ED AND I WERE STANDING just off Main Street in Buena Vista, trying to saddle our not-so-trusty steed. But the fancy pack saddle we'd borrowed came with a confusing array of straps, buckles, and rings, and we had no idea what we were doing. Then a gunfight broke out half a block away. Someone shouted, a woman screamed. Shots sounded and reverberated. Three women with parasols cheered the gunmen on. And Virgil kicked and bolted.
I grabbed the lead rope, Ed grabbed a handful of tack, and we managed to halt Virgil's escape. But getting him saddled in time seemed unlikely. We had never seen a get-up with so many straps, and most of them seemed to have no definable purpose. And to make matters worse, Virgil sidestepped and twisted as we tried to get him ready. It was only fifteen minutes until race time; yet one member of our race team was missing, and the other was uncooperative.
Ordinarily a placid beast, Virgil had apparently suffered too many indignities that day. First there had been a long ride in a trailer, followed by a gathering of burros (and one had shoved him good). Then there had been the parade. As usual Virgil was a favorite. Not all donkeys tolerate spectators, but Virgil loved the limelight, so he had calmly let kids pat him, and hug him -- and for all of his patience, he'd been called a pretty girl, a cute horsey, and a mule. Then we tried to encumber him with a saddle that was designed to be secured in places no self-respecting Jack wanted strapped.