*With thanks to Irish of the Tahoe Ladies for her generous contribution of opinions, suggestions and technical details. One suspects she’s been through this with one of her horses.*

As far as Sport was concerned, it had been an exhilarating evening. A boring afternoon spent tied in front of the Silver Dollar had become quite nice after dark, when he’d found the back door to the kitchen of the International Hotel open. Sixty-four glasses of champagne in four minutes had to be some kind of a record. A little cheese would have been nice, but he’d made do with carrots. He belched delightedly.

"Sport, you okay?" Chub inquired nervously. "You shore smell somethin’ awful."

"Fine champagne, my boy, fine champagne," Sport replied. "Doesn’t always smell so nice the second time around. I’ll try to chew some mint on the way home."

"Whippersnapper," Buck muttered. "All that education you’ve picked up from Adam is scrambling your brains."

"At least I’ve got brains," Sport answered airily. He was so mellow that even Buck couldn’t rile him tonight. He liked the buckskin, but sometimes the old fussbudget got about as authoritarian as his human. Sport liked Ben Cartwright, too, but he thought Adam’s father should loosen up a little bit. Speak of the devil . . .

"Well, that’s the strangest meal I ever did eat—almost eat," Hoss Cartwright was saying as he came down the steps of the hotel.

"A couple of minutes more and we’d have been served," Adam agreed. "What was going on back in the kitchen?"

Buck and Chub both eyed Sport warily. The chestnut blinked a little to clear his vision as he watched their humans approach. He shook his head testily. It sure was getting warm for a nice spring night.

Ben Cartwright loosened Buck’s reins and swung into the saddle. "I heard Tom say something about their chef quitting, right in the middle of dinner."

"Yeah, but Pa, I got a look back there," Hoss said mournfully. "Why’d he have to go and ruin all that food? There was steaks an’ chicken an’ all sorts o’ things, all over the floor."

"Sport," Buck hissed. "What did you do?"

"I just had dinner," the chestnut gelding answered, and grunted. Adam had stepped up into the saddle and Sport felt his center of gravity shift unexpectedly. He planted a hind leg farther away and steadied himself. No reason he had to tell Buck about the feed table and how the rein had caught under it.

"I just hope Hop Sing hasn’t gone to bed by the time we get home," Ben said as he turned Buck away from the hotel. "I’ve worked up quite a hunger." He kicked the buckskin into a fast lope.

Already envisioning his feed tub, Chub hurried after him. Sport waited until last and followed more carefully, conserving his energy until he could get the cadence of his gait under control. Maybe this was what happened when you tried to run around on a full stomach. He sure was glad he hadn’t tried the fish.

Once they got out of Virginia City, it seemed as if the air grew cooler, and Sport didn’t mind a bit. He was a little tired; the fever which had come on him after his excursion seemed to be stealing some of his energy. For once, he wasn’t first in the parade. In fact, as much as he hated to admit it, he was having trouble keeping up.

Adam leaned farther forward, signaling Sport to go on. Well, it would be a cold day in hell before he didn’t try his best for his human, so Sport strained to make his legs pump harder—oops! What was this all about? He’d drifted to the left edge of the road, trampling a few weeds before Adam pulled him back on track. No matter how he tried to right his course, he veered across to the other side of the road. It was very vexing. Sport focused hard on the moonlit strip of bare earth in front of him.

"Pa—Hoss—slow up for a minute!"

Thank God, Sport breathed, for the first time in his life glad of the firm touch on the reins that forced him to slow down. Well, maybe ‘forced’ overstated the case a little.

"I think something’s wrong with Sport," Adam said, dropping out of the saddle. He came up beside his horse’s head, checked the bit, and then ran his hands down each of the gelding’s legs.

Sport snorted and blew, dropping his head. Jeez, the road looked kinda sideways in his vision. He resolved to lay off the salad next time and raised his head quickly to get Chub’s attention, only to wish immediately that he hadn’t. Thank God for Chub; the black gelding sensed the summons and wandered closer.

"You okay?" he whispered.

"Uff . . . I think so. Just a little dizzy."

"I could have told you you would be," Buck said with annoying superiority.

"I can’t imagine how you’d know," Sport retorted. "When did you ever have any fun?"

If Buck’d had an eyebrow, he would have raised it. "I’ve been most places ahead of you, young man."

"Well, he seems fine," Adam said, and climbed back into the saddle. "Maybe if we took it a little slower. Something’s not right."

Not right? I’ll make it right, Sport thought. Maybe he’d been concentrating too hard; it might not hurt to get his mind off his troubles and just let his body do the job. Seemed like whenever Adam didn’t want to think about things, he sang. There had been lots of times on the trail when Adam had done that, and Sport knew several songs. Perhaps something simple, without many words.

"Nessun Dorma! Nessun Dorma!" he warbled with perfect pitch.

"What in thunder’re you talkin’—singin’—about?" Chub asked, taken aback. The sound hurt his ears.

"Chub, if you’re gonna have class"—Sport wasn’t quite sure why that word came out "clash," but Chub seemed to understand anyhow—"you have to learn this stuff. It’s from an opera. ‘No one’s sleeping! No one’s sleeping!’"

"I don’t know how they could, with all the noise you’re making," Buck informed him sourly. "Would you hurry up? The way you’re going, we won’t get home till dawn."

"Going as fast as I can," Sport huffed and tried to speed up. At the rate he was moving his legs, this walk should be a run.

Chub shook his head vigorously. "Whew, Sport, you sounded like a dog that’s got caught in a porkypine patch."

"Philistines. What’d you want me to sing? ‘Charlotte the Harlot’?"

Buck shied. "I hope not."

Sport tried again, with gusto. A sea shanty this time.

"‘She squeaked, she cried, and down she dived,

he brought her up again, sir’

—something, something—

‘As Adam did old Eve enjoy, you may guess what I mean, sir;

Because she all uncovered lay, he covered her again, sir!’"

"Sport!" Buck roared, outraged. "Remember there are gentlemen present!"

The road was beginning to blur in front of Sport. "Oh, all right." Perhaps singing was making him light-headed. Anyhow, it wasn’t working—he was weaving to the right again. Speaking of the sea, a good tack to the left might work.

"Not to mention that it’s not complimentary to the man who feeds you," Buck admonished him, "even if it wasn’t our Adam who was with—well, you know, who knew . . . well, who was present at the creation in the human version."

The tack to the left wasn’t much use; Adam had to check his horse, pointing him down the center of the road. Sport did his best to aim correctly this time.

"I don’t know about you boys, but I’d like to get home tonight." In the quiet night, Ben Cartwright’s voice was startling. "Let’s try speeding it up again."

Buck and Chub obediently broke into a lope and Sport attempted a trot. But his back legs didn’t move quite like his front. More importantly, his left front and right hind legs didn’t bear any relation to each other, as they did in his normal trot. He stumbled, his head bobbing so low that Adam, unprepared, was almost thrown off.

The other horses stopped and Ben turned Buck back, concerned. "Adam, is that horse all right?"

"All right?" Buck exploded. "All right? The darn fool is dead drunk! As bad as any human!"

"I don’t know, Pa. He was fine this afternoon, but he’s sure acting funny now."

"Then we’ll take it slow again. I don’t want him falling down with you."

"Yeah, Pa," Hoss chimed in. "Ain’t no real reason we gotta get home. It’s early yet." He gazed at Sport sympathetically, noting the sweat on the gelding’s neck.

Chub echoed his human’s worry. "Sport, are you gonna be okay? You’re not gonna be sick, are you?"

Not on your life, Sport vowed mentally. He’d never sink that low.

"It’s entirely possible," Buck announced. "That’s what happens when inexperienced youngsters get headstrong. Sport, I hope you’re having a fine time, because it certainly isn’t a pleasure for the rest of us."

"Spoilsport!" Sport muttered. "No pun intended." He tossed his head to emphasize his words. Perhaps he didn’t need quite that much emphasis, he realized, lurching sideways and finally catching himself on his knees. That ground was looking real good. Like a collapsing balloon, he folded over on his side.

"Adam!" Ben checked Buck.

Adam, having stepped out of the saddle as Sport went down, looked up at his father. Even in the dim moonlight, his concern was clear on his face. He knelt down beside his fallen horse.

"As bad as any human," Buck fumed again.

"He’s been making strange noises ever since town," Adam said. He turned Sport’s head. "Come on, boy. Come on, let’s get you up. We’ll get you some warm mash when we get home. Maybe that’ll settle your gut."

Warm mash?  If he could have, Sport would have thrown up.  Nothing—nada, nothing, not one thing—except grass goes in this stomach till I say so. But it was a nice thought, he acknowledged. Adam always was thoughtful.

It was a struggle, but he gathered his legs under him and managed to rise. Shaking himself to get the dust off nearly put him back down, but by spreading all four legs wide, he remained upright.

Straddled out like that reminded him that he could use a wiz. Maybe the champagne had already come through, or the lengthy drink he’d had with Chub before they’d gone to the saloon. With an apologetic glance at his companions, he extended his legs out even farther and began to create a lake. Peering down, he had to admit that he was always good at what he did. The stream kinda resembled the falls up on the Divide. By the time he’d finished, the pool of urine spread almost from his forelegs to his hind, and poured into the road on either side. Now the problem was to step away from it without getting his feet wet, when he was stretched out like a tent at the circus. H’m . . .

He lifted one back leg—bad idea; he started to tilt and slammed it back down. Perhaps a front—nope, not that one either. He almost fell right into the puddle. The only thing left to do was jump. Jump? How the hell was he going to jump? Even walking was beginning to sound tricky. If this is what happens when you eat that funny wide grass, I will never, ever eat it again, he promised the Great Equine In The Sky, and turned his attention to analyzing his problem. He tried to measure the lake with his eyes; it stood to reason that if he could calculate its square footage, he’d know how far he had to travel and how much energy it would take. But math wasn’t his strong suit at the moment.

Okay, so if he reared back and leapt as hard as he could . . . that part shouldn’t be a problem, but in this condition, he had real doubts about landing. Oh, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained . . .

He leaned back, tensing his hind legs and feeling a gathering of power somewhat unlike what he was used to. But he had no choice; he sprang forward with all his might—and ended up going as high as he did wide . . . which, unfortunately, was not quite far enough. The forelegs made it but the back legs didn’t, splattering warm yellow urine everywhere. Everywhere wouldn’t have been bad except that Adam was in the middle of everywhere, and his lower half was now as wet as Sport’s. Adam eyed his horse disgustedly from the far end of the reins.

The disgust, Sport thought, was uncalled for. It wasn’t something he’d planned, and Lord knows, he’d managed to remain upright. I could have fallen into that puddle, and then where would we be? he thought. And anyhow, Boss, it’s not like I didn’t get myself covered, too. Nonetheless, he whickered an apology.

"Oh, Sport, you’ve done it now," Chub empathized. Buck’s expression mirrored Adam’s.

Adam brushed angrily at his wet pants and then realized that getting horse urine on his hands wasn’t very pleasant. He reached for his handkerchief to clean up as best he could, but the odor was particularly clinging.

"I think I’d better walk him," he told his father and brother. Somewhat icily, he picked up Sport’s reins and started off, the chestnut gelding following meekly.

Sport gave some thought to resurrecting his singing career, but something in Adam’s stiff posture told him it was a bad idea. So he didn’t have to sing, but he did need to stay awake. Speaking would do. "‘When Katie went to Haiti . . .’"

"Oh, good God," Buck snorted.

Chub blinked. "Well, at least finish it."

Sport concentrated. "Uh, the Bishop said to the stripper." Oops, wrong line. Danged if he could remember what happened to Katie in Haiti, but he was sure it was exciting.

"At least get the words right," Buck whinnied disdainfully.

Sport tried to grin and responded wickedly,

"An amorous maiden antique

Kept a man in her house for a week;

He entered her door

With a shout and roar,

But his exit was marked by a squeak."

Letter perfect. He came to a halt, dissolving into a paroxysm of giggles.

"You’d think they were carrying on a conversation, for all the noise they’re making," Ben remarked.

Buck shook his head. "That does it!"

"Got it from Cochise," Sport said defensively. "An’ even you have t’ admit he tells good jokes. To be technically correct, that was a limerick. An’ I’m always correct."

"A lot of good it does you!" Buck snorted.

"Alllllll-ways correct. Ya know what, guys? All this night needs to be perfect is a mare. Mares for all of us—I wouldn’t be stingy. Champagne should never be drunk alone. Always better with a mare."

"And exactly what would you do with a mare?" Buck inquired skeptically. "Your abilities, you realize, are somewhat—shall we say, impaired?"

"Have a theory ’bout that," Sport replied loftily. "No warning when those abilities disappeared, maybe won’t be any when they come back. Don’t want to get rusty. Stud’s gotta be prepared."

"That’s the trouble, Sport," Chub sighed wearily. "We ain’t no studs. Leastwise, not anymore."

"Still have to stay in practice, my boy. Don’t wanta be caught short"—he giggled again—"when the abilities come back." He gazed about dreamily. "Like that pretty grey mare came through here a while back. So tasty, nigh took my breath away."

"Sport, you didn’t—"

"Sure did. What d’ya think faking lame is for? But you gotta be careful—you gotta fake just ’nough for turn out. Stall rest and you’re sunk."

"So what exactly were you doing out in that pasture?" Buck demanded. "You can’t really do anything!"

"There you’re wrong," Sport returned with a note of condescension. He could tell Buck a thing or two. "Nibble on the neck, nuzzle—"

"That’ll be enough!" Buck shouted. "We don’t need another word!"

"You asked," Sport shrugged, and nearly bumped into Adam.

He was repaid with a slap on the muzzle. Adam’s temper was beginning to fray. "Sport, what’s gotten into you?" his human bit out. "Whatever it is, I hope to God it never does again."

Sport’s head hung. Not only was he being dressed down, but it was happening right in front of Buck and Chub. He could feel the red hair on his cheeks turn a darker crimson. "I’m sorry, Boss," he murmured. He hated it when Adam was mad at him, and thank heavens, it didn’t happen very often. He draped his head over Adam’s shoulder to show his repentance.

But his human wasn’t finished. "I’m beginning to get the impression that you’ve been somewhere you shouldn’t have been"—how in the world could he know that?—"and I don’t know if it was the grain bin or chokeweed or what, but it’d better not be a habit!"

"Don’t worry, I’ll be more careful next time," Sport answered, wishing Adam could understand him. It wasn’t his fault that humans, even smart ones like Adam, couldn’t speak his language. "I’ll lay off that wide grass."

He concentrated really hard on walking straight, as he didn’t want to bump into his human again. But it seemed that the gods were against him tonight. All that concentration upset his stomach all over again. He could feel the saliva flooding his mouth, and tried swallowing but that didn’t work—and then oh my god! he sneezed. It was regrettable that Adam had just turned around to say something to him; as Sport’s mouth opened to sneeze, the saliva and drool shot everywhere, all over Adam’s face and the front of his yellow jacket. In fact, a great blob of greenish spit was dripping off his chin. That, Sport thought, was really unfortunate. Adam was slow to rile, but when incensed, his temper could be pretty impressive. Maybe volcanic described it better. Buck and Chub just stared incredulously.

"Good God, Sport!" Adam shouted, pushing him away.

Sport coughed apologetically, but he wasn’t sure the message got through. The Boss reached for his handkerchief, noticed at the last minute that it already had been used, and threw it into the bushes by the side of the trail. Using his hand, he swiped at his face and tried to clean the hand on his trousers. Another bad move, as they were still splattered yellow. Sport closed his eyes.

It didn’t help that Ben and Hoss were beginning to discover the humor of the evening.

"Hey, Adam. You might not have time t’ eat tonight," Hoss teased. "It’s gonna take you so long t’ clean up, the food’ll be cold."

Ben wasn’t above a comment, too. "I told you that horse was trouble, back when you got him!"

"What’d I ever do to you?" Sport snorted angrily. He didn’t care if it was Ben Cartwright or Santa Claus—that punch had hit below the cinch.

"Sport! Mind your manners!" Buck swerved to bite his flank.

Sport whirled to snap back, but missed by a country mile. The only bright spot was that he didn’t fall over . . . maybe the worst of this was passing. He managed to hold his head up higher. Now if he could just get Adam cleaned up.

"Look, I think I’ll walk him in," Adam told his father and Hoss, this time in a calmer voice. "You two go on ahead—no sense in all of us missing dinner. I’m not sure what’s wrong, but I don’t want to risk hurting him."

"And I don’t want you hurt if he falls down," Ben returned. "All right. Just be careful, and if anything happens, Joe should be along sometime."

"Right."

Chub wiggled his lip sympathetically. "Take care o’ yerself, buddy."

Even Buck shed his annoyance and whickered his concern. Then the two of them cantered off down the road, and Sport went back to the business at hand. There was a pond coming up before long; if he played his cards right, he could get Adam back in working order before Cochise and Joe came loping by here. He had no doubt that the youngest Cartwright would have a big laugh on his older brother. And he didn’t want to think of what Cochise might say.

Sure enough, about half a mile down the road, he could see the moon shining on a little pond. Nickering softly, he nudged Adam toward the water.

"What about it, old boy? You need a drink?"

Sport rubbed his head against Adam’s jacket sleeve. Yuck—that slobber was really disgusting. Well, good thing he was going to do something about it.

While Adam held the reins, Sport stepped daintily into the shallow water. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy to get the Boss into the pond. It was deep enough to accomplish a makeshift bath, but Adam knew better than to just walk in. However, there was that teetery rock Sport had discovered the last time he was here—darn near broken his leg on it. He drifted farther out in the pond.

"Hey, don’t get too far out there," Adam called to him as he came to the end of the reins.

Just about right, Sport figured, and clamping his teeth on the bit so that it wouldn’t cut his mouth, he jerked hard. Of course Adam let the reins go, but not before he took a step forward onto the rock, felt it waver under him, and pitched headfirst into the pond. A perfect belly-flop, Sport noted gleefully. That should get the job done! But just to be safe, he ambled a bit farther out. Adam wasn’t likely to be too happy when he came up, because he wouldn’t have had time to see the wisdom of the swim.

Sport was right. Adam came up so sputtering mad that his horse figured it might be best to head for the other side of the pond. But he’d never been a coward in his life, so he worked up his courage, and after Adam had climbed—swearing a blue streak—up on the bank, he sauntered out of the water as innocently as he could. He had miscalculated on one thing, he realized painfully; a wet cinch was a damned nuisance, and the soaked saddle fenders weren’t adding to the pleasure of the night.

Sport dropped his head to nuzzle Adam sympathetically and check out the odors. Sure enough, the grass-stained drool was gone from the coat and there wasn’t a whiff of horse urine.

"All right, that’s it," Adam growled at him. "What the hell is going on with you tonight? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were drunk! But we all know horses don’t drink."

Sport deemed it best not to answer that. Besides, he decided, it was time to try out his sea legs again. It seemed like his head was beginning to clear. He walked a few steps, shook his head, kept his balance and whinnied with satisfaction. There was a fair chance he could even carry Adam home at this rate.

They were interrupted by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Adam groaned and Sport backstepped a little until he realized he was almost in the pond again. It had to be Cochise and Joe. In a minute, the flashy pinto emerged from the shadows with the youngest Cartwright, and just as quickly as they appeared, they stopped dead right in front of Sport and Adam.

It was a toss-up, Sport decided, as to who looked more surprised, Cochise or Joe. He finally gave the honor to Joe.

"Adam! What’s going on? Are you okay?"

"Oh, just peachy."

Joe was probably relieved, Sport reckoned open-mindedly, but his human’s brother snickered anyhow. "Well, y’know, if you’re gonna wander around out here in the moonlight, I have to assume you have a reason, so maybe I’d better leave ya to it," Joe said, and subdued a cackle.

"Joe, you know, a little of your humor—if that’s what you call it—"

"Oh, I do, brother. And I’d guess several other folks would agree with me tonight. I can’t wait to hear what Pa and Hoss have to say." Joe exploded into a belly-laugh.

"Quite uncalled for," Sport sniffed.

Cochise giggled. "Not if you could see yourselves."

"Well, older brother, you just keep on with whatever it was you were doing. Although, if you’re thinkin’ of impressing some pretty lady, I feel obligated to tell you that I’ve never seen one out here at this hour. But I know you always know more than I do, so I’ll just have to trust your judgment." Joe snuffled with laughter. "Ya know, though, you might want to dry off first."

"I’ll keep that advice in mind," Adam returned tightly.

"Well, I mean, if you’re gonna kiss ’em, you don’t want to get ’em wet." Chortling, Sport decided, didn’t become Joe Cartwright.

"You don’t say?"

"Yeah, I do say." Right then, even though at night all cats are grey, Joe could tell that an unpleasant shade of red was rising in his brother’s face. "Oh, well, if you don’t need me, I’ll be gettin’ on home. After that dinner Cora Sue made me"—a remark which unfortunately reminded Adam that he was hungry—"I’m gettin’ a little sleepy. You’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you?"

"Quite sure."

With a broad grin, Joe rode off into the darkness.

Sport was glad that at least Cochise hadn’t rubbed it in. And when Adam turned back to him, he was pleased to sense that the Boss’ fury was dissipating. He nudged tentatively and was rewarded with a faint smile. Even in the dark, he could tell that Adam’s eyes were beginning to twinkle.

"All right, you old heathen, let’s get along home." Adam picked up the reins and started to walk on ahead.

Sport followed politely. Actually, he felt good enough to carry his human, but it was probably best not to stretch his abilities. This upset stomach had been a surprise as it was. He knew it was the wide grass; what horse ever got drunk? Especially on good champagne, and that Pol Roger had been top notch. He’d have to remember the name, although he preferred Louis Roederer.

The rest of the walk—Sport favored calling it a stroll to give it a little more cachet—was uneventful. Adam’s temper remained in check, and he even began to stroke Sport and build up an appreciable concern for his horse. Sport saw fit to droop his eyes and hang his head; there was no point in Adam’s knowing that he was feeling much better. He was beginning to think that a spot of warm mash wouldn’t be so bad. The only inconvenience was his sodden cinch, and he could only imagine how Adam was feeling in wet jeans—but at least the Boss smelled perfectly normal, which wasn’t bad for a human, and considerably better than when he used that abominable aftershave.

At last, Adam pushed open the door to the barn and lit the lantern in the aisle. Buck’s head came up immediately and Chub woke up from his doze. Cochise was still eating dinner, and in the far stall, the little black filly called a hello. It was a friendly hello. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.

Sport managed a weak shake of his head and Adam patted his neck kindly. "Come on, boy. We’ll get you settled and I’ll have Hop Sing heat up some mash."

Sport dropped his head pitifully. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that even Buck cast him a compassionate glance. Once in his stall, as soon as Adam had removed his saddle, he sank carefully to his knees and levered his body down into the straw, grunting bravely. It was quite a performance, he admitted to himself—much beyond his usual quality. His stablemates stood rapt with attention.

"Okay, boy, you just hold on. I’ll be back in a minute."

Adam was so considerate, Sport reflected, and was almost sorry that he wasn’t being honest with his human. Why, the Boss seemed to have forgotten that he was drenched and very uncomfortable in his wet clothes. Plus, he’d have to endure his family’s comments on the state of his dress, and Sport had no illusions as to what that would be like.

"Well, I hate to say it, boys, but I kind of feel sorry for Sport," Buck intoned, but added severely, "even if he did bring it all on himself."

"I think we owe him a vote of thanks," Chub offered.

"And why is that?"

"Well, I mean, think about it. He’s done everything to his human that we’ve always complained about them doin’ to us when they’re drunk. It ain’t like they don’t deserve it."

Cochise stopped chewing long enough to chime in, "Chub’s right. You shoulda seen Adam after Sport dragged him into the pond." He snickered heartily. "Joe laughed all the way home."

"Well," Buck muttered grudgingly, "I guess we do owe him our gratitude. Fair’s fair. It wasn’t easy to accomplish what he did."

Sport nickered endearingly from his pose in the straw.

The little black filly dropped her head over the stall partition, her liquid brown eyes soft as she regarded Sport. "My hero . . ."