by Ben K. Green
Jim Merritt was an old-time horse and mule buyer who had come to Texas from Georgia. He knew the mule business and was always a good buyer for an exceptionally nice mule, since he had a trade that would buy the better kind of mules. There was not a doubt in my mind but what I had just made $25, and maybe even $35, by leading that mule about three city blocks.
Mr. Merritt wasn’t at the barn, but I was so sure this mule would suit him that I led her in, unbuckled the halter, and rode on. Mr. Merritt was my good friend and had always been more than fair in all my dealings with him, and I knew all that was left to complete the trade was to wait until Mr. Merritt got to town to pay me a reasonable profit for my thirty minutes work and, of course, my shrewd ability as a young mule man. I thought of something that I wanted to do and rode away from town for three or four hours.
I came back up the street about the middle of the afternoon, and there was a whole bunch of men standing in front of Mr. Merritt’s mule barn—but nobody was very close to the gate. That nice, black, mealy-nosed four-year-old mare mule had kicked and torn down a chute, the partition gate between the barn and the back lot, and was backed up with her hindquarters in the corner of the barn, her mouth open, bawling in an unknown mule tongue. Her eyes were popped out like they were on sticks, her ears were stuck forward, and at the least excitement she would rush against the other side of the barn and knock herself down. She had already peeled and skinned her shoulders a little bit.
All the rest of the horses and mules had gotten themselves into the back lot and crowded into one corner away from her. Nobody knew who the mule belonged to—Mr. Merritt was there, and he knew he hadn’t bought a mule like that. I sat on my horse and looked over the crowd at my mule that nobody knew was mine. I damn near didn’t want to claim her myself.
I choked, tried to act unconcerned, and said: “Mr. Jim, have you got a mule with the colic?”
He replied, “Colic, my foot. Somebody has turned a mule in my barn that’s a maniac.”
That started the conversation, and there were two or three people in the crowd who had seen a crazy mule before. I stood up in my stirrups, looked at that mule, and said: “Mr. Merritt, people are the only things that have got little enough sense to go crazy. She must be loco.”
Nobody could remember having seen a mule that was loco act like that. Somebody had called old Dr. Justice, a village horse doctor of the old order who had treated lots of horses and mules. He had no suggestions to make, except that he thought something ought to be done with the mule. The mule stood still in one corner for some time, and the crowd finally got tired of watching and began to drift away. I still hadn’t gotten off my horse and thought maybe it was best not to, as I rode up close to Mr. Merritt and said: “Mr. Merritt, that’s my mule, but she didn’t act like that when I put her in there and turned her loose.”
He sucked on his pipe a few times, finally took it out of his mouth and said: “Benny, you sure got a booger. If we could get in there and look around on the ground or in that hay or manure, we’d find a ball of cotton that had been saturated with chloroform and stuck up that mule’s nose. She was asleep when you bought her.”
I looked at her a few minutes and said: “How did they ever get the cotton in her nose?”
Mr. Merritt gave a deep belly laugh and answered: “Benny, that’s your problem, but we’ve sure got to get that mule out of my barn before dark.”
I needed help bad. Amateurs and town cowboys weren’t going to do me any good. I went on down to the wagonyard, and everybody knew about the mule, but it still hadn’t leaked out who she belonged to. I talked to two or three of my advisers, but nobody knew how to put chloroform in a crazy mule’s nose without catching her!
After while I found a cowboy friend of mine who was ever bit as crazy as that mule. We took two lariat ropes, and he walked a rafter in the barn, tied the end of the rope to a beam, and dropped the loop down over the mule’s neck—which started another mule war. When she choked and fell on the ground, I ran in with another lariat rope, tied her forefeet together, and laced her to the saddle horn on my horse. I had already gone and bought a good supply of chloroform because we figured we’d waste most of it. I had some big wads of cotton already made up in my britches pocket. My wild friend jumped down from the rafters, and I pitched him a wad of cotton. He poured chloroform all over it, grabbed that mule by the ear, and jobbed the cotton up her nose while I drug her enough to keep her feet off the ground. In a few minutes she was lying nice and still. We put a halter with a long rope on her without any trouble. I turned my foot-rope loose while my friend slapped her in the face with his hat and made her get up. She was a nice, quiet mule.
We rubbed all the dirt and hay off her and brushed her while we had her in the dark part of the barn. Needless to say, there was a fair audience at a good safe distance on the other side of the gate. I took several wraps on my saddle horn with the halter rope and asked them to open the gate. My friend Mr. Merritt looked much relieved when he saw we had the mule caught, and he was glad to open the gate and get the people out of the way—which wasn’t much trouble when they saw me coming toward them with my mule.
I started across the square for no particular reason except to get the mule out of the way of the people and things before that chloroform cotton came out of her nose. I wasn’t sure where I was going or what I was going to do with her. Out on South Main about three blocks from the square, I met a man that I had particular reasons for wanting to become the owner of this nice, quiet mule. He ran a dairy out on the edge of town, and he had a bull tied to the back of his wagon. There were very few trailers or trucks, and it was not uncommon to see gentle cattle being led tied to the back of a wagon. He was bringing this bull to town to be put with some more cattle to be sent for sale to the Fort Worth stockyards.
This good old dairyman was the kind of fellow who starved his mules, scolded and whipped his dogs, be-meaned his family, and made his living by stealing milk from calves. About two years before this, when I was an even younger trader, he had sold me a spoilt-bag milk cow without letting me in on the secret that her bag was spoilt—and since she was a dry cow, I couldn’t tell it. After I had sold the cow and took an awful loss on her, he told me that was cheap knowledge—it would keep me from buying another spoilt-bag cow, and he had no remorse for contributing to my education.
As I approached his wagon with my mule and saw that big fat bull tied to the back of his wagon, I wondered if his education was entirely complete. Riding very slow, but without stopping, I said: “What are you going to do with that bull?”
“I would ship him to Fort Worth or I would trade him for that mule,” he answered.
The mule was so classy that anybody would like her at a glance, and most anybody in those days could tell she was a young mule without looking in her mouth.
I reined up my horse, and he stopped and began talking. He said the bull was fat and would weigh two thousand pounds and bring five cents a pound, which would be $100—that was all my mule was worth and we would trade even. I knew that bull didn’t weigh but fourteen hundred pounds and wouldn’t bring more than four cents, but I also knew enough about my mule that I considered it a good trade. I said: “We’ll have one more trade,” as I stepped down off my horse and tied the mule to the back of the wagon. He went to complaining about having a new lariat rope on the bull and he wouldn’t let me have it—but, of course, he wanted the halter that was on the mule. I didn’t think it was best to let him get close enough to that mule to smell the chloroform, and I didn’t want to be fooling around the mule’s head taking the halter off. I didn’t want to chum around with Mr. Milkman long enough for me to change and take his rope off the bull and put mine on; so I reached over, untied the bull, and turned him loose.
I said: “I’m a cowboy and horseback. I don’t need a rope for just one bull.” I stepped on my horse, started driving the bull off toward the shipping pens, and Mr. Milkman turned around and started home with his mule.
T
his good gentleman had been known to sing awful loud in church and frown disapprovingly at cowboys who didn’t attend meetings, but I heard from reliable sources that he almost lost his religion over that mule. I never bothered to ask what actually became of that crazy mule.
Matched Mares
One bright fall morning, with the weather nice and brisk but the sun still shining, I was walking through my horse-trading barn trying to make plans for how to sell the horses and mules I had bought. It was early in the season, cotton picking had just started, and the horse and mule business had taken on new life following the summer lull.
I had a beautiful five-year-old chestnut sorrel mare of good conformation and disposition, and she was well broke to work. She was about fifteen hands high and weighed about 1,325 pounds. In selling work horses there was much to be gained by having your teams well matched in age, size, color, and disposition. A really matched team would bring $50 and sometimes $100 more than the two horses sold separately. This beautiful chestnut sorrel mare had no mate, and I had bought her cheap because the man who sold her had not been able to match her.
I had her in the back of my barn, and I was sure none of the other traders had seen her because no one had mentioned her. She was a good mare that a trader would have to had made some belittling remark about.
I started walking off down the trading alley where there was a number of other horse traders. I found a trader named Dave in his barn brushing and currying a twin to my good mare. I didn’t think he knew that I had one that would match her, and the conversation went about like this: I said “Dave, that’s a good mare. It’s a pity you haven’t got a mate for her. A pair like that would bring a lot of money.”
Dave was a-brushing the flax mane and tail of this dark chesnut mare. He didn’t stop brushing, he just answered: “I’ve been tryin’ to find another one as good as her for three months, and she’s been standin’ here eatin’ her head off. I guess I ought to sell her for a single and forget about matchin’ her.”
“I wish you had a pair like her because I’ve got an order for two, but one wouldn’t do me much good.”
“What’ll you give for her and you try to match her?”
“Nothing. I want a team,” I said.
“Would you give $125?”
“No. I’d give $90.” I had started out of the barn and I kept walking.
Dave called: “Don’t be in such a hurry. Come back and lead your mare off. I’ve fed her as long as I want to.”
I tried to keep a straight face and keep from showing my glee, because I knew she was a dead-ringer for that mare in my barn. I paid him, took the halter rope, and started leading her up the alley thinking about how much money the pair would bring. I tied the mare in front of my barn and started in the barn to bring out the mate and see how they would look together.
Dave and his Uncle Bob were partners, and Uncle Bob had been looking for a mate to that good chesnut sorrel mare, too. As I started toward the back of my barn, Uncle Bob came along and saw the mare that I had just bought from Dave. Uncle Bob originally came from the deep South and had that Southern drawl and also a little bit of a stutter in his speech. He said: “Ah, Benny, ah, thet’s a pu’ty nice marh yuh got theah. What’d yuh tek fo’ huh?”
I suddenly realized that Uncle Bob didn’t recognize his mare, and I thought it would be funny to sell her back to him; so I answered: “Uncle Bob, she ought to be worth $125.” I thought putting in that “ought to be worth” would induce him to bid.
He replied: “I can’t give you thet fo’ huh, but I’d give yuh $110.”
I could have made $20 right quick, but I would have liked to make more and make a better story to tell in later years; so I said, “Uncle Bob, I’ll split the difference with you”—which was a common practice.
He walked around the mare, looking at her, and said: “I’ll raise muh bid $5.”
I was holding my breath, so to speak, afraid he was going to recognize the mare after a second look; so I said: “That’s too cheap, but since we’re good friends I’m going to sell her to you.”
Uncle Bob paid me for the mare and quickened his step as he walked off leading her toward his barn, anticipating his delight in telling Dave, his partner, that he had bought a mate for their mare. In a few minutes you could hear Dave all up and down the trading alley. Some of the other traders gathered around him, and everybody was having a big laugh. I didn’t go down to join the party—I might not have been welcome.
Instead, I went to the back of my barn and caught my chesnut sorrel mare, led her up, and tied her in front of the barn. In a few minutes, when Uncle Bob came stomping back up the trading alley with blood in his eye and was about to give me a good cussing—before he could get started—I said: “Uncle Bob, I’ve got another mare here you might like.”
Uncle Bob blustered: “Plague tek yuh, Benny, I oughta tek yuh ovah mah knee and give yuh a good spankin’.” (I was seventeen years old, and Uncle Bob was seventy.)
While he was catching his breath to start over, I calmly stated: “Uncle Bob, I’ve got the mate to that mare.”
His anger began to subside as he went to walking around this mare of mine. He asked in a still irritated but interested tone: “How much fo’ huh?”
“$125,” I replied.
Uncle Bob turned around and in a loud, bull-like voice called to his nephew Dave to lead the other chesnut sorrel mare out in front of the barn. Dave led the other mare out. Several traders were standing around watching as Uncle Bob looked down the alley and saw Dave holding this other chesnut sorrel mare. Uncle Bob turned around and bellowed at me: “I’m fo sho this is a different one, and I’m goin’ tah buy huh, plague tek yuh, Benny!”
The Rockcrusher and the Mule
When I was a wild, rough young horse trader, I rode into Mineral Wells’s trading square on second Monday. A building was being constructed adjoining the trading square, and a rockcrusher was crushing rocks to put in the foundation. On the off-side of the rockcrusher, out of the way of the men working on the building, there was a big, black, mealy-nosed mule tied to its wheel. He was a good stout mule, and his hair was in good condition. He was standing there perfectly gentle in spite of all that noise and the fog of dust that was being made by the rockcrusher.
I had an old horse-trading friend that I was partnerin’ with, and he had brought a bunch of horses and mules into Mineral Wells the night before by leading them behind a wagon—which was the custom of the day. Among them was a nice little fat brown mare. She would work and ride, was gentle, and she looked good. I had traded for her a little while back; after I got her, one day I rode her pretty hard and discovered she had a pretty fair case of the heaves. I fed her some wet bran and turpentine, and put bluing in her water, and used all of the other well-known and respected remedies that good horse traders used. This little mare breathed perfectly normal as long as you didn’t run or trot her or try her wind.
As I rode up to the wagon—where the horses we were going to trade on were tied—I glanced around. There were lots of other horse traders’ wagons with a good many horses tied up, and it promised to be a fair day for swapping.
A long, tall snuff-dipper walked up to the wagon and looked around and picked out the little brown mare. We talked about her good and bad points; he looked in her mouth and didn’t ask her age, so I supposed he could tell—and it was no use my telling him unless he asked. He said he had a boy going to school that needed a horse to ride, and he had brought a mule to town to trade for the mare. I started following him afoot to look at his mule, and I said to myself that I’d sure found a sucker. He must be some farmer who didn’t know enough about horse trading to untie the little mare and run her to try her wind. We went up to the mule that was tied to the rockcrusher. I was afraid to untie him and try him for wind, because that might cause the man to go try my little brown mare.
He asked me $25 boot, and I offered him $5. We finally traded by me paying him $10. The mule, from all outward appearances, was worth
about four head of the little mare, and I said to myself that I was making a real horse trader.
We went back to the wagon, and he untied the mare and started leading her off. I sent my old horse-trading partner to get the mule. As soon as the mule was a little away from the rockcrusher, you could hear him making some strange, loud, sickening noise when he breathed. The sound coming from that mule had begun to scare all the horses tied to the wagons that he passed. He would wheeze and whistle when he breathed, and a strange rattle came from his throat. The farther he got away from the rockcrusher, the worse he sounded. The horses we had tied to our wagon began to shy and try to break loose as he got closer.
I walked out and stopped my old friend that was leading him and said: “What have I got?”
“He’s a rattler,” he answered.
“I can tell that,” I said, “but where did he get it, and what caused it?”
Of course, my old horse-trading partner didn’t know any more about the anatomy of a horse or mule than I did in those days, but he tried to explain that this mule’s windpipe had been injured and that he would never be any better. The reason he was so nice and fat was because all he did was eat and drink water and stand around. My partner asked: “What do you think we ought to do with your new stock?”