Horse Tradin'

by Ben K. Green

  He walked over to her head, reached in his pocket, got her a lump of sugar, patted her, and talked sweet to her. He reached down, loosened the cinch, and the mare got up.

  By this time we had a bunch of other horse traders and farmers gathered around watching the show. I tried to draw that cinch up about three more times, and every time she fell he would give her a lump of sugar and say: “Don’t hit her. Hittin’ her won’t do no good.”

  I left my saddle up on her without the cinch being tightened and walked away rattling my spurs and leading my mare. I always felt like a cowboy ought to set up and let his feet hang down when he moved, and that walking didn’t agree with my disposition and caused my little feet—that were carrying those big spurs—to complain about the way they were being treated. You could hear a little giggle and noise among the traders and farmers as I walked away, which didn’t add none to my ego.

  I went down to Ingram’s wagonyard, and as I started in the gate I met Uncle Barney. He had worked for about everybody breaking horses, and he said: “Mister Ben, what you gone and done now? That there is a gypsy mare.”

  I asked: “Do you know this mare?”

  “No, but I knows that gypsy man. He don’t look like no gypsy, but he am, an’ iffen you ever breaks even swappin’ with a gypsy, you’s done made a hoss trader. She sho looks nice, but that’s just the top side.”

  I went back to the back side of the wagonyard and put my mare in the lot. By now it was dinnertime, so I went off and ate a little. Then I moseyed back down to where I had left my mare in the lot and my saddle hanging on the fence. I decided that without that bunch of onlookers and helpers, I might saddle her up by myself—but when I pulled that cinch she reared up, fell backward, rolled over, and groaned.

  Al Eiland, who was a very fine horseman and a Southern gentleman, came strolling to the fence. As usual, he was wearing a starched white shirt and a black bow tie and looked every part the distinguished individual that he was. I looked up and said: “Howdy, Mr. Eiland.” He had been my neighbor when I was a small boy, and we had always been great cronies.

  He looked over the fence at my mare lying on the ground with my saddle on her. He turned, looked all around behind him and saw that no one was listening, then said: “Ben, you have traded for the Sleeping Beauty.” He told me the gypsies had raised that mare from a baby colt on a bottle, and had started having her lie down for sugar when she was small enough that they could pick her up and lay her down to give her sugar. He said this Irish-looking gypsy was married to a very black gypsy, and that there were several of them camped down on Long Branch. He went on to explain that before the day was over, they would offer to give me my horse back and keep whatever money I had paid difference. He said the Sleeping Beauty had kept that particular band of gypsies in grub money for several years.

  As he started to walk away, as an afterthought it seemed he stopped and said: “Did they have a good gray horse about seven years old and about fifteen hands high tied to their wagon?”

  I had already thanked him for wising me up, but I wanted to repay him, so I described the gray horse. He said they had traded Mr. Marshall at Terrell, Texas, some other kind of a snide for him, and that Mr. Marshall had too much pride to buy the horse back. Mr. Marshall was his good friend and had asked Mr. Eiland to try and buy the gray horse back from the gypsies.

  Mr. Eiland was going on toward the wagonyard gate when I had a bright idea and called him to wait. Times have changed now, but at that time a young boy didn’t holler at a grown man and tell him to com’ere; so he waited while I trotted up to him. I told him that if the Sleeping Beauty was as valuable as he said, I’d get the gray horse by night and he didn’t have to worry. He didn’t quite understand, but a twinkle came in his eye and a smile came on his big, fat face, and he said: “I’ll give you a chance, Ben, and I won’t bother with the gypsies until you’re through with them.”

  I didn’t leave my little mare, and about four o’clock here came about three or four copper-colored gypsy kids who stuck their heads through a crack in the fence. I knew then that the scouting party had arrived and the news would get back to the trading wagon fast. The little kids made quite a few strange noises to themselves, then one of them said: “What you doin’ to our mare?”

  I kind of grumbled at him: “That ain’t your mare no more.”

  The biggest one of the kids said: “What you got all dem ropes on her foots for?”

  I said in a normal, unconcerned tone of voice that when I untied her, she would have been lying there long enough that she would want to stand up—when I turned her loose.

  It wasn’t twenty minutes until that Irish-looking gypsy man, followed by a couple of darker, skinnier, more typical-looking gypsies, came stepping down through the wagonyard like dry steers that had just smelled water. They looked over the fence and saw the Sleeping Beauty lying on the ground with all four feet tied together and my saddle cinched hard and fast. They jabbered a while in their unknown tongue, then said if I was sick of the Sleeping Beauty, they would give me my horse back and keep the $20.

  I told them that I wasn’t sick of her, but that she was going to get sick of me, and that I was going to leave her tied on the ground until she went to having nightmares instead of dreams of lumps of sugar. Then they decided they would give me half my money back and my horse. I told them that if I’d wanted that skunk-colored horse, I wouldn’t have traded him off to start with.

  Up to now I hadn’t hit or whipped the Sleeping Beauty, but I reached over and kind of kicked her in the belly for their benefit. All three of them walked off a piece, then the one I had traded with came back and said he would give me all my money and my paint horse, too, if I would untie the Sleeping Beauty and trade her back to him. I told him no, I wanted to break her of that habit she had, and I believed I should keep her. As they left the wagonyard they were waving six or seven or eight hands and talking to themselves and to each other.

  In no more than about half of a little bit, here came a wrinkled old gypsy woman moving swiftly as a ballet dancer. These modern gals think they invented petticoats—they ought to have seen that old woman. She was wearing lots of them, and all were of a different color. She had gold earrings dangling to both shoulders, and the gold bracelets on her arm sounded like chain harness when she waved her hand. As soon as she got within smelling distance and rattling distance, the Sleeping Beauty raised her head off the ground and nickered in a moan that was nothing short of a pitiful, whipped cry, and began straining her legs against the ropes she was tied down with.

  That old gypsy woman went down on her knees in that manure lot with all those petticoats and kissed the mare on her face, rubbed her, talked to her, and fed her some sugar. The mare had shown no sign of emotion when the men and kids came around, but she sure did take on when that old gypsy woman got there. The woman turned to me with soulful eyes and in a very expressive, deep voice said that I had a heart of stone to have tied the little mare to where she couldn’t get up. You never heard such begging and beseeching from a human being. She reached over to put her hand on the ropes I had tied all the mare’s four feet together with, and with those nimble old fingers she was about to undo my tying knots. I had a buggy whip in my hand, and I just tapped her a little stinging lick across her wrist and said: “Gypsy, get away from my mare.”

  She made a bunch of crosses on the ground and a lot of loud noises and gave me the most awful lecture that anybody ever got about being brutal to the Sleeping Beauty. She told me that she had put in many years training that mare since she was a wee bambino, and now I was ruining her. I told her no, I wasn’t ruining her, I was just untraining her to where she could stand a saddle on her while she stood up.

  This old gypsy then stood up and hollered right loud, and here came the whole tribe through the gate. By this time it was getting rather late in the afternoon, and it didn’t look to them like they had a chance to get their Sleeping Beauty back before night, so finally they asked me what did they have tha
t I wanted. All the time they kept insisting they would give me the paint horse back and more money than I had given them.

  We had a whole wagonyard full of cotton farmers looking and listening, and I was leaning against the back side of the fence with my buggy whip facing that tribe of gypsies. There wasn’t any giggling going on in that bunch of cotton farmers standing behind them. I had remarked that my paint horse was too tenderfooted to ride, and that I didn’t want him back at all. The spokesman for the gypsies said: “We’ll go to camp and shoe the paint horse, then give you him and all your money back.”

  I kind of flipped my whip over against some corn cobs in the corner of the lot, like I was doing some deep thinking, then looked up and asked the spokesman of the tribe how long it took a gypsy to shoe a horse. He said in a very hopeful voice that he would be shod in an hour. I thought a minute and told him to bring that paint horse, well shod, and all my money in an hour—or to bring the dappled gray gelding that I had wanted in the first place.

  They scattered to their camp like a covey of quail, but I knew there wasn’t enough gypsies west of the Mississippi River to shoe that paint horse. The only time he had been shod, it took six good cowboys and he crippled some of them—which was just another one of the bad faults which I had failed to mention. So I crawled up on the fence and sat down.

  The farmers all went to asking me questions. I wasn’t in too good a mood with them because they had snickered at me when I left the trade ground leading my saddle; so I didn’t have too friendly a conversation to offer the waiting onlookers.

  Just at dark the old gypsy woman came rushing back to the wagonyard, down to the pen, and said: “They bringin’ your horse. I untie my little baby.”

  I kicked a little dry manure on that pile of petticoats and said: “Gypsy, get away from my mare.”

  She wheeled and ran out of the wagonyard, and again the Sleeping Beauty nickered and cried at the sound of that old woman’s voice.

  In a few minutes, here came the Irish-looking gypsy who had traded with me to start with, leading the dappled gray horse. I untied the Sleeping Beauty, took my saddle off her, and let her up.

  I rode by Mr. Eiland’s and put the gray horse in his lot, left my saddle, and walked on the short distance to where I was staying. The next morning Uncle Barney admitted that I had made a horse trader. Mr. Eiland paid me a good price for the gray horse on behalf of his friend who wanted him back, and I saddled my good horse and started back to West Texas.

  Rebel Commander

  Along about August of one year in the middle thirties it seemed to me that we were about to have an early fall in the farming country. I had a nice set of three- and four-year-old mules that I had kept over from the spring mule business, had summered them on good pasture, and they were fat, ready to be hooked up and worked. Of course a trader looks to see if mules are ready to be hooked up and start to work because that’s when they bring the most money. I thought these mules ought to bring a bigger profit for me than they would ordinarily make at the Fort Worth horse and mule market. or even at the Memphis, Tennessee, mule market, which at that time was the biggest mule market in the world.

  I began to inquire around among horse and mule men about where the earliest cotton crop would be picked. I felt that if I got into a territory early, when the fall harvest began, I would probably sell some mules before the rest of the mule men got their barns and pens stocked and were ready to do business.

  The more I inquired around the less I found out. Then one day I picked up a copy of the Farmer-Stockman while I was sitting in a barbershop waiting to get a haircut. This was a brand new issue, and I saw where they had a big cotton crop along the Mississippi River. The harvest had begun, and some farmers had been getting prizes for bringing the first bales of cotton into the various little towns. I sat there with my mind way off while the barber cut my hair, and I made up my mind then that I’d just as well see about that cotton crop in Mississippi. After all, money would be flowing there as soon as they started ginning and baling cotton—and I hoped I’d be the first on the ground with a set of fresh, fat young mules.

  I got out of the barbershop and went around the corner of the square and down the side street where I had a saddle horse tied. I got on my saddle horse and started out to the edge of town to an old friend of mine to tell him what I had on my mind. I wanted him to wait until I got down in Mississippi somewhere, and then when I wired or called I wanted him to load my mules on the train and ship them to me. I felt I’d better get there first and make some arrangements for some kind of a pasture or barn or trading ground—some place to hold these mules while I traded on them. I would need a few days to do this before I got the mules in, since I was shipping to a strange country and didn’t know anybody I could call to have me something ready when I got there.

  My old friend was agreeable to this arrangement and said that he would look after whatever livestock I had around until I got back from selling my mules. I didn’t know much about Mississippi. I picked out a spot on the map that showed to have a great big, wide, fertile valley and a good railroad running through it. It looked to me like that was all I needed for a future mule market. That evening I went home, turned out my best saddle horses—I never wanted anybody else to ride my own saddle horses when I was out of the country—and packed my rigging in my car.

  I was driving a little six-cylinder, two-toned Buick coupé with a jump seat in the back—which in that time was a sure enough fancy rig for a young man to have for transportation. Of course this fancy automobile was just for special occasions. I didn’t run around town and squeal the wheels on it like I see these flat-top, hot-rod kids doing this day and time. Instead of that, my rig stayed in the barn with a wagon sheet pulled over it until I had some reason to need it. The rest of the time I rode horseback and looked after my cattle, horses, and mules—and did on horseback whatever other business I had to do that didn’t call for a long, fast trip.

  Next morning way before daylight I was up and mounted on this little two-toned, fancy Buick automobile with its spare tires mounted on the sides of the front fenders. It sure was a fancy rig, and I felt like a big operator. I could drive just about as far as the road was cut out in a day, or in a day and night, or from the time I started until the time I stopped. I was young and tough, and sleeping and eating were just something I did on the side when it was convenient and I didn’t have anything else to tend to.

  The next morning about nine o’clock I drove into Dixon, Mississippi, which was a real nice little town. The stores were opening up and the gins were humming and there was a whole lot of activity up and down the streets. There were lots of teams and wagons and Negroes going to and from the gins. There were cotton pickers with sacks on their backs—I’d been meeting them since daylight. It sure looked like everybody was fixing to have a big fall.

  This was a heavy-land country, and it would take good big heavy stout mules to work in this sure-enough black delta land—and that was just the kind of mules I had. The more I looked at the country, the more I thought it was the place to bring my mules. I pulled up in Dixon and parked this fancy rig of mine and got out and walked up and down the street like I was a big operator from way out West—just as though I was looking the country over to see if I wanted to buy all of it or part of it. I stomped around a while and found the town drugstore. It was sure a nice old-timey country drugstore—great long black mahogany shelves with glass doors on them, nice marble-covered soda fountain, pretty little square-topped fountain tables with the chairs hung on each corner leg, and when you got up these little chairs slipped back under the glass-case tabletop that had merchandise in it. This drugstore was the sociable spot of the town. It was where the people gathered and drank cokes and drank coffee and talked about what had happened the night before and what was going to go on from here out.

  I didn’t strike up acquaintance with anybody much that morning. I saw a lot of natives in and out, and you could tell the ladies that clerked in the stores and
the men that came in from the bank. The village druggist was one of those good-natured, smiling, kind of half bald-headed fellows about fifty years old that knew everybody and knew what was going on. If you want to find a man that knows about the community, when you go to a new place, a country druggist knows a heap more about affairs of state than the banker or the lawyer or the sheriff or anybody else in town.

  In those days the druggist was the one that opened his store first in the morning, and the drugstore was the last place that closed at night. If you were going to the farm or to the field or leaving town, the first place you would come by was the drugstore. When you went to the picture show or had a date with your girl or for any reason—shipping stock or something—were up late, the drugstore was the place in town you would go by before you went home at night. These modern drive-ins with their juke-boxes and their automatic coke machines will never see the day that they have the hospitality and the congenial atmosphere of friendliness that the old country drugstore didn’t have to boast about—everybody knew it.

  Well, this was a typical drugstore in the Old South. Everybody spoke with a long, slow drawl and was in no particular hurry. They were in no hurry to wait on you and in no hurry to see you leave. They would like for you to loaf around so they could find out about your business and maybe they could brag a little about their own. Strangers weren’t too plentiful in this little town, and you could tell right off that people were looking at me, but of course I didn’t scare. I had on high heeled boots that were shop-made, a 3x beaver Stetson hat, and I wasn’t wearing any common britches, either. They could tell at a glance that I was from way out West, and whether they noticed it or not I was proud of it.

  I started to walk out the door and the druggist said: “Needn’t hurry.”