1

    "Here!  Come on!”  Colleen’s headache was beginning to take its toll on her.  Never one to get a late-morning start, she just knew the others were still sleeping one off.  “Lucky bitches,” Colleen said out loud.  “I never get to sleep in,” she continued in a conversation with herself.  August was an unusually hot month, even for Southern California.  With temperatures hovering around the 100’s for the past few days, Colleen’s headache seemed even more severe than previous mornings after her monthly “Girls Night Out.”

    The brim of the Stetson that rested low on her forehead was dripping with sweat.  Colleen wondered whether the swill she stopped drinking a mere four hours before would continue to drip from her pores and sting her eyes all day long.  The Stetson had seen its share of sweat, dirt and blood over the last year, but this morning the alcohol content of the tequila stung her eyes even more than normal.

    “Los!” she called over her shoulder.  “Who the hell hosed down the ring this morning?”  There was a bit of a sting in Colleen’s voice.

    “Jesus, Meese Caldwell.  Es no bueno, Meese Caldwell?” Carlos asked timidly.

    “It’s a damn dust bowl in here!” Colleen continued to bark.  She was referring to the dirt and dust being sprayed about as the filly she was circling in the show ring kicked copious amounts in the air, straight into Colleen’s lungs.

    “Si!  I take care of it, Meese Caldwell,” Carlos offered.

    Colleen thought for a second about her tone toward the Ranch Foreman a second before.  She eased back on the whip just a little.  “Just tell Jesus that when he starts paying the water bill, he can decide how much water to use on the show ring.  Comprende’?”

    “Si, Meese Caldwell.”

    The horse at the other end of the rope seemed a bit jumpy.  Colleen thought that perhaps it was she who was a bit jumpy, and this green filly was feeding off of her temperament.  She learned at an early age that a horse is one of the few animals that can sense grief or fear, and mirror those emotions.  This horse was no exception.  Colleen could tell that this horse had seen more than a fair share of grief and fear.

2

    When bidding for the filly began at the River Bend Annual Equine Auction and Sale, grief and fear weighed heavily on Colleen's mind, too.  This young specimen was described as a “cull” as the Auctioneer placed her up for bid, and was labeled as a “troublemaker” by her owner.  Colleen immediately knew she had to save this animal from being sold for dog food.

    “We’re two of a kind,” Colleen announced as she raised her bidding paddle.  She was well-known by the rest of the Ranchers at the sale, and all other bidders respectfully lowered their paddles once they saw Colleen was interested.

    Even the Purina Buying Agent lowered his paddle, but not out of respect.  She figured that he felt sorry for her after Chase’s death, and Colleen always thought of the Purina Agent as an asshole anyway.

    Auctioneer Dick Long called three times for any other bids before shouting “Sold! To the Triple C,” slamming the gavel on the podium as he did so.  “Watch this one, Colleen,” Dick said in his commanding voice, still pointing the gavel in her direction.  “She’s trouble.”

    After the auction was over and the beer started flowing later that afternoon, Colleen found herself alone amongst the Buyers and Ranch owners, predominantly men in their 40’s and 50’s.  With a beer in one hand and a hot dog in the other, she could hear “Purina” talking to Glen Powers, owner of Big Sky Ranch.  His real name was Alex Anderson, but Colleen referred to him as “Purina,” just as Chase did for years.

    “How would you like to have those lips around your hot dog, eh Glen?” he said.

    “Don’t fuck with me, Purina,” Colleen said without turning around to face the bald, fat, dumpy forty-something pig of a man.  She took a drink of her beer.

    After a few seconds, she could hear Purina mumble something to Glen under his breath.  “Pfft!” he sputtered.

    Since Chase’s death, Purina had made several efforts to gain Colleen’s interest, but to no avail.  The last time she saw him was a few months before at a Show Jumping Competition.  His daughter took a red ribbon after a “refusal” by her horse at the last fence, showing a lack of command and teamwork by the rider.  After the competition, Purina made Colleen uneasy by asking what it would cost to let him ride her with his spurs on.  Colleen dismissed his comment, and was glad that the trophy for the Show Jumping Competition event would soon be in her display case.

    “She’s a bitch,” said Purina to Glen.

    Before Purina could see what was coming, Colleen dropped her beer, whipped around to face him, and drove her fist into Purina’s stomach, causing him to let out a loud, “Uhhh!”  When he gathered enough breath to stand up straight, Colleen could see large mustard and relish stains on his shirt from the demolished hot dog she still had balled up in her hand.

    “Holy shit, Colleen,” Glen chuckled, nearly choking on his beer.

    “I told him not to fuck with me,” said Colleen.

    Still catching his breath, Purina blurted, “I’ll sue you for that!”

    “Go ahead,” Colleen replied.

    Dick Long, who was in his 60’s but could still wrangle any man or animal due to his size, appeared out of nowhere and handed a wet washcloth to Colleen.  She wiped her hands and said, “I need a beer.  I guess I dropped mine.”

    “Here you go.  This one’s on me,” Dick offered.

    Colleen nodded and said, “Thanks, Dick.”

    “Maybe that cull you bought should watch out for you instead… Don’t you think…, Purina?” Dick added, motioning to the ailing Buying Agent.

    “You’re right,” said Colleen.  “Like I said before, we’re two of a kind.”

3

    Colleen’s headache was getting worse, pounding harder and harder against the sweat-soaked Stetson.  “One more thing, Los,” Colleen called again over her shoulder.  “How we sittin’ for Goat Chow?”

    “We have ‘bout twenny pounds, Meese Caldwell.  You want I should ask Meese Joan to order some more?” Carlos replied inquisitively.

    “Nah,” said Colleen.  “We’ll switch them to something else for a while.”

    “Okay, Boss,” said Carlos.

    “I hate it when you call me that, Carlos,” Colleen said in the same stinging tone as before.  She only called him by his full first name when he was in trouble, which wasn’t often.

    “Sorry Meese Caldwell.  I forget.  I don’t call you Boss no more,” Carlos said apologetically.

    “Tell Meese Joan that I said to hold off ordering anything from Purina for a while.  Comprende’?”

    “Si, Meese Caldwell.”

    Colleen’s eyes were stinging from tequila-infused droplets of sweat.  She could feel sweat dripping down her back between her shoulder blades, which was something she hated immensely.  Colleen believed that Sundays were for catching up on work that didn’t get done during the week, but she felt she would never make it through this day in the shape she was in.  The work will have to wait until next week, she thought to herself.

    “A few more good laps around the ring with this one, and we’ll call it a day,” she called once again over her shoulder to Carlos.

    “Okay B-, Meese Caldwell.  I get the gates ready,” he said before exiting the show ring.

    The slamming of the gate by Carlos made a big CLANG, startling the filly, making her shy sharply toward Colleen.  Usually light on her feet, Colleen shuffled backward to avoid the animal, making her trip over her own boots.  With the other end of the rope still wrapped around her right hand, Colleen hit the ground flat on her back, knocking the wind from her lungs.  In a flurry of dirt and dust, the filly reared backward, tangling her hind legs in the rope.  Before Colleen could take a breath, the filly took off across the show ring, dragging Colleen by the rope still wrapped around her hand.

    The filly, now at a full gallop, came to a skidding halt just short of the show ring fence.  Hatless, breathless, and with a mouthful of dirt, Colleen tried to regain her feet.  Before she could get all the way up, the scared filly took off across the show ring in the opposite direction, this time headed straight for Colleen.  Still breathless, Colleen had no time to react.  The filly plowed into Colleen as if she were invisible, and knocked her down a second time.

    The filly let out a whinny that sounded more like a scream, and reared skyward.  When gravity pulled her quickly back down, she landed a hoof on Colleen’s chest, shattering her ribs and left collarbone.  Colleen tried to scream herself, but could not gather the air her lungs needed to do so.  She watched helplessly as the filly reared back over and over, narrowly missing Colleen’s head each time she landed.

    Colleen felt completely helpless as the filly continued to do more damage to her body.  She knew she was about to lose consciousness.  Her chest heaved in feeble attempts to gather air.  The stabbing pain in her shoulder was like nothing she had ever felt.  She had blurry visions of her husband being thrown from his horse nearly a year before.  Colleen could see Chase perched proudly atop Cochise as he approached the first fence.  Suddenly she could hear crunching noises; like the sound of chewing dirt.  The image of something blue caught Colleen’s stinging, dust-filled eyes, bringing her back to the stabbing pain in her chest.  She couldn’t turn her head enough to see what it was, but it was familiar to her.  Something warm, she thought.  Colleen lost consciousness.

4

    “Whoa!  Easy!” Clouds of dust filled the show ring as a man in his thirties struggled to gain control of the raging animal in front of him.  Donned in worn cowboy boots, jeans, straw hat and a blue flannel shirt, the man yelled, “Hey!” and “Whoa!” over and over.  He managed to grab the rope that tethered the animal to the lifeless woman at his feet.  The end of the rope was still wrapped tightly around Colleen’s gloved hand.  In a blur of motion, the man drew a six-inch Bowie knife from the small of his back.  The rope he held in his left hand was taut as the horse moved backward, dragging Colleen a few more feet through the dirt.  With a single swath, the man cut the rope between his hand and Colleen’s, which made a “ping” noise as the blade sliced through the thick twine.  Colleen’s arm plopped lifelessly to the ground.

    Colleen’s lifeless body was lying awkwardly faced down in the dirt, but the cowboy still had a fight on his hands.  The panicked animal at the other end of the rope reared once again, ripping skin from the cowboy’s gloveless palm.  The cowboy winced in pain as he felt the rope slip further and further.  He nearly lost his grip as he threw the Bowie knife to the ground.  The knife stuck deep in the dirt, revealing the polished bone handle that glistened in the dirty morning sun.  Dust continued to fly in the show ring, and the cowboy started to chew and choke on his own helping of the crunchy earth.

    “Colleen?  Colleen!” Joan Caldwell, Chase’s mother, screamed from the porch of the ranch house, which was on a slight incline about a hundred feet from the sunken show ring.

    “Call an ambulance!” the cowboy yelled as he continued to struggle with the task at hand.

    “Oh my God!” screamed Joan, covering her mouth.

    “HURRY!” the cowboy shouted.

    The screen door slammed hard as Joan stormed back into the house, nearly ripping the door from its hinges.

    “Meese Caldwell!” shouted Carlos as he reappeared at the show ring gate.

    The cowboy turned his head in Carlos’s direction.  “Get a rope!” he roared.

    Carlos quickly disappeared again without a reply.  The horse continued to whinny and rear, but the cowboy was starting to gain the upper hand.  Blood started to drip from the cowboy’s left hand.  With both hands now tightly gripping the rope, he began to control the horse’s direction.

    Colleen was still unconscious and lying on her stomach in the dirt.  There was a large red spot of blood forming on the back of her left calf, midway between the back of her knee and ankle.  A broken bone was sticking out of the center through a small rip in her jeans.  Colleen’s hair was no longer in a pony tail.  Brown dirt filled her tangled locks, which masked her beautiful, once flawless complexion.  Her forehead was caked with dirt, and small wisps of dust eddied from under her head as she involuntarily struggled to breathe.

    The cowboy continued to struggle with the raging animal.  Sections of the rope were stained with a brilliant red that poured from his bloody hands.  Over and over the cowboy yelled a raspy, controlled “Here!” and “Easy!” at the scared mountain of a horse in front of him.

    Out of nowhere, the end of a lassoed rope suddenly hit its mark around the saliva and dirt-caked head of the whinnying monster.  “Vamos!” Carlos sputtered, taking the cowboy by surprise.  “Vamos!”  The strong hands and vast experience of the Ranch Foreman was too much for the horse to handle.  Carlos had a commanding voice that affected livestock almost like a sedative, and the fatigued, panting horse began to calm slightly.  “Calmar, Gigante’!” Carlos continued, lowering his voice more and more as the out-of-breath animal shuffled warily in the dirt.  “Easy, Diabla.”   The filly still twitched nervously, sputtering frothy dirt and dust from her nostrils.

    “Tie ‘er off,” the cowboy loudly whispered to Carlos.

    “Si, Amigo,” replied Carlos, mirroring the loud whisper.  Carlos moved quietly and carefully toward the show ring fence as the filly continued her weakening tug of war against him.  He looped one end of the rope around a post in “block and tackle” style, gaining his leverage on the once panicked filly.  He firmly but gently pulled at the rope, shortening the distance between the horse and the fence post.

    The cowboy moved toward the show ring fence in the same careful manner as Carlos, keeping his firm, bloody grip on the bristly, thick twine.  When he reached the fence where Carlos was standing, the cowboy looped his rope around the post in the same expert fashion, pulling the horse even closer.  “Got it?” the cowboy asked Carlos, hurriedly.

    “Si, Amigo,” replied Carlos again, still whispering loudly.  Carlos quickly wrapped the end of his rope around the fencepost twice more.  He tied a double loop knot, and repeated the actions with the blood-soaked end of the rope the cowboy was holding.  The once out-of-control filly stood in the settling dust, pulling against the shortened rope and pawing nervously in the dirt with her right hoof.  Order was restored in the show ring, but the beautiful, thirty-two-year-old owner of the Triple C Ranch desperately needed medical attention.

5

    Joan Caldwell’s slender, calloused fingers couldn’t move fast enough as she dialed 911 on the antique rotary-style phone.  Out of breath, she screamed “Come on!” as the dial rotated counter-clockwise in slow motion after removing her finger from dialing 9.  Joan didn’t bother listening for a dial tone before wedging the receiver between her head and shoulder.

    “Hello?  Hello?” the female voice said in Joan’s ear.

    “Hello?” Joan replied frantically.

    “Joan?” the voice inquired.  “What’s wrong?”

    “Oh my God,” Joan shouted as she straightened her head and placed the receiver to her ear.  “Hang up!”

    “Joan!  What’s wr-“

    “Colleen’s hurt!  Hang up now!  I need to call an ambulance!”

    “Oh my God,” the female shouted quickly.  “Okay… I’m hanging up now!” The earpiece clicked loudly as the female on the other end hung up the receiver.

    Joan swatted her fingers at the heavy plunger on the phone, still holding the receiver to her ear with her other hand.  She let go of the plunger and waited what seemed like an eternity for a dial tone.  After about a second, the dial tone clattered in Joan’s ear.  Once again, she stabbed her calloused finger in the 9-hole.  She whipped the dial clockwise until her finger came to a stop, and then removed her finger.  Joan let out a whimper and the dial lumbered counter-clockwise back to its original position.  “Help is comin’, baby,” Joan said as she repeated the process twice for the 1’s.

    “Come onnnn,” Joan said in a whimper.  One ring.  “Come ON!” Joan repeated in staccato this time.  Two rings.  “What the f-?”

    “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

    “Thank God!  This is Joan Caldwell at the Triple C Ranch on Tierra Rejada!” Joan said frantically.

    “What’s your emergency?” the female voice repeated.

    “My daughter… she’s unconscious!” Joan belted.

    “Is she breathing?” asked the operator.

    “I… I don’t know!  She’s been… trampled by a horse and she’s not… she’s not moving!” Joan continued in a series of broken, out of breath half-sentences.

    “Please calm down and tell me what happened, Joan.  Stay with me, okay?  Take a deep breath.” The operator instructed.

    Joan took a short, labored breath.  “Okay.  My daughter was working in the show ring, and the horse she was training went crazy!”

    “Is there anyone with your daughter right now?” asked the operator.

    “Yes,” Joan said, still trying to catch her breath.  “Some man… I don’t know who he is…”

    “Everything will be fine, Joan.  A unit is already on its way out there, okay?  Stay with me, you’re doing just fine.  Can you see the horse from where you are?  Is it still loose?” the operator continued.

    “I don’t know… please hurry!”

    “Stay with me, Joan.  The ambulance should be there very soon, okay?  Can you tell if anyone else is in danger?” asked the operator.

    “I don’t think so,” said Joan after a deep breath.

    “Is there a gate to the property, Joan?  Can the ambulance get to where your daughter is?” the operator inquired.

    “Yes… I mean no… the gate’s open.  The ambulance can go to the end of the drive, and the show ring is on the left.  They can’t miss it,” Joan said, gaining her composure a bit.  “How long will it take for the ambulance to get here?”

    “Not long, Joan.  They are less than a mile away.  Can you give me some background information about your daughter?  How old is she?” the operator continued.

    “She’s thirty-two.  Blonde hair, about five feet seven,” Joan replied.

    “Can you hear the ambulance yet?”

    “No… not yet… oh, God, please hurry,” Joan said in a whimper again.

    “The ambulance is almost there, Joan.  Go ahead and hang up the phone and go to the driveway so you can show them where to go, okay?” said the operator.

    “Okay,” said Joan.  “Oh my God, thank you so much!”

    “You did great, Joan.  She’ll be in good hands very soon.  Now hang up the phone and go to the driveway,” said the operator, finishing up the call.

    “Okay.”  Joan nervously slammed the heavy earpiece at the base of the phone, fumbling it across the table.  She didn’t bother to gather the receiver, which missed its mark and came to rest on the floor.  She nearly fell over her own feet as she rushed outside, almost freeing the screen door from its hinges again.  Joan sprinted across the grass toward the driveway at speed that would make anyone else her age jealous.  No stranger to hard work, Joan was a formidable woman at sixty-one.      

6

    “Let’s get you fixed up,” said the cowboy as he knelt over the dirty, broken, lifeless shape of the curvaceous, 32-year-old Colleen.  Blood continued to gush from Colleen’s left calf.  The cowboy ripped open his blue flannel shirt, ignoring the buttons that held the shirt together over his washboard-like abdomen.  “Christ,” he said, glancing at the jagged bone that protruded an inch or so from Colleen’s leg.

    Carlos continued to work on the breathless filly, running his gloved hand the length of her saliva-spotted neck. “Easy, Camorrista,” said Carlos, mixing his English and Spanish again.  He maintained a firm grip on the filly’s harness with his left hand and rubbed her twitching shoulder muscles with his right.  He looked over his shoulder to where the cowboy was kneeling over Colleen, and saw the muscular, tattooed back of the cowboy flex rhythmically as he tore his shirt into long strips with his bloody hands.  The cowboy wrapped the first strip of blue flannel around his mangled left hand, pulling the knot tightly with his teeth.

    Colleen’s left calf glistened in the sun as the ruby-colored blood poured from her wound.  The cowboy tied two strips of blue flannel together, forming a long, thin bandage.  Quickly but carefully, the cowboy fed one end of the bandage under Colleen’s left knee.  Colleen let out a labored moan.  The cowboy worked quickly as he wrapped the long flannel strip around her knee twice, finishing with the same kind of knot as the one that held together his bloody hand.  Without skipping a beat, the cowboy continued his triage by tying together two more strips of flannel.  He again fed the end of the long bandage under Colleen’s left leg, this time further down where her shin would have been had it not been protruding through her calf.  He gently wrapped the long strip of flannel around her leg twice; once above the jagged bone, and once below it, finishing with a knot on the left side of Colleen’s calf.

    “There.  That should take care of that,” said the cowboy.  “Let’s see if your neck is broken.”  The cowboy felt the sweaty skin at the base of Colleen’s head, gently brushing her dirty hair aside.  He worked his thumb and three of his fingers down her spine a few inches, pausing every half inch or so to feel for broken vertebra.  “Good,” said the cowboy as he removed his fingers from Colleen’s neck.  “Let’s get your face out of the dirt.”  The cowboy took what was left of his flannel shirt, folded it in half, and gently lifted Colleen’s head just enough to make room for the wedged flannel “pillow,” slightly elevating Colleen’s head from the dirty show ring ground.  Colleen let out a sigh. 

    Joan Caldwell covered fifty yards of grassy real estate in a matter of only a few seconds.  She thought she could hear the wailing siren of the ambulance in the distance as she approached the edge of the concrete drive that connected Tierra Rejada to the show ring. Joan skidded to a halt in the middle of the driveway and immediately began to pace.  She could no longer see her daughter or the cowboy as her view of the show ring was obstructed by the new retaining wall that lined its northern edge.

    Carlos continued his rubdown of the exhausted filly.  Small clouds of dust billowed from her coarse mane as Carlos patted her neck with his gloved hand.   Dark patches of dust-caked sweat covered her once-shiny flanks and rump.  With the animal fully under his control, Carlos glanced again to where the bandaged Colleen still lay twisted in the dirt in the center of the show ring.  She was alone.

    “Amigo,” Carlos called as he still held the filly’s harness in his left hand.  “Amigo?” he called again, straining as he looked over his left shoulder, and then back over his right.  The cowboy was gone.  All that remained of the muscular Gringo was the torn blue flannel shirt used as a makeshift bandage and pillow for the helpless, beautiful owner of the Triple C Ranch.

7

    “Thirty-two year old female… unconscious… airway unknown… trampled by a horse… animal is contained.”  The speaker crackled as the female voice relayed the information given by Joan Caldwell just moments before.

    At the wheel of Ambulance Unit Number 23 was veteran Paramedic Duane “Dewey” Doyle, who headed toward the Triple C at a high rate of speed, sirens blaring.

    “Copy, dispatch.  Turning west on Tierra Rejada… E.T.A. forty-five seconds, over?” replied Doyle as he spoke into the handset, and then released the transmitter button with a click.

    “Copy, twenty-three.  E.T.A. forty-five seconds.  Victim is located at the show ring inside the property… proceed from Tierra Rejada to the end of the drive… victim’s mother will further advise specific location,” the dispatcher advised.

    “Copy, dispatch,” replied the forty-eight-year old Doyle, who once again released the transmitter button with a click.

    Joan Caldwell was pacing hard in the driveway, nearly in a panic.  But for the faint sound of the Ambulance siren in the distance, the sprawling Triple C Ranch was eerily quiet.  Time stood still as Joan whimpered nervously.  She checked her watch and wondered how long it had been since the 9-1-1 operator instructed her to wait in the driveway.  The ambulance siren drew closer.  “They’re coming, baby.  Hold on,” Joan whispered as she looked up from her watch.

    Carlos maintained his grip on the sweating filly’s harness, still looking over both shoulders for some sign of the cowboy.  The show ring gate closed with a clang, causing the filly to raise her head sharply, startling Carlos.  “Es okay, Camorrista,” Carlos said to the filly, who quickly settled again.  He heard a siren in the distance, coming from the road to the north, growing closer.

    “Que paso?” a voice called from Carlos’ left.  It was Jesus, the Assistant Ranch Foreman and long-time friend of the Caldwell family.

    “Aqui!” Carlos said sternly without looking in Jesus’ direction.

    “Que pa-“ Jesus was interrupted by Carlos, who barked instructions at the forty-year-old Assistant in his native Spanish tongue.  Jesus stopped in his tracks when he saw the lifeless Colleen covered in dirt.

    “Vamos!” shouted Carlos, tightening his grip on the filly’s harness.

    Jesus ran quickly toward Carlos and the filly, slowing for the last few feet to avoid spooking “Camorrista” again.  Carlos let go of his grip on Camorrista’s harness as Jesus took control of her.  Camorrista let out a loud snort at Jesus and pointed her ears as the ambulance siren grew louder.  Carlos ran to Colleen, removing the worn leather glove from his right hand as he approached her.  He knelt to one knee and rested his hand on Colleen’s back as he scanned the end of the driveway.

    “Dispatch twenty-three,” Dewey Doyle said into the microphone as he approached the Triple C.

    “Twenty-three go ahead,” replied the female voice over the crackling radio speaker.

    “Twenty three is Code two, over?” said Doyle into the microphone.  Code two was the common code used when the ambulance driver knew he was entering a location with live animals.  It meant they were proceeding to the destination with the emergency lights on, but without the siren, which could cause spook the livestock.

    “Copy twenty-three.  Code two,” replied dispatch.

    Joan looked up from her watch toward Tierra Rejada when the siren suddenly stopped.  She moved a few paces toward the end of the driveway, confused by the sudden silence.  She stopped short of a sprint as the nose of the ambulance appeared on the paved street beyond the gate, paused for a second, and turned down the concrete drive toward her.  The only sound Unit 23 made as it accelerated toward her was the sound of its powerful diesel engine.  Joan could see the driver talking on the radio, and a man sitting in the passenger seat.

    Joan turned in her tracks and began to trot toward the show ring, looking over her shoulder at the approaching ambulance.  She waved her arms exaggeratedly as if directing an aircraft on a tarmac.  As she glanced over her shoulder, she could see the ambulance driver speaking into the radio microphone.

    Dewey Doyle approached the end of the driveway, scanning the area for any signs of immediate danger.  The woman that was running thirty yards in front of him looked over her shoulder, waved her arms, and darted quickly out of sight to the left behind some tall landscape shrubbery.  “Where did she go?” Dewey asked as he leaned closer to the windshield.

    “There she is.  Up on the left,” replied his partner and Rookie paramedic Josh Tyler.

    Joan stopped at the western end of the sprawling, dusty show ring and called to Carlos, who was still kneeling over Colleen.  “Help me!” she whimpered as she attempted to lift the end of the heavy temporary gate.  Carlos sprinted to where Joan was struggling with the gate latch, kicking up more dust as he approached.  Joan’s hands were a mess.  She could not move the latch as she looked up at the approaching ambulance.  With a steady, gloved left hand, Carlos grabbed Joan’s hand, causing her to let go.  He flicked the latch with his right hand, and let go of Joan’s fingers, which were still in his left.

    “Alzar!  Leeft!” Carlos bent his knees, and lifted the end of the gate with a grunt.  The post made a hollow, tinny grinding noise as Carlos coaxed the end of the gate from its temporary concrete mooring.  “Vamos,” instructed Carlos, pulling the gate toward him.  The gate made a low, hollow moan in the dusty air as Carlos moved backward.  “Let go, Meese Joan,” said Carlos as the gate swung freely inward.  Joan let go of the gate, looked up and stepped to the side as she directed the ambulance to the center of the ring.  The exhaust of the diesel engine kicked up clouds of dust as it approached Colleen, who was forty yards inside the entrance. The brakes made a high-pitch squeal as the shiny, bright-red ambulance came to a stop.

    “Dispatch, Unit 23 is Code six,” said Josh Tyler into the radio microphone.

    “Copy twenty-three… Code six,” replied the dispatcher.

    Both doors of the ambulance swung open simultaneously.  Dewey Doyle and Josh Tyler rushed to the back of the ambulance.  Joan passed Doyle as she rushed back toward Colleen.  “Bring the back board and a cervical collar,” Doyle said to the Rookie paramedic as he opened the heavy double doors.

    “Copy,” said Josh, who immediately jumped inside the cramped ambulance.

    “Extract the gurney first.  It’ll give you more room,” instructed Doyle, who already had his medical pack slung over his shoulder.

    “Copy that,” replied Josh as he jumped back to the dusty ground.

    Carlos tied the end of the heavy gate to the retaining post near the edge of the ring, and called to Jesus, who was still holding Camorrista’s harness with both hands.

    “Quedarse quieto,” said Carlos, which means “stay put.”

    “Si, Carlo,” Jesus replied, continuing to calm Camorrista.  “Easy, Diabla,” Jesus said calmly, stroking Camorrista’s neck with his right hand.

    Dewey Doyle approached Colleen, who was being tended to by Joan.  Carlos arrived at the same time as Doyle, but stopped a few feet short to stay out of the way.

    “What’s her name?” asked Doyle as he set down his bag and began to glove up as he dropped to one knee.

    “Colleen… Colleen Caldwell,” replied Joan in a panic.  “Please help her!” said Joan, whimpering again.

    “Colleen?  Can you hear me?” Doyle asked loudly.  “Colleen?” he repeated as he finished putting on his second glove.  Doyle scanned the length of Colleen’s body.  The bloody blue strips of flannel that held her left leg together intrigued Doyle.  Someone had done a good job dressing an open wound, he thought.  Doyle brushed Colleen’s hair to the side as he placed his fingers on Colleen’s neck, checking for a pulse.   He could see Colleen’s sides expand slightly as she struggled to breathe.

    “We got an airway?” said Josh Tyler as he approached with the backboard and cervical collar.

    “Respiration shallow and about thirty-eight,” replied Doyle as he stood up and moved to the other side of Colleen’s body.  “Pulse about one-twenty and strong,” said Doyle.  “Check for spinal,” he instructed.

    “Copy.  Checking for spinal,” replied Josh as he placed the back board flat beside Colleen and dropped to one knee.  Josh placed his gloved fingers at the base of Colleen’s head, just as the cowboy had done a few minutes before.  He continued down Colleen’s spine, stopping every inch or so until he reached the small of her back.  “Spinal negative,” Josh said. 

    Doyle brushed Colleen’s hair aside and pulled out a small flashlight the size of a large pen.  He pulled back Colleen’s right eyelid and peered into her eye.  “Pupil about three millimeters and reactive.  Check the bandage on her leg,” said Doyle.

    “Oh my God, what does reactive mean?” Joan whimpered as she knelt in the dust a few feet away.

    “It means that’s normal.  No need to worry.  Can you tell me what happened?” replied Doyle.

    “I don’t know what happened,” Joan said through her fingers.  “Carlos can tell you.”

    “Looks like a fib protrusion,” Josh interrupted as he carefully checked the blood-soaked bandage.

    “Let’s get her on her back,” replied Doyle.  “Careful, now.  You stabilize the leg as we move her, and I’ll keep her neck from moving,” instructed Doyle.

    “Copy,” replied Josh.

    “Carlos.  That your name?” Doyle asked.  “You understand English?”

    “Si,” Carlos replied.

    “Come around this way.  Hold the end of this board to her back.  Comprende?”

    “Si,” Carlos replied, and stepped around Josh toward Colleen’s head.  He lifted the long edge of the back board by its handle, and placed it against Colleen’s back as the Paramedic instructed.  Josh held Colleen’s ankle with his right hand, and placed the other behind her knee.

    “Easy now,” said Doyle as he held Colleen’s head with his right hand, and lifted her shoulder with his left.  “Hold the board tight to her back, Carlos,” he instructed.

    Colleen let out a moan as her body slowly came to rest on the back board.  Carlos let go of the handle and stepped back a few paces.  Joan stood up, her face still in her hands.  Camorrista let out a long, loud whinny, which made the hair on the back of everyone’s neck stand straight up.

8

    Jesus tightened his grip on Camorrista’s harness.  “Con calma, Diabla,” Jesus repeated, attempting to keep the animal at ease.

    Camorrista snorted and shook her head as Dewey Doyle, Josh Tyler, Joan Caldwell and Carlos continued caring for the injured Colleen.

    Dewey Doyle picked up the half-torn flannel shirt that was used as a makeshift pillow moments before and handed it to Joan.

    “Shake this out and give it to my partner,” Doyle said to Joan.

    Joan backed up a few steps, and shook the dirt from what was left of the cowboy’s shirt.  She nearly knocked Carlos from his boots as she looked up from her task and stepped blindly toward Josh Tyler.

    “Con permiso,” Carlos said as he moved to let Joan pass.

    “Sorry, Carlos,” Joan said, still whimpering.  She handed the shirt to the Rookie paramedic, who in turn rolled it into a ball and placed it behind Colleen’s left knee.

    “Cervical,” Doyle said to Josh.

    “Copy,” said Josh, who grabbed the cervical collar and started to hand it to Doyle.

    “You slide it under, and I’ll keep her head steady,” said Doyle.

    “Copy,” replied Josh again as he shuffled toward Colleen’s head, still on one knee.

    Doyle held Colleen’s head steady while his partner slid one end of the plastic cervical collar under her neck.  Colleen again let out a weak moan, which scared Joan.

    “Oh my God,” Joan whimpered again.

    “It’s gonna be alright, Colleen,” Doyle said loudly.  “Can you hear me, Colleen?”  Colleen made no response.

    “Straps,” said Doyle to Josh.

    Without saying “Copy” again, Josh strapped Colleen’s waist to the rigid board while Doyle did the same to her forehead.

    “Let’s get her up,” Doyle instructed Josh.

    “Carlos, help them!” said Joan, nearly in a panic again.

    “Go ahead of us and make sure the path is clear,” Doyle said as he looked up at Carlos.

    “Si,” Carlos replied.

    Joan took a deep breath as Doyle and Josh lifted Colleen from the dirt.  “What hospital are you taking her to?” she asked.

    “Los Robles is the closest,” Doyle replied.  “You know where that is?  It’s on Lynn road off the 23.”

    “Yes,” Joan said, appearing to calm a little.  “Do you need any more information from me?”

    “Yes.  Is Colleen on any medication or is she allergic to anything?”

    “No.  I don’t think so,” Joan said, answering Doyle.

    Carlos walked ahead of Doyle, who held the back board by both handles.  He kicked up dust as he shuffled his feet backward toward the ambulance.  Carlos moved to Doyle’s right and placed his hand on his bicep, guiding him across the ring.  Josh followed from the other end as Joan grabbed a handle near Colleen’s left shoulder.

    “We’ve got it, Ma’am,” Josh said.  “Please let go,” he instructed.

    “Sorry,” Joan replied as she let go of the handle like a hot pan from the oven.

    “It’s okay,” said Josh.  “We’re gonna swing around pretty fast here in a second,” he continued.

    Carlos directed Doyle along the left side of the waiting gurney and let go of his bicep.

    “Here we go,” said Doyle as he lifted his end of the back board a few inches higher, followed immediately by Josh, who lifted his end and swung around parallel to the gurney.

    Joan went to Carlos a few feet away and put her head to his chest.  “What am I gonna do?” Joan cried.

    “Eet be okay,” said Carlos, hugging Joan’s head to his chest.  “She strong.”

    Joan suddenly jerked her head and looked into Carlos’ eyes.  “The cowboy!” she exclaimed.  “Where-“

    “I doan know,” said Carlos.  “He gone.”

    “Who-“ Joan started again.

    “Doan know,” interrupted Carlos again.  “I never see him before.”

    Doyle and Josh lowered Colleen gently onto the thin mattress with wheels.  Doyle guided the head of the gurney toward the open doors of the ambulance, and Josh followed with a push.  The gurney slid easily as the shiny metal legs collapsed under it.  Doyle grabbed the handle mounted inside the left door and let out a grunt as he pulled himself up the step.  Josh pushed the gurney until it stopped with a click.

    “We’re gonna close the doors but we’ll be here for a minute or two.  Can you make sure we have a clear path to turn around?” Josh asked Colleen and Carlos.

    “Si.  I get it,” Carlos replied, letting go of Joan. 

    “Okay,” said Joan, wiping her face with the back of her hand.  “I’m going to the hospital.”

    “Okay, Meese Joan.  Doan worry.  I take care evryting,” he said as he looked into her tear-filled eyes.

    “I’ll call as soon as I know anything,” Joan said as the young paramedic jumped effortlessly inside the ambulance and closed the doors.

9

    Carlos scanned the show ring for anything that might be in the way of the ambulance as Joan started toward the house in an instant sprint.  Jesus was patting Camorrista on the neck, still talking to her in Spanish.  The sweaty, snorting animal was securely tied to the post with the two ropes Carlos and the cowboy used.  Off to the left of the center of the ring, Colleen’s hat was resting in the dirt upside-down.  Carlos started to walk toward the hat when his boot struck something in the dirt.  He stopped, turned around and looked toward his feet.

    There in the dirt was the cowboy’s bone-handled Bowie knife, right where he threw it to the ground after cutting Colleen’s hand free of the raging Camorrista.  Carlos squatted in front of the knife, studying it before he reached for the handle.  Carlos wondered about the cowboy.  Where had he come from?  Who is he?  Just as Carlos reached for the knife, he heard the garage door open in the distance.  It made a squeal as the door opened to reveal Colleen’s old El Camino.  Joan passed hurriedly in front of the aging Chevy as the garage door came to a rest. 

    Carlos freed the Bowie knife from the dirt, stood up and continued toward Colleen’s hat.  Joan slammed the door of Colleen’s car, and started it up with a roar, drowning out the sound of the ambulance’s idling diesel engine.

    “What’s taking them so long?” Joan said aloud, gunning the engine of Colleen’s car.  The hum of the car stereo and the roar of the engine filled Joan’s ears.  She glanced at the brightly-lit digital display of the car stereo.  The word “ERROR” scrolled across the screen as she gunned the engine again, making the humming noise from the stereo speakers increase in pitch.  Joan let out a loud sigh and fumbled with the volume knob.  She gave up trying to turn off the stereo and rotated the knob until she could no longer hear the high-pitched hum from the speakers.

    Shorter in stature than Colleen, Joan adjusted the bench seat and located the nearly thirty-year-old, two-piece seat belts.  She clasped the belts together at her lap with a click and pulled the strap tight.  The powerful engine of the El Camino idled at a fast pace, which annoyed Joan when she rode with Colleen.

    “Get her gloves off,” Dewey Doyle instructed his young partner, Josh.

    “Copy,” said Josh, who was sitting on the bench opposite Doyle.  Josh leaned forward over Colleen, and grabbed her right wrist.  A short section of rope was still wrapped around Colleen’s gloved hand.  Josh removed the rope, tossed it aside, and worked Colleen’s hand free of the soft leather glove.  Colleen’s fingernails were newly manicured in a bright red polish, which stood in contrast to her calloused fingers and palm.  Her hands were the hands of a woman who knew plenty about hard work.  Josh placed Colleen’s right hand back at her side, and sat back in his original position as he started working on her left hand.

    “Get me some vitals,” Doyle continued in his brief instructions.

    “Copy,” repeated Josh.

    Doyle reached into his now-dusty bag of emergency medical supplies and produced a pair of shiny metal scissors that had thick, rounded points.  He gripped the sleeve of Colleen’s shirt with his left hand, and began cutting the flannel lengthwise.  He stopped cutting at the shoulder, revealing Colleen’s entire arm.  “Here,” said Doyle, presenting the scissors to Josh. 

    Josh removed the leather glove from Colleen’s left hand, tossed it aside and took the scissors from Doyle.  He gripped the sleeve just as Doyle did and made a single cut with the scissors.  He then placed the scissors on Colleen’s stomach and grabbed the sleeve with one hand on each side of the cut he just made.

    “Stop,” said Doyle.  “Don’t cut and rip like they teach you in class.  If you move her arm too much before checking for a fracture, you can do more damage.”

    “Copy,” said Josh as he picked up the scissors and resumed cutting.

    Doyle shifted his position on the bench and opened a cabinet on the wall of the ambulance.  He moved a few items and pulled out a bag of clear liquid wrapped in plastic on one side and white paper on the other.  He ripped open the plastic and paper bag, and removed the bag of clear liquid.  Tubing dangled as Doyle hung the bag on a shiny metal hook on the ceiling above Colleen’s head.

    “Respiration still shallow and thirty-six,” called Josh, who was now equipped with a stethoscope.  “Pulse now one twelve and strong.”

    “Copy,” said Doyle out of habit.  “Gimme a BP.”

    “Workin’ on it,” said Josh as he turned and pulled a blood pressure cuff from what looked like a large toolbox.

    “When you’ve got a BP, cut her shirt along the buttons.  Then the bra in the middle but be careful when you cut it.  She may have a broken collarbone from the looks of it,” Doyle instructed.

    “Got it,” Josh said.

    Doyle was a master at starting IV’s.  In quick, calculated motions, he pulled an alcohol swab from a small packet, wiped Colleen’s arm, felt a few times for a vein, and positioned the needle.  Colleen let out a moan as Doyle pierced her skin.  He continued to assemble the apparatus, verified that the catheter was in place, removed the needle, and secured the assembly to Colleen’s arm with a piece of tape.

    “BP one twenty-eight over eighty two,” announced Josh.

    “Good.  Keep the vitals coming, and I’ll get us on the road.  While you’re at it, check her pulse-ox,” Doyle said as he stood up.

    “Copy,” said Josh, returning to his regular method of acknowledgement.

    Joan took another deep breath as she waited in the idling El Camino for what seemed like an eternity.  “She’s alright,” she said aloud again.  “Come Onnnnn.”

    Dewey Doyle made his way toward the front of the cramped ambulance while Josh continued to work on Colleen.  Doyle plopped in the driver’s seat, which let out a loud squeak as air escaped from the padded seat.  “Dispatch, twenty-three,” said Doyle as he spoke into the radio microphone once again.

    “Twenty-three go ahead,” said the same dispatcher’s voice as before.

    “Dispatch, twenty-three is Code fourteen Los Robles… E.T.A. ten minutes… patient is female, Caucasian, age thirty-two… injury left calf fib protrusion… vitals stable, over?” Doyle informed the dispatcher as he secured his seat belt.

    The dispatcher repeated the information as Doyle began to turn the ambulance around in the show ring.  Carlos waved Colleen’s dirty hat into the air as if to give the “all clear” for Doyle.  Diesel exhaust kicked up more dust from under the ambulance as Doyle navigated his way out the gate of the show ring and onto the concrete drive.  Josh Tyler continued to work on Colleen, cutting her shirt and bra as per Doyle’s instructions.

    “Holy crap!” announced Josh.

    “Don’t react, Josh, just tell me what you see,” said Doyle over his shoulder.

“Got a contusion above the patient’s left breast, approximately twelve centimeters by fifteen centimeters.  She took a pretty good hit.  The left collarbone is fractured and raised about three centimeters,” informed Josh.

    “Copy,” said Doyle.  “You got a pulse-ox yet?”

    “Affirmative,” replied Josh.  “Pulse-ox is ninety-three percent.”

    “Good.  Keep calling out vitals.  Try getting a verbal response again,” instructed Doyle.

    Joan Caldwell put the accelerator pedal of the old El Camino nearly to the floor as the ambulance disappeared down the concrete drive.  The rear tires of the powerful coupe made a loud screech as they spun against the concrete floor of the garage, leaving two long tire tracks behind.  As soon as the rear of the coupe was clear of the garage, Joan turned the steering wheel sharply to the right.  The El Camino’s rear tires found a firm grip on the concrete drive and nearly jerked Joan from her position on the bench seat.  “Whoa!” said Joan as she eased off of the accelerator.

    Veteran paramedic Dewey Doyle blew the loud electronic horn of the ambulance as he approached Tierra Rejada.  With no traffic in sight, Doyle switched on the siren and headed left toward the 23 Freeway.

    “What’s her name again?” asked Josh.

    “Colleen,” replied Doyle.

    “Colleen, can you hear me?” said the Rookie paramedic loudly.  Colleen let out a muffled moan, but did not open her eyes.  Josh leaned forward, brushed Colleen’s hair back from her forehead with his right hand, and called her name again.  No response.


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