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, REIMS, FRANCE protruded from the unhappy container. “That’s always there too. It’s called champagne.” 
 

“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 black 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 black 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 Main Street.” 

 

“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, Virginia City would be the deadest metropolis in the west.
 

“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 San Francisco. Maybe start something a little safer than this.”
 

“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,” Roy said calmly, taking her arm. From behind him came the sound of women running rampant through the house, up and down the stairs and into the bedrooms.
 

“Roy,” Adam said as equably as he could, “if they damage any property here, they’ll be held responsible, wouldn’t you say?”
 

“We can--” Mrs. Latimer began.
 

“No, you can’t,” Roy replied. “You can’t destroy people’s property, not even if we prove that this is a house o’--well, sin.”
 

“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!” Roy roared. “You get them women outa there right now! They’ll pay fer anything they break and what’s more, I’ll lock ’em all up!”
 

“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 ten o’clock on Saturday.”
 

Adam shook his head disgustedly.
 

“Don’t worry,” Roy hurried on, glaring at Mrs. Latimer, “it’ll be repealed on Monday, but in the meantime--”
 

“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 wasno 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, Roy, we were using the champagne bucket to water my horse. I was helping Miss Meriweather with her business records.”
 

Roy chuckled. “You want I should arrest that horse for drinking, Hetty? You’d have to prove it wasn’t water, and it looks t’ me like he was right thirsty. There ain’t a drop left.”
 

“A fine story that is!” Mrs. Latimer huffed, but Roy cut her off.
 

“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 Roy’s deputy, Clem, joined the party on the porch.
 

“We got ’em all calmed down, Sheriff,” he said, and only Adam, Roy, Sport and Chubb noticed the telltale glint in his eye. 
 

“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,” Roy said, patting her arm.
 

“Oh, you might want to,” Clem offered and finally Roy caught his meaning.
 

Behind them, another of Roy’s deputies shoved a cowering specimen of a man--hardly fit to be called that, in Sport’s view--through the door. 
 

“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?”
 

Roy regarded Mrs. Latimer shrewdly. “How about it, Hetty? You willin’ to call this witch hunt off?” 

 

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 t’ 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