The Rodeo

       At first, no one moved.  Each girl seemed to be glued to where she stood. 

       “Dumb, fucking cunts!  Move it!”  The same voice boomed.  After a few more moments, Margaret could hear the simple order, “Okay, get 'em out!” 

       Several strong men appeared in the doorway.  Their boots clunking solidly against the metal ramp.  Without a moment's hesitation they each grabbed the girls closest to them and hauled them out of the trailer and pushed them down the ramp.  Margret backed into the wall.  She realized, though not at that moment exactly, that her reaction to the situation, wanting to meld into whatever was closest to her, was far from logical and totally unreasonable, but she couldn't help wishing it.  It was like playing make believe as a child when life was boring or just plain bad.    

       The girl in front of her let out a squeak as she was grabbed and practically thrown down the ramp.  Margaret started trembling and her knees felt suddenly very weak.  The man approaching her towered over her tiny frame.  Despite her poor eye sight, she could see his wide grin.  It would have been one thing if these cruel men were doing it because they had to, but they were enjoying it!  All of them were.  She'd never in her short life seen men enjoy doing any kind of job so much!

       The man grabbed her by her shoulder and forced her away from the wall. 

       “Come on!”  He ordered harshly. 

       Her dirty skin prickled at his touch.  Suddenly, something broke inside of her.  What right did any of them have to touch her?  Much less any of the other things they had done to her since yesterday?For a brief moment, little Margaret saw nothing but red.  She gritted her teeth and clawed at his face, but it was like someone else was doing it and she was just along for the ride.   For all she knew these deranged bastards had intentions of using all of them like real cows...for meat.  No!  She wasn't going to be just hauled away like an animal.      

       The man must not have been expecting the smallest one of the group to give him any trouble, because she apparently caught him completely off guard.  Her much bitten nails connected with his cheek, tearing the flesh just enough to make it bleed. 

       The man drew back snarling like a bobcat—his hand clutching his bleeding cheek.  Suddenly in control of her functions again, Margaret dashed toward the exit.  This was her moment!  Up until then she feared she might not be able to move when the time came, but she was going.  Her mind raced with what she would have to do first once she was clear of them.  First she'd have to find out where she was exactly and then...

       Her lungs felt like they'd been turned inside out and her belly felt like it had imploded.  She was on her knees before she knew what had happened, coughing and trying not to throw up.  As she gasped for breath she could see a pair of boots in front of her. 

       “A little spitfire ain't ya?” She heard the man she'd scratched in front of her gloat.  “Get on your feet bitch!” 

       Margaret couldn't catch her breath, much less stand up, she just kept coughing and coughing. 

       “You want some more, cunt?”  He said, reaching down for her.   

       She recoiled and tried to crawl backwards.  He caught hold of her hair and dragged her a foot back to where she'd started.  Margaret took hold of his hand, trying desperately to keep the front of her hair attached to her head. 

       “That's enough, Smith!”  Another man called, walking up and stopping him.  Margaret sighed with relief as the first man let go of her hair.  “You can't be so rough with 'em.  What if one of the buyers was looking for a breeder?  You might have just ruined this poor little thing!”

       “Did you see what she did?”  The man pointed at his bloody cheek.

       “It's a scratch, Smith, be more careful, Christ.”  The newcomer said, shaking his head.  “I'll get her myself.  Come on, little one.”  He said in a soft voice that was almost sweet, like he was talking to his granddaughter or something.  The older man picked her up carried her down the ramp. 

       Still coughing and sputtering, Margaret tried to get a good look of her surroundings.  She realized immediately that she had been stupid.  There were a dozen or so men standing around who could have grabbed her at a moment's notice.  She would have to wait for dark, then maybe there would  not be so many of them and they wouldn't be as on guard.  Beyond the men, she couldn't make out much.  She could see in the distance, more bleachers arranged in a half circle in front of a large fenced-in area.  The whole place had the unmistakable smell of a manure and animal sweat.  They were in a  rodeo stadium, there was no doubt about it.  She remembered going to one to watch a rodeo when she was very young.  It must have been before the drought because she remembered everything being so very green.   

       The man carried her to a pen about thirty or so yards behind the bleachers and the main arena.  He set her down roughly on the ground and patted her on the head, ruffling her hair. 

       “You be good now.”  He said with a smile before walking away. 

       Margaret stood up slowly.  It felt good to be allowed to sit down for a moment, but for some reason she found that surprisingly she wasn't tired and she wasn't all that hungry, but she was thirsty.  As the last of the girls were herded into the pen, she looked around for water.  When she saw none inside the pen she walked around the edge of it.  She touched her sore throat tenderly.  If only she could still speak! 

       Soon she came to the same kind of holes that she'd been forced to eat through at the first pen.    Crouching down she looked through the opening and saw a gray metal stock tank on the other side.  She stuck her hands through, made a bowl out of her hands, and dipped them into the water.  She was just withdrawing them with the cool, hopefully clean water contained within her hand bowl when she, without warning, felt a sharp stick on her hands.  With a red stripe already welling up on her wrists she looked up with tears in her eyes to see the man she'd scratched standing in front of her with a switch in his hand. 

       “Calfs don't drink with their hands!  Get your pretty little face down in there!”  He reached through the hole and grabbed her by the hair again.  Yanking her head through the hole, the man forced her face into the water with one swift movement. 

       Margaret panicked.  Water shot painfully up her nose as she deeply inhaled involuntarily.  She thrashed wildly, but to no avail.  His hand held her firmly in the water.    Margaret could hear her watery screams as they echoed about the tank.  Maybe it was a year ago and she was being baptized in the pond out behind the church.  Maybe she'd fallen asleep in Father Murphy's arms and this was all a horrible dream. 

       Then her face broke the surface.  Her lungs inflated with much needed air.  Margaret leaned over the side, gasping and coughing. 

       “I don't want to see you trying to use your hands again, spitfire!”  She heard the man say above her and then walked away.

       Having had all the water she needed for the moment, Margaret withdrew her head and sat on the dirt ground.  Happy at least to have a clean face she sat in the dust and contemplated escape again.  She shouldn't beat herself up too much for not getting away.  After all, Edmond Dantes had to carefully plan his escape to get out of his prison and he was a much bigger and stronger person than she.  Other girls kneeled down next to her and stuck their heads through the holes.  She could hear them slurping up the water and men laughing, presumably at them.  She guessed that the other girls learned their lesson from watching her. 

       Margaret kept her eyes open for any weaknesses and in the short time she was allowed, she found none.  But that didn't mean that there weren't any she just had to give herself some time that was all.  She noticed that people, near as she could tell all men, were coming into the building, some alone, some in pairs, and some in groups as large as five or six. 

       “Line up, cunts!”  She heard the man who'd greeted them yell from the gate. 

       Margaret hastened to get in line.  She was ashamed of herself for responding so quickly to the word “cunt” even if she wasn't sure what it meant.  She'd heard Hank the mechanic use it when referring to his ex-wife, but her father would always give him an evil glare anytime he used the word around Margaret, so she never figured out it's exact meaning.  Regardless, it was something very, very bad she guessed.  And in any case, she told herself, she responded quickly because she was being smart.  There was no sense in just disobeying if it didn't get her closer to her freedom. 

       Margaret soon stood in line waiting for whatever strange or horrible thing that would come next.  She noticed that a lot of the newly arrived men were gathering around the pen.  Some of them held notepads and looked ready to write.  The gate opened and Margaret glanced down the line.  She could see several men coming in, one with a cattle prod, one with what looked like a paint bucked and a third one holding a narrow paint brush. 

       Starting with the girl nearest to them, the man with the brush dipped it into the bucket and proceeded to paint something on the girl's back.  Then they proceeded down the line.  Margaret couldn't see what they were painting until they got to the girl next to her.  They painted a sloppy six on her back in black paint.  She had just processed this when she felt a hand on her shoulder and suddenly cold paint on her back.  No doubt she was number seven.  No girls fought being numbered, but there was a definite air of confusion amongst them.  Even without hearing them, Margaret could some how sense it. 

       Once each girl was painted, the man with the brush and the man with the bucket exited the pen, leaving the one with the prod behind.  The men with the notepads started pointing to different girls, speaking to the men near them, and then writing on their notepads.  Margaret began to feel very self-conscious again.  She looked down at her feet and her hands came up to cover her tiny chest.  Her hands weren't even all the way up when she felt them being tugged back down. 

       “Don't cover yourself, cunt!  Let these boys get a good look.”

       Margaret obeyed, feeling tears of shame spring to her eyes.  Other girls were already opening crying around her, but she tried her best to hold her own back.  There was no reason to give these horrible men the satisfaction, because she doubted that they would feel any pity.  It was more likely that they would enjoy it. 

       She heard a semi-familiar voice raise from the crowd, “Is that...no it couldn't be!  Is that the youngest Stephens girl?” 

       Margaret squinted and tried to see where the voice was coming from.  It was too hard to place with all the other voices becoming louder and louder all around her. 

       “Handler!”  She heard the familiar voice call.  “Bring number seven up here, we want a closer look!” 

       A hand grabbed her by the arm and she was roughly pulled up to the fence, her cheeks reddening as she could now clearly see the stares and down right leers of the men now lining the edge of the pen.  The man holding her stopped in front of two men.

       Margaret's heart sank to her feet and then half-way to China.  The man who'd called for the handler was Mayor Rufus, the mayor of her home town.  He stood there, leering at her just like all the rest, twirling his black, upturned mustache between his thumb and forefinger.  The man next to him was Sheriff Adams, the sheriff of her home town.  He stood there, smirking as he chewed his tobacco.