I was working in a bar in the old west during a horserace. Like, one of those distance ones.
I befriended one of the racers, whose name was Bentley.
Somehow us being friends was against some racing-regulation somewhere and everyone got pissed off.
So then, under the pretense of helping him move ropes and whatnot, I told him about some tricky parts of the race.
This race was supposed to start in the barn (one of those big old ones you can drive a haymachine into) make a loop, go back through the barn and out to some cliffs and stop there.
I was standing in the bar looking out at the barn and Bentley didnt come through...and didnt come through... and didnt come through.
So I saddled my horse, rode out the cliffs, and there he was. He'd taken the wrong turn and had broken the ribbon on the finish line. Everyone was going to be very angry when they saw, so I put the two of us on my horse and sent his back. Then I rode down a steep trail cut into the cliffs to some pueblos built into the rock.
For some reason, there were still people who lived in them.
They led us through a tunnel and out the other side of the mesa, and we rode to safety.
Maybe I should not stay up so late....
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