ‘n fifty, ‘n the guy who tried fer the hunnerd grand fer the 100th ride weren’t on longer’n four-five seconds.

He weren’t no normal horse, ‘n I bin knowin’ ‘bout horses fer longer’n most folks bin around. I tried. I told ‘em ‘n’ told ‘em but weren’t nobody’d listen.

So’s I shut up, did my job, kept outa the way of the Devil’s horse, ‘n watched alla them rides. ‘n a bit beyond.
This here’s the story ‘bout how the Devil’s horse got rid a thousand ‘n’ one times.

‘n’ cuz I’m nice, ‘n’ this here Eric Alan Westfall guy is pretty good, I’m givin’ ya some samples—covers ‘n’ blurbs ‘n’ chapters—of some of the books what he’s writ:

The Cooking Mage & The Parchment Prankster Part One
The Rake, The Rogue, and The Roué
3 Boars & A Wolf Walk Into A Bar...
Mr. Felcher’s Grand Emporium, or, The Adventures of a Pair of Spares in the Fine Art of Gentlemanly Portraiture
Tattooed Wolf, Painted Dragon
Prince Ivan, A. Wolfe & A Firebird
no way out
Of Princes False and True
The Warlord and the Bard
The Raven Prince

Oh, yeah. The story ‘bout the Devil’s horse is 8032 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Alan Westfall
• Release date: Jul 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215731819

Book preview

THE

THOUSAND-AND-ONE RIDES

OF

THE DEVIL’S HORSE

Diablo, somebody named him, ‘fore he arrived at our stables.

Well, not ‘our’ like I had anythin’ t’do with ownin’ ‘em or runnin’ the comp’ny that supplied rodeos all over the country with some o’ th’best buckin’ broncs as ever was. I jes’ worked there. Watched what was goin’ on, too, the whole time th’rides went on. Truth be told, I watched a bit beyond that.

That bronc coulda been called Satan or Beelzebub jes’ as easy, jes’ as true. Cuz he was like the Devil hisself, made horse.

Tall as one o’ them beer horses, prob’ly taller, since he was coupla fingers more’n nineteen hands. Sleek like quarter horse, though. O’ course, even with him bein’ s’big, weren’t nobody stupid enough ta try t’get him t’pull a wagon, whether beer-horse big, or little red kid-wagon small. We was all smart enough t’know what’d happen if we did.

When he stood quiet, he was all smooth muscles, but ya could see all this held-back power. Power, like, well, if he weren’t no bronc, or even if he was, he could shuttle back ‘n’ forth across the Atlantic between April ‘n’ September, startin’ with the 2000 Guinea Stakes in England, back here fer the Kentucky Derby ‘n’ the Preakness, over there for the Epsom Derby, back fer the Belmont, ‘n’ finish with the St Leger Stakes. Power ta spare fer winnin’ both Triple Crowns.

Power, like if he jes’ let it all loose, in ever’ race he’d be round the track ‘n’ inta the winner’s circle ‘fore the rest was two-three-four strides outa the startin’ gate.

Black he was. Pick the blackest black ya can think of. Hold it tight inside your head. See it clear. He was two-three-four times blacker’n that. Only white on him was the whites o’ his eyes, ‘n’ you barely saw any o’ that when he was starin’ ya down. Makin’ sure y’unnerstood, real clear-like, who ruled, ‘n’ who not t’fuck with.

Wicked beast. Evil under the sun like the title o’ that murder book, but like Will said, the Devil has th’power t’assume a pleasant shape.

So did the Devil’s horse.

Made hisself look pleasant, with a horse-smile sayin’, Who me? I’m so nice, wouldn’t even swish my tail t’swat away a fly.

O’ course pleasant times was when you was doin’ somethin’ for him. Like groomin’, washin’ him down, brushin’ him t’make his hide shine as much as that kinda black could. Makin’ sure his hooves ‘n’ shoes was in good shape. Gettin’ burrs ‘n’ mats outa his mane ‘n’ tail.

Trouble was, y’had ta learn quick pleasant was only long as y’talked ta him, told him what a great horse he was, ‘n’ let him know what ya was about t’do, ever’ step o’ the way. Apologizin’ in advance, too, fer whatever, seein’ as how there weren’t no forgiveness after, if there weren’t no permission, or warnin’ first.

Not a good idea t’sprise him, say, by usin’ a comb ‘n’ yankin’ hard on a stubborn mat in his tail. Ain’t nobody got killed or broke bones from not followin’ the no-surprise rule, but ya still got hurt. Diablo’d use a head-butt, or all-o’-him sidestep, or a hip swing, ‘n’ there ya was, flung inta the stall side, or slammed down on the floor, leavin’ ya with bruises from crown t’crotch, ‘n’ mebbe down t’toes, too.

Then he’d stare at ya, sayin’ clear as clear could ever be, Y’ain’t gonna do that shit again, are ya. With no question mark at the end.

Sure, he was calm as calm, when ya made sure his water ‘n’ feed was fresh. Or when ya mucked out his stall, puttin’ fresh straw down t’make his home nice ‘n’ clean. He’d made it real clear he dint like shavin’s or sawdust under his hooves, jes’ straw.

Yeah, when ya was doin’ any o’ that, when’ ya wasn’t makin’ no stupid mistakes, he was like the Prince o’ Heaven come down t’earth t’rule with sweetness ‘n’ light.

But oh, he was sneaky like Satan, subtle like unto the serpent, standin’ all still ‘n’ statue-like when ya was puttin’ on the bronc saddle. Or as the sayin’ goes, shockin’ the shit outa ever’body what didn’t work fer L&G, when he jes’ followed th’groom holdin’ his reins, calm as all get-out, right from his stall ‘n’ into the chute. Didn’t even so much as twitch when a rider got on his back.

When it come ta bein’ rid in the ring, though, he was Lucifer hisself, th’devil’s son come up from Hell.

Still, fer all his King o’ Hell ways, what with him bein’ the Devil’s own horse, there weren’t never a lack o’ riders tryin’ for the prize, cuz o’ the way it went up ever’ time he dumped a rider off.

See, somehow or other, the bosses made a special deal so ridin’ Diablo weren’t part o’ the points system, where riders was competin’ ‘gainst other riders fer whatever the big prize was for that rodeo, or buildin’ up points fer some national rodeo finals.

No points fer the rider ‘bout his control—ha!—o’ Diablo. No points fer spurrin’ action, cuz part o’ th’deal was, weren’t no spurs allowed. Not even bronc-ridin’ spurs, with the rowels dulled so’s they wasn’t pointy ‘n’ sharp, ‘n’ loose, not locked, so they’d roll on the bronc’s sides. If you dint like tryin’ t’ride a bronc without spurs, well, the bosses’d be real happy-like t’tell you what ya could do, ‘sides not try for the prize. And since there weren’t no points fer keepin’ yer toes pointed out, ya could ride the way ya liked best, ‘long as it was one-handed.

I ‘spect Diablo musta been real sad—ha! again—he weren’t gettin’ no points either. Nothin’ fer his buckin’ ability. Nothin’ fer whether he made the ride, what’d they say? oh, yeah, fer whether he made the ride smooth ‘n’ rhythmic.

None o’ that. Just a real simple deal. Ya pay a fifty buck entrance fee, ‘n’ if ya can stay on Diablo fer eight seconds, ya not only win a thousand bucks, ya get t’own Diablo, too. Well, a thousand bucks was what the prize was the first time. But then it went up a thousand bucks—plus the ownership thing—ever’ time somebody failed t’stay on fer them eight seconds.

Yep. That was the deal.

So whatever the prize was when the rodeo started, if Diablo bucked off, say, four riders ‘fore the show closed, well, the prize was four more grand when we moved on t’the next one.

Bosses was smart. Same time as the prize hit twenny grand—Cash if ya want it! they advertised—the money got put in a big name bank, ‘n’ th’bosses added a bank guy announcin’ how much the prize was before the first try. Then he stayed around, watchin’, so ever’ time Diablo bucked one off, the bank guy did somethin’ with his phone or a computer gizmo what did one o’ them ‘lectronic money movin’ things, ‘n’ another grand was in the prize account. Then he’d say over the speakers what the new prize was, ‘fore the next rider tried his luck.

So here’s how it went.

Ever’ single time.

When they opened the gate ‘n’ Diablo came outa the chute, there oughta been some monster bang!!! like the sound o’ one o’ them cannons what can shoot a shell the size of a guy for miles ‘n’ miles, cuz he moved so straight, so fast.

Right ta the center o’ the ring, where he stopped. Right on that dime in the dirt.

Okay, so that was added later. I guess I better tell ya, so’s ya get the whole ever’ time picture right.

First time fer the dime thing was right after the seventh or eighth rider got thrown. One o’ that rodeo’s bosses jes’ ups ‘n’ announces over the speakers how his wife’d bet him that Diablo could stop on a dime, ‘n’ the boss said he told her no way, though there was likely a colorful word in between those two. Dint say what they was bettin’, but he said we was all gonna find out right then which o’ them was right.

So the boss walked out into the ring, stopped pretty close t’the middle, ‘n’ held up a dime. O’ course at that distance nobody could see if was real, but we all figured, specially those of us who’d met his wife, that he weren’t dumb enough fer it not t’be a dime. He drops it, all careless-like, ‘n’ when he gets back t’the booth, he flips on the mic ‘n’ says so ever’body kin hear, ‘cludin’ Diablo in the chute, Okay, folks, let’s see if Diablo can stop on a dime!

Like usual, Diablo comes flyin’ outa the chute, cannon-shot fast, straight t’th’middle...’n’ stops with his right front hoof touchin’ the dime. Not movin’ it, not coverin’ it, jes’ touchin’. Then he looks down at the dime, ‘n’ up toward the judgin’ booth where the boss was, like he was sayin’, Well, ya gonna get this outa the way so’s we can do our stuff?

Boss sent one o’ the clowns out, though he didn’t try no funny stuff, in any sense o’ them words. He edged up t’Diablo real slow-like, figurin’ he was mebbe puttin’ alla hisself or mebbe a hand at risk, but he had the right kinda guts, ‘n’ he musta heard ‘bout talkin’ quiet-like ta let Diablo know alls he was gonna do was pick up the dime, show it t’ever’one, then get the flock outa Dodge. Which he did, without Diablo doin’ nothin’ but waitin’, though y’could tell there mighta been a bit o’ impatience there.

After that the bosses advertised ‘bout Diablo, the horse what stopped on a dime, ‘n’ it became part o’ the show. They even started gettin’ some local big shot t’do the dime placin’. Weren’t no shortage o’ men, ‘n’ some women, too, all eager-like t’have their name in all that advertisin’, free publicity just fer puttin’ a dime down in the dirt in a rodeo ring. They’d be dressed up all fancy, ‘n’ walk out t’the middle, sometimes lookin’ a bit afraid, like Diablo might sudden-like come a-runnin’ out ta stomp ‘em good.

They’d hold up the dime so ever’body could see it was a real dime. Well, ever’body watchin’ their phones or the big screens the bosses put up, cam’ras all zoomed in, ‘n’ then they’d put the dime down. Some did it real careful-like, others jes’ dropped it.

Weren’t no big X or nothin’ t’mark the spot where the big shot was s’posed t’put it. So no way ya could, say, train Diablo where t’go ‘n’ where t’stop, cuz it changed, kinda subtle-like, right before each ride. In case ya was wonderin’.

Time t’time, some smart-ass local guys’d even try t’fool Diablo, by puttin’ it more off t’one side, ‘stead of as near ta the middle as they could, like they agreed ta. Never worked. He still went right t’the dime, waited ‘til it got removed, ‘n’ then went back ta th’center, where th’show’s star belonged.

Then he’d pause, ‘n’ lift his head like he dint have no rider on his back, ‘n’ pose like one o’ them snooty beautiful models, man, woman, dint make no difference, at th’end of a runway. Pose that says, Look at me. Bet you ain’t seen nothin’ as beautiful as me before, not ever in yore dull little life. Ya won’t never see it again, either, ‘less ya pay ta come back ‘n’ look another time. No touchin’ allowed.

Which was followed by standin’ up on his hind legs jes’ like one o’ them fancy Lipizzaners—yeah, I know lots about horses outsida rodeos ‘n’ bronc riding—’fore he drops down on all fours.

Which was th’quivalent o’ openin’ the gate on the chute as a signal fer the bronc t’start buckin’.

‘n’ Diablo bucked like no bronc ya ever seen.

Weren’t no surprise some o’ them early riders tried t’claim they oughta get the prize cuz they was on Diablo fer prob’ly a minute or mebbe more—that race ta the middle, dime-stop, pose, dime-removal, Lipizzaner-pose, part—’n’ all the rodeo rules required was they stay on eight seconds.

But the bosses was prepared. See, the fine print—the real, real fine print—in the contract the riders signed when they paid their entrance fee said the eight seconds started when Diablo started buckin’. Funny, none o’ them makin’ this complaint lasted anywheres close t’eight seconds, ‘specially the one who kinda slid down ‘n’ off Diablo’s back when he did the Lipizzaner thing.

There was also one rider in them early days, No. 16, who was impatient with the pause-’n’-pose stuff. So he slammed both his boot heels inta Diablo’s sides ‘bout halfway through th’pose fer the dime, ‘n’ shouted Buck, you fucker! when he did it.

Now, see, me, I knew he was the Devil’s horse ‘fore anyone else put a name ta it. Knew ‘fore all th’evidence started pilin’ up. Evidence like the dime-stop, ‘n’ the pause-’n’-pose, with how unnatural quiet the stands got whiles watchin’ it. Like what happened when you weren’t doin’ right by him in the stables. But biggest of all was the way he bucked.

Weren’t one o’ th’good Lord’s horses, ‘n’ so I said, early on, but nobody believed me. Laughed at me. But not long after the dime business started, one o’ th’bosses said, right after he cut off the laughin’ when I tried t’tell him again, Well, fuck me sideways, that’s a great idea!

He puts his hand in his fancy pants, comes up with a crumpled-up one, shoves it me, ‘n’ says as how I should have a beer on him. Yeah, right. Even the cheap-ass beer is close t’ten dollars.

After that they started advertisin’ ‘bout how they had Diablo, the Devil’s own horse, as a bronc, ‘n’ weren’t no sinner or saint what could stay on him.

So anyway, back t’the guy stupid enough t’hurt Diablo, or at least piss him off. Guess he figured he was all ready for Diablo’s fancy buckin’, ‘n’ he’d be aheada the game by s’prisin’ Diablo into buckin’ when the rider wanted him t’buck. I reckon the guy was real, real lucky he weren’t wearin’ no spurs, or mebbe the good Lord was lookin’ after a dumb ass like He sometimes does.

Yeah, yeah, I know all ‘bout how some folks say as God’s She, or mebbe somethin’ else when it comes ta pronouns, which I ain’t got no troubles or quarrels with, but I know what’s what, ‘n’ what ain’t.

So, movin’ right along, bronc riders gotta have strong legs, well, pretty much strong ever’thin’, so him slammin’ them boot heels in Diablo’s side like he did weren’t no gentle tap like ya’d do t’get yer horse movin’ a little faster in a reg’lar ride.

More shock the shit time when Diablo...dint do nothin’.

Not at first.

Jes’ stayed real still, like he ain’t been kicked, then turned his head ‘round—no, it weren’t like that exersism thing in th’movie—ta look at the idiot on his back. Have ta say, if horse-looks was words, them words woulda been, Don’t blame me, dumbass, cuz you asked fer this.

Y’know what airs above the ground is, with Lipizzaners, right? Well, if ya don’t, go find it on YouTube or whatever, ‘n’ come back when yer up t’date.

Yep. That’s what Diablo did. From jes’ standin’ there. All sudden-like he was way up in the air, front legs curved, ‘n’ givin’ a powerful kick so’s his hindlegs went straight back.

Beautiful, beautiful...if it’d been one o’ God’s horses doin’ it.

‘cept it was the Devil’s horse, ‘n’ the Devil’s horse don’t do things normal-like.

See, while he was still up in the air after that back-kick—y’got that? still up in the air—his hindlegs came back in then kicked back out, harder’n’ th’first time, only he added an arch ta his back ‘n’ a kinda twist, whiles he was on his way down, which sent th’dumbass flyin’ off ta the side, flippin’ over so’s he landed flat on his back ‘n’ ass, all sprawled out X-like.

Diablo? Well, he jes’ lands on all fours, not even breathin’ hard, throwing his head up, neck arched all proud-like, ‘n’ shakin’ his mane, ‘n’ givin’ us a horse-sound what said, Ain’t nobody what beats on me.

O’ course, folks was comin’ out inta the ring as soon as the rider hit the dirt, like yer s’posed t’do with broncs what throwed a rider, when the rider don’t jes’ get up immediate, doin’ like that Fred ‘n’ Ginger song ‘bout brushin’ yerself off, ‘n’ startin’ all over again.

Deal is, coupla the helpers is s’posed t’distract the horse, with someone gettin’ holda his reins t’lead him away, while a few others’ll get the rider on a stretcher, real careful-like, like death was standin’ there, ready t’open the door fer the poor fella. The rider goes along with the show, even if he weren’t nothin’ more’n’ jes’ winded, mebbe a bit o’ bruising.

Yeah, right, sure it worked that way.

See, all them folks what was headin’ in t’help, stopped real quick, ‘n’ stood real, real still, ‘long with ever’body in th’stands shuttin’ up, when Diablo walked over ta X-shaped dumbass, lifted his left foreleg, ‘n’ rested that hoof with the shiny steel shoe on the guy’s chest. Then he leaned his head down, ‘n’ looked at the guy who was pissin’ his pants as ever’body could soon see, but raunchy ‘n’ rude as rodeo folks ‘n’ crowds kin be, nobody blamed him or made fun o’ him, then or later.

When ya got a horse what’s nineteen hands high, ‘n’ weighs jes’ under two thousand pounds—Diablo was kind enough t’let us get him on a scale once in a while—’n’ when just a little lean from that horse means yore chest is crushed flatter’n’ flat, ya stay still. After a little bit o’ head-down starin’, Diablo snorted, adding some horse-snot ta dumbass’s face—insult t’injury, ‘n’ all that—lifted his foot, backed up, turned, walked away. Straight ta the gate where he woulda been taken if someone had managed t’get his reins ‘n’ lead him there. Stopped. Stared at it.

Y’could jes’ hear him thinkin’. Wonder when these dumbasses’ll get their act t’gether, ‘n’ open the gate, so’s I can get back ta my stall, ‘n’ get bathed, ‘n’ groomed, ‘n’ fed proper, like I deserve after a performance like that.

Th’other dumbasses in the ring—’sides the rider—did get their act together, ‘n’ did the last bit o’ the Diablo part, openin’ the gate fer him so’s he could leave the ring, while th’rest of ‘em did the stretcher part for the rider.

So, ya got the picture? The ever’-time picture?

Diablo races out t’the dime. Stops. Pause ‘n’ pose. Dime removed. Lipizzaner statue-like pose. Front hoofs hit th’dirt, ‘n’ the buckin’ starts.

Only it weren’t buckin’ like a ord’nary bronc would. Or could.

Oh, sure, part o’ what he did was reg’lar bronc stuff. Jumpin’ forward, hindlegs up ‘n’ kickin’ out real hard as he come down on his forelegs, ‘n’ then do th’same in mebbe a diff’rent direction. Sometimes goin’ in a circle while buckin’. Or makin’ some kinda sideways move.

But no natural-born horse could get as high as Diablo did. Or spin all th’way ‘round, like full circle, when he was in the air, ‘fore he landed.

Or on the ground...

Well, ya know them cartoons where th’other kinda devil, the one what’s from Tasmania, is whirlin’ ‘round so fast alls ya kin see ‘til he stops is horizontal lines movin’? Diablo weren’t quite that fast, but it shore seemed like it t’us watchin’. ‘specially since he never