The Adventures of Sport:
THE NIGHT THEY INVENTED
For those who asked how
Sport discovered his taste for champagne ~
which led to his NIGHT ON THE
TOWN
by Rowan
Life, Sport believed,
was full of mysteries. He could see why Adam Cartwright was always trying to
figure out philosophical problems. Such mental exercises were probably more
taxing than what a horse would attempt, but in the interest of representing the
Boss well, he had always done what he could to stretch his mind.
For instance,
while Adam considered the theory of perpetual motion, Sport tried to understand
the reasoning behind champagne buckets. Or why champagne glasses were so
doggoned tall and thin; he’d enlisted Chubb’s help on that one, but neither of
them could come up with any answers.
Of course, not
all of the Boss’ deliberations were quite so high-falutin’.
Take the day he asked why grasshoppers jumped. That wasn’t even worth an
answer. They jumped so that it was easier for horses to see them; you didn’t
want to step on ’em, as the Great Equine in the Sky
had decreed that all creatures rated a place on earth. It wasn’t wise to cross
the Great Equine, although Sport did wonder about cockroaches.
And there was
the ongoing question of why cathouses were called cathouses when there didn’t
seem to be any mice. That discussion had come up the night he and Chubb had
spent a couple of hours out back of the Virginia City Association for
Gentlemen, which everyone knew was a high-class cathouse run by Miss Colleen Meriweather.
This was Chubb’s
first trip to Miss Meriweather’s, and he was there
only because Hoss hadn’t counted on Miss Amelia Peabody asking him to dinner
and the church social that afternoon. Hoss had been with Mr. Cartwright in the
buckboard, so it was agreed that Adam would bring Chubb when he came into town
to work on Miss Meriweather’s books. He was her
financial advisor.
So there they
were, in the little garden out back of Miss Meriweather’s,
considering the state of the world or, at least, the relative merits of a
cathouse vs. a church social.
“Those church
socials can get pretty darn social,” Sport contended.
“Yeah, well, at
least Hoss won’t be drunk when we come home. I don’t guess a church social
serves much of anything like that,” Chubb pointed out. “Can’t
say the same for Adam.”
Sport nipped him
on the neck. “The Boss has never come
home drunk from here. Relaxed, maybe, but never inebriated.” That was another
subject he had always pondered. Was it the champagne the Boss drank with Miss Meriweather or Miss Meriweather
herself that made Adam so mellow?
“Anything
to drink?” Chubb inquired, the power of suggestion too strong for him.
“Try the little
trough over there on the stand.” Always on the lookout for entertainment, Sport
neglected to tell Chubb to watch out for fellow drinkers. Occasionally you ran
into a bird there, and it was always a toss-up as to who was more taken aback,
you or the bird. “And don’t go too far. We’re supposed to be ground-tied.”
“Y’know, this here cathouse stuff is pretty nice. Good
grass, good flowers—”
“You didn’t!”
“Not very many—a
horse gotta keep his strength up,” Chubb replied,
unruffled. “And I was gonna say, good music.”
On that, Sport
had to agree. Adam had gone into the small apartment at the back of the white
clapboard house, which was pretty quiet, but up front, the sound of a
honky-tonk piano tried to rise above talk and laughter.
Chubb returned.
“Uh, Sport … where’s all the cats?”
“Cats? What’re you talking about?”
“Well, I was wonderin’ why they’d need all that music?
You know cats; they kinda make their own, and it
don’t sound nothin’ like that.”
“Chubb!”
About that time,
Adam and Miss Meriweather came out on the porch. The
Boss was doing up his shirt.
“Must be awful
hot in there,” Chubb observed. “He oughta take ’is
shirt off.”
Sport snorted.
“He can’t do that in the presence of a lady.” He extended his muzzle for a
stroke and a pat, which Miss Meriweather delivered.
That got Chubb’s attention too, because he never passed up a stroke and a pat.
This night, as
usual, Adam carried two big greenish books. As soon as he had turned up the
lanterns and was settled at the table, Miss Meriweather
went back inside and emerged with a silver bucket.
Chubb leaned in
close so that only Sport could hear him. “What’s that?”
“A stupid little
bucket that makes no sense,” the red gelding answered. It was one of his
favorite conundrums. “It must be sad—look at those little drops on its side. It
always cries, I guess because no one ever drinks from it.”
“How could ya drink from it? Don’t hold enough t’ fill a
chipmunk—what’s that?”
Sport
approximated a smile. A bottle with the label LOUIS ROEDERER,
“Those are the
dang funniest li’l glass things I ever did see,”
Chubb whickered in a low voice, eyeing the pair of skinny flutes Miss Meriweather set on the table. “How d’ya
get yer muzzle in ’em?”
Chubb was sure
picking up on all the questions, Sport noted with pride. His friend wasn’t
nearly as slow as some folks thought. But unfortunately, he wasn’t any help
with sophisticated problem solving. Miss Meriweather
was filling the puzzling glasses anyway.
Chubb sniffed. “Smells kinda fermenty-like.
We don’ have t’ drink it, do we?”
“No,” Sport
replied mournfully. “They won’t let us.”
The dark bay
gelding shook his head in exasperation, his mane skittering all over the place.
“That stuff don’t smell like anything a horse would drink.”
“Life is full of
experiences. You should never pass any up.”
After that,
though, there wasn’t much to hold their interest, and they both sank into a doze.
Only when Adam set the champagne bucket on the floor did Sport rouse from his
nap. As he edged closer to investigate it, Chubb snuffled uneasily.
“Sport, you
better watch out. You already done said that stuff was only fer
humans.”
That alerted
Adam, who reached down to remove the bottle from the silly bucket. “Oh, no, my
friend,” he said, just as Sport stepped on Chubb’s hoof. “You wouldn’t like
this. It’s not for horses.”
Try me, the red gelding told him, but as usual, the Boss couldn’t
understand the equine language. Sport chewed disgustedly on his bit. It was one
of his human’s few shortcomings.
Meanwhile, Chubb
was nursing his sore hoof. “What’d ya do that fer?”
“Chubb, just be
quiet next time. Cathouse Duty requires subtlety.”
“Sport …” Chubb
obediently whispered. “What’s that noise?”
Sport swiveled
his ears around. Chubb had great hearing. They all did actually,
a lot better than humans, but that was no big achievement. The far-off sounds
loosely resembled singing. “Well, it’s not grand opera.”
The dark bay
gelding curled his lip. “Dang fools’re killin’ ‘Onward Christian Soljers.’
Ain’t no call fer that.”
“Listen, Chubb.
Only thing they got from ‘Onward Chistian Soldiers’
is the tune—and even that’s debatable …”
Ladies march for mor-or-als,
Waging war on sin!
Drive out all these troll-ops,
Save our fallen men!
Sport did an
equine version of rolling his eyes. Not a single note on key. He could sing it
better—not that he’d be caught dead piping those stupid lyrics. He nickered
nervously at Adam, and when his human didn’t respond, whinnied loudly. The Boss
was smart enough to look up then, and once Adam paid attention, he heard the godawful singing. Sport sneezed. It was getting worse.
Know that men are we-ee-ee-eak,
Prey for maidens fair!
We shall stop the froll-ic
Found in Satan’s lair!
Miss Meriweather heard it too and the color faded from her face.
“The Ladies’ Society for Morality and Temperance,” she breathed. “It’s getting
closer—they must be headed here.”
“The Ladies’ Society for Morality and—” Adam repeated in disbelief. “What
the—what is that?”
“A new group,
dedicated to running businesses like mine out of town. They raided Dolly
Hardwick’s last week. I should have known they’d come here.”
“Their husbands
aren’t going to be too happy about this,” Adam said bluntly.
“Not many of
them are married,” Miss Meriweather giggled. “And the
ones who have husbands henpeck them unmercifully. Hetty
Latimer organized it.”
That told Adam
enough. Sport sighed; he too had heard plenty about Hetty
Latimer. She had a cause a week.
“Who’s Hetty Latimer?” Chubb inquired.
“That female who
tried to keep the horse poop off
“That was the
dumbest idea I ever did hear of!” Chubb responded, and Sport had to concede
that it was the most riled he’d ever seen his friend. Of course, if you ate as
much as Chubb did, you had to have someplace to put the food after it had
finished its work. If a horse had to stand there and hold it, he’d likely
explode on the way home.
He snorted a
laugh. The Boss had once called Hetty Latimer a hyena
in a corset. Morality this month, likely temperance the next.
Before long,
“Well, let’s get
ahead of her,” Adam said briskly. He stood up and closed the ledgers. “Go warn
the women.”
Miss Meriweather nodded and disappeared through the door as Adam
picked up one of the books—the important ledger with the details, probably—and
jammed it into one of Sport’s saddlebags. In his haste, he bumped the table and
while the bottle of Roederer avoided a swan dive from
that height, it fell over. Its fizzy golden liquid poured out enthusiastically
and landed in the empty silver bucket.
That, Sport considered,
had real possibilities. He turned to see if the Boss had noticed it, but Adam
was too busy to pick up on the runaway champagne. The bucket, out of sight on
the back side of the table, went undetected because the Boss was stuffing the
empty champagne bottle into his other saddlebag and pitching the glasses out
into the garden. Then he went inside.
Right about that
time, the biggest ruckus in history busted loose as all kinds of men and women
fell all over each other climbing out the windows and blasting through the
door.
“Dadburnit, Sport, those wimen ain’t got any clothes on!” Chubb marveled. He’d lowered his
head to get a better view, which was helpful because Sport had raised his and
they didn’t bump into each other.
“Some of ’em have on a few!” Sport peered as closely as he could, but
he had to allow that ‘a few’ wasn’t very close to ‘fully dressed.’ He’d always
heard of women’s undergarments, but he’d never seen any; now he saw every one
known to man in a variety of hues.
“Should I cover
my eyes?’ Chubb nickered. “It don’t seem right, lookin’ at ’em like this.”
Sport groaned.
“Good grief, Chubb! You may not be a stud, but you’re a male. It isn’t masculine to ignore women without their bloomers.
It’s an anatomy lesson—vital to your education.”
“You ’n’ Adam,”
Chubb muttered, “you c’n talk yer
way into a peapatch an’ come out with dinner.”
Sport thanked
him for the compliment.
Meanwhile, it
really was fun studying the state of the humans’ dress, although Sport noted
that, in the interest of accuracy, it was the undress that was the most
amusing. The first lady wore what he and Chubb decided must be a corset in an
eye-popping shade of violet, dangling little black things down both legs and
accented with black feathers across the top, which pretty much left nothing to
the imagination.
“Jehosafat!”
Chubb bellowed in surprise.
Sport slammed
into him gently. They might stop the parade if they were noticed.
Besides, the
next one was just as good, exhibiting a camisole so thin that if the lady—a
generous term, the two observers acknowledged—had been at all thrifty, she’d
never have bought. On her lower half, she wore only her bloomers and they were
equally revealing. And then there was the one wrapped in a sheet and another
wearing a man’s shirt and nothing else, not even a collar. The evening was
picking up.
“Sport, did you
seem them wimen? Some of ’em
was almost nekkid!” Chubb
mumbled in awe.
“Well, what of
it? We’re naked every day.”
“I got my saddle
on!”
Sport wished he
had eyebrows to raise. “Any way you look at it, at
least we look good without gear—which is a lot more than you can say for some
of these humans.”
That was
particularly true as the next few refugees were pretty boring. Men, all of them in a disgusting state of panic, wearing only
segments of their wardrobes. Some in pants, no shirts;
some in shirts, no pants. Some of ’em wore
boots, some didn’t. Sport and Chubb felt sorry for the ones who didn’t. It was
going to be a long walk home. No hats, few jackets … there’d be some tall tales
told tonight.
The evening
improved again when more ladies scampered out, and it soon became apparent what
those little black dangly things were for; one female had on a blue satin
outfit that covered only the all-together, and hooked to the black dangly
things were longjohns so sheer you could barely have
seen them if they hadn’t been black. What a pointless outfit, Sport thought.
They had lost
count of the number of humans who’d skedaddled down the path and out the back
gate when the house suddenly went silent, and the Boss and Miss Meriweather returned. Adam
opened the one ledger and they sat down calmly at the table. Out front, the
shrill sound of hysterical women was getting closer.
“I wish you’d
get out of here and let me handle it,” Adam said. “You can take Sport.”
Huh? Over my dead body, Sport grunted, and then thought twice.
If his human wanted him to, he’d do it. It was in the service of lady—a real
one, this time—and he was always game for that.
She just smiled
and said in her low, soothing voice, “No, Adam. I can’t leave my house. The
girls left everything they own in those rooms.”
“You know this
means you’ll have to close down.”
She nodded.
“Yes. If nothing else, those harridans will forbid their men
to come here, and for once, the men will be frightened enough to obey them.
That’s one reason I have to save our possessions. The girls can start over
somewhere else.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I don’t
know … somewhere else, I suppose.”
“I could help
you move to
“Perhaps.” She smiled so wistfully at the Boss that
Sport and Chubb sighed sentimentally. “We’ll talk about it when this is all
over.”
And then the
back door flew open and the formidable figure of Hetty
Latimer erupted through it, her arrival a little impaired because initially she
stuck in the doorframe. She was not a small woman. Only by turning sideways was
she able to get through and advance on Miss Meriweather.
“There she is! The
trollop! We’ll see you run out of town—we’ll see you stoned in the streets—”
Adam quickly
stood up to block her passage and was gratified to see Roy Coffee right behind
her.
“Mrs. Latimer!
Mrs. Latimer!” the Sheriff shouted. “Now, you can’t just go inta
somebody’s house and attack ’em!”
“She’s the
devil’s spawn! She earns the wages of sin!”
“We ain’t established that yet,”
“
“We can—” Mrs.
Latimer began.
“No, you can’t,”
“How many of
them are there?” Miss Meriweather inquired with so
much composure that not even a horse could have done it better.
“’Bout
two dozen, ma’am.”
From an upstairs
room came the crash of breaking glass. Miss Meriweather
winced.
“Clem!”
“You’ll do no
such thing, Roy Coffee! We have the law on our side—the statute that was passed
tonight.”
Adam cast a
questioning glance at Roy, who nodded. “Sorry t’ say
it, Adam, but Mrs. Latimer’s right. We couldn’ find
the mayor and several members of the town council t’night”—Sport
contained a laugh and Chubb choked on his snort; most of them had just bolted
down the garden path—“so Harry Latimer pushed through a bill prohibiting drinkin’ and—uh—frolickin’ after
Adam shook his
head disgustedly.
“Don’t worry,”
“Enforce the
law, Sheriff!” Mrs. Latimer directed imperially, drawing herself up.
“Well, ma’am,
I’d like to,” Roy told her, trying to hide the gleam in his eye, “but we ain’t found any frolickin’ or drinkin’ goin’ on here.”
Adam stifled a
smile. Unfortunately, Mrs. Latimer chose that minute to stalk around the porch
in search of evidence and her eyes lit upon the senseless silver container.
“There!” she
shrieked. “A champagne bucket! You don’t have a champagne
bucket without champagne! Drinking, Sheriff! Arrest Adam Cartwright and
this—this—”
Sport needed no
second invitation—someone had to save the Boss. He thrust his muzzle into the
shiny trough and slurped noisily. It was kind of tricky, trying to keep his bit
from banging on the little bucket, but to be perfectly honest, it was no real
imposition. The fizzy little bubbles tickled his nose rather pleasantly, and as
for the golden liquid, he wondered if whoever wrote about Nirvana had been
drinking champagne when he did it. Why couldn’t they have spilled two bottles
into the bucket? Or at least seen fit not to drink so much of it themselves?
Selfish beings …
Chubb regarded
him in disbelief.
Adam was
smiling. “As you can see,
“A fine story
that is!” Mrs. Latimer huffed, but
“Well, Adam, I
don’t see no reason not to b’lieve ya. Mrs. Latimer, I’m afraid you’re on a
wild goose chase, and if I may say so, ma’am, it wasn’t too civic-minded t’ take
up the time o’ the sheriff and three deputies. You’d best hope that we
weren’t needed someplace else—and you and yer ladies
had best be prepared to pay fer whatever y’broke.”
Mrs. Latimer’s
face turned a very pleasing shade of scarlet. Not as good as chestnut, in the
red gelding’s view, but definitely better than the
pasty white look she’d had before. Sport went back to sniffing the bucket’s
glass liner and was just checking to see if any champagne had spilled out on
the floor when
“We got ’em all calmed down, Sheriff,” he said, and only Adam,
“Some o’ the
ladies found men’s clothing that they swear belongs to their menfolk,” Clem reported. “We can’t prove that without the
men being here to claim them, but with Miss Meriweather’s
permission, we might just let the ladies take ’em
along.”
“Of course,
Deputy,” Miss Meriweather answered graciously. Sport’s
eyes shone with approval. She was about as cool as the Boss.
“And, uh, we
found one man, hidin’ under a table upstairs,” Clem
said, barely able to control the grin that threatened to envelope his face.
“Arrest him!
Arrest the sinner!” Mrs. Latimer exclaimed.
“Now, Hetty,”
“Oh, you might
want to,” Clem offered and finally
Behind them,
another of
“What a dadburned runt,” Chubb spoke up before he remembered the
crowd. He backed off into the shadows.
The skinny boy
was dressed only in his drawers.
Mrs. Latimer
blanched. “Harold!”
“Harold
Latimer,” Clem supplied unnecessarily. “I ’magine his
mother’ll want a word with him. Should I take him
down to the jail?”
The sheriff was
treated to a sound heretofore unheard in polite society. Mrs. Latimer did not
have the same problem getting in the door that she had had getting out, since
she had turned sideways first in an effort to catch her son and throttle him.
Roy Coffee looked more than relieved to have the whole situation over.
“I ain’t gonna ask ya what was in that champagne bucket, Adam,” the sheriff
informed the Boss dryly, “but I hope yer horse makes
it home okay.”
Adam just let
his eyes twinkle. When the lawman had gone, he turned to Sport and patted the
gelding’s face affectionately. “Well done, old boy,” he murmured.
Sport swelled at
the praise. Anytime, Boss, he
responded. And if you want to show your
appreciation, you could pour me another bucket of champagne. But the
message got lost in translation. He just sighed as his human retrieved the
ledger from his saddlebag and set it on the table.
Adam looked at
Miss Meriweather. “We’ll need to talk about getting
you moved,” he said quietly.
She nodded.
“Yes.” She allowed a smile, the same little wistful one as before. “I’ll miss you.”
“You know I’ll
be there to help you, wherever you go … whatever you want to do.” He held her
hand as she walked with him down the steps to stand beside Sport.
“I know. I’ve
always counted on you, and you’ve always been there for me. Thank you.” She
stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Good night, Adam.”
And then Adam
mounted Sport, picked up Chubb’s reins, and smiled again at Miss Meriweather. Sport hoped she didn’t move too far away.
“Hey, Sport,”
Chubb whispered as they passed through the back gate. “Did you really like that
champagne stuff?”
“Ah, Chubb … it
was the nectar of the gods. If you and Cochise want to get me something for my
birthday, you be sure to tell him about it.”
Chubb sighed.
“Yeah, but I don’t guess we’d better mention it ta
Buck.”
“He’d have a
conniption fit,” Sport agreed, his eyes glimmering at his friend.
Chubb whickered a little giggle. “Sport, I gotta
tell ya, this sure beats a church social.”
August 2003