The Old Blog in the Desert

A horse walked into a saloon in Virginia City, which is not as unusual as it sounds if you have spent any time in Virginia City. The town has always been hospitable to creatures of uncertain judgment, and on a warm afternoon, a horse fits right in between a prospector and a politician.

Now the bartender, being a man of routine and limited imagination, looked up from his glass-polishing and hollered, “Hey!”

I do not know if he meant it as a greeting, an accusation, or a philosophical statement. In Virginia City, it serves all three purposes equally well.

What happened next improved my day.

The horse turned its head, slow, deliberate, like a man about to correct a newspaper, and said, clear as church bells and twice as unexpected, “Sure!”

You could have heard a poker chip think.

The piano player missed a note he had been abusing for years. A miner froze mid-spit, which is an athletic feat I would not have believed had I not witnessed it. As for me, I checked my drink for signs of treachery, but it looked as innocent as ever, which only deepened my suspicions.

The bartender leaned forward, as a man does when he suspects either a miracle or a lawsuit. “What did you say?”

The horse blinked, patient as a schoolteacher with a slow class. “I said, ‘Sure.’ You said ‘Hey.’ It seemed neighborly to agree.”

Now, there are two kinds of people in this world: those who argue with a talking horse, and those who sense they are outmatched and order another drink. I belong firmly to the second group, which is why I am here to tell this tale instead of being corrected by livestock.

A fellow at the end of the bar, who had been wrong about most things since birth, decided to test the matter. “What brings you in here?” he asked.

The horse considered him the way a judge considers a repeat offender. “Same as you,” it said. “Bad decisions and a thirst.”

That settled it. The room accepted the horse at once, for it had demonstrated the two qualifications required for citizenship.

The bartender, recovering some courage, asked, “What’ll you have?”

The horse tapped the bar with a hoof, thoughtful. “Oats,” it said, “but I’ll take them fermented if you’ve got the sense for it.”

“Beer?” the bartender offered.

“Close enough,” said the horse.

And so they drank, man and beast, equal under the influence. The conversation improved, as it often does when truth is allowed to wander in uninvited. The horse had opinions on mining, politics, and the general unreliability of humans, all of which were accurate and therefore unpopular.

After a time, the bartender, who could not leave a mystery unbothered, leaned in again. “How is it you can talk?”

The horse shrugged, a remarkable motion in a horse, and it needs to get seen before a person dies. “How is it you can?” it replied.

It silenced him permanently, which I count as the horse’s greatest public service.

When the evening wore thin and the lamps grew generous, the horse set down its drink, nodded to no one in particular, and made for the door.

At the threshold, it paused and looked back. “Next time,” it said, “try asking a better question than ‘Hey.’”

With that, it stepped into the street and returned to being a horse, which is to say it improved its reputation instantly.

The bartender watched it go, then turned to us with the solemn air of a man who has learned nothing but intends to speak anyway.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll be—”

“Sure,” I told him, and ordered another.”