“Have you an ordinance against selling horses to foreigners?”
Beeman laughed. “No, sir, none at all. Your money is as good as anyone else’s money.” Suddenly the expression on his face changed. “I mean, you will be using American money, won’t you?”
“I thought I might effect the purchase with Japanese yen.”
“Say what?”
“I am teasing you, Mr. Beeman. Of course I will use American money.”
Beeman’s smile returned. “Then in that case I reckon we can do business. I have a horse that you might be interested in. Wait here and I’ll bring him to you.”
Beeman walked out into the corral and Falcon called out to Duff, “He has saddles and rigging here. You might take a look.”
“Aye, it’s for sure I’ll be needing such,” Duff said.
Duff picked out a saddle, saddle blanket, saddlebags, and bridle and had them pushed to one side when Beeman came back in, leading a horse.
“I think you’ll like this one,” Beeman said.
Duff began examining the horse, not only with his eyes, but with his hands. After a moment, he shook his head.
“No, this animal is too fat,” he said. “There is a crease down his back, you can’t even feel his ribs, and his withers are fat. This one won’t do.”
“Would you like to step out back and look for another one?” Beeman invited.
“Aye, thank you.”
Duff and Falcon walked to the rear of the barn with Beeman and looked out over a gathering of about thirty horses. Duff saw one that he liked and pointed to it. “That one,” he said. “The golden one.”
“Gary! Bring the palomino over!” Beeman shouted to one of his employees.
Gary, a boy still in his teens, led the horse over. It stopped and stood quietly as Duff examined it. The horse was just over sixteen hands high, and Duff saw a lot of intelligence and a bit of whimsy in the horse’s eyes. As he had before, he began running his hands over it.
“This is more like it,” Duff said. “His back is flat, you can’t see his ribs but you can feel them, the withers are rounded, and the shoulders and neck blend smoothly into the body. I’ll take this one.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll get the bill of sale ready,” Beeman said.
“You know horses,” Falcon said to Duff as the two waited for Beeman to return with the bill of sale.
Duff chuckled. “We do have horses in Scotland,” he said. He began saddling the horse with the saddle he had selected.
When Beeman returned with the bill of sale for the horse, Duff negotiated for the saddle as well and, fifteen minutes later, rode out of the barn on his own horse.
“We’ll have to go to the general store and get some supplies,” Falcon said. “But before we do that, how about dropping in at the saloon for a drink?”
“That sounds like a fine idea,” Duff replied.
Both men now mounted, they rode down the street to find a saloon. Duff stopped when he saw the sign hanging in front of one of the buildings. He stared at it, dealing with a lot of memories and feelings as he did so.
WHITE HORSE
Falcon, at first not realizing that Duff was no longer riding alongside him, rode on for another few feet before he noticed that he was riding alone. He stopped and turned around to look back toward Duff. Duff was staring at the sign.
“Is something wrong?” Falcon asked.
Visions of the White Horse Pub, Ian McGregor, his friends, and especially Skye, were dancing in Duff’s head.
“No,” Duff said. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Is the White Horse all right with you?”
“Aye, ’tis fine with me.” Duff clucked at his horse and rode up alongside Falcon, keeping pace with him for the last few yards.
The two men dismounted in front of the saloon and tied off their horses at the hitching rail out front. Duff had his sea bag tied to the horse’s saddle, but he took the bagpipes in with him. When they pushed through the swinging doors they saw a saloon that was filled with people, mostly men, and a piano player who was grinding away at the back of the room. There were half a dozen bar girls flitting about the room, carrying drinks to one table, taking orders at another, and flirting with the customers at still another table. Duff and Falcon stepped up to the bar.
The bartender was wearing a low-crown straw hat with a band that read: ASK US ABOUT OUR BITTERS.
“What can I do for you, gents?” the bartender asked.
Duff set the bagpipes on the floor beside him. “I’ll have an ale,” he said.
“I’m sorry, we have no ale. But we have a fine, locally brewed beer.”
“Beer it will be, then,” Duff said.
“I’ll have a beer as well,” Falcon said.
“Coming right up,” the bartender said, jovially, as he grabbed two mugs and held them under the spigot of the beer barrel.
“’Tis not at all like the White Horse,” Duff mumbled after he got his beer and looked around.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This place,” Duff said, lifting the beer mug and moving it by way of encompassing the saloon. “It has the same name as the pub I frequented back in Scotland. ’Twas owned by the father of my fiancée and ’twas there that my Skye worked.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have come in here,” Falcon suggested. “I would not want to be causing you any discomfort from unpleasant memories.”
Duff waved his free hand dismissively. “’Tis only the name that is alike and nothing more,” he said. “And any memory of Skye is a pleasant one.”
Falcon set his beer down on the bar. “I need to step out back to the privy for a moment,” Falcon said. “I’ll be right back.”
Duff nodded, then turned his back to the bar and perused the place as he took his first swallow.
“Hey, you!” a man yelled toward Duff and Falcon. “What’s that ugly-lookin’ thing you got a’ layin’ on the floor beside you?”
Duff looked over toward the loud-mouthed man. He was sitting at a table near the cold stove, and he had long hair and a beard. He was the perfect example of the cowboy figures Duff had read about in The Williams Pacific Tourist Guide.
“Tell me now, sir, and would it be me ye are addressing?” Duff asked.
The man saw Duff looking at him. “Yeah, I’m addressin’ you. You see anyone else standin’ up there with what looks like an ugly pile of horse apples layin’ on the floor beside him?” He laughed at his own joke.
“Och, then ’tis me you are addressing. And would you be for tellin’ me, what is the nature of your query?”
“What the . . .” the bearded man replied. He looked at the man sharing the table with him. Like his questioner, the man was gruff looking, but with shorter hair and no beard. “Billy Ray, you want to tell me what the hell this feller just said to me?”
“Well, Roy, it sounds to me like he wants to know what you are askin’ him.”
Roy turned back to Duff. “What I’m a’ wantin’ to know is, what the hell is that thing that’s a’ layin’ there on the floor beside you?”
“Pipes.”
“Pipes? What do you mean pipes? It don’t look like no pipe I ever have seed.”
“I suppose I should have said bagpipes.”
“A bag of pipes? So, what you are sayin’ is, you have come in here carryin’ a bag full of pipes.”
Duff turned back to the bar.
“Hey, Mister, don’t you be a’ turnin’ your back on me when we’re havin’ a conversation,” Roy said.
This time he shouted the words in anger, and that caused everyone in the saloon to stop their own conversations and to look on in curiosity at the discourse between the two men. Even the piano player stopped and the last discordant notes hung in the air.
Duff turned to face him again. “I’m sorry, but when I engage someone in conversation, I have to assume they are possessed with a modicum of intelligence, or at the very least that they are sentient. You don’t seem to enjoy either of those qualities.”