The Adventures of Sport:
A NIGHT ON THE TOWN
by Rowan
Human—even Cartwrights—weren’t very smart, Sport
concluded . . . although he did allow that there was a spot of hope for Adam;
the oldest Cartwright son had come home with the latest edition of Leaves of Grass the other day, and while
reading about grass wasn’t as good as eating it, it was at least a step in the
right direction.
“How long’s it been?”
he nickered softly to Chubb. He didn’t have to move his head because he had
binocular vision, and could see almost three-hundred-and-sixty degrees. Humans
thought they were so superior! They could see barely half that. Sport couldn’t
help a nice, disparaging snort.
“’Bout an hour,” the dark bay gelding responded.
“Not long enough to give us any trouble. Much more, though, and we’re sunk.”
Sport shook his head enough to rattle the
hardware on his bridle. Humans thought it was such a big deal just to come into
town for a bucket of whiskey—hadn’t even the good sense to drink water. And
then when they walked out, half the time it was up to him or Chubb or
Cochise—or any horse like them worth his salt—to stay under ’em all the way home. If you let one fall off, you had to
stand around next to him till he woke up. It was unutterably boring. And it
could get worse. When the idiot came to, he’d be complaining about his head,
and like as not, he’d get on and vomit right over your shoulder. If you dodged
out from under the noxious spit, he was liable to fall off again.
That was one reason it was best to come to town
only in herds. That way there was a prayer that at least one of ’em would be sober enough to prop the others up in the
saddle. Usually that was his human, Adam, but not always. Sometimes it was
Hoss, for which they all thanked the Great Equine In The Sky, as they doubted
any of the humans could get the middle Cartwright son back in the saddle if he
fell off Chubb.
Just then the saloon doors flew open and a human
cannonball came flying out. Even Sport jumped in surprise. The airborne missile
came to a rolling halt in the dusty street and unfolded itself.
“It’s Joe,” Cochise muttered. “Big surprise.”
Chubb cocked his head to look over Sport’s
saddle. “What’s he done this time?”
Cochise studied the sub-herd of humans who had
gathered at the bar door. “Uh . . . I’d say, either won big at poker or more
likely made a pass at that new girl who looks like a floozy.”
“How can you tell?” Chubb inquired.
“Look at the gent in the suit with the waistcoat
buttoned. He’s a big-time gambler. He might not like losin’.”
Cochise gave it some thought. “Nah. If Joe was winning, the gambler’d
want to win his money back, so he’d keep him at the table, not throw him out in
the street. Must be the floozy.”
“What makes ya say
she’s a—a –well, you know, one o’ those women?” Chubb studied the trim young
blonde who stood in the doorway next to Herb the bartender. She looked awful
pretty, in her reddish-pink dress with the black lace trim. It even matched the
long, curving feather that stood up over her head like a headdress on an
Indian. “She looks okay to me.”
“If you like the type,” Cochise sniffed. “She is
kind of a looker; I’ll give you that. But Joe took ’er
out last week and I about lost my dinner. She titters.”
Tittering was definitely not appreciated--you
didn’t see a horse titter, Sport thought. Not even that annoying black filly
who’d moved into the barn the week before. He swore that if she squealed one
more time when Curley saddled her up, he was going to belt her one when they
got on the trail. Oops, so sorry,
were you back there? Ha!
“That don’t make her a floozy,” Chubb objected.
Cochise managed to look arch.
“Okay, boys, looks like it’s showtime,”
Sport murmured, as Adam and Hoss Cartwright pushed past the crowd at the door
and advanced on their brother.
Joe was shaking his head as they each grabbed an
arm and hauled him to his feet. They started to brush him off, but he jerked
free and did it himself. Adam retrieved the stray hat that had come loose
in mid-flight.
“Nobody’s throwing me out of a saloon—” Joe took
at step toward the now swinging doors of the Silver Dollar, only to come off
his feet, courtesy of both brothers, who scooped up an arm each and put some
space between his boots and the ground. “Come on, guys! I’ve got as much right
to talk to her as anyone else!”
“Yeah, little brother,” Hoss agreed in a low
voice, “an’ if Cora Sue McIntosh finds out about it, yer
goose is gonna be cooked so many ways we won’t be
able to get a fork in ya!”
Joe halted abruptly. “Yeah, well, I guess
there’s something to that,” he admitted. His green eyes glinted irrepressibly.
“Thanks, guys. I knew I brought ya along for some
reason!” He swiped at his jacket again and strolled breezily to Cochise. “And speakin’ of Cora Sue, I might as well just pay ’er a visit. It’s almost time for dinner and she’s a mighty
good cook.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Cochise said. “We won’t get home
till after
“Cochise . . . you got any idea who Jesus is?”
Chubb inquired with a hint of disapproval.
“Nope. But every now and then Joe says ‘Jesus.’
So it’s a person, huh?”
“No, I think it’s a god. Might not be too good
for you t’ be sayin’ it.”
Sport snorted. “Good grief, you pair of morons!
Jesus has only two legs! Everyone knows that God has four!”
They allowed as how, yeah, anyone oughta know it. It was an easy concept to grasp.
Joe unwrapped Cochise’s
reins from the hitching rail and backed the pinto out into the street, where he
vaulted into the saddle. “See ya at home!”
For a moment, Adam and Hoss just watched him
ride away and then Hoss shook his head. “Well, whatcha
wanna do now?”
Adam looked at the sky. The sun was heading
down, promising darkness soon. “Have dinner?”
“Thought you’d never say it.”
They turned back to the horses.
“Think they’ll put us in the livery stable?”
Chubb asked hopefully. “I wouldn’t mind a little dinner myself.”
“More likely just tie us to the rail for another
hour,” Sport replied. “Only the two of ’em. They
won’t be there all night.”
“Damn.”
Sure enough, Adam and Hoss mounted up only for
the block’s ride to the International Hotel.
“Pa said he might come inta
town,” Hoss observed as he tied Chubb to the rail by the hotel’s steps.
Adam looped his reins there as well. “It’s
dinnertime. If he’s in town, he’ll come here.”
They disappeared into the hotel.
“Well, this stinks,” Chubb complained. “I’m
hungry.”
“Hey, here comes Buck!”
“He’s prob’ly hungry,
too.”
Sport snorted. “Chubb, if you keep it up, you’re
gonna be as big as Hoss.”
“Better’n wastin’ away.”
“Evenin’, Buck,” Sport
whinnied at the buckskin who came to a stop at the hitching rail next to
theirs. Chubb nodded amiably over Sport’s back.
“Evening, boys,” the buckskin responded, taking
it as his due that the other horses spoke first. “Where’s Cochise?”
“Joe went courting,” Chubb told him as Ben
Cartwright swung down off the buckskin.
Buck grunted and then shook himself, glad to be
rid of the load. “We’ll be home and fed before he even thinks about coming
back.”
“At least he don’t have to listen to Joe sing,”
Chubb snickered, an obvious reference to one of Adam’s techniques with his
ladies.
Sport leaned over to nip Chubb on the neck. “If
I had to listen to Joe Cartwright sing, I’d demand combat pay,” he snapped. At
least Adam had a good voice; lots of humans sounded like cats in heat. Even so,
the gelding couldn’t understand why anyone would want to warble as they did.
What was wrong with just listening to the wind in the trees? Another fault of
two-legged creatures, in his opinion. In that sense, he had to give Joe credit.
“Hey, Sport, look!”
At the sound of Buck’s voice, Sport craned his
neck up high enough to see the two humans struggling down the sidewalk to the
alley, where, all the horses knew, deliveries to the kitchen were made. Over
the years, they’d watched countless tradesmen carry all kinds of food in
there—nothing anyone with sense would want, not even oats—and they enjoyed
seeing what the silly people were eating today. This time, the men were carrying
wooden crates marked POL ROGER,
Sport’s eyes glazed. “
“Now, contain yourself, boy,” Buck cautioned
nervously.
“Yeah, Sport,” Chubb chimed in. “You just calm
down now.”
Sport was mesmerized. “Champagne.”
“Good lord, he’s as bad as Adam,” Buck muttered
disgustedly.
“Always was,” Chubb agreed with a sigh. “Got
real good taste, though.”
“Doesn’t change that he’s a nitwit.”
“
“Sport, good grief, shut up!” Buck’s patience
wore thin. “It’s not yours.”
“I want some.”
“This makes no sense. You’re a horse,” Chubb said. “Have you forgotten
that?”
“That’s discrimination. You don’t give Cochise a
hard time for liking coffee.”
“Coffee is understandable,” Buck intoned. “
“It’s a delicacy,” Sport maintained and sniffed
loudly. “Peasants!”
Grumpily, he leaned down to scratch his cheek
against his leg. He didn’t care if he damaged his bridle, as long as he didn’t
hurt his leg with the bit; Adam could afford a new bridle if necessary. It felt
good . . . if he could just get his head lower. He reached farther, sliding his
muzzle along his cannon bone.
Suddenly his reins hit their limit, dissolved
their loose affiliation with the hitching rail and dropped at his feet. He
regarded them curiously. Both Buck and Chubb lowered their heads to see.
“I wonder . . .” Sport mused. “Since Adam didn’t
put those reins there, does this constitute a ground tie?”
His companions couldn’t answer.
“I mean, it’s like if a tree falls in the forest
and there’s no one there to hear it, does it really make any noise?”
“Sport, have you lost your mind?” Buck demanded.
“No,” the chestnut replied loftily. “That’s a
famous conundrum. Adam told me.”
Chubb looked perplexed. “A conun—what?”
“A conundrum. It’s philosophy.”
“You and Adam are an example of brains run
amok,” Buck pronounced.
“Yes, it must be the same thing. The sound
doesn’t exist, so the ground tie doesn’t exist. At least, in my interpretation,
and Adam’s a big advocate of thinking for yourself.” He nodded politely to Buck
and Chubb. “Good evening, gentlemen. I trust you’ll cover my flanks if I’m not
back in time.”
“What do you have in mind?” Chubb asked
innocently.
“What do you think?” Sport backed out into the
street and turned toward the alley. “I’m going to have a night out.”
“Silly young colt!” Buck snorted.
But Sport wasn’t listening. He gazed down the
alley and found it deserted—and miracle of miracles, the back door to the
kitchen was open. Apparently the delivery men were coming and going. Must be a
party tonight, he figured. Probably a drunken party, and the humans had run out
of champagne. Otherwise, wouldn’t the goods have been brought in during the
afternoon? No matter . . .
At the door, he peered into the building. There
was a small room stacked with boxes; he examined them closely, but none of them
were champagne. He proceeded to the next door, stepping carefully on the wooden
floor so as not to make noise.
The next door was closed, but to his amazement,
it moved when he gave it a good strong push with his muzzle. His knee worked
just as well. And better yet, the top half of the door was a large pane of
glass that gave him a great view of the kitchen. On one wall was a huge black
contraption spurting fire from its top; he grunted nervously and resolved not
to go near it. Besides, it was getting enough attention from a fat man in a
white apron.
In the middle of the room was a large wooden
table, filled with plates of food. Skinny boys in black and white uniforms
seemed to be trotting back and forth through another swinging door—this one
without glass—at the far end of the room. They snatched up the dinners with
each trip.
He peered at the plates; most of them weren’t
worth the bother—an endless array of steaks and pieces of chicken and
weird-looking flat things in sauce greeted his vision. He wondered if the
weird-looking flat things were what he’d heard referred to as fish. Trust
humans to eat such nonsense. But now and then, there was something worth his
notice: Smaller white discs which he decided must be half-grown plates carried
green stuff that looked like grass, although the leaves seemed broader. And
there were definitely carrots. The night was looking up.
Better yet, right out there in the middle of
everything on another table was a tray of funny looking little flattish
glasses, filled with a pale golden liquid. Tiny bubbles migrated upward to the
top of each glass. Bingo. This was going to be easier than he’d thought.
Just then the man in the white apron began
waving his arms and shouting. “If you cannot do it properly, get out! Get out!
Get out of my kitchen!”
The army of skinny boys in black and white
backed up into each other at the swinging door and then fled. Sport had heard
of floor shows; the Cartwright boys went to the Opera House now and then and
always discussed the ladies, sometimes almost naked, they saw there. He
wondered if this was the beginning of the floor show, but shook his head in
confusion. Not a naked lady among ’em.
The fat man was much better entertainment. He
was still waving his arms and shouting. “Aye-yie-yie!
Imbeciles! Idiots! I am forced to work with idiots! Madre di Dio!
Can they do nothing right? Why must I put up with them? It is madness! I quit!”
He ripped off his apron, threw it across the room and stalked away through
another swinging door at the side of the room.
No time like now, Sport thought, and shoved open
the door. Skirting carefully away from the fire-breathing thing on the wall, he
approached the feed table and snitched a mouthful of grass and carrot on the
way to the champagne. The grass wasn’t very sweet, but under the
circumstances—he’d worked up a hunger—it was acceptable. The carrots, little
bitty human-bite-size things, were better.
He sniffed the champagne glasses with
discrimination. There was no point, he opined, in drinking the cheap stuff and
the Pol Roger smelled on the expensive side. Voila! The flattish glasses were a bit
of a pain, but after a few unsuccessful experiments, he perfected swooping his
tongue down and gathering up the contents in one fell lick. It cut down on the
breakage, which he knew was likely to upset the humans. On the other hand,
served ’em right for not using a sensible trough, or
at least wooden containers.
Ah, bliss . . . He should be timing
himself, he reflected. Efficiency was to be rewarded and he figured he
accounted for sixty-four glasses of champagne in less than four minutes. He
added a few carrots for good measure. This stuff had a kick. He giggled. A
kick. He fired off a good one with one hind leg, just for fun. Behind him, a
small table skidded across the plank floor and slammed into the wall. Sport
peered over his shoulder to see a big white pitcher of milk teeter on its edge
and then leap off onto the floor. Little shards of crockery floated in the
expanding pool of white. Sport sniffed it. Cows. What a waste. He turned back
to the champagne, but he’d finished it.
Might as well get another bite before going back
out into the night. No telling when they’d get home for dinner. Delicately, he
picked out as many carrots as he could before he realized that there was quite
a bit of commotion beyond the door at the end of the room. Human voices were
rising in protest. Perhaps the better part of valor would be to withdraw while
the field was his.
He started for the door, only to be jerked up
sharply by his bit. Damn. Almost felt
like he’d cut his mouth. He lowered his head to see what had happened and found
one of the confounded reins caught on the leg of the feed table. Well, bother .
. . but he didn’t complain; you had to take reins as you found ’em. Sometimes they helped you out and sometimes they
didn’t. But the noise in what must be the dining room was growing louder. He
did need to get a move on. There was only one thing to do.
He backed around so that his hind quarters faced
the table as best they could with the rein trapped the way it was. Gathering up
his strength, he let loose with the hardest kick he could muster—a real gutbuster, if he did say so himself, and highly successful.
The rein came free in a second. It was to be regretted, he would admit if
questioned, that the table flipped sideways, causing all those plates and their
children to fly every whichaway. Pretty much
scattered the wide grass, too.
In his opinion, it was an excellent time to
leave. He pushed open the swinging door and bolted into the alley, sliding a
little bit as he rounded the tight corner and made for the street. In a second,
he was standing calmly next to Chubb.
“I think we’ll be going home soon,” he told his
friends.