Horse Tradin' (4 page)

I circled around, went up and down the back streets and the four or five little roads that led out of town in different directions. I would drive out them a piece and come back. I met cotton wagons bringing in cotton and empty wagons going back out, some of them hauling the seed and some of them not. Little kids, black ones and white ones both, would be playing in the cottonseed on the wagons that were started toward home. Wagons you'd meet coming to town—the man driving the team would be buried down in the front in that beautiful white handpicked cotton, and there might be somebody up higher on the load just going along for the trip to the gin. The roads were dry but not too dusty. My car didn't kick up a lot of dust, and the wagons weren't throwing up too much. The air was clear. It was late summer or early fall—anyhow, the weather wasn't too hot, and everybody
had an air of being busy and being happy about it.

About noon I pulled up in town and stopped my car and got out and walked a while. There was just one great big beautiful old hotel in town. It was a colonial frame hotel with big white pillars and a long gallery running across the front. When you went inside, you entered a nice big hall. This might at one time have been built for a mansion, but now it was a hotel. There were three big dining rooms on the ground floor, and the sleeping rooms were all upstairs.

You could tell right off that the hotel was the place town people ate at. They were kinda making headway for it. Well, I had known for a long time that I could eat anything that anybody else could (and maybe like it better) so I sort of joined the parade to eat some dinner with the folks. It was a nice big old comfortable hotel for a small town, and everybody was visiting and friendly and asking about one another's business—and about their children and where they went last Sunday and what they expected to do the rest of the week, and when the ladies aid society was going to meet. Everybody in the whole dining room was friendly. They were native citizens except for just three or four drummers that were sitting over to the side, sort of at a table to themselves. Well, I didn't want to be accused of being a drummer, and it was easy to tell at a glance that I wasn't a native, but I sat down at one of the long tables where some more of these nice people were eating.

This hotel was one of those sure-enough eating places where you sit down at a long table covered with all kinds of homegrown vegetables, fresh meat, country fried chicken, fried pies, and cakes. You just sit down there and
“pitch till you win.” By the time I asked two or three people to pass me some stuff—and by the time two or three voluntarily passed me something they wanted me to try some of—I wasn't a stranger at that table. We had begun to exchange remarks about how good the food was, how nice the weather was, and all that kind of business. These people sure were polite. They didn't want to pry into my business any, and I had by that time let my name come out and they were putting the “Mister” on it pretty heavy. For a right young man, that “Mister” sure did make an impression that would make you throw your head up and pay some mind when somebody said something to you.

Of course, right off I didn't hesitate to let them in on the fact that I was from Texas. They all had some kind of story to tell about Texans: some of them had been to Texas and the others all wanted to go. I told them what a great country it was—the wide open spaces and the big herds and the good horses and the mules. I confessed right quick that I didn't know too much about the farming business, that I'd made my living on a horse about all of my life. But I told them I had a high regard for the people that tilled the soil and fed the world and provided fiber that made the clothes, and I knew that this type of citizen was the salt of the earth. I also put in my little speech something about what a fertile land the Mississippi Valley was and how much of the rest of the world Mississippi could feed and clothe. I also dropped in that I knew the Mississippi Valley was stocked with some of the finest old Southern people in the nation because that wasn't going to hurt my cause any either.

There was a beautiful lady sitting across the table from
me. You could tell she was one of the town's business women. She had a nice tone of voice and a nice way of carrying on conversation, and directly she said: “Mistah Green, what brings you to Mississippi?”

I thought it was time for me to let the folks in on what I was doing there—before they thought I was a sheriff or something—so I said: “Well, I'm a horse and mule dealer. I have some good mules that came out of the west, and I was looking around for a likely spot to ship them for selling to people that wanted to till the land.” I told her that these were exceptionally fine mules, good, deep bodied, and well cared for, the kind it would take to till the soil of the Mississippi Valley. I said I was thinking of shipping them to the town of Dixon.

This beautiful lady wasn't real young, but she wasn't middle-aged either, and she just radiated charm as she burst forth: “How delightful! My fathah has been the mule dealah heah at Dixon for many years, until he aged beyond tending to his affaihs, and I know he could be of some help to you if you decide to send youah mules heah. He would be so delighted to help a young mule man that might be following in his footsteps.”

I said: “That would be wonderful. I'm looking for a barn or a pasture or someplace I could keep my mules after I get them unloaded off the train. I'd be glad to meet your father. Perhaps he could suggest someplace.”

She literally beamed and gushed out that her father's old mule barn was vacant, and she just knew he would be delighted for me to use it. When I finished my “dinnah” she would be glad to go with me down to her home where her father would probably be taking a nap after his noonday meal.

We drove up in my two-toned, six-cylinder automobile—which she had already admired considerably and told me her daughter would like a car like that, too—and sure enough, the old man was sitting on the porch. He was a typical fine old Southern gentleman—white headed and wearing a small, well-trimmed mustache, a nice blue serge suit, and a white shirt with a black bow tie. His name was Colonel Bob Dixon.

He was so glad that I had come to Dixon, he said, and he would just be delighted to be of service to me in any manner he could. He could introduce me to all the people who needed good mules to work their plantations. He and I drove his daughter—widowed but still called Miss Belle Dixon—back up to town to her ladies ready-to-wear store; then we drove off down behind the business part of town just three or four blocks and, sure enough, he had one of those rare old-timey, livery-stable-looking mule barns.

This barn had a big square storefront across the top of it above the hallway. It was a big hallway that ran down through the barn, which was floored with heavy oak. On one side of the hallway were some harness and feed rooms, on the other side were some great big stalls, and toward the back were four great big pens, two on each side of the hall. The barn was way over two hundred feet long and about fifty feet wide, and you could tell it had been the scene of many big horse and mule deals.

Colonel Bob pulled his hat down over his eyes a little, leaned back on his walking cane, and began to reminisce. He told me about having bought carloads of horses and mules from people in Texas; he mentioned the names of several reputable horse and mule men that I knew well—
Ross Brothers and Burnett and Yount, C. B. Teams and Charley Neal. I could see that he was well steeped in this horse and mule business and could, if he desired, be a tremendous help to a young man in a strange country.

The barn hadn't been used to speak of in three or four years. It was pretty dirty and had dry hay lying around in all the stalls. There were lots of cobwebs and stuff up around the corners and at the top of the hallway where it joined the loft. The place needed cleaning up and shoveling out and fixing up. A few hinges needed to be fixed on the gates. I told Colonel Bob that it would be my pleasure to get some men and straighten up the place and put it back in order in just a few days, if he saw fit to rent it to me.

“Rent it to you! Why, my boy, I want you to use it just like it was youahs, and I have nigras—that you can take and pay what you want to—that have worked for me for yeahs. They know how to clean this barn and how to take care of youah hosses and mules. And you just pay me whatevah it might be worth to you when you are ready to go, and I hope you don't go soon. I'll be glad for you to stay all fall and wintah.”

I said: “Colonel Bob, that sounds like a Texas trick, and I appreciate it very much. I'll just make arrangements to have my mules shipped to me and unloaded here at Dixon. I'll take over the barn, but I'll expect you to come down and make yourself at home—loaf with me and advise me and entertain your old friends here—just as if you had never been out of business.”

“Young man,” he said, “it does my heart good to know there are still men in the hoss and mule business endowed with the principles of the old school. I want
you to know that you are welcome heah in my barn, and you are welcome in my home as my guest. I want you to feel free to do anything in Dixon that you would do in youah own home town.”

I said: “Colonel, that's spoken like a Southern gentleman, and I'm going to take you at your word.”

We both had a little chuckle, and he said: “Now, suh, if you will take me back home. I don't take long trips away from the house anymore, and I didn't—you know—quite get my nap out. But I'm going to be looking forward to some interesting visits with you.”

We drove back to his old home on the south side of town. It was a beautiful old colonial house, well kept on the outside, but up to now I hadn't seen the inside. We bid each other good-bye, and I spent the rest of the afternoon driving around getting the lay of the land. I went down to the depot and wired my friend in Texas to ship my mules to Dixon, and then I moved into the hotel.

About four o'clock I drifted into the village drugstore. The druggist shook hands with me and said: “Mr. Green, I'm glad you are going to stay in Dixon a few days. Hope it will be longer. Make yourself at home and use my drugstore as your headquarters. We'll take your calls, and we'll do anything we can to make your stay in Dixon pleasant.”

About that time a young man walked up and the druggist introduced him to me. He knew about my mules, he said, and added: “You've no idea how much good your visit here will do Colonel Bob. I do hope your mules will be of a quality that he can have pride in representin' to his old friends and customers.”

I assured this young man—and also the druggist and
some other people within earshot—that the mules would be as fine as Texas ever grew, which was a fact.

It was surprising to me, as I thought about the situation, how suddenly everybody in town seemed to know about my business. The grapevine worked fast, and these people were willing and delighted to take in a fresh young stranger who might be a new experience to them. Things are sometimes dull in a little town, and I just thought to myself that they might be intending to make some diversion out of my visit—either at my expense or for my pleasure; I couldn't tell yet which it would be.

That night at supper everyone took on and said how glad they were I was coming to Dixon, and maybe I'd see fit to make it my future home. They needed me, since Colonel Bob wasn't able to take care of the horse and mule business of the town like he used to, and they thought the mule business vital to the agricultural pursuits of the people. I appreciated all this and tried to put on my best manners and eat with one hand at a time and not take too many second helpings.

Next morning I got to the barn pretty early, and there were three Negroes there—two middle-aged and one old white-headed man. The two middle-aged fellows were sweeping and shoveling and cleaning out the barn. You could tell they had been there a good while and sure had been stirring around. The old white-headed man was a kind of dignified old Southern Negro. He took off his hat and introduced himself and said that he was William, the other was Jake, and the third was Munroe. I said howdy to all of them and talked to William a little while.

Finally I asked: “William, do you want a job?”

He said: “Oh no, suh. Ah takes care of the Rebel Commandah for Colonel Bob.”

“The Rebel Commander?”

“Yassah, that's Colonel Bob's private drivin' hoss. Colonel Bob, he's gettin' him ready for the fall fair. He'll drive him in the fall fair. We worries about Colonel Bob a-drivin' the Rebel Commandah, but maybe he ain't in no dangah much. Well, since you's heah, I'd bettah go on back over to Colonel Bob's. These boys heah knows what to do. Ah hopes youah mules gets heah in a few days.”

I thanked William and told him I would see him some more. The other men were busy working and not asking me any questions about what to do, so I said: “Well, boys, I believe I'll go on off uptown.”

They both tipped their hats and said: “Yessah, yessah. We'll be heah when you gets back.”

I stepped into my fancy automobile and drove on up town and pulled up in front of the drugstore. It was about that time in the morning when everybody gathered, so I walked in and Miss Belle said: “Mistah Green, come ovah to the table. I want you to meet some of my friends.”

She introduced me to two or three nice ladies, and when a young man walked in—a little younger than she was, maybe—she said, “Tom, Tom come heah.”

Tom walked over to the table, I got up, and she said: “I want you to meet my brother Tom, Tom Dixon. He runs the bank.”

Well, I shook hands with Tom and told him I was glad to meet him, and he immediately said: “Oh, you are the man that's usin' Papa's barn and goin' to bring us some
mules. We're so glad to have you. If we can do anything for you at the bank, just let me know.”

I just thought to myself: I got in business faster and with less effort in Dixon, Mississippi, than any place I'd ever been. I sure did have to make good for these people with my stock. I would bring in the best mules that Texas had, and you just couldn't tell—this might be the spot for me to spend the winter.