by John Babb
Joshua stopped in front of a stall. “How much ’sperience you have in ridin’ a hoss? Dat is, kin you ride a spirited animal, or you lookin for one dat’s well broke?”
“Well, I’ve only ridden a mule before—and that was just a few times. I guess I need one that will let me stay on.”
“Den make sho you ride de hoss afore you make de deal. If you get one what’s got a lot o’ zip, you might end up walkin’ to Californy. Take a look at this here chestnut mare. She not too big, but you’ll still need some help puttin’ a saddle on her. De hoss here gentle as kin be. But if you look at her teef—see how they’s all ground down on the sides? This hoss close to mebbe twenty-two year old. She might have a real problem lastin’ all the way to Californy. I’d pass on dat mare.
“See de paint pony in the next stall? From the way his ribs is showin’, if I was guessin’ I’d say the owner didn’t put by enough hay for de winter, and this pony been tryin’ to get along on too little feed. This paint hoss a good size fo’ you. His teeth in good shape. Paints is usual purty sturdy little hosses. But if he start out on a terrible long trip lookin’ this poor, he might not make it de whole way. He need about three or fo’ weeks of good feed first. I’d pass again.”
Ben interrupted, “Just so I’ll have an idea, what would a pony like that cost, considering his current condition?”
Joshua continued: “Now dat’s where the tradin’ comes in. De man what owns this hoss will tell you what a fine animal he is, and most likely ask twelve dollars. But dat’s when you have to point to de weak spots, an’ say he ain’t worth a dime over seven. Den if he give you any guff, you say he not what you really wants. Take a look at this here bay. Sorta medium size—a little bigger than de paint. Got plenty flesh on his bones. But this hoss either been rode by a big man, er mebbe used as a pack hoss. He be all broke down. Nuther thing, it look like somebody been whuppin’ this hoss way too much. See all them quirt marks on his flanks? I doubt dis hoss got much spirit left in him.
“They’s one mo’ thing you got to watch. You got to look at de hoofs. I cain’t show you no troubles on these hosses cause I takes care of dem. You best take Merriweather along with you. He knows what to look for.
“Merriweather, you take Masta Ben down to dat Chadwick stable t’other side of de Courthouse. Mistuh Chadwick got hosses for sale. I member dey was a young black mare in his corral, so look close at dat one. But be sho you don’t look at her first. An’ Merriweather, don’t you be triflin’ along.” He put his huge hand on top of the boy’s head. “Dey’s some mens in this town what might snatch you up and take you out to they hemp fields, and if I cain’t find you, I cain’t get you back.”
Ben held out his hand. “Thank you for helping me. I’ll try to remember everything you’ve told me. And I’ll make sure Merriweather gets back here.”
The reverend stepped to the door, “I’ll go with them, Joshua. Don’t worry about your son.”
The two boys walked down the street, confident in their mission, and believing they were ready to wheel and deal, while behind them strolled the black-frocked reverend, always at the ready to spring into prayer. Passing the courthouse, Merriweather pointed to the right, down Eleventh Street.
Chadwick’s Livery Stable sat just beyond the Trailhead Hotel. Chadwick’s place was far busier than Crowder’s had been. There were several men in the store, and it seemed to Ben that everybody immediately turned to stare intently at the three of them. He didn’t know if it was because they recognized he was somebody new, or that they were trying to puzzle out the mysterious relationship between a young Negro boy, an Episcopal reverend, and him.
Merriweather nudged him and pointed, “Dat be Mistuh Chadwick.”
Ben waited until the man finished his conversation with two men. “Mister Chadwick, I’d like to buy a good horse.”
Chadwick’s voice quickly gave him away. “Now whut in tarnation would ya’ll want with a horse?”
Ben had heard the accent all his life. “Sir, you sound like you might be from Caintuck.”
The man grinned behind his greying mutton-chop whiskers. “I shore am. I come out here five years ago from Louisville. Sounds like you might be from somewhere close to there yer ownself.”
“From across the river in Indiana, sir. I need a horse to catch up with my pa. He’s headed to California.”
Ben spotted the black mare as soon as they walked back to the corral, but forced himself to pay no attention. Instead, he asked about a bony Palomino. Mr. Chadwick had a helper get a rope on the horse and walked him over. Ben realized it would be a good idea to show that he was no fool. He looked at the horse for about a minute, and said, “This horse won’t do. Could I see the bay with the white spot on her forehead instead?”
Mr. Chadwick looked at him. “Whut’s wrong with the Palomino? He’s a fine horse.”
“Well, sir, he’s not been fed well. I aim to ride him to California, so I need a horse in good shape to start with.”
“All he needs is a couple of weeks on green grass and he’ll be good as new.”
“I don’t have a couple of weeks to waste if I’m gonna catch up to my pa.”
Mr. Chadwick nodded to the stableboy and pointed at the bay. While they waited, he pulled out a clay pipe and filled the bowl with Yellow Bank Tobacco, then inserted a pipe stem and fired up his smoke. Ben looked at the horse for a couple of minutes and realized the horse looked pretty good, but he remembered Joshua’s advice not to make a deal until he rode the animal. “Could you put a bridle on the horse, sir?”
The stableboy struggled for a couple of minutes to get the bit in the horse’s mouth. The bay kept tossing his head and avoiding the bridle. When he was successful, the stableboy walked the horse over to Mr. Chadwick. Ben took the reins and turned the horse over to Merriweather. He whispered to him, “What about his hooves?”
“Wa’ll, dis hoss gots some feet what looks like he ain’t been shooed ’til just recent. His hoofs awful chipped up, and de bottom of he feets don’t look too good.”
Ben walked over and handed the reins back to Mr. Chadwick. “This horse won’t do either. His sore feet will never hold up for a long trail over rough ground.”
Mr. Chadwick looked over Ben’s head at the reverend. “Reverend, tell this boy he’s bein’ too picky.” The reverend smiled and nodded his head.
Ben spoke up again. “Sir, do you have anything else I can look at? I saw a paint pony down in the bottoms that looked pretty good. Maybe I should go back there.”
“I’ve got twenty good horses for sale right here in this corral.” Mr. Chadwick sucked purposefully on his pipe and began to blow a series of smoke rings, which hung lazily in the stagnant stable air. He looked sideways at Ben to see if he was paying attention.
Having seen his stepmother perform the same maneuver hundreds of times to amuse herself, Ben ignored Chadwick’s efforts and shook his head. “I don’t see one that looks right.” Then as an afterthought, “How old is that black mare with the one white stocking that’s got dirt all over her? She seems a little young for this kind of trip.”
Mr. Chadwick held his hands palms up in front of him. “I’d say the horse is at least two years old, and saddle-broke to boot.”
“Can I take a look, sir?” Ben looked at the mare. Looking past the fact that she had been rolling in the dust, the horse was a beautiful animal. She was admittedly small but had plenty of meat on her bones. He led the horse to Merriweather and whispered to him, “Don’t say where he can hear you, but what do you think?”
Merriweather lifted each foreleg as though he’d been a horseman for twenty years. He pulled on the bridle until the horse’s mouth was at his eye level and looked at her teeth and gums. He felt of the forelegs. “You’d best ride this hoss.”
Ben turned back to Mr. Chadwick, “I don’t know, she seems pretty young.” He turned toward Merriweather. “I told you we should have bought that paint.”
“Yas suh, you did.”
Ben could
have hugged him. “Just to be sure,” Ben said, “could you throw a saddle on this horse so I can see Merriweather ride it round the stable here?” He realized that showing what a poor rider he was would be the wrong move at this point.
Merriweather walked, then trotted, then cantered the mare. Ben knew he couldn’t have pulled that off if his life depended on it. He handed the reins back to Mr. Chadwick. “Just for comparison, what do you want for this little horse?”
“Eleven dollars for the horse. The saddle and bridle are three dollars extra.”
“That’s too much. Until that horse grows another six months, I don’t think you can sell her. I’ll give you seven for the horse and two dollars for the saddle and bridle.”
“I’ll take twelve for the lot.”
“I’ll give you ten dollars if you throw in the blanket.”
“Eleven dollars and that’s my final offer.”
“I’ve only got ten dollars and a half. That’s all I can pay you.”
Mr. Chadwick laughed. “Ya’ll didn’t do too bad for a boy from Indiana. You got yerself a deal.” Ben had already been into the stash in his boot that morning. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar gold piece, four silver dollars, and six quarters. Mr. Chadwick and the reverend stared at the gold coin. “Where’d you get that piece of gold, boy?”
“I worked for it back home in Indiana. That’s all I’ve got left, so this pony has to get me to West Port pretty quick.” Reverend Rice disappeared back into the front of the stable. Ben shook hands with Mr. Chadwick. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate you making a deal with me.”
Ben got up behind Merriweather on the saddle and they headed back toward Crowder’s. As they passed by the courthouse, Merriweather pointed across the street at a familiar figure entering the Sheriff’s Office. “Lookee yonder at Massa Reverend. He sho’ don’t look to be too worried ’bout makin’ sure I don’t git snatched off this here street. What you ’spect de Reverend doin’ wit de sheruf?”
Ben felt the hair prick up on the back of his neck. “Let’s hurry and get you back to Joshua. It looks like the reverend is about to tell the sheriff about me. Maybe he thinks there’s more gold where that came from.”
Merriweather slid off the horse a block from Crowder’s. Ben pulled a quarter from his other pocket and flipped it to him. “I owe you that for the job you did. Thanks for your help. If anybody asks, I took off along the river bank, headed west to Independence.”
Merriweather struggled to take his eyes off the quarter. “You best hurry, Masta Ben.”
Ten
A Brand New Person
The Trail, Missouri 1849
Ben glanced at Merriweather, then down at the horse, and nodded briefly as he turned the animal down the embankment into a thick growth of small pines and cottonwoods as branches slapped his face. Shielded from the town, and plagued by doubt, he tugged unevenly on the bridle. As Ben attempted to manage the reins, the horse felt his uncertainty, shook her head, and stopped abruptly. Perplexed, Ben decided to treat her just like he treated Mr. Finnerty’s cantankerous mule as he leaned over to pat her neck, making sure the horse could feel both his feet against her belly. His method worked—and their friendship and journey began with a wobbly start downstream, first angling up the bluff, then skirting the eastern boundary of the town as they ventured toward West Port.
He shielded his eyes to gaze back at the smokestacks of the steamboat he had ridden the day before and saw the Christ Church steeple rising above the town. He took one last look before redirecting his horse and his attention to catch up to the man that he called Pa.
A well-traveled, rutted wagon road appeared in another quarter mile, the road they referred to in Lexington as the Santa Fe Trail. He guided his horse along the road as it abruptly made a long loop south to avoid a steep incline, watching warily for travelers who might question the business of a young boy traveling alone on such terrain. Finally, and seemingly with a sense of purpose, the road turned westerly and Ben felt the hopefulness that marked the thousands of travelers who went before him.
Rolling hills similar to those found in Indiana spread to the horizon. The farms, however, were considerably different from the small homesteads like his Pa’s. Vast fields rolled across the land, dotted with hay-laden wagons driven by Negro workers. The air carried their soft voices that lapsed occasionally into soulful melodies, and Ben was confident that this last day of March was a fine day, indeed.
However, his confidence quickly eroded as he emerged from the rolling hills with a powerful thirst and the realization that a small creek ahead wouldn’t provide him water as long as he was atop a horse without a downed tree, stump, or log that would allow him to remount. At dusk, a drizzling rain began to fall, while the temperature and his previous good humor dropped right along with it. After crossing the creek, he wondered why he made such a decision to buy a horse that was so tall when his legs were so short, let alone to travel such a distance to find his Pa when he was so thirsty and tired.
As he rode, a light flickered in the distance, which seemed to come from a lane lined with pecan trees, which veered off the road. A lane with a light meant a house, and a house meant a dry place to sleep, a way to mount his horse, and maybe something to eat. He nudged the horse up the drive and came upon a house so large it looked like the courthouse back in Indiana. What kind of people lived in such a place with four round columns that rose upward to support a porch that came from the second story? How would a body live all over such a house when it only took a little space to set up your bed? And what were those little shanties in back of this big house? Who used these raggedy shacks when there was such a fine place to sleep? These questions filled Ben’s head as he approached the house and slid off his horse, shakily adjusting his legs to the ground.
Not wanting to surprise anybody, he shouted out, “Hello, the house!”
The front door opened to reveal a light-skinned Negro man in a collared shirt who gave Ben a cursory glance before pointing to the side yard. “Come round the back of the house. Claree’ll see you there.”
Before Ben had time to thank him, the door slammed shut. Legs sore, britches wet from the rain, he hobbled to the back where another, smaller structure stood separate from the house. He ran his hand through his damp, dirty mop of hair and vowed to make a good impression on the cook, who must be important to have her own separate house for cooking. As he was thinking about his approach, a large, ebony-skinned woman with a shining face and red kerchief tied around her broad forehead opened the door. Folding her arms across an ample bosom dusted with flour, she glared at Ben. “You on de Trail?”
“Yes, ma’am . . . I’m making my way to West Port and. . . .” He was interrupted before the words came out of his mouth.
“How many wit you out dere? I’m done sick and tired of these hungry tramps showing up jest a starving and takin my cookin’ when I got mo than I can handle with dis low-down family. . . .” She drifted off into thought and Ben spoke up quickly.
“Nobody ma’m, I’m on my own and needing a place for me and my horse to stay for the night.” He hurriedly launched into his speech as her face grew more clouded.
“You ’spect me to believe dat? You just a boy.”
“Yes’m. I’m alone and trying to catch up with my Pa and sure appreciate a little supper, and my horse would need a bite as well, and I’d be glad to pay a quarter for it.” He was out of breath as he looked up at her, hoping she was listening.
Her face softened as she smiled reluctantly while looking at him and muttered, “I got me a boy . . . somewheres . . . come on up heah on de stoop and get out de rain.” She disappeared into the kitchen, and by the time Ben tied up his horse, she was back with a plate of beans and ham hock and jar of buttermilk. “Now, how ’bout dat quarter?”
As he was about to thank her, she tested the quarter with her few remaining teeth, pointed to the barn, and turned to lumber back to the hot kitchen and the never-ending work that she called her life
.
He scrambled around in the dark inside the barn, finding some hay in the loft and what felt like a leftover handful of corn in a feedbag that was hanging on a stall. The horse was as grateful for supper as he had been. He took off his wet clothes, wrung them and the horse blanket out as best he could, and hung them on the side of the stall. His bag was wet, but the contents were still fairly dry. The change of clothes felt awfully good, and he fell asleep to the sound of his horse chewing on the kernels of corn.
He awoke to a milk pail clanging against the barn. The sky was already a pale grey—the kind of day that made you feel cold just to look outside—but at least it had stopped raining. He climbed back into the loft to get his horse another armful of hay, and was hoping to get lucky for himself as well. He had no trouble finding four hens on nests, and turned a sheepish gaze upward. “Forgive me for harvesting these eggs without asking or paying.” He put them in his bag to eat later on the trail.
With some difficulty, he got his saddle lifted up on the side of the stall. He was able to get the bridle on his pony, threw the blanket on her back, and led her over to the side of the stall. By hooking one leg over the top rail in order to hold on, he put his saddle on the horse. He then climbed down and secured the cinch. His clothes weren’t quite dry, but he stuffed them in the bag, resolving to dry them out later when he cooked his eggs.
He climbed up the side of the stall, tied his bag behind his saddle, and got seated himself. Leaning over the horse’s neck, he unlatched the stall door and got his horse started back down the lane, hoping he wouldn’t have to get mounted in a big hurry anytime soon. A filtered sun squinted over the distant tree line back toward Lexington as he regained the wagon road. He squirmed around in the saddle, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt his still sore backside, but apparently, such a position was not to be had. There was no wind, but it was still cold enough to bite.