From the best seat in the Palace, Sterling Sr. crowed, blending in with the tumult around him. “Did you see that move, boy? Blast Off’s calling card: a few straight-out jumps and then a killer right reverse. Sure tumbled ol’ Hank Dixon!” The old man hooted as the fallen rider sought refuge behind the arena rails. A big black Brahma-cross bull took a stab at one of the bullfighting clowns, then ambled off to the catch pen.

“Dixon’s safe, but he’s out,” Sterling jeered, turning to his grandson. “Ever think of that? You’d never see that happen in no baseball game now, would you?” He didn’t wait for an answer but thumbed at a loaded chute only yards from where he and Forrest were sitting. “Rawlings is up next. He’s a good rider. Might even get hisself another world-champion buckle if your daddy messes up some year. Not likely that’ll happen though, is it?” He pummeled his grandson’s shoulder.

Sterling Sr. watched Bob Rawlings climb the back of the chute, flexing his gloved hand in the air as if he were a surgeon prepping for an operation. Sterling’s son was near the chute with Rawlings, helping him slip the bull rope around the massive red brindle, who rammed his horns against the rails. The cowboys jumped back reflexively.

“There’s your daddy, Forrest!” Sterling shook his grandson’s arm. “Soon as Rawlings is done, your daddy’s going to show this Palace how royalty rides!”

Sterling Jr. handed the end of the rope to his traveling companion, and Bob Rawlings straddled the chute. He bent over to make adjustments, then lowered himself. Only from the shoulders up was he visible above the chute rails. The crowd quieted as he tied himself to his beast.

“Okay!” Rawlings gave the signal and the gate tender threw the gate open.

In one motion, the brindle emerged, swinging just as the gate had. The bull bellowed and made a spin to the left, then a rocking lunge backwards, another spin, then a reverse. Dirt flew in all directions with the bull’s thrashing. The crowd strained to keep up with the whirlwind of power, movement and sound.

And Rawlings stuck to the brindle. He even managed to spur out the beast, busy as he was with changing directions and shifting his weight to avoid being sucked into the spin’s well, thrown off balance, pushed into his riding arm.

“Well.” Sterling caught his breath, unable to believe someone other than his son was making the remarkable ride. He calculated how long it had been since the gate opened. The crowd raged, the seconds evaporated, the brindle skittered and arched and sidestepped and tossed, but Rawlings kept his seat.

Sterling Sr. saw Rawlings reach down and loosen the wrap around his riding hand before the old man realized he had made a qualified ride. His tobacco nearly dropped from his mouth when he glanced at the scoreboard.

The old man sat down and rubbed his hands on his thighs to wipe off the sweat. Idly, he watched the unharmed bull make a run at a colorfully dressed bullfighting clown, who herded the brindle to the catch pen while his partner in greasepaint kept between the animal and Rawlings.

“Eight-eight, Granddad.” Forrest looked worried. “Tom’s dad got an eighty-eight.”

“I know!” Sterling Sr. roared.

His grandson cringed, but Sterling Sr. paid him no mind. “Come on, Son,” the old man began coaching softly as Sterling Jr. finished his wrap and settled onto his bull. “You drew Sky High. You can make the ride. You got to make it.” Sterling Sr. rose from his seat. “Let ‘er buck, Sterling!” he shouted, his voice louder for the tension weighing on the crowd, smothering them to silence.

Sterling Jr.’s face jerked up, and his fist punched the air above his head.

“That’s right, that’s right.” The old man sank to his chair. “You can pull an eighty-nine out of him. You can pull a ninety,” Sterling Sr. breathed.

Beside him, his grandson piped up, “You can do it, Daddy. But be careful!”

“Careful!” The old man wheeled, nearly slapping Forrest. “Ain’t no time for care. Your daddy knows that. He’s got to ride all out. And he will.”

No echo doubled his words.

“Do it,” Sterling urged, seeing his son’s signal.

The gate opened and the dark bull charged, churning dirt and covering ground with leaps that brought it near the stands, drawing shrieks of horror and pleasure from the spectators. Sterling Jr. raked the Brahma-crossbreed with his spurs, leaving no mark but making an impressive sight.

“That’s it, Son! Play it up!”

The bull advanced, maddened by the stimulus all around him. His jumps grew higher, his rocking wilder. And Sterling Jr. rode as if on a bubble, spurring the Brahma out, twisting with the bull’s gyrations.

Sterling Jr. leaned hard ahead, saving himself from the bull’s latest backward lurch. His head dropped just as the Brahma’s thrust upward, grazing Sterling’s cheek but failing to connect with full force.

“Ride him, ride him!” Sterling Sr. screamed, then the scream locked and went on and on. He saw his son’s stunned look, heard the blast that signaled the end of the ride. But Sterling Jr. did not free his hand and leap clear of his mount as he always had. He slid, dangling from the bull’s side as the monster’s horns reached to hook him.

The bullfighters rushed in for the save, but the Brahma straightened and plowed into the rails, crushing the young cowboy between iron and bone.

Sterling Jr. made a weak grab to undo the rope. The bullfighters tried to aid but were driven back. The Brahma again slammed into the rails, and the cowboy’s body slipped under the beast’s back hooves. A ton of bovine came down once, twice, then ironically, the force of the blows loosened Sterling Jr.’s wrap. He slumped to the dirt and did not move.

Forrest’s scream replaced his grandfather’s, a childish howl rising over the confusion of bullfighters, spectators, announcers, cowboys and paramedics. The sound became the hallmark of the old man’s dreams.