CHAPTER 2
“This is Paco.”
We both stare down at the furry gray creature.
So very, very… gray. There isn’t anything resembling luminescence or electric brightness to him. To the contrary, he's the definition of dull. “He looks nothing like Bosco,” I note, dismayed. “How many hands tall is he?”
“Maybe twelve, give or take,” the livery employee hedges.
Leading me to surmise he’s less than twelve hands high.
He isn’t at all what I was promised. Small and shaggy, the only interesting things on him are his large shiny black eyes. They happen to be the only shiny things on him. His hair is the dull gray of a slow-moving aquatic mammal known as a sirenian, with a dusty dark stripe running up his spine and cutting across his shoulders, like a painted-on cross. The top of the cross connects to a stiff-haired mane that stands upright.
“What… what is Paco?” I ask. “He looks like no horse I’ve seen.”
“That’s because he’s a donkey,” the livery man says. “And sir, I’m real sorry about the mix-up, but Boss Alvert just took over this place after, ah—well, after Harvey suddenly died the way he did. The short of it is, I realize you were promised a horse by Harvey but this is Boss Alvert’s place now and we ended up renting out all the horses. Paco’s all we’ve got left for mounts.”
He looks at the animal and winces .
I too consider the animal for a moment, then step back to scan the numerous stalls here inside the belly of the Livery Stable & Wagon Yard formerly Harvey & Co, now of this Boss Alvert.
Most are empty. The few that have animals in them must be boarders here, I assume. I reckon, I correct myself.
Scuffing my boot on the dirt ground that’s so hard packed it behaves like smooth rock, I inhale the interesting scents of equines and dried grasses and the results of feeding equines dried grasses.
“If there are no horses for rent, are there any here for sale?” I query.
“None, sir. Boss Alvert said the horse flesh Harvey kept is too good to sell.” He jerks his head at the donkey. “We don’t have much use for a donkey though, so the boss would sell him if you want.”
“I see.” I focus on the dull creature being offered to me as a substitution, my sole option of transport. He’s a much shorter mount than I anticipated. I estimate that I won’t fit properly atop him.
Paco is unconcerned with my predicament, leaning his haunches against the corner of his stall, and—swishing his furry hindquarters back and forth—he ingeniously itches his shaggy rump.
He is also scrubbing the cobweb-covered wood slats clean with his fur, which is bristly, looking both coarse and soft at the same time somehow.
Catching my bottom lip over my teeth like I’ve seen cowboys do in the Western research vids, I poke two fingers to the brim of my hat, tipping my head as I give my assent. “This’ll do,” I tell the livery worker, attempting a very light drawl.
The young man beside me visibly relaxes. Quickly, he assures me, “He may be stumpier than a horse, but I’ve worked with him quite a bit since the boss put me in charge here and he’s built like a Volkswagen, I promise you that.”
I’m frowning, attempting to parse out his verbiage as he moves to release Paco from the stall. It’s a surprisingly involved process. It requires the untying of a hefty hemp rope and the unlocking of a heavy metal chain.
“He’s kept very secure,” I murmur thoughtfully.
The livery man glances at me quickly. “Uh, yeah. You know how donkeys are.”
I shake my head in disagreement. Then I verbally add, “I don’t.”
The man blinks. Then smiles. “Well, you’re about to find out, sir. They’re great.” Then his eyes slide to the side, to Paco, and he wraps his arm around the lower half of the animal’s muzzle and directs it to the stall’s front wall. He begins fitting the creature in a series of leather straps. I’m very interested as I watch the process because although I’ve seen many Western vids with similarly outfitted animals, none of the vids offer close inspections of where and how each piece of saddle rigging fits.
At first the animal is permissive enough. His tail flicks rapidly, but his attention is on the world outside of his stall and he appears eager to interact with it. But soon he begins swaying his body, stamping his compact hooves. Snorting.
Then, as the saddle is settled over his back, he sucks in a rapid, massive breath—and holds it.
The man quietly whispers, “Come on, Paco. Don’t be a smartass.” He attempts to heave the cinch strap tight.
What I believe is the cinch strap anyway.
“What is a smartass?” I query.
The man’s brain explodes in the area for alarm. Also in the area for shock. He shoots me a startled look. I wonder if he wrongly assumed I was hearing impaired.
Or perhaps he simply wasn’t aware that the acuity of a Yonderin’s aural faculty is greater than a human’s.
“Uh,” he finally manages to reply before turning back to the donkey. He pets the animal's neck. “Donkeys are animals known as ‘ asses.’ Due to some aspects of their personality, people started borrowing—”
“What aspects?”
“They’re stubborn. But really smart. They’ll figure out ways around what you’re trying to get them to do, because they’re smart asses. The word smartass became a thing. It’s sorta rude to say—”
“Derogatory?” I question.
“Yeah. People use it for things other than donkeys now. But it started with these guys, I’m pretty sure. Same with jackass. And pain in the ass, because donkeys are so smart they cause trouble, like when they suck in a ton of air so their stomach is inflated right before you try to tighten their cinch.” He nods his head at Paco’s saddle. “If I left it like it is, he’d exhale and the cinch would loosen, and you’d be on the ground when your saddle slips. Hang on.” He closes his hand into a fist and punches the animal in the belly.
The donkey’s body jerks. Either from being punched or because, immediately following the punch, the man jerks the leather tongue of the cinch savagely.
Frowning, I watch the saddle’s rigging constrict the creature. “I’ve never seen this method of saddling,” I share.
The man’s brain activates in an area where I’m unfamiliar with the corresponding emotions or physical responses. “Yeah? Well, trust me, this is how you have to do it with Paco.”
I experience a feeling of distaste. I imagine that my sidekick Bosco wouldn’t have required such repugnant saddling procedures.
“All done,” the man announces. And rather than rounding the creature on the side closest to me, he moves around the animal’s other side, sliding under the short neck—nearly crawling to manage this. If I hadn’t spent my life hunting prey, perhaps the human’s avoidance of me wouldn’t register as prey-like behavior.
“I know that hunting humans is illegal,” I assure him .
The man freezes—again, like prey—but almost as suddenly, in the same fraction of a breath, he rears back. “WHAT?”
“Yonderin are warned that we aren’t to hunt humans. From scanning your brain activity, I received the impression that I was spooking you.” I wave my hand slowly outward to indicate regret. “If I was, I apologize. I have no intention of breaking the law and hunting you.”
I give him a smile that I’ve identified as a reassuring one.
Unfortunately… my offering doesn’t seem to be effective. The human doesn’t seem reassured at all. The man’s eyes have widened to a degree I didn’t know human eyes could widen. His facial features have slackened to the point that his lower mandible has dropped open. He’s gripping the animal’s reins tightly in both hands, and he’s keeping his hands up in a defensive position.
The donkey tosses his head, jolting the human. This seems to reset him because he shakes himself and exits the stall—backing out of it, eyeing me warily as he does—leading the donkey along by the animal’s reins.
Wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, he says, “Let’s get your payment squared away and get you outta here.”
Obligingly, I draw my wallet out of my rear pocket in my jeans. Clearing my throat, I admit something that almost stings my mouth with shame. “I’m afraid I need to ask you for a favor.”
The man leading the donkey halts. Expression instantly darkening, he sends me a hard look. “Don’t think you can ask for an IOU. Boss Alvert will skin—”
He freezes, his eyes having dropped to my wallet, which I’ve opened to better show him its contents.
“I will pay now, I simply need your assistance in determining which bills are appropriate.”
His eyes are very round. “I’ve never seen so much money in my life.”
Even the donkey looks shocked.
Something is rapidly changing in the man’s brain. His subcortical region is being stimulated. The area darkens the way Yonderin brain regions do when we see territory we want to acquire by force.
Feeling uneasy, I shrug, a movement common among humans, sometimes used as a conversational cue of a sort. I hope I’m utilizing it correctly to relay my discomfort and my preference to complete this task with expedience. “Can you lend me a hand and confirm that I pay you whatever the rental of this donkey is worth?”
The man is nodding, his eyes gleaming oddly. “Oh, I sure can.”