Horse Tradin'

by Ben K. Green

  About the time that all the good people were out on the street in their Sunday best going to church, here came the renegade of the community down the main street of town, wrapped in dusty chaps and leather coats with two tired saddle horses, an exhausted gray mare, a roadful of not-such-wild mules, and obviously not on his way to church.

  I missed a couple of days of school because it took that long to drive the judge’s heifers to the pasture and put the fence back. I roached, sheared, halter-broke, and sold mules until spring. It may seem strange to modern-day livestock operators that a man could be shearing a mule’s tail and feel like he had struck a gold mine, but these mules were selling for $100 apiece and more, and by spring—after selling the fifty-four head of mules—I was almost rich, compared to my low ebb during the winter when I was in the heifer business.

  A Road Horse

  for a

  Broodmare

  One brisk November evening just about dusk—the weather wasn’t cold but it was nippy—I had gone to the pasture and driven my pet mares that were bred for fall and winter colts into town. I was bringing them into the barn in town to give them some special attention through the winter.

  As we started up the slope toward the barn, I noticed the outline of a man standing leaning against it and holding the reins of what was bound to be a broodmare, also outlined against the barn. As the horses neared the gate, I hollered at the man to open it for me.

  After we got the mares inside the pen I wanted them in and got them some good hay, we began to visit a little. My horse was pretty well ridden down since I had left town that morning about daylight. This fellow was tall and looked like a horseman. You could tell that he, too, had ridden a long way, and his mare—a good bay, heavy in foal—should not have been ridden as much as the dried sweat on her indicated she had. The fellow told me he had crossed the Brazos River late in the afternoon, had stopped at a country store called Tin Top, and had had a talk with Matt Sisk about trading for another horse.

  Matt Sisk was a member of an old pioneer family and had been quite a cowboy in his day. He had settled down to keeping store many years before this and was looked upon more as an institution than a man. He gave out good information and advice and seldom, if ever, repeated anything that would be damaging; consequently he had the confidence of all the natives along the river.

  Matt Sisk had told the fellow that if, when he got to Weatherford, Texas, I would let him have one of my own riding horses, he would get a horse that would be sound, hard as iron, and a good traveler. Matt went on to describe a black horse that I had ridden past Tin Top a few days before, while driving a roadful of mules. He said there was no danger of this horse’s not being able to stand the ride he had in mind, because I had probably already given him plenty of chance to road-founder from distance.

  When this fellow got through telling me the story about what Matt had told him, I got the black horse out of the stall. He’d had two or three days rest and was in shape for a long hard ride.

  Being more curious than Matt Sisk, I had to ask him a few questions about where he was going and what was his hurry. He explained to me that he’d had a little misunderstanding, and that he felt like if he could put a few hills and valleys—and especially the Red River, which would put him into Oklahoma—between where he had been and where he was going, he would probably winter with a greater peace of mind.

  His mare was a good six-year-old bay and was bred to Joe Bailey, so he said. I could readily decide that she was worth as much money as the black horse, but she was not in fit condition to carry a man seventy miles, cutting across country, and beyond the Red River by morning.

  There was a little something about the black horse that neither Matt Sisk nor very many people outside my family knew about. After a day’s rest, I always would have to have my daddy come out and ear this horse down and hold him in order for me to be able to get on him. He wasn’t bad to buck, but he was hard to get on. And he was a big stout horse, and I was a short-legged teen-age boy. A few mornings before this I had gotten my dad out of bed before daylight in the cold to ear down this horse, and he had told me either to grow up to the horse’s size or ride him down to my size, that he was tired of having to get up to see me off on these early morning rides.

  Of course, feeling sorry for my friend who was in trouble—or was trying to avoid trouble—I felt like I should make him a fair proposition; so I told him I would take $100 boot between my grain-fed, fresh-shod, good-traveling black horse and his weak, grass-fed broodmare. The old boy walked around a little, then stomped and said he had a $100 and needed the horse—but he just couldn’t give me all of it. He’d give me $85 and ride on. Not wanting him to be clean out of grub money, I consented to take the $85 and the mare; so he saddled the black horse and rode away.

  He was a big stout fellow about thirty years old and didn’t have any trouble getting on this horse—and I sure was glad he didn’t have any trouble before he had gotten out of sight.

  Even though I was a seasoned horse trader, I was just a boy in high school. About a week later Mr. Grandstaff, who was principal of the school, came to the room where I was attending class, stuck his head in the door, just crooked his finger at me, and said: “Ben, come in my office.”

  It wasn’t exactly a pleasant tone of voice nor a welcome invitation, but Mr. Grandstaff was a fine fellow and a great friend of mine, and I didn’t have much fear of whatever he wanted to see me about. When I walked into Mr. Grandstaff’s office there was a short, fat, big-bellied, past middle-age man sitting in an armchair holding a great big hat in one hand. There was a great big star on his big fat chest. We shook hands and he told me he had been by my barn, where there was a good six-year-old, heavy-with-foal bay mare in my lot. She belonged to a good voting citizen of his county who said the mare was ridden away without his knowledge or consent by his son-in-law who was in a hurry. The sheriff had come to get the mare.

  I choked and felt a little sick about my horse trade and asked him if he could identify the mare. He said that she had a small wire scar on the inside quarter of her right back foot, and this was the only blemish on her—which I knew. He said that the father-in-law of my passing friend was waiting at my barn and was ready to haul the mare home.

  Mr. Grandstaff said that I could take off from school to go help load the mare. I was glad to go, but I told Mr. Grandstaff that it wasn’t to help load the mare—it was to be sure that only one mare was loaded!

  Cowboy Trades

  for a Wagon ’n’

  Team

  The summer had been very enjoyable. I had been to lots of ropin’s, horse races, and all day picnics. And during the time I was having all this “growin’-up” cowboy fun, I had made several good horse trades.

  It was beginning to get late in the summer, and trading on saddle horses had dropped off some. I had about twenty nice, smooth, medium-sized, gentle riding horses of good ages, all sound and most of them shod. I knew I didn’t need that many saddle horses to make the winter on, and I knew it was time that I should try to turn some of them into money. The crops were good all over the land, and it would not be hard to sell riding horses if you knew where to take them.

  One morning I packed a bedroll and some supplies on a couple of packhorses, turned them into the road with the rest of the horses, and started driving them away from town. I hadn’t fully made up my mind where I was going, but I felt like the farm country might be the best place to sell these good, sound kind of usin’ horses that were gentle for farm boys. I drifted over into the blackland part of Texas. It was a while before cotton-picking time; I didn’t get many takers on these good ponies, and nobody wanted to give enough for them.

  About the fifth or sixth night away from home I rode onto a road construction job where there were a good many teams and a big camp. I fed my horses in one of their corrals, ate supper, and spent the night with the mule skinners, who were driving the fresnoes that were being used to build the highway roadbed—much of which was done
in those days with teams.

  During the night’s visit, sitting around the cook’s campfire, one of these old boys thought that the Washita Valley up in Oklahoma would be a good place to sell the kind of ponies I had. Well, I didn’t have any better information than that, so I decided it ought to be all right.

  I crossed the Red River close to Marietta, Oklahoma, and in a few days drifted up near the town of Paul’s Valley. Sure enough, that country was prosperous and my horses just lasted a few days. Of course I always kept one good horse—to keep from being afoot and to have a way to carry my money.

  By this time I had been gone about three weeks, and the weather made a man glad that he was living outside. It was the early part of Indian summer, and I didn’t feel like hurrying home too fast. I was carrying a good deal of pack on my saddle horse, since I had sold my packhorses, and everywhere I found a good wagonyard or good livery stable I’d rest my horse and visit a day or two. After all, a man shouldn’t rush through a fresh country that he hasn’t been in before. A good many of the country roads were not infected with so many automobiles as they are now, and it was easy to stop in the middle of the road and talk to whomever you met or visit with somebody who was plowing and came up to the side of the fence. These people who didn’t have any more sense than to stay home were all right to pass the time of day with. They always had watermelon patches, ripe peaches, and other forms of country hospitality that would make the modern-day drive-in seem like an empty eggshell.

  I stopped in Decatur, Texas, and it was trades day. I decided it was a shame to be that close to home—thirty miles—and go back with just the horse I was riding. The best-looking horses on the trade ground happened to be a team of beautiful blood-bay, matched geldings with black mane and tail. They were exactly the same size, appearing to weigh about fourteen hundred pounds; their hair was short and slick, and they were carrying just the right amount of fat to make them purty. They were hitched to a new wagon, which was painted green with red wheels, and the wagon bed and wheels were trimmed with bright yellow stripes. The team was harnessed with a flashy set of harness—brass spots all over the leather breeching and big brass knobs on the hames. The bridles had long, flowing tassels about the color of corn silk and just as shiny.

  I don’t know what made me think I needed a wagon and team, and I suppose the reason I wanted to buy them was because I was carrying too much money.

  The man sitting in the spring seat and holding the lines was dressed up like a gentleman farmer. He was talking to some people on the ground. I rode up and listened a while and was really surprised to learn that a team and rig like that was for sale. He was telling somebody else that he had moved to town and the team was just standing in the lot eating; and his wife and kids had been naggin’ and beggin’ him to sell the wagon, team, and harness and buy an auto, and that was the only reason they were for sale. The conversation around among the lookers was that they were too high priced for anybody around there to afford for just common farm work. One old man commented that the team ought to be hooked to a railway express wagon or a dray wagon.

  I finally broke into this conversation by asking the man how much he wanted for them. He made me quite a speech about how good the set of harness and new wagon was and how hard it was to find two horses so perfectly matched. I got down off my horse and looked in their mouths. At a glance their mouths looked to me like they were eight years old. (Now, thirty years and two hundred thousand mouths later, I realize they were eighteen years old and their mouths had been worked.)

  He asked $600 for the whole rig—to just “get down and hand me the lines.” I told him that was enough money to buy a farm (of course, I didn’t want a farm) but that I might give $500 for the rig. He acted like he was highly insulted and just wasn’t going to think about it anymore, so I rode off.

  There was a chile joint on one corner close to the trade square where I ate dinner. There was a feedstore close by where I bought some oats and fed my horse on the corner of the store loading-dock. My horse had about finished eating, and I was brushing and currying his back and getting ready to resaddle him, when this old gentlemanlike retired farmer drove up with his wagon and this good team of blood-bay horses. He said that I was the only bidder he had had, and if I still wanted the team he would take $550 for them.

  Of course I was a real smart boy and knew when I made the offer that my bid didn’t have to stand after I rode away the first time. So I told him I had changed my mind and didn’t think they were worth more than $450, and we were still $100 apart.

  He said: “Young fellow, you just think we’re $100 apart.” He crawled out of the wagon, stood on the ground, and handed me the lines.

  I tried not to show much eagerness, but I didn’t waste any time digging into my pocket and coming up with the money.

  I tied my saddle horse behind the wagon and started home. It still hadn’t dawned on me that I didn’t need a wagon and team. This nice big fat team walked about half as fast as a man would ride horseback. By dark I wasn’t much more than out of sight of the town, and had begun to wonder if riding in a wagon was worth the time it took.

  That night I camped by the side of a creek. I had bought a sack of oats and a couple of bales of hay; I fed my newly acquired team out of the wagon and tied my saddle horse up toward the front of the wagon bed and fed him. I staked these nice fat horses out on each side of the wagon where there was plenty of grass and gave them some hay. I crawled in the wagon bed, spread out my little pallet, and went to sleep about dark.

  When I hooked up the team the next morning, they seemed a little listless and moved off slow to the wagon. I noticed it but thought that was just the difference between work horses and saddle horses, and it didn’t bother me much. By noon I got to Springtown, Texas, and this pair of nice big fat horses had lost at least two hundred pounds apiece. They walked up to the public water trough, drank as much as an elephant, and began to sweat just a little. I still thought everything was fine—that this was just a pair of big fat horses the man had kept in his back yard, and it would take them a day or two to get drawed down and used to traveling.

  By dark they looked like a pair of skeletons—they had lost so much bloom—and were barely moseyin’ along to that wagon. My saddle horse was following along behind the wagon, enjoying the rest, and looked like he was gaining weight.

  I got back to Weatherford the following day, which made two and a half days to come thirty miles, and by then the horses were almost reeling in the traces. I unhiched them at the wagonyard, put them in a pen, and rode my saddle horse on home.

  I guess my folks were middlin’ glad to see me, but nobody seemed to be bothered about whether I had had a good trading trip or not. My citified brothers didn’t ask to borrow any money or offer to loan me any. My mother commented that she was glad all the horses were gone out of the back lot and that I didn’t bring any home with me. At supper my daddy commented: “I see the Indians didn’t set you plumb afoot. You still had a horse to ride home on.”

  Next morning I went to the wagonyard, and my big, high-priced pair of work horses were barely able to stand. This was the first time I really appreciated that new wagon, because it looked like that was what I had for my $450.

  Several of my old horse-trading friends came by, looked at my team, and smiled to themselves, but offered no advice or comment, and walked away. (I learned later that they didn’t know anything about my horses and had no advice to give.) I knew I had me somethin’ in that pair of horses—but I didn’t know what. They had lost their appetites for feed, drank very little water, ate very little hay—and any horse trader knows that’s not the habits of a big horse.

  I stayed away from the wagonyard all day, because I didn’t want to answer questions about what I was going to do with my wagon and that set of harness. Late that afternoon I rode off out to the edge of town, where an old-time road trader lived. He had long since been out of the horse business because of his age and his inability to see. We set a spell in the
front yard on some old hickory-bottom chairs, and I told him my troubles.

  When I got through with my story he sat a while; then he said: “I didn’t know there was anybody left that could do that good a job of doping a horse.”

  At that stage of my life, “doping” meant putting salve on a sore; so I told him the horses didn’t have any cuts on them and hadn’t been doped.

  He said: “Ben, this is a bad piece of experience for you, because you’ll never be able to use it again.” Then he explained to me that these horses had been fed arsenic. He told me how a road trader could take a sound but wore-out old horse and put him on arsenic. A man would start putting arsenic in a horse’s feed, measuring it on the point of a knife blade. The first dose would barely be enough to cover the point of the blade, but in three or four weeks he would be feeding the horse as much arsenic as would stack on the knife blade from the point back to the handle.

  He explained that if you didn’t kill the horse, you could “puff him up,” and the arsenic would also cause him to have a good appetite and eat enough to make his hair look good. He told me it was a wonder that my horses ever lived these four or five days after they had been cut off from their “knife-blade medicine.”

  The old man stopped talking and we sat in silence a long time. I finally choked and in a very meek, whipped-like voice asked him what I must do with my horses. He sat a few minutes longer, finally stomped his walking cane on the ground, and said: “I’ve still got a knife with the right size blade in it—give them to me.”

  I went back to the wagonyard that night, led the horses out of the back gate, took them and turned them in the old man’s back lot.