The Laws of Physics

They both saw the object at the same time. Adam stood in his stirrups and shaded his eyes with his hand against the midday sun. “Hoss, you got better eyes than me. What do you suppose it is?”

“Dunno. Sure don’ look like no branch to me. Ain’t no trees around there, either.”

“Well then, let’s ride on down and find out.” They cantered down the slope to the bottom of the small grassy valley. Adam was the first to reach the mysterious object. He dismounted, picked it up carefully and held it in his hands. “I’ll be hammered,” he mumbled, stunned.

Hoss had never seen anything like it. It could have been a kind of Indian pipe; a straight tube of smooth, dark wood, except it was like no pipe he had ever seen. One end flared boldly outwards, while the other tapered to a delicate point like the beak of a kingfisher. Out of the tip of the beak stuck two delicate slivers of reed. Along its length, there was an intricate maze of finely wrought buttons and levers made of some shiny metal. It was altogether an impossibly beautiful thing. Except for one flaw: from its lower end protruded the feathered shaft of an arrow. “Shoshone,” Hoss heard Adam mutter under his breath.

“Adam, that thing sure is purdy. Whaddaya reckon it is?”

“Why Hoss, it’s an oboe,” Adam said reverently, and a strange faraway look settled on his face.  

“An O…huh?”

“An oboe, a musical instrument,” and to demonstrate, he put his lips to the thin reed protruding from the mouthpiece and blew. But whether it was due to his inexperience with oboes or to the damage from the arrow, the sounds he produced were sadly lacking in elegance.

Hoss’ face widened to a grin. “Now, Adam, them’s the kinda notes I’d expect outta the wrong end o’ Chubb.” More seriously, he added, “but what’s it doin’ in our north pasture and why did the Shoshone try to kill it?”

But Adam didn’t hear him. His attention had been caught by a tiny detail along the upper shaft of the instrument. There, using a very fine tool, a needle perhaps, someone had etched two initials: S.R. Adam drew in a sharp breath and his eyes widened. “Nooo…,” he breathed. It couldn’t be!

“Adam… you alright there, brother?”

Susan Radcliffe. That had been her name. How she had haunted him that first semester in Boston. He had spent more time at the Symphony than at the college, just to see her play her oboe, every night. Adam smiled with the memory. How silly he had been. Had gone hungry so that he could buy tickets. Fifteen cents, twenty-five for gentlemen. Foolish. He had almost flunked physics that semester.

“Maybe you should lemme hold that thing, Adam, you look a bit unsteady…”

Then, one night, she had played Telemann’s oboe concerto in f minor, and he had fallen hard. The way her eyebrows and shoulders danced while she played had convinced him that this piece, with its lively but wistful rhythm, was like her own true voice. Only, of course, he had never dared to actually talk to her. Like the young fool he had been, he had admired her only from a distance. He shook his head sadly, running his fingers lovingly along the oboe’s side. He’d been a lonely, homesick boy of eighteen, straight out of the wilderness. She had been a few years older than him and stood for everything he had hoped to find in Boston. Refinement, beauty, sophistication, enlightenment, the hum of the great wide world. He sighed.

“Brother, I’m a-worried here. Can ye hear me at all?”

Sure, Hoss. Was it at all possible, then, in this crazy, unpredictable, upside-down world, that Susan Radcliffe and her oboe, after all those years, had somehow made it into the Ponderosa’s north pasture? Nah. Don’t be a romantic idiot, Adam. He shook his head vigorously, annoyed at his own foolishness. Things happened according to the laws of physics. The world was a machine with great gyrating gears, and everything it spat out could be logically explained. There was no room for such wild coincidences. The Shoshone had probably traded this oboe somewhere, the way they traded all kinds of things that intrigued them. Hadn’t Hooting Owl, the old shaman, once given two palomino war ponies for Edgar Preston’s wooden leg, because he thought it was the most wondrous thing he had ever seen? No, that didn’t make sense either. Why trade a thing and then shoot it and leave it behind? In the middle of his reflections, Adam felt a large hand clamp on his shoulder.

“Adam, if’n you don’ talk to me right now, I’m gonna take that dangblasted thing away from you.”

“ ‘S alright, Hoss, I’m fine.”

S.R. could be anybody. Those would be very common initials. Probably some bearded old sourpuss named Steve Reynolds or Seth Robertson. Adam chuckled bitterly. But then, how many oboe players named S.R. could there be in the world? The seed of doubt had been planted in his head, and Adam knew that it would grow like a weed, unless….. well, unless he found out for sure. With sudden resolve, he stepped up to his horse and placed the oboe in his saddlebag.

The moment Adam put his foot in the stirrup, Hoss’ arm was on his sleeve. “Adam, you’re scarin’ me. Where do you think you’re goin’?”

“To the Shoshone camp. Sorry, Hoss, no time to explain. Uh, ride on home and tell Pa I’ll be back in a day or two.” He mounted fluidly and took up his reins.

“But why, Adam?” Hoss exclaimed desperately. “Jus’ tell me why!”

“To rescue a girl, of course.” Adam smiled sweetly down at his brother’s uncomprehending face. “You see, Hoss, I’ve been in love with her for thirteen years, and it’s about time I told her.” He touched his heels to Sport’s flank and was gone.

Hoss stood, dumbfounded, for a long while. “Windmills, oboes - well, Chubb”, he finally said to his horse, “this time, if’n he comes back alive, I’m a-gonna tie him up hand an’ foot an’ drag’im to Doc Martin’s to have his head looked at. I swear it.”