The Great Springdale Rodeo
                         Copyright 1998--Dave Laird

The Springdale Rodeo stands out in the consciousness of the minds the
denizens of Springdale like travelling salesman all dressed up in seersucker
attending a meeting of the elders of the Springdale Community Church.
Regardless of whatever else happens throughout the year, people will talk
about the event for months thereafter, comparing it, in the most lurid terms
to that of previous years, for that is what passes for cultural history this
woebegone town. 

Long before the Town Marshall, Wallace Goldstar, brought law and order to
the community, the Rodeo enjoyed an immensely colorful past, indeed. The
resident populace, an amalgamation of Indians, half-Indians, farmers and
those who have chosen Springdale a final place to escape from the city, has
always been primed and ready for a diversion. It makes little difference to
most whether the diversion is a fist fight in front one of the three taverns
in the town, or something of on grander scale. The rodeo's infusion of
twenty or thirty professional rodeo riders, themselves a hard-bitten lot
from places all over the country, to this boiling pot of cultures and
political opinions, gives the entire community the makings brouhaha of a
fine fettle.

People still speak in tones of grave reverence, about the time five years
ago, when a minor disagreement between some of the resident Indians and the
cowpokes resulted in a full- scale riot and free-for-all that lasted for
nearly six hours and required the presence of Omnipotence himself, the
Sheriff, to clear the air and shut down the errant tavern owners who,
themselves were involved.

For now it is over, for another year. The dust hangs languid serenity over
the 75 year-old rodeo ground, as the last of the horse trailers slowly pulls
out,heading for the next stop on the circuit. Joe Buddha, in real life, the
janitor up at the high school, removes the flashy stetson that he wears once
each year the rodeo, along with the fancy tailor-made western boots he
bought eleven years ago when he and his wife, Amelda, spent his vacation
down in Texas. As Chairman of the Springdale Rodeo Committee of five, it is
his duty to put the rodeo grounds back in order and secure the big gates
until they are needed again next year.

Slipping a old comfortable pair of shoes that has stashed behind the seat of
his pickup truck, he begins the task of picking up the litter and debris,
slowly working his way around the grounds. Checking the gates once more, the
huge brass padlocks secured in place for yet another year, he heads for the
Reservation Tavern and a cold beer.

The Mayor is there and, surprisingly, sober for a change. "How'd things go
at the rodeo?" he asks Joe, pouring him a cool glass of beer.

"Oh, fair to middlin'. Other than we got some people really mad as hell
yesterday. The goddamn water truck came through to water down the arena
before they started the horse-roping contest, and I guess they must'a had
the nozzle set too high or somethin' because they soaked down the first
three rows in the bleachers."

The Mayor chuckles at hearing this, since Fred Arkman, the man tending the
water truck is a political rival and a town council member. "So Fred gave
the audience a cool reception, did he?" "Oh Christ! Not only that, but he
blew out thirty feet brand new nylon hose we stole from the D.N.R. last year
during Firestorm. Blew a hole in it the size of your fist."

"How the hell did he do that?"

"We were filling up the water truck from that hydrant out in back the rodeo
grounds and he decides that the water truck is gettin' pretty full. He turns
the hand valve on the back the water truck off with the hydrant still goin'
full-blast building up pressure in the hose. It sounded like someone fired
off a rifle shot. Of course, he's about a dumb sumbitch anyway."

"I guess we'll have to send that hose back to the D.N.R. and see if they
will cover it under their warrantee, eh?" . The Mayor grins, as he covertly
slips his glass of beer from beneath the counter and takes a drink. "Any
trouble other than that?"

"Nah. The Marshall kept everything nice and quiet, pretty much everywhere
else. few minor skirmishes, but nothing like it has been in the past.

Armandina Crowdog, who was walking by and overheard the end of his
conversation, mutters ominously, "Yeah, that tin- badged piece of ca-ca
makes damn sure nobody in this town has any fun anymore. Y'can't even come
down and have a quiet beer anymore, without getting a ticket for DUI."

"Armandina, you know it's the same everywhere else...", the Mayor says,
sighing deeply. 

"Well who the hell is gonna give HIM a ticket? He's the biggest drunk in the
whole damn county, isn't he? He wrecked two pickup trucks, and before you
appointed him Town Marshall he got a DUI up in Chewelah. Who the hell is he
to give my husband a ticket, anyway?"

As if on cue, the Town Marshall, Harry Goldstar, walked through the door,
cautiously eying Armandina as she muttered some more to herself and headed
into the back room of the tavern.

"What was that all about?" he asked the Mayor. 

"Oh, she's bitchin' and moanin' about that ticket you gave her man, Paulie
Crowdog."

"Too f***ing bad. Anything else happening around town?" "No, you did a
pretty good job of running everybody else out of town. Things are real quiet
now."

"Well, good. They had better stay that way, too." 

And with that, Marshall Goldstar walked back out the way he had just
entered, got into his squad car, and headed home for the night, secure in
the knowledge that Springdale was slowly nodding off to a restful sleep for
the night.

There are those who gather, from time to time, to retell the legends the
Springdale Rodeo Days of days gone by, whisper the stories of cowboys and
indians brawling it out the middle of the main thoroughfare through this
town. 

These septuagenarian historians, almost all of whom were participants, at
one time or another, in one or more of the great conflagrations that mark
the history of the Springdale Rodeo Days, are getting too old to fight much,
anymore. They mark the passage of time fighting with their dentures, doing
battle with increasingly frequent visits to the doctor and sometimes, late
night, grapple with the inevitable insurmountable fact that fewer and fewer
of their friends are still there.

With the onset of age, combined with a no-nonsense Town Marshall, the
Springdale Rodeo Days has begun fading into history, leaving only ruts in
the dirt, faded plastic banners hanging above the main street that rattle in
the night wind, tired old warriors and town philosophers who must now turn
to other topics to pass the time.