by Sam Shepard
Good. Now, the bridle.
He crosses back to the bridle, picks it up, stares at it.
Toss it.
He carries the bridle to the pit, throws it in, again the sound echoes, looks after it, fondly.
Good. Now, spurs.
He crosses to the spurs, picks them up, admires them.
Handmade Garcias. You can’t find them anymore.
What’re you going to do? Hang them on your blank wall?
He carries the spurs to the pit, throws them in. Sound echoes.
Good. Now, hat.
No!
Toss it.
Not the hat!
Don’t be a baby.
No. It won’t get in the way.
Make a clean break.
Not the hat!
You’re breaking my heart. Toss it.
Hobart crosses to the hat, picks it up slowly, considers.
What about the sun?
It’s setting.
Lights shift abruptly to a lavish purple sunset, layered deep in scrim, John Ford style.
What about rain and wind?
You can’t predict it.
What about the whole idea?
Which one’s that?
The West? The “Wild Wild West.”
Sentimental claptrap.
Hobart crosses slowly to the pit with hat held out in front of him. He stops at the edge, looks down into the hole, hanging on to hat dearly.
I—can’t.
Do it!
Then what? There’ll be nothing left.
The hat can’t save you.
But—
What?
The history—
Gone.
No—
Gone.
He suddenly flips the hat into the pit as though afraid to hold on to it any longer. No sound. He turns and looks directly at the audience, then looks back down hole, then back to the audience.
(To audience.) I can’t believe I just did that.
He looks back down into the hole.
There it is. Down there. I’ve done it now. Sunk. Separate. Completely separated.
Stop your whimpering.
He looks back toward the remaining equipment.
What else?
Blanket.
He crosses to dark-green saddle blanket, picks it up, turns toward pit, stops, considers.
Don’t be an idiot. You remember these nights out here. Ice on your eyelids waking up. Frosty toes. This is no country for the faint of heart.
He wraps the blanket around his shoulders, crosses to pit, looks down into it, looks to audience.
(To audience.) There it is. Down there. Gone. In a hole. Gone! Like dropping a bomb—you can’t call it back. What a hat that was.
Can the melodrama, please.
There it is. Quadruple X Beaver. Hat like that wasn’t made to fall in a hole.
Just leave it. Turn away. Don’t keep staring at it like some long-lost love.
Lost what?
Never mind! Just turn away.
He abruptly turns his back on the hat, facing audience. He stares directly at audience, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.
(To audience.) This could really be it now. To lose the hat. It’s not a good sign. This could finally be it.
Suddenly the dead horse slams to the ground behind Hobart, back to its starting position, falling toward upstage with a tremendous boom, accompanied by live bass timpani and billowing dust filling the stage. Hobart keeps staring straight-faced at the audience, without turning upstage. Long pause as dust slowly settles. Hobart slowly turns upstage to witness the disaster, blanket still wrapped around him. He studies horse, then looks at audience.
(To audience.) Fucking horse. Goddamn!
He turns and moves cautiously upstage to the horse, approaching warily as though it might suddenly spring to life. He gets closer and nudges the horse gently with his toe, then backs away quickly. He does it again.
(To audience.) Got a life of his own, that’s for sure. That’s what I always liked about the son-bitch; just when you thought he was finished he’d jump back up and rope six more steers for you and drag them all to the fire. Tougher than nails.
He nudges the horse again.
Can’t say as I blame him, though, for not wanting to go down in the damn hole. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
He looks to the audience.
Maybe something’s watching out for him, something hovering just above the hide. Some guardian angel or other. What do they call them? “Familiars” or “doubles” or—I don’t know. More likely they’d be watching out for an innocent horse than a corrupted human. Don’t get me wrong, superstition is not my cup of meat. Not to say that I haven’t paid attention to it over the years—back when I worked for an honest living. Back in the days of AUTHENTICITY, when I “rode for the brand,” as they say: mending fences, doctoring calves, culling cows. Right here, as a matter of fact. Not too far. Out toward Blessing. Valentine. Up past the White River.
“Greasy Grass Country” is what the Oglala used to call it. Crazy Horse was killed right near here, you know. Not too far. Right nearby. Bayoneted to death. Imagine that. Bayoneted. Not unlike Christ, when you come right down to it. Not to mention the two thieves. Spears to the ribs. Sacrificed like some wild beast. Some dangerous critter that might jump up out of the dark and rip your throat out for no reason. That’s the kind of fear they had. Tricked him into coming into the fort—starved him right into it—promised him stuff—promised him land—hunting rights—promised him freedom—that’s the worst of it. “Freedom” they called it. They were full of promises back then. Still are. Same ones. Crazy Horse—a man of his people. Not many of them left. He was only thirty years old.
He moves to extreme downstage center. The actor drops all pretense of character and speaks from himself, directly to audience, very simply.
Don’t you think there ought to be a National Day of Rest for someone like that? A true American Hero. Close the schools. Close the post office. Five minutes of pure silence across the nation. Five minutes of pure silence.
Long pause. He listens intently, slowly raises the binoculars to his eyes and scans the horizon. He begins singing softly to himself, keeping the binoculars up to his eyes.
Oh, didn’t he ramble
Oh, didn’t he ramble
Rambled all around
In and out of town.
Oh, didn’t he ramble
Oh, didn’t he ramble
He rambled till those butchers
Cut him down.
As he starts singing the next verse, still scanning with binoculars to his eyes, a Young Woman dressed only in a sheer slip, and with bare feet, emerges slowly from deep in the pit, wearing Hobart’s western hat. He remains unaware of her as he continues singing. She moves slowly upstage right, away from Hobart, and stops, gazing out at the horizon line. A very faint sound of distant prairie wind accompanies the Young Woman’s entrance and remains in the background throughout.
He rambled in a gambling game
He rambled on the green
The gamblers there showed him a trick
That he had never seen.
He lost his roll and jewelry
He like to lost his life
He lost the car that carried him there
And somebody stole his wife.
The Young Woman turns slowly toward Hobart, then moves slowly toward him as he sings the chorus. She stops directly behind him as he continues singing, unaware of her presence.
Oh, didn’t he ramble
Oh, didn’t he ramble
Rambled all around
In and out of town.
The Young Woman takes off the hat and gently puts it on Hobart’s head as he continues singing. She turns away and slowly returns to the pit and descends, disappearing.
Oh, didn’t he ramble
Oh, didn’t he ramble
He rambled till those butchers
Cut him down.
Ho
bart stops singing. Lowers binoculars, never having seen the Young Woman. Pause. He stares at the audience. The wind continues in background.
(To audience, after pause, hat on head.) Where does the mind go?
Pause. Hobart’s eyes shift up toward the hat, aware of it for the first time. He reaches up slowly, feels hat, takes it off and stares at it, then stares out at audience, then at hat again, then turns upstage and stares at pit. He turns back, stares at audience, looks at hat, looks at pit again, looks at audience. He crosses up to pit with the hat in his hands, stares down into it as though questioning how the hat could have reappeared. He looks at audience, looks at pit, looks at hat, then quickly tosses hat back down into pit in the same manner he had originally. He stares down after it, fondly. Pause. He looks at the audience.
(To audience.) I can’t believe I did that again. I keep doing these things over and over again and nothing changes. This is getting dire. This is getting dark and dire.
Lights shift abruptly to a steely dusk. Distant whistling of prairie wind picks up in the background; it gathers force and some volume as the scene continues. Hobart looks up at the darkening sky.
I’ve got to get this horse in the ground! Why am I having so much trouble getting this fucking horse in the ground? It shouldn’t be this difficult.
He starts toward stage right, looking for his rope.
Maybe you should just leave him.
Hobart stops abruptly. Considers.
What?
Leave the horse. Walk away.
I can’t do that.
Goes again for the rope.
He’s dead.
I owe it to him.
He picks up the rope and builds a loop in one end, but begins having difficulty, getting it tangled around his legs and snarled up in knots.
(Struggling with rope.) We’ve got to find our way out of here. Find our way back to the road. Where exactly did you park the horse trailer? Can you remember that much?
Hobart drops the rope, picks up the binoculars in a panic and scans out over audience to horizon.
I can’t see the road!
It’s going to be dark-thirty before you know it.
He panics.
I CAN’T SEE THE ROAD! It’s gone! Disappeared!
He drops binoculars, stares out wild-eyed into darkness.
You better build a fire.
No! I’m not spending the night out here, if that’s what you think. What kind of treachery is this?
He goes back to trying to gather the rope together, but gets himself even more entangled as he proceeds.
Treachery?
It’s as though you’re trying to defeat me!
I thought you were self-sufficient. Isn’t that what you led me to believe? Entirely on your own. Independent? You don’t need my help.
You could be a little more—
What?
Where did we park the horse trailer? Can’t you remember?
We?
Me! Us.
How should I know? You were the one got carried away in some reverie. “Right here,” you said. “Right here! This is perfect! Pull over.”
It was perfect.
Then why can’t you remember?
I got excited, I guess.
Excited?
Yes.
Like a little boy?
No.
Like a little girl?
Don’t be insulting! I got excited about finally taking off into it. About getting here. About—
What?
The Great Beyond!
The blanket falls from his shoulders as he gestures expansively to the space.
Why do you always exaggerate?
I’m not. It was way better than I imagined. For once.
You lost your head.
I didn’t.
Then why in the world did you feed him a nosebag full of oats, of all things? Right at the very start.
Making a loop in the rope.
I wanted to—fire him up. Make sure he had enough energy for the ordeal.
You fired him up all right.
I didn’t know he was going to suck it down his lung. How was I supposed to know that?
You’ve lost your touch. There was a time you would have known better.
There was a time! There was a time. Of course there was a time! What’s done is done. I’m going to get this horse in the ground and move on. I’m not camping here overnight, that’s for sure. It’s time to move on. You said that yourself.
Through this, Hobart stumbles to the horse, trips over the coils of rope and tries to untangle himself, sorting out the loops and coils. He goes to the hind feet of the horse and manages to wrap a loop around them and pull it tight. He becomes more frantic and confused as he proceeds.
She’d be fixing supper for you about now, wouldn’t she?
Pause. He stops working with rope. Looks out.
She?
She’d be fixing things up, making things cozy. Lighting the lamps.
He goes back to work on the horse, securing the rope.
Stop this constant badgering! What’re you trying to do to me?
I’m on your side.
Oh no you’re not! That’s a lie! You never were. You’ve lied to me about everything. You’re a traitor!
You’ve lost your nerve, is what it is. If you ever had any to begin with.
Stop taunting me! I’m trying to get this done.
Maybe she’s gone by now. Did you ever think of that? Long gone.
He stops work abruptly.
What?
Maybe she’s just moved on to another life altogether.
No!
Why not? You’re not there.
I’ll be back.
Oh, so you’re going back now? Now you’re going back?
No! I mean—
Maybe she’s run off with another man. A better man.
Stop it! Just stop it!
You never thought of that, did you?
Hobart desperately struggles with the rope. He hauls the slack rope downstage center in front of the pit, the two ends cinched tight now to the front and back legs. He starts pulling and tugging on the rope, trying to rotate the horse up on its spine again, as before. Slowly the carcass begins to cooperate as Hobart rants on.
Just give me a little peace! Can’t you? Just a little peace and quiet so I can—just a little cooperation, for a change. Instead of—all the time—I could use a friend right about now! Can’t you understand that? I don’t need some—some—nagging adversary. Some—why doesn’t this fucking horse want to go in the ground?!
Hobart pauses, exhausted, breathing hard.
Maybe he’s not entirely dead.
What?
Maybe there’s still some life left in him. Why else would he be resisting?
Pause. Hobart looks at horse, then turns and looks at audience. He drops rope. He runs upstage to horse. Stops, then gives horse a tremendous kick in the belly.
He’s dead! He’s completely dead.
Leave him, then. Just leave him behind.
No! I already told you. It’s out of the question.
Hobart hurries back downstage, picks up slack rope and starts hauling on it again, gradually rotating the horse.
(Hauling on rope.) Maybe it’s true—maybe I didn’t think it all the way through. Maybe I couldn’t actually foresee what this whole thing was going to be like—but I’m not leaving this poor old horse out here in the wind and sun to rot away like some forgotten roadkill. He deserves better than that.
Your loyalty is very touching.
Don’t patronize me!
No, it is. I’m deeply touched. I truly am. I had no idea you were capable of such kindness.
What’s that supposed to imply? I’m not a cruel person. Not—mean-spirited. I’ve never intentionally hurt a soul.
You keep kicking your horse.
HE’S DEAD! HE’S FUCKING DEAD!!
He throws the rope down in a fury, runs back upstage to horse and starts
savagely kicking it as he rants on.
See? See that? Doesn’t feel a thing. Doesn’t feel a goddamn thing. I can kick him in the head and he wouldn’t feel it.
He kicks the horse in the head.
See? Like a block of stone. I can kick him in the neck.
He kicks the horse in the neck.
I can pull his tail. Watch.
He runs to the horse’s tail and yanks on it viciously.
Watch this. See this? I can kick him right in the ass and he won’t feel it. You see?
He kicks the horse in the ass.
See that? Doesn’t even blink. I could kick him in the balls, if he had any. I’d kick him in his fucking—I’d kick him from here to—
A series of frantic kicks all over horse’s body.
I’d kick him and kick him and kick him—and kick him and—kick him and—
