Horse Tradin'

by Ben K. Green

  I entertained the Colonel the rest of the day, and that night I took him to the old Majestic Theater to see a stage show which he thoroughly enjoyed.

  We loaded the mules the next morning. Then I took the Colonel to the train, told him good-bye and, as the train whistled and left town, went by the bank and got some spendin’ money. Then I set out to the stockyards to tell my dumb, “professional” horse-trading friends that were handling big mules the going price of little mules.

  When Big

  Horses Went

  Out of Style

  —Almost

  The spring movement of big steers to the Osage grass country of Oklahoma and Kansas was getting into swing. Every year, big steers were wintered in Texas, then moved north for summer pasture.

  Somebody went with these cattle to take care of them while they grazed the bluestem country. Cow men would lease these big pastures that didn’t have any improvement on ’em other than grass and water and some kind of fence—and some cowboy would go along with the steers to take care of them through the summer and ship them out fat in the fall.

  This year, hands were kind of scarce—the kind that would leave home and go to the bluestem to camp out in the pasture with a bunch of steers—and a couple of steer men out of Fort Worth made me a proposition to go up and spend the summer with their cattle. Well, I’d had a good winter; it was going to be a long hot summer in Texas; and I just decided I needed to see Kansas.

  We shipped out eight hundred head of steers and a few over in the early part of May. It was still a little chilly when we unloaded them off the railroad in Kansas, but the grass had started and the bluestem was green, and it looked like it would be a good summer.

  Around this pasture we had a few neighbors that were in the farming business; they had bad fences and worse dispositions. But outside of a little farmer trouble that goes with any cow operation where them clodhoppers join your pasture, the summer was mostly peaceful and not much work. We had some good rains and the cattle got fat. I had a good camp close to a windmill under an old shed—plenty of water, enough wood to cook with, and not too far from a little country town where a man could lope in and get some conversation, store-bought grub, and find out what was going on in the rest of the world.

  In the same stock cars with these steers, I shipped up some good saddle horses that belonged to me to ride during the summer. Of course they got fat and did good through the summer, and I didn’t ride them too hard. When we shipped the cattle out in the fall, it wasn’t to my liking to get rid of these good horses and come back to Texas afoot. It would be too expensive to have a boxcar or a stock car on the railroad to haul five head of horses, and trucks didn’t haul cattle and horses like they do now.

  We shipped our cattle out in the fall after they were fat; I drew my summer wages and the world looked pretty good; it wasn’t too bad a-weather yet, and I just decided I would start out for Texas, using my horses to ride and to pack my camp. I had a packsaddle to carry my bedroll and stuff on, and I just thought I’d ride along and change about on my horses and get home before winter set in—with plenty of time to get into some kind of a stock deal at home for the winter.

  These infernal combustion machines called tractors had begun to get kind of plentiful in the plains country and open country in Kansas and Oklahoma. Work stock had gotten cheap. Great big broad-hipped, good kind of sound, beautiful-headed, heavy-bodied Percheron and other draft-type horses weren’t much in demand. Every tractor trader had a penful of them somewhere around the edge of every little town, and they were hard to sell. There weren’t too many mules mixed up with them in that country, and very few saddle horses were ever traded in on a tractor. I camped along the way, and I kept noticing that every town I’d come through with my saddle horses, there was an awful lot of good draft horses around these traders’ pens and around these farm implement warehouses.

  These were kind of a new breed of people to me. In my country, when I was growing up, farm implements was a sideline to a general hardware store—not a major business. But after tractors got started in the country, they got to be all the vogue. Implement dealers and automobile dealers thought they were just as good as any horse trader. I never did share their opinion about that, but I might have been wrong. There got to be more implement dealers and less horse traders as time went on.

  I rode into Liberal, Kansas, late in the afternoon, and found a trade yard with an empty lot and plenty of feed and water. It was next to a lot where one of those implement dealers was stacking in draft-type horses and a few mules. I couldn’t help but notice there was a lot of nice dapple-gray horses—some a little lighter, showing a little more age, but a few young mares were just dark iron grays—good feet and sound legs on them, and good deep bodies. Most of them would weigh about sixteen hundred pounds apiece. Generally speaking, in work horses blacks and grays were mostly Percheron breeding. (Sorrels and red roans were usually from Belgian breeding.) These horses were gentle and well broke and as nice as any man had ever seen.

  I just couldn’t stand the thought of riding by all these good horses and not taking some of them home with me. I thought surely there would be somebody in Texas that would like to have some good work horses, and the more I thought about the deal, the better I liked these horses. I decided I’d gather me a bunch and bring them back home with me to trade on through the winter.

  It was pretty late in the afternoon, and I had my horses put away and fed and watered. I took my little roll off the back of my saddle and went up to the country hotel, registered in, and got a room in the house for the night. I took a bath and shook myself, put on a clean shirt, took my britches out of my boot tops, and went down to supper. This supper table was one of those big long tables in the middle of a big old dining room. Two or three good women were a-going around waiting on the table, and you just sat yourself down and pitched ’til you win. There was lots of grub on the table, and a few farmers and a few business men and a few other working people from town were eating there that night. I just casual-like brought up the conversation about all these nice big horses.

  I said to the bunch at supper that surely the people were making a mistake. These tractors couldn’t be here to stay. They’re just a passing fancy. Some morning the folks were going to wake up and be out of work stock, and wouldn’t be able to make a living with these put-put machines a-trying to work the soil. Didn’t seem like there was anybody agreed with my opinion much. Some of them laughed a little bit, but there wasn’t none of them stopped putting grub in their mouths to give me any backtalk: until an old boy sitting down the table from me—I didn’t think he looked too bright, and he wasn’t a sure-enough Westerner, he’d been shipped in from somewhere it seemed to me—he said: “Why don’t you buy some of these horses and take them back to Texas with you, so the people won’t get out of work stock?”

  I told him that looked like a pretty good proposition and the next morning I might try my hand at owning some work stock.

  He looked up real wise and said: “That’s my pen down there, next to where you turned your horses tonight. In the morning I’ll be glad to give you a look for free. Maybe you’ll find something you’ll buy.”

  I got down to the lot next morning ’way before he did. I went through his stock and looked at their mouths to see about what ages they were, looked at their feet and legs, lined them up for blemishes and scars, and decided there were about fifteen or sixteen head that I wouldn’t mind driving in front of me on down to Texas. I just knew I’d find somebody would think more of them than people did in that country. After I had pretty well made up my mind what I’d try to buy and was ready to listen to what he would take for them, I got out of the pen and walked off catty-cornered across the street about a hundred yards to a little country café—where I could see the trading pens—and ordered me a batch of breakfast.

  I ate kinda slow and looked out the window. About the time I finished my grub, I saw him a-coming to the pens. I let him catch his horses, brush and c
urry them, and throw out some bundled feed. He stood around, and I’d see him look back over the fence toward the hotel and back toward town. I could tell he was thinking I had give him the cold shoulder and wouldn’t show up. I noticed, too, that he hadn’t caught the kind of horses that I wanted to buy. He was a-brushin’ and a-curryin’ the wrong end of his bunch, so far as I was concerned. It looked to me like he was getting ready to sell me the tailings and him keep the best ones.

  I also noticed that sitting around were several good wagons with broad tires, and in good shape. There were wagonloads of good leather harness with heavy tugs, good jumbo collars, and brass knobs hames. You could tell that, so far as that open country was concerned, work horses and good harness were going out of style.

  I watched him through the window of the café till it looked like he was going to give me out, then I started moseying up the street. I saw that he had caught me out of the corner of his eye—he went to dusting his hands and dusting his britches and trying to get that horsehair off him like he thought it wasn’t clean. That’s the way with those fellows in the implement business. They didn’t mind getting axle grease or oil on them. That was fine, that was a characteristic of the trade; but some sure enough good horsehair they seemed to think would contaminate them.

  I walked in the front gate of the trade grounds and just kinda glanced over his way and waved at him, and went over to where my horses were. I had already fed them when I was there the first time, and they had finished eating. I went in and caught my best horse to brush and curry him. I picked his feet up and cleaned them out with my pocketknife and acted like I was getting ready to saddle up and start out of town.

  He came moseying over to my fence and said: “I thought you were going to try to buy some work stock this morning to take back to Texas with you?”

  I told him I wasn’t plum out of the notion, but looked like as plentiful as they were, I could buy them farther down the road and closer to home, and wouldn’t have so far to drive them.

  He said he didn’t think there was any use of that, when he had a bunch right there that would sure be good for me to take home, and he would sell them to me to where they would make money.

  I said: “Well, maybe I’d better take a look at your stock. You might have some in there that might do to drive home for a profit.” I went to asking him what he wanted for his horses.

  He pointed out a good team of brown horses that was about half big enough, a little age on them and a little moss around the ears. He said it was a good farmer’s team, and he would take $100 for both of them.

  I thought I would lead him on. I said: “That ain’t much money. What else you got to show me?”

  Well, he picked on another pair. They weren’t exactly mates. One was kind of a slim-jim, roman-nosed horse with a big rough ear and a straight shoulder, coarse across the hips, and a little thick in the hocks—not exactly unsound, but far from being an ideal horse. The mate was a little squatty and a little short, not gaited to the other horse. He might have swapped for them together, but they didn’t belong together—of course a tractor man wouldn’t know that. He said he would take $125 for that pair.

  I said: “Well, I wouldn’t be too interested in them, but keep a-talking.” I was still waiting for him to pick out a good horse.

  He never did show me one except those he had been brushing and currying before I got there while I was watching him out the café window. He priced another odd horse or two by themselves for $60 to $85. I said to him: “I guess, then, that you are figuring these horses at about $60 a round.”

  He said, “No, but if a man would take a bunch of them, they ought to be worth around $75 a round.”

  I whittled and looked off over the fence and said: “Oh, there’s plenty more horses between here and Texas. I don’t believe I’ll try to do no business with you. I guess I’d better pack up my riggin’ and get on down the road. It’s getting fall of the year, and it might be winter afore I get home, at the rate I’m going.”

  He came back with the idea that I never had said which horses I wanted, but if I would pick out some, he would make me a price on them.

  I told him I guessed I’d pick out about ten head at $50 a head. I threw in the fact that I never had farmed much, and I didn’t know much about farm horses, and that my picking might not hurt his bunch very much.

  He said that was too cheap, and he didn’t feel like he could do much business on $50 a head, but that he would take $65 for some. He would pick half of them, and I would pick half of them.

  Well, I related to him that that didn’t suit me too good, because I didn’t like for another man to do my picking when he was using my money. Of course, I was trying to get a price per head, and then I was going to pick these good deep-gray mares, and even some of those that were nearly white, and a pair of black horses that was in the pen that sure were good’uns, and a light sorrel pair that had flax manes and tails.

  We whittled up two or three planks on the fence between us. Finally, he said he would take $75 a head and let me pick whatever I wanted. I thought about that for a while, kicked my toe around in the manure, went back over toward my horses, and told him I guessed we couldn’t do business.

  He said he guessed that was the best he could do; then he started back up to a tin shed where he had all of those put-put tractors and stuff. It looked like the day’s work was over.

  I walked back up to the main part of town, stayed a little while, and came back down where my horses were. I passed this implement shed of his afoot, but I didn’t look off or give him no truck. I just kept a-heading for the trade yard like a dry steer that had smelled water. I didn’t much more than get to the gate than I saw him come out from under that shed just like he was going to tree me. He was stepping pretty lively.

  By the time he got to the pens, I had walked inside my pen and was shaking out a bunch of ropes and halters and getting ready to catch my horses. He came up and said he believed that I ought to buy some of his horses at $75 a head.

  I studied about it for a while and told him that they might be worth it to him, but that they wouldn’t be worth it to me. We visited on a bit without either one of us showing the other one a great deal of courtesy. Finally, I told him I’d seen he had lots of harness there that would fit these horses—that he couldn’t eat and he couldn’t swap off—and it wouldn’t go on one of those tractors. If I could get a set of harness for every horse, and one of those good wagons to hook a team to so I could carry some feed and some rigging, then I guessed I would give $75 a round for sixteen head.

  I saw this made him awful nervous. He turned around a time or two and reset his hat on his head a couple of times. You could tell that I’d caused his dandruff to begin to itch a little bit. He opened his pocketknife and forgot what he was going to do with it, closed it back up and put it in his pocket. Finally, he said he couldn’t use all that harness—just like I said—and it didn’t fit any of his tractors. If he let the horses go, he wouldn’t need the harness—so he believed he would trade with me.

  I told him it looked like I was cheated again. That’s what I got for popping off when I was away from home in a foreign country, but I guess I’d just as well go to picking out my horses and getting the harness that fit them.

  Now that I had a price of $150 a team with harness to fit and a wagon to hook one team to, I decided I would buy some stock. I told him to hold the gate between the two pens, and I’d cut out what I wanted. He went to pointing out which ones were good and giving me the history on them—who had worked them and how they’d never been hurt and one thing and another. Every time he would point at one of them, I would look off. Now and then I would tell him to let a certain one through the gate—or I would walk up and catch one by the mane and lead him through or drive him through. In a few minutes I had sixteen head of the best horses that ever walked. They ranged from three-year-olds to ten-year-olds, and there was a set of harness over there in those wagons to fit every horse I had picked out.


  I sure had left him a bunch of culls. He began to get pretty sick and told me that he couldn’t let me have that many, that I was a-robbin’ him, that he didn’t know that I was going to pick this pair and that pair, and so on. And he went to telling me how much trade on a tractor he’d allowed old man So-and-so for that team. I wasn’t interested in his troubles. I told him I would either take sixteen head of horses with all the harness and one good wagon, or I would turn them all back and let them mix up with the snides—for him to just make up his mind. After all, he had been telling me how good all that bunch was that I was letting him keep, and I supposed he had rather have them. I explained to him that I felt like he was so attached to them that he wouldn’t mind keeping them. These others that I was cutting out, he hadn’t bothered to mention. I just supposed he didn’t care much about them.

  He paid me a pretty big compliment along about then. He said he believed I was a better horseman than I looked like I was. And just a kid, too. I had cheated him, but he needed to get rid of some stock; so he was going to sell them to me, he said, and go on back up to the implement shed and sell a man a tractor.

  It took me two or three hours to rig up and fit out that harness and get the right collars on the right horses, with good leather lines and tugs, to where I wouldn’t be ashamed to show this stock after I got back to Texas. I had eight teams of horses all matched and standing out there, and all the harness that fit them. I picked out a pair of good old gray horses and hooked them to one of the best wagons; it had full sideboards and the paint was still new on them. The wheels were tight, and the tongue hadn’t been broke. I threw my saddle and my pack and all my stuff in the wagon.

  In the meantime, while I was picking out these horses and fitting this harness to them, there was a misplaced cowboy came up and saw what I was doing. He helped me and furnished some conversation and told about being out there working on the farms after being a cowboy all his life. His boots were run-over and patched, his hat was worn out in front and water could leak in at the top, and you could tell that farming hadn’t been too good to him. I asked him if he wanted a job helping me get out of town with my stock. He said he would be glad to help me as far as I wanted to go.