Some More Horse Tradin'

by Ben K. Green

  All of this was wise, and these were things I had never heard of before in my horse experience. Of course it was an eye-opener for me to meet a man of such wide experience and such clean, true, distinct use of the English language. Now I admired ’most everything he did, and I listened carefully to everything he said. He had taken an extreme interest in my business and in saving the Shield mares for me, yet “rascal”—the word which he used to describe the young Collin—was the strongest term I had heard him use in the two days and nights we had been together.

  We built a small fire, cooked some grub, and sat and watched the mares get settled down. The twenty-mile trip to town had jaded them some. They were quiet, and I talked about how good they were, and how proud I was of them, and what I intended to do with them in the way of establishing me a band of horses. All of this seemed to interest my friend, and then I asked him what I would owe him for his services. I didn’t use the word work, or hire, or any of those common things. He was truly a genius at what he was doing, and he had rendered me more service than just being a hand.

  He said that I had trusted him, and that he trusted me; that although he had little money—he had been conveying his money to Mexico while he had worked in this country—he would prefer taking some of the Shield mares instead of being paid in cash.

  I told him that sounded fair to me, and how many mares did he feel like he should have for his services? The brands looked like they had been blotched on some of the older mares, but they were all Shield mares, and he had seen the mares now as much as I had.

  He told me that if I would travel west with these mares about twelve or fifteen miles the next morning, I could turn up a road to the north that would be a good road to drive these mares toward Fort Worth. He would help me on up to where this road turned off, and then he would turn south, cross the Rio Grande, and go into Mexico at almost the same point. On the road, we would talk more about what mares he wanted.

  I told him that would be fine. After all, I didn’t need over fifteen or twenty of these mares to establish a band of horses; I had thought about selling a part of them to get some of my money back, and we would discuss this as we went up the road tomorrow. I told him, too, that this had been a very unusual experience in my career as a horse buyer—to buy mares of this quality, and then to have found a man who knew so much about handling mares—and that I would never forget the things he had taught me on this trip.

  His voice softened some toward me as he spoke. “It goes well with an older man when a young man is grateful to him for knowledge and help. I am glad that we met. This love of yours for good horses, it will perpetuate the Shield strain.”

  We went on to sleep, but sometime in the night I was awakened by the rattle of a can. I got to my feet, and I saw that he was halfway to the gate. It was only a mare rubbing against the gate and was no cause for alarm. Of course we both slept lightly, and we got up at daylight to start our trip as early as possible. There wasn’t enough water at the store for my mares, and according to my friend, I could water my mares after I turned north on the road he suggested.

  We turned the mares out in the road just at dawn. He rode on ahead and I brought up the tailin’s as we drifted them to the outskirts of town. In just a little while we got to where there were no side roads, and he dropped back and we rode along together. The mares were leveled off walking. Everything was goin’ rather smooth, and I thought this would be time to bring up about the mares he wanted. I asked him, “Which of the mares would you prefer, and how many?”

  He said, “I think my time and labor would be worth one mare, and any of the mares would be good enough.”

  I said, “My friend, and that’s the only name I know for you, your services are worth far more than one mare. I suggest that you pick two of your own liking. Their ages are about their only difference, but you choose whichever two mares you would rather have out of the bunch.”

  He must have been a little bit touched by my proposition. His voice softened some and he said, “I do not often pass out my name or my identification. The name ‘friend’ means a great deal when spoken in truth between horsemen. I am Don Ricardo Olivorez of the Tree Ranch in the Huachuca Mountains of Mexico.” He paused, and then he said, “I’ll tell you more. Several generations ago my people came to the New World from Spain. My ancestors were of noble birth and, experiencing difficulty with the Spanish regime, they decided to come to the New World and start their lives anew. They brought gold, acquired much land, and they brought a number of the purest of the Andalusian horses from the Andalusian mountain country of Spain.

  “Both my grandfather and my father were schooled in Spain, as were other members of the family. Each time a family member went to Spain for his higher learning, he returned to the ranch with additional pure Andalusian horses from the mother country. When I was a young man, they sent me to Spain—and later to England. I was privileged to have the opportunity of much education, but in my lifetime it has been very difficult for the Olivorez family to support good government and at the same time stay in good graces with the powers in Mexico. I regret to explain, but there are times when good government and those in power are not the same.”

  He went on to say that his family lands had been sieged many times. The rancho had suffered greatly from taxes and various plundering expeditions, and the present drouth had almost been too much. Although my friend had come to the States to work, he told me that he was the first of the Olivorez family to have ever asked another man for employment.

  He said, “The horse I ride is of the purest Andalusian blood. The mares in this road are of Andalusian blood, almost pure. A sister to my father, the lady Broquel, came with her husband to this country. She brought ten mares and a stallion of the purest blood. A few times through the years she sent for fresh blood from the Ranch of the Tree. She cared, but she is old and lives in San Antonio now; and her grandson does not care. He is the young Collin.”

  He went on to say that the young Collin’s parents were deceased. There were other heirs, but none who were interested in the ranch. And the grandmother knew little of what went on. My friend said that when he saw the Shield mares were going to be disposed of, scattered to the winds, that he decided a horseman should have them. This would prevent their going to the open market to be thrown just wherever they might land. He told me all this in a sad and lonely voice, glancing at me occasionally, but for the most part he looked at the mares or across the dry river into the desert regions of Mexico.

  He explained to me about the crossing he wanted to use to go into Mexico. My road that turned north was just about two or three miles farther up. I knew the general lay of the country pretty well; and I knew the road he was explaining to me well enough that when I got on it I could handle the mares and go on by myself. They were nice to handle, and they had been no real trouble since we got them off that home range that they had been taught to get away in.

  I had never seen any pure-blooded Andalusians, and I had begun to look at these mares closely. He told me that the Andalusian horse was the purest of Spanish blood, and that this strain was as old a tribe as the Arabs or the Turks or any of the other old tribes of horses. The Andalusians had been bred in the mountains for bone and muscle, substance and endurance, and all the other things it takes to make a fine horse. Much attention had been given to the selection of individuals with good dispositions. All of this showed strongly in the mares in front of us.

  We were about to reach the point where he wanted to turn off and go down and cross the Rio Grande into Mexico. I said, “You haven’t said which mares you want.”

  He said, “The brand you thought was blotched, it is the Shield brand over the Tree on the last mares that left our ranch. It would be to my liking—and I should be forever grateful—if I could have two of the Shield mares which have been branded over the Tree. I would take them back to the land of my father, who yet lives, that he may see we still have some of the old and true blood.”

  “I think you’ll be
cheatin’ yourself in age. These are the oldest mares here.”

  He said, “Yes, they will be twenty-four years old. It has been that long since they were born, although they were sent to this country as yearling fillies. Their purity of blood is beyond doubt. They will be all I shall ask of you.”

  I told him to cut them out and put halters on them to lead them away. I rode up in front and rode around the mares and stopped them. There was a little bit of grazing, and they stopped and picked on what they could find. I realized then that there were four of the Tree mares that had the blotched brand where the Shield had been branded over. These mares were old. They wouldn’t mean as much to me as they would to him; so when we drove the mares on past the corner where he was going to turn off, and as he turned back to lead his two mares off and these other two old mares were watching them leave, I just rode up and put back these two old mares that had chummed in the pasture with the two he was taking.

  He crossed into old Mexico with the four Tree mares. And I went up the road with twenty-four of the purest Andalusian mares in the New World.

  I found water about two o’clock that afternoon where a creek crossed the road. My mares filled up, rested, and I drove on up the road. With a bunch of loose horses on an open road, you go to hunting a place to spend the night with them along about midafternoon. About two hours before sundown, I found a set of working pens by the side of the road. They were inside a ranch pasture with a water trough and a windmill. There was no grass in the pasture, there was no grass in the pens; but it was a place to hold them overnight. They had found a small amount of grazing along during the day.

  I opened the gates and set them where the horses would go into these corrals. Then I rode on past the horses and turned them back and put them in these pens. It was a good deal before dark, and it would give me time to make a little camp, fix myself some supper, and clean my saddle horse off and wash his back. I’d noticed that there were two or three of these mares that had saddle marks on them. I had about decided that the next day I would ride a mare and let my saddle horse rest. In this extra time, I could catch one or two or three of them, maybe saddle them up and see about their mouths, and see which one I thought might do to ride.

  I picked out a blood-bay mare with black feet and legs, black mane and tail—about an eight-year-old that had cinch marks on her. I had run her around in the corral a little bit and kinda gotten her uncorked, and I knew she was going to be all right. Nobody came by my camp to see who I was or visit or anything. It was a lonesome spot, but that didn’t bother me much.

  I turned my horses in the road early next morning and started the day’s drive. There were a few cars in the road that day, not many, and I hadn’t passed but one ranch headquarters. It was set way off from the side of the road, so I didn’t go by there. But about the middle of the afternoon, a car overtook me. Driving this car was a lady dressed in white—not exactly a nurse’s uniform, but later I saw she had a nurse’s pin on. Sitting in front with her was a cowboy of average make and age, clean-shaven and nice looking, but strictly a man of the range. And in the back seat was an old white-headed lady. She was very frail and very old, but at a glance you could tell that she was a very refined person.

  They drove through very slowly, as if they were counting these mares, and the elderly lady raised up and sat on the edge of the back seat and looked out the door. This was a fine, old automobile and beautifully kept. It seemed as if the old lady was having it driven slowly while she looked at every mare. They drove on past about a mile and turned the car around. They were facing the horses as I drove them down the little slope in a walk—and the man got out of the car and walked around and went to stopping my horses as I got up close to the car. He motioned for me to ride around the mares and up to the car, and I could see that the old lady was wanting to talk to me.

  She didn’t waste any time in telling me she was the grandmother of the young Collin from whom I had bought my mares. She told me, “I live in San Antonio because I am too old to look after the ranch, but I know that the Shield Ranch must have mares to raise saddle horses from, and I just hope some of the other members of the family will learn this before it is too late. This may be my last chance to impress this fact upon them. Would you consider selling me these Shield mares?” She went on to say, “I have counted the mares. I am not sure how many there should be, but I do know there still should be some mares with the Tree branded on them. I do not see any mares of the Tree. What has happened to them?”

  I didn’t really know how plain to talk to this fine old lady. I hesitated telling her what happened to the mares with the Tree. I told her that I wanted to keep most of the mares, that I was young and had a small ranch, and I wanted to always have good horses. Now that I had some Shield mares, I didn’t take well to the thought of disposing of them—even before I got home.

  She said that she knew I bought the mares to keep and that I, as a horseman, was entitled to keep some mares—or make a profit—or both—but that she was old, profit didn’t matter a great deal to her, but she hated to lose the last of the mares. Again she asked, “Did you see the mares with the Tree? The Shield is branded over the Tree.”

  I told her that I was sympathetic with her situation, but that if I hoped to have good horses all my life I needed most of these mares, and that there were only twenty-four left in the band.

  She quickly caught the word left. She said, “You must have had the Tree mares. Señor Gonzales at the mercantile store called me in San Antonio and said twenty-eight mares stayed overnight in the corrals at his store. He also told me of a white-haired horseman who was riding with you. He is gone—and the four mares of the Tree.”

  I could tell that this old lady was pretty sharp, knew what she was talking about, and was a great old ranchwoman that time had overtaken. I finally told her that Don Ricardo Olivorez had helped me get the Shield mares out of the pasture and into the road, and for his services he had taken the four mares of the Tree. He was riding a horse branded with the Tree, and he had crossed over into Mexico the day before about ten or eleven o’clock in the morning.

  She leaned back against the back seat of the car and sighed deeply. She closed her eyes, her lips moved silently, and I saw her make the sign of the cross. I was standing in the doorway of the car, and I just stood there as respectfully as I could until she finally opened her eyes and looked back at me. She looked for some time, and then she said, “Young man, sell me the mares.”

  I said, “I’ll sell you half of them—which would be twelve—and that would leave me twelve.”

  She said, “I am prepared to pay for them.” She hadn’t yet asked the price, but she told the cowboy to open the trunk and get his saddle and riggin’ out—which he immediately began to do.

  I insisted that I keep the three mares with the saddle marks on them, and from the rest they could take their half. The mares were scattered up and down the fenceline, grazing in the bar ditch of the road on what little grass they could find. She made no comment, except, “There could be but little difference in the mares of the Shield.” So I told her we would just walk down the road and cut off the twelve that were nearest on the way back to the Shield Ranch.

  She said, “And how much money shall I pay you?”

  I said, “Seven hundred and fifty dollars. That is the amount I gave for all of them. I’ll have my twelve clear, other than the trip and expenses.”

  The nurse in the front seat opened a large handbag and took out my money in large bills. The old lady scooted comfortably in the back seat and thanked me very much. She neither mentioned that the mares were high nor cheap, nor that she cared one way or another. The only thing she seemed to be interested in was that she had recovered twelve mares of the Shield to send back to the ranch. Whether she paid me a profit or not was of no concern to her.

  I consented to let the cowboy have one of the mares that had saddle marks on her. He saddled one up and walked her around a few minutes and stepped on her. Her manners were
nice, just like the one I was riding. The old lady thanked me another time or two and drove on off toward the Ranch of the Shield.

  I started on up the road into the foothills of the live oak country with my twelve Andalusian mares, my saddle horse, all my money back, and the possibility and probability that I would be mounted on good horses as long as I lived.

  WATERMELON

  HAULER’S

  MULE

  It was late summer and in the cool of the afternoon the air was almost fallish. I was standin’ in front of the wagonyard, watchin’ the empty watermelon wagons and a few cotton wagons that had come in loaded that morning go down the road leavin’ town. A watermelon farmer drove up by the side of the fence and stopped his team, then started up toward the John Hart Grocery Store. I suppose he wanted to get some grub to take home with him. He was dressed in overalls and country straw hat, a blue faded shirt and tennis shoes, and had a dip of snuff that had seeped out a little on his whiskers. He didn’t look like one of nature’s brightest individuals as he shuffled off up the sandy street into the store.

  I didn’t walk out to his wagon, but stood there lookin’ at his team. They were badly mismatched for size, color, breed, and sex. One was a big, stout, roughly finished brown horse, workin’ on the left; the other was a little bitty, fat, smooth sorrel mare mule, working on the right, which is just the backwards way of hitchin’ up two work animals of different size. The biggest and heaviest one ought to be on the right because there is a little more pull on the horse workin’ nearest the ditch and on the slope of a country road. I liked the looks of this little sorrel mule. I noticed that her feet and legs were good and sound, and she was fat, which always helps the looks of any horse or mule.