Horse Tradin' (29 page)

It was in the late summer, which was about the time of year that people in the country used to have “Brush Arbor Meetin's.” They generally imported some good old preacher from across a few counties to hold these summer meetin's. It wasn't uncommon for preachers to trade churches and hold a meetin' away from home. These saintly old gentlemen generally drove buggies or two-wheel gigs, and some few of them rode saddle horses with huge saddlebags on the backs of their saddles to carry a Bible and their other shirt in.

It so happened that one of these fine old gentlemen came to the farming community down below my ranch to hold a summer meetin'. He drove a nice big fat bay mare named Bessie to a little bitty light two-wheel gig. Bessie's size and proportions suited her much better for a work mare, I thought, than pulling the preacher's gig at a slow walk. The Reverend brushed and curried Bessie, combed her mane and tail, and fed her the good brethren's corn wherever he might be; so her condition was nothing but the best. Wherever he might drive during the day to have dinner, he drove Bessie in a slow walk. And that irritated me a lot to see a great big fat mare pulling a little bitty gig and a small preacher in a slow walk. I just thought the preacher should have a faster and lighter horse, and if I had Bessie she would have a better load to move at a faster step.

Being young and a little on the rough side, and it being the season of the year that I usually loved to run wolves at night with a pack of hounds and good horses, I hadn't been too regular an attendant at the good preacher's meetin's; but I really got to thinking that I might ought to hear the good Reverend preach and—purely as an afterthought—mention
the possibility of a little horse trading some night when the meetin' was over.

I rode down to the brush arbor tabernacle one night, and I was being real gentlemanly: I had taken a bath and shaved, and when I got off my horse, I took my spurs off and fastened them on to the saddle instead of wearing them under the brush arbor. Any good close observer would be able to tell by this action that I was properly impressed with the solemness of the occasion. Quite a few of the more devout members of the community took notice and made some mention of my presence, but the kind old preacher acted as though I had been coming all the time and made no mention of any of my past sins, such as wolf hunting, horse and mule trading on Sunday, and the like. I found this attending church rather painless, and as I walked out to where my horse was tied to leave that night, it just occurred to me that everybody had been real nice to me.

I noticed that the preacher's mare was standing tied close to my horse, and even in the dark I could tell that she didn't have any bad wire cuts, big knees, or similar blemishes; but I didn't feel like I ought to mouth her and see how old she was the first time I went to the meetin'.

The weather was hot and dry, and it wasn't a good time for wolf dogs to be able to follow a trail at night; so I attended the meetin' a few more times right straight along, but I still didn't get a chance to mouth that preacher's mare to see how old she was. There was a country store in the community just a few miles from the ranch. One day right after dinner, when most people were taking their naps, I was on my way over to another ranch and rode by the country store to get a cold coke—which
was quite a treat in a country where there was no ice—and get posted on the local gossip. The country storekeeper was my good friend and he generally had something interesting to tell, either about the cow market and whatever trades had been made in the country, or maybe he would drift off on the political trend or gossip of the neighborhood. But to say the least, you could always get more than your nickel's worth of conversation along with your bottle of coke.

He had hardly started into conversation when up drives the country preacher with his big mare, Bessie, hooked to that little bitty gig. He shook hands with us and remarked about the heat of the day, and consented to accept my hospitality in the form of a cold drink. I didn't waste any time bringing up this horse trade that had been troubling me the times I had been listening to him preach. I said: “Reverend, that sure is a big fine mare that you've got there, and it seems to me a shame to waste her ability as a work horse pulling a little bitty gig like that. And, too, as valuable a man as you are to the community, you ought to be able to get around faster and do more good tending to your flock.”

He pondered my statement a few minutes, and with very carefully chosen words he told me that he had had the desire for a speedier animal, but that he was so fond of Bessie it hurt him to think of parting with her. However, he guessed if the right trade came along, he would be tempted to get a better driving horse that would be more suitable for his needs. I invited him over to the ranch to look over what I had and pick out something that would suit him, and we made a date for him to be at my place the next morning while it was still cool and see if
we could have a trade. He further told me that another reason he would consent to look at my horses was that he knew Bessie would have a good home and wouldn't be mistreated.

The next morning the preacher showed up driving Bessie in that usual slow walk, and he had gotten up early enough to give her that nice brushing and combing and grooming that causes any horse to be attractive. By this time in life I was a little better than half smart; so the afternoon before, I had rounded up my trading stock and cut out a few of the very best ones and driven them over to the back of the ranch. I put them in a pasture so the preacher wouldn't have them to pick from. Several of the other horses were broke to work and ride, and I had one red roan mare that was a little Roman-nosed, a little pig-eyed, and just a shade prick-eared; but she was a good driving mare and had plenty of go and plenty of endurance, and I felt like she would be the ideal horse to jerk that little two-wheel gig across the country. I showed the preacher eighteen or twenty head of horses, but I did emphasize the driving qualities of the Roman-nosed, red roan mare.

I began to get aware of the fact that the preacher hadn't told me anything about Bessie. I looked in her mouth, and she was about an eight-year-old. She had a good set of legs and a heavy body and probably would have weighed fourteen hundreds pounds. I asked: “Reverend, does she work hitched double?”

He replied: “I would have no fear of hitching Bessie double or single.”

I said: “Is she a good puller in a tight?”

He stated: “Why, I would have no fear of hooking
Bessie to a green load of wood or a wagon loaded with a bale of cotton in a sandy field.”

I thought this was sufficient comment and didn't press the old gentleman for any more proof as to Bessie's working qualities. The good preacher made me quite a talk about the scarcity of money with a member of the clergy, and how much better horse Bessie was than the Roman-nosed, red roan mare, and it was so impressive that I paid him $20 boot between Bessie and the red roan mare.

We took Bessie out from the gig and had to punch holes in the harness to take it up enough to fit the red roan mare. We got her hooked up, and the preacher sped along on his way because the red roan mare was for sure a road-eater hooked to a cart.

When the preacher was out of sight, I had to sit down on a stump in the shade of a tree and have a real big laugh and brag on myself about cheating the preacher out of that big fine work mare. I felt then that my only problem was to find another one good enough to work with her, and in the meantime I would just have to hitch that big fat mare up beside a common mule.

I lost my interest in the meetin's, seems like, and it was three or four days before I had an occasion to work Bessie. I was cleaning out a corn crib to make room for some fresh corn, and I backed the wagon up to the crib by hand and loaded it with corn, then proceeded to harness Bessie up. I had to let out my harness and take the pad out from under the collar in order to get the harness big enough to fit Bessie. Then I harnessed a good common mule that I knew would pull, and hooked the two up to the wagon that was loaded with corn. Bessie was very nice and easy to hook up and was gentle to walk around. I put my hand
on her hip as I stepped on the doubletree to get up into the wagon, and thought how lucky I was to have such a big, fine mare. I tightened my line and spoke to the team.

The mule started to go—but the tone of my voice didn't seem to impress Bessie, and she didn't move a foot. I looked around to see if I had hitched her wrong or if something was bothering her—if the lines were too tight or something. Her lines seemed to be in order; so I shook the bits and spoke to them pretty plain to “Get up.” The little mule lunged at the load, but Bessie stood real still.

It was almost about to dawn on me that Bessie might not work too good to a wagon. I reached out with the end of my line and tapped Bessie a firm, stinging lick on her nice fat rump. The only thing it did was cause her to chew her bit a little faster, but Bessie didn't move. I finally proceeded to use a strong brand of language that Bessie may not have heard before, and I even resorted to a good heavy bullwhip to try to impress upon her the responsibilities of her new position in life. Well, I damn near wore out the whip. And I ran out of any fresh profanity, without repeating myself. And I decided that Bessie wasn't going to pull that load of corn. I took Bessie out of the harness and got another mule, and moved the load of corn with the team of mules.

It was late in the afternoon by now, so I saddled up a horse and rode off down to the country store to confide in my old friend about the preacher's mare, Bessie. I was sitting on a sack of salt drinking my second coke, and my old storekeeper friend was having a belly laugh that he was thoroughly enjoying at my expense. He told me that he thought I should have paid the $20 on the expense of the meetin', anyway. The good preacher had been by the
store and told him how well pleased he was with the road performance of the red roan mare.

As I was about to leave the store, up drives the preacher. He had been brushing and currying the red roan mare and feeding her the brethren's corn, one of the brethren had shod her, and she already looked a lot better. There was no one else in the store but the storekeeper and preacher, so I contested the preacher about that statement of his concerning hooking Bessie to that load of wood or that bale of cotton; then I said maybe she knew the difference between these and a load of corn, and maybe she just doesn't like to pull corn.

The preacher smiled and asked me just exactly what he had said. By this time I had had time to ponder it, and I remembered well what he had said. He had said he would have no “fear” in hooking Bessie to a load of green wood or a wagon loaded with a bale of cotton in a sandy field. He smiled, and in a very satisfied tone of voice quoted me Webster's definition of the word “fear” which is, “apprehension of evil or danger, dread or anxiety.” And he told me that he had no apprehension of danger of Bessie trying to pull that load, and he had no dread of hooking her to that wagon as she would not kick or hurt herself, and he had no anxiety that she might break her harness or tear up the wagon trying to pull the load.

As he turned to walk away he said: “Young man, you were also truthful about the red roan mare. She is everything that you said she was—and more, too.”

One winter I
was feeding a bunch of steers on the Brazos River on a big old rough ranch—rough pasture and lots of canyons and draws. The river was winding, and it was a hard kind of country to get your feed out into the pasture to feed cattle. Of course, in those days we used wagons and teams for everything.

I had a young team of horses that were thrown in on the deal when I leased the ranch, and that were supposed to be unbroke. Well, that was putting it mildly. Generally when you say a team is unbroke, you are talking about young horses three or four or five years old that just never have been worked. When I got this team up, they were a pair of well-matched bay, bald-faced horses that weighed about fourteen hundred, and instead of being four or five years old and unbroke—they were eight or nine years old and had been broke
at
. But there was sure nobody had ever done much of a job of breaking them.

They were the rankest, big draft-type horses that I had ever had any experience with. When you roped them, they choked and pawed and fought. Then when you got them up and got your hands on them, you would have to tie a foot up on each one to harness them—if you didn't, they would kick you from behind and paw you in front and bite you anytime you weren't looking. Generally, big horses are gentle, but these weren't.

Every morning after I'd load my feed wagon, I'd start to hitch up this team. That meant I'd have to rope them and tie them to a tree and try to get harness on them. And after I'd get them harnessed—each one separately—I'd have to get them up by the side of each other and hook them together and then run them over the wagon tongue—two or three times—before I ever got them to stop where I could draw them back in position to hook them to the wagon. After they were hooked to the wagon, they would either try to run away or try to balk and fly back two or three times when you tried to start them with a load.