Some More Horse Tradin'

by Ben K. Green

  Nobody was in sight. The door to the country store was open, so I walked in to ask if it was all right to leave my horse there. A nice-looking, squatty old Mexican fellow said, “Sí, señor, you are welcome.”

  Then I said, “I guess I’ll spend the night. I wonder if it would be all right if I make my camp there in the back of the corrals?”

  “Sí, señor, ’most everybody that comes in horseback stays here. You are welcome.”

  I walked up the street a little piece to one of the few buildings on the same side of the street—facing north with the back of the buildings toward the bluff that overlooked the Rio Grande—and into the little café. It was a plain, dingy kind of place, but a nice-looking middle-aged man behind the counter said, “Come in. What’s it for you?”

  I asked him what he had, and he named a thing or two. He could cook me some steak, or he had some chili all ready to serve. Eating there at the counter was a nice-looking white-haired old gentleman sitting straight and erect on a stool. He was slight of stature, but he had a very impressive profile. As I glanced at the food he was eating, I couldn’t help but notice that his hands didn’t look near as old as his body. To a cowboy, this would mean that there was a man who, even though he had spent his life in the saddle as a rancher and a stockman, hadn’t been given to any menial chores. His hands weren’t knotted or gnarled up by post-hole digging, moving rock, or the common labor that boogers up a man’s hands as time goes on.

  I sat down next to him and ordered a bowl of chili. On the wall was a sign that said, “Water, 5c a Glass.” The drouth had robbed the little town of its water supply, and what water that was being used had to be hauled in quite a distance from some wells. There were wells, possibly, in the town that the natives shared with each other, but for water that had to be hauled to serve to a passer-by there was a charge. I glanced at the sign and said, “I’ll need some water.”

  The café man put a goblet down—one of those heavy, old-timey kind that stand up on a stem—and poured it full of water. I noticed the old gentleman that I had sat down by, his glass was empty. I said, “And my friend would like another glass of water.”

  The old gentleman gave a quick sort of glance at me and said, “I thank you, sir,” in the clearest, best English speech that I had heard in a long time.

  I finished my supper and walked out on the street and back down to put my horse away. I realized then that I was going to have to figure out some way to water my horse. The mercantile store had turned on a dim light, so I walked in and asked if I could buy some feed for my horse, and where could I water him. The man said he had some oats and alfalfa, but that water was precious. At the back of the store he had a tank of water hauled up from the river. It wasn’t quite fit for a man to drink but it was all right for horses. It was a quarter a tubful.

  I said, “Well, I know my horse will drink a tubful.”

  He went to the back of the store to dip me some oats, and he got me two small chips of alfalfa hay from a couple of bales in a little lean- to on the back of the store. With the drouth, feed was scarce and money was scarce, and few people fed their livestock. They just changed horses and rode them on whatever they could find to eat—so, naturally, he didn’t have a lot of feed on hand. Then he reached over and turned an old wheel on a pipe at the back wall of the store, and a tub on the outside began to fill with water. When I looked outside, the tub turned out to be a great big old wood tub made of hand-hewn wood stays bound by two wagon tires.

  I unsaddled my horse and slipped the bit out of his mouth and just left one rein to go around his neck to lead him around to his tub of water. He drank about half of it, and I heard a sort of half-nicker from a horse in the small corral behind me. I looked up. The old gentleman that I had eaten beside at the café was walking out to his horse, which was an unusual individual, just like the man who owned him. This was a horse of much substance with a good topline and good legs, heavily muscled hindquarters, and gathering muscles along his back and his belly that you might say were overdeveloped. He was a horse that showed to have had much use—and much care, too. His feet were in good condition, his mane and tail combed. He had been ridden hard. The hair was short over his loins where the saddle rubbed. The hair had been worn off on the side where his cinch fit him. No sores, no scars, no blemishes—just the hair cut away by constant use of the cinch. I couldn’t help but admire such a useful-looking horse—neither young nor old, but a horse in his best using years, something like ten or twelve years old.

  Of course he had nickered when he smelled that tub of water and heard my horse drink, and I said to the old gentleman, “I think my horse could learn things just standing across the fence from yours. There’s more water here than my horse will drink and I’d be glad for your horse to have it, if you would care to water him after my horse.”

  “It is his thirst that causes me to accept,” said the old gentleman.

  He let down the drawbars and turned the horse loose to come to the water trough without a rope on him. The more you looked at the horse, and the more you looked at the man, the more you wondered about them. This was the darkest colored chestnut horse that you nearly ever saw. The man stood there beside him while he drank, a hand on his withers. I saw him pinch the withers, and the horse raised his head and stood there a minute—corrected for not having proper manners at the trough and drinking too fast. It was very noticeable to me that this man had complete control of the horse just with the use of his fingers on his withers.

  There was plenty of water, and when his horse finished, the man turned and walked back through this drawbar gate. The horse came in behind him. I said, “A horse with that much sense, I guess could take those drawbars down if he chose to.”

  The old gentleman gave a light, pleased sort of smile. It was the first time I had seen the expression change on his face at all. He said, “I see you do appreciate a good horse.”

  “Yes, I do. He’s a much better horse than the one I am riding.”

  He answered, “You are probably mounted well enough for whatever distance you must travel.” A polite but curt kind of a statement, spoken in a clear, proper tone with each word clipped sharp to fit in place.

  I wondered where he came from and how come he was in the Southwest where everybody slurs and slangs the language; but I said, “Well, I guess I’d better make my camp somewhere around under one of these sheds.”

  He said, “Move over to the south side with me. On top of the bluff there is some breeze which will be pleasant during the evening.”

  I hesitated a minute. Cowboys don’t hear night called evening very often, and not from another horseman, anyway. I picked up my saddle and bedroll and followed him over to the shed that faced south. It looked out over the river—that was dry—across the bleak old desert into Old Mexico. Far in the distance the rugged Huachuca Mountains loomed up out of the blue of the desert twilight.

  I spread out my saddle blanket, took off my boots, and stretched out with my head on my saddle. He leaned back against a post, and we sat there mostly in silence. Finally I mentioned the drouth.

  He said, “Yes. The drouth is severe in my country, too.”

  I thought this would be my best opportunity, and I asked, “And where would that be?”

  “In the heart of the Huachuca Mountains about five days’ ride into Mexico. Our land is very dry. Our herds have long since gone. I came to this country to seek employment, for I must provide for my people.”

  We sat in silence again. The coolness of the desert began to rise up from below and the fresh night air was getting chilly. In spite of drouth, in spite of the heat of the day, the desert is always a place to sleep in comfort through the night. By now the noises of the night, even though they were few, had become noticeable. There was a nice steady cool breeze blowing. We could hear our horses cleaning up what hay and grain we had given them, and it was a very peaceful scene.

  This man I had met in such an odd sort of way—over a drink of water—was somewhat puzzli
ng to me. As I lay on my pallet, I could study his profile in the moonlight—the way he leaned back against that post. His features were chiseled according to the pattern of aristocrats and monarchs. His eyes were large and dark and very expressive. His hair was snow white and lay heavily on his head in a slight wave over the top and curled up some at the back of his hat. His selection of words was proof that he had an unusual background, entirely different from that of most people in this part of the United States and Mexico. I was very anxious to know more about him; but he hadn’t inquired into my affairs, my background, or my purpose in being in the Rio Grande country. I didn’t feel that he had given me any reason to ask him any personal questions. I didn’t want to cause him any embarrassment or make him ill at ease over some question that he might not care to answer, so I thought I would bide my time. The night was young, and tomorrow was a new day.

  I murmured to my companion that I thought I would doze off and take a nap. He responded by saying, “Then I shall retire, also.” There was some more of that wording. He didn’t say, “I believe I’ll take a nap,” or “get unconscious,” or “wallow out a place,” or “snooze,” or any of those things that sleep is described with by men of the range.

  To say that a man “looked like he had spent his life in the saddle” didn’t describe him in the Southwest, because we all had. You could come nearer to describing an individual and setting him apart if you said he hadn’t spent his life in the saddle. For the most part, a man that spent his life in the saddle—with the age that this man had—was stiff and bowlegged and maybe walked with a limp. Many were stooped in the shoulders. Those that had other hard labor to do, such as building fence or menial chores that didn’t belong to horseback endeavor, would have injured hands and big knuckles and maybe an enlarged or stiffened wrist.

  A close study of this individual showed that, even though he was from Mexico, he was not a Mexican. Neither could it be said that he belonged to the Anglo-Saxon race. His appearance and speech were baffling to a wild rough cowboy that didn’t know a whole lot about the human race anyhow. This man showed no signs of ever having done any hard labor or menial chores. His hands were smooth, and the manner in which he used them was very impressive. It is true that he was bowlegged and a little stiff in the joints, but his back was very erect and there was a bit of movement in his shoulders that isn’t common to men that have done all sorts of hard work.

  By now I had run all this through my mind and was fast on my way to drifting off to sleep and getting some rest and being refreshed for another day. The days you spend—be they hard, long, hot, or dry—are bearable if you sleep at night. Cowboys learn this at an early age, and they usually keep the habit as long as they live.

  About daylight I rolled over, rose up, and wiped my eyes, and remembered how come I was there. I’d had a good night’s rest, and the world was beginning to come alive in a sleepy sort of way. I looked about me, and my companion of the night was standing up very straight, looking out across the desert into Mexico. He didn’t seem to know that I had waked up, and I said, “Are you trying to see what they are doing at home?”

  He was a serious sort of individual, and he answered, “I can well imagine the duties being performed this hour by my people in the heart of the Huachuca Mountains.”

  I said, “It sounds as if you wish you were home.”

  “I have been away many months, and I should like to return. In fact, I only stopped here to rest my horse and to procure supplies. I shall leave in a day or two. I hope to be on my own lands within the week to come.”

  I put on my clothes, pulled my boots on, got up and stretched, and said, “Well, I guess I’d better see about my horse.”

  He said, “I have fed your horse and mine from the feed that you purchased yesterday afternoon.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  He said, “It is strange, but I must assume that I had the feeling toward feeding your horse that you had last evening toward watering my horse—not a personal thing between one man and another, but a feeling for the horses. It was not intended as a gesture to make you feel obligated, sir.”

  “Well,” I said, “thanks anyway. When do you suppose that place opens up where we ate last night? I’d like to have some breakfast.”

  “It is Sunday morning. I doubt that he will open soon.”

  There was no water to drink, no place to wash our faces and hands, and I said, “Well, I’d think a man that’s in the café business ought to open up early any day.”

  “I hope that you are correct in your thinking.” His phraseology had no breaks or lax places. It was amazing to hear him talk, and in such light, curt, well-chosen and well-pronounced words.

  I walked over to the front part of the corral to my horse, ran my fingers through his mane, and scratched his back a little bit. I picked us a piece of mesquite wood about the size of a curry comb and rubbed it around over his back to break the dry hair from yesterday’s sweat. I rubbed up and down his legs a little with my hands, just to see if he was all right—and to reassure him that he was being looked after. After all, who knows but what a cow horse appreciates a little extra attention. When you live with a horse, you care more for him and you see more about him than you do if you ride him only on Sunday.

  I glanced out across the street and saw the fat man coming up the hill, the one who owned the café. I thought to myself that we would get breakfast, even if it was Sunday. I gave him time to get to his place of business while I curried and brushed my horse. Then I walked back to the back of the corral where we had slept and where my friend was—I still didn’t know his name—and I said, “I saw the café man pass, and he’s had time to open up. Would you join me in some breakfast?”

  He turned and looked at me rather pleased but neither with surprise nor alarm nor any of those rank, wild things you use to describe a man’s expression. He said, “That would be most enjoyable.”

  We walked out of the corrals together and up the street a piece to where this little café was. Sure enough, the door was open and you could smell coffee was beginning to boil. The café man was getting ready for his day’s business. First thing I wanted was a big drink of water; so he set out some of those big goblets and filled them with water out of a crock pitcher. We drank our water, and then he served the coffee. Of course in a little country café, there are just three or four things they fix for breakfast and everybody knows what they are. In that day nobody every printed a menu or knew how to spell the words. I ordered some ham and eggs, and my friend ordered some eggs and some hash-browned potatoes. I said, “Don’t you want some meat, too?”

  He answered, “I don’t care for porcine flesh.” In other words, he didn’t eat hog meat—but that was a very elite way of putting it, I thought, between two cowboys in a country café on the Rio Grande banks. Maybe he didn’t know how else to say it.

  We finished breakfast, and for want of anything else to do, we started walking back toward the corrals. I said, “Well, it’s Sunday and it’s going to be a long day.”

  “Are you riding far?” This was the first question he had asked me.

  “No, sir. I’ve got to wait until Monday and receive some horses.”

  He said, “I think I shall not ride out today, either.”

  So for want of something else to do, we walked up and down the dry bed of the Rio Grande. He commented on the shapes of rocks, the lay of the terrain, and how the mountains rose up out of the desert. You could tell that he had a vast store of knowledge; his conversation was interesting, but it was highly impersonal and spoken very correctly. This was a new breed of man to me. I tried to talk cattle with him, but he wound up the subject with a well-selected phrase. It was hard for me, a cowboy, to start much of a conversation with him; so about noon we drifted back up to the one little street of the town and on toward the eating place.

  There were very few people stirring. We heard the bell ring and saw a few people on their way to church, the ladies with white lace shawls and the m
en in white shirts. I said nothing of religion and neither did he. When we walked into the café there were a few other men there but no ladies at all. I paid for dinner, and as we walked out on the street, he said, “I have imposed considerably upon your hospitality in partaking of food for which you have paid.”

  I said, “It is my pleasure to be with a man who is so well informed and who is such pleasant, clean company. I am more than repaid. Think nothing of it.” This was the first outburst of politeness that he had heard from me, and it seemed to impress him very much. He looked at me in a more appraising manner than he had before. We were about even with the corrals when I said to him, “I’ll be glad to get those broodmares tomorrow and get on my way back toward the Northwest.” Then we came on up by his horse and I said, “This horse has good balance and mighty good legs.”

  “You have a keen eye for a horse.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, “I’ve had to have. I’ve lived horseback—made my living with horses—but this horse puzzles me almost as much as you do. He’s not a horse of thoroughbred breeding; he’s not an Arab; and he’s certainly not a mustang horse. I admire him very much. He’s unusual, even to the brand on his hind leg. It’s a brand that I would interpret as a tree.”

  “Yes, the brand is a tree, and he is truly a well-bred horse.” And that was just about all he said. He cut it off with that.