Horse Tradin'

by Ben K. Green

  As I had ridden into town, I had noticed a gypsy horse traders’ camp on the creek; I also had noticed that the men and horses were gone from the cap wagon. I resaddled the black horse and tried to hold myself up nice in the saddle and let him walk real slow across the market square. There was a wagonload of pigs that a farmer was trying to sell, so I sat on my horse and looked over into this load of pigs—not that you could have given me a pig, but I needed some way to kill a little time until someone noticed my black horse.

  After not too long a spell, I looked over to one side and there stood a gypsy horse trader. You could tell them from way off; that was before cowboys had heard about TV, and it was the gypsy horse traders that wore loud shirts. This old boy had on one of the loudest shirts and the baggiest britches; his feet were little bitty, and he had on soft-toed shoes. He looked at me a minute, took his shabby hat off, and that greasy black hair fell down over his ears. He said in a very humble and polite voice: “Meester, you have a very fine horse, and I need heem to work to my wagon. Vould you care to trade?”

  In a very unconcerned manner and uncouth voice I said: “I don’t know. What you got to trade?”

  He motioned toward his trading wagon, which was just a few yards away. I rode up and looked at his horses without getting off mine. There was a beautiful chesnut-sorrel mare about fifteen hands, well kept, with a flowing flax mane and tail. She was tied to the endgate of the wagon, and his other horses were tied along the side and up toward the front. You could tell she was really something special, because he gave her lots of room where the other horses couldn’t kick her or get their heads tangled in her halter rope. She had a beautiful short back, a long sloping shoulder; the arch of her neck and throat latch and the beautiful chiseled head were something to behold. Her flax mane and tail had been combed out with a fine toothcomb, and her tail almost drug the ground. I knew without untying her that she would be a dream walking, so I said to this gypsy: “You got no business with a mare like that. She won’t match anything you got to work, and these clodhoppers around here don’t know how to appreciate that filly, so I guess I’d let you trade her to me.”

  The gypsy put on a real good act and told me how precious she was to the family, and that they just never traded her off, and that I’d have to pick something else. I said: “That’s your mistake. I don’t have to pick anything else ’cause I don’t want to trade for anything else.” And I reined my horse to ride away.

  The gypsy said: “Wait a meenute, Meester. Maybe you would geeve me a leetle deeference between thees mare and your horse.”

  I knew then that I was smarter than the gypsy, so I got down off my horse to look at the mare. She didn’t have a pimple or a pin scratch on her and was about an honest six-year-old (by honest, I mean that her mouth had not been changed). He insisted that I ride the mare, and it wasn’t hard to get me to try her out. I put my own saddle on her, and she stood very nicely. I stepped on her and rode on off across the trading square. I got out on a back street with her, and she was the nicest mannered mare that you ever could imagine. She had a long, sweeping fox trot and nodded her head just enough to rattle the bit—and didn’t jar you the least bit out of the saddle. I told myself that I believed I’d cheat that gypsy out of that mare.

  In the meantime, of course, he and his kinfolks had gathered around the black horse and gone over him with their beady black eyes and nervous little twisted fingers, and they knew all there was to know about him. After a batch of unnecessary conversation about the good and bad points of both horses—which no horse trade would be complete without—I offered him $50 difference, which was a pile of money in those days. I never did get off the mare, and the gypsy and his brothers never did quit talking—with all six or eight hands in the air—about how that would be stealing her and she was worth many times more than the black horse.

  The reason I didn’t offer to give him any more was because that was all the money I had in my pocket, outside of a little change I had to pay Sterling at the livery stable and eatin’-money to leave town on. They had a meetin’ between where I sat on the chesnut mare and the black horse; when they came back out of the huddle and went to putting their hands in their pockets, the first gypsy said: “Me take $50.”

  I paid him and rode off back down to the livery stable so Sterling and the rest of the town boys could congratulate me on a good day’s work as a shrewd horse trader. As I rode in, I had the mare reined up just a little so she was hitting her best stride, and people up and down the street had to stop and watch her pass. Sterling said: “She moves like a thief in the night.”

  I stepped down and said: “Ride her off a little ways, just to realize she’s real.”

  As he came back and got off her he said: “She’s real nice.”

  We put her in a stall, and I visited a little while longer. Late that afternoon I started out of town. Just as I rode out of the gate my old friend Sterling, with a whimsical smile on his face, said: “Ben, does that tail belong to that mare?”

  There was a little question mark in the tone of his voice, and to this least of my worries I answered: “I reckon so. It’s following her.” And it didn’t cross my mind but that all was well.

  I rode back to the ranch in solid comfort, fed my new traded-for mare off the porch of my batchin’ shack, and left her in the yard instead of putting her out with the other horses.

  Along about this stage of my life, all I knew a currycomb and brush were for was to scratch the sweat off horses’ backs and knock the dry foam and sweat off their sides where the cinch rubbed. And sometimes I did this with a short broken piece of wood, or I found a corncob was just about as good as a currycomb. I fed, watered, and rode the mare, and her mane and tail soon were hanging in ropy-like strings and lacked the beautiful fluff they once had displayed. But that didn’t bother me much, until one morning I walked down to the pen where I had left her the night before, picked up my bridle, and started into the pen to catch her.

  The mare was standing with her hindquarters to the gate, and as I walked through the gate I thought she had sprouted an elephant tail in place of a horse tail. That long, beautiful flax tail was hanging by a snag on the fence on the other side of the corral. And the stump of that mare’s tail didn’t have a hair on it.

  The gypsies had fashioned a tail for the mare which they had fastened on with elastic bands—and she was a sickening sight to behold with her “falsy” off.

  The Parson’s Mare, Bessie

  When I was ranching in the Brazos River country of West Texas, I had a lot of horses of various and sundry kinds—might even have been a few sorry ones among them. All my horses were on the light-boned side, and I was in need of a work horse or two to use to a wagon.

  It was in the late summer, which was about the time of year that people in the country used to have “Brush Arbor Meetin’s.” They generally imported some good old preacher from across a few counties to hold these summer meetin’s. It wasn’t uncommon for preachers to trade churches and hold a meetin’ away from home. These saintly old gentlemen generally drove buggies or two-wheel gigs, and some few of them rode saddle horses with huge saddlebags on the backs of their saddles to carry a Bible and their other shirt in.

  It so happened that one of these fine old gentlemen came to the farming community down below my ranch to hold a summer meetin’. He drove a nice big fat bay mare named Bessie to a little bitty light two-wheel gig. Bessie’s size and proportions suited her much better for a work mare, I thought, than pulling the preacher’s gig at a slow walk. The Reverend brushed and curried Bessie, combed her mane and tail, and fed her the good brethren’s corn wherever he might be; so her condition was nothing but the best. Wherever he might drive during the day to have dinner, he drove Bessie in a slow walk. And that irritated me a lot to see a great big fat mare pulling a little bitty gig and a small preacher in a slow walk. I just thought the preacher should have a faster and lighter horse, and if I had Bessie she would have a better load to move at a faster step.


  Being young and a little on the rough side, and it being the season of the year that I usually loved to run wolves at night with a pack of hounds and good horses, I hadn’t been too regular an attendant at the good preacher’s meetin’s; but I really got to thinking that I might ought to hear the good Reverend preach and—purely as an afterthought—mention the possibility of a little horse trading some night when the meetin’ was over.

  I rode down to the brush arbor tabernacle one night, and I was being real gentlemanly: I had taken a bath and shaved, and when I got off my horse, I took my spurs off and fastened them on to the saddle instead of wearing them under the brush arbor. Any good close observer would be able to tell by this action that I was properly impressed with the solemness of the occasion. Quite a few of the more devout members of the community took notice and made some mention of my presence, but the kind old preacher acted as though I had been coming all the time and made no mention of any of my past sins, such as wolf hunting, horse and mule trading on Sunday, and the like. I found this attending church rather painless, and as I walked out to where my horse was tied to leave that night, it just occurred to me that everybody had been real nice to me.

  I noticed that the preacher’s mare was standing tied close to my horse, and even in the dark I could tell that she didn’t have any bad wire cuts, big knees, or similar blemishes; but I didn’t feel like I ought to mouth her and see how old she was the first time I went to the meetin’.

  The weather was hot and dry, and it wasn’t a good time for wolf dogs to be able to follow a trail at night; so I attended the meetin’ a few more times right straight along, but I still didn’t get a chance to mouth that preacher’s mare to see how old she was. There was a country store in the community just a few miles from the ranch. One day right after dinner, when most people were taking their naps, I was on my way over to another ranch and rode by the country store to get a cold coke—which was quite a treat in a country where there was no ice—and get posted on the local gossip. The country storekeeper was my good friend and he generally had something interesting to tell, either about the cow market and whatever trades had been made in the country, or maybe he would drift off on the political trend or gossip of the neighborhood. But to say the least, you could always get more than your nickel’s worth of conversation along with your bottle of coke.

  He had hardly started into conversation when up drives the country preacher with his big mare, Bessie, hooked to that little bitty gig. He shook hands with us and remarked about the heat of the day, and consented to accept my hospitality in the form of a cold drink. I didn’t waste any time bringing up this horse trade that had been troubling me the times I had been listening to him preach. I said: “Reverend, that sure is a big fine mare that you’ve got there, and it seems to me a shame to waste her ability as a work horse pulling a little bitty gig like that. And, too, as valuable a man as you are to the community, you ought to be able to get around faster and do more good tending to your flock.”

  He pondered my statement a few minutes, and with very carefully chosen words he told me that he had had the desire for a speedier animal, but that he was so fond of Bessie it hurt him to think of parting with her. However, he guessed if the right trade came along, he would be tempted to get a better driving horse that would be more suitable for his needs. I invited him over to the ranch to look over what I had and pick out something that would suit him, and we made a date for him to be at my place the next morning while it was still cool and see if we could have a trade. He further told me that another reason he would consent to look at my horses was that he knew Bessie would have a good home and wouldn’t be mistreated.

  The next morning the preacher showed up driving Bessie in that usual slow walk, and he had gotten up early enough to give her that nice brushing and combing and grooming that causes any horse to be attractive. By this time in life I was a little better than half smart; so the afternoon before, I had rounded up my trading stock and cut out a few of the very best ones and driven them over to the back of the ranch. I put them in a pasture so the preacher wouldn’t have them to pick from. Several of the other horses were broke to work and ride, and I had one red roan mare that was a little Roman-nosed, a little pig-eyed, and just a shade prick-eared; but she was a good driving mare and had plenty of go and plenty of endurance, and I felt like she would be the ideal horse to jerk that little two-wheel gig across the country. I showed the preacher eighteen or twenty head of horses, but I did emphasize the driving qualities of the Roman-nosed, red roan mare.

  I began to get aware of the fact that the preacher hadn’t told me anything about Bessie. I looked in her mouth, and she was about an eight-year-old. She had a good set of legs and a heavy body and probably would have weighed fourteen hundreds pounds. I asked: “Reverend, does she work hitched double?”

  He replied: “I would have no fear of hitching Bessie double or single.”

  I said: “Is she a good puller in a tight?”

  He stated: “Why, I would have no fear of hooking Bessie to a green load of wood or a wagon loaded with a bale of cotton in a sandy field.”

  I thought this was sufficient comment and didn’t press the old gentleman for any more proof as to Bessie’s working qualities. The good preacher made me quite a talk about the scarcity of money with a member of the clergy, and how much better horse Bessie was than the Roman-nosed, red roan mare, and it was so impressive that I paid him $20 boot between Bessie and the red roan mare.

  We took Bessie out from the gig and had to punch holes in the harness to take it up enough to fit the red roan mare. We got her hooked up, and the preacher sped along on his way because the red roan mare was for sure a road-eater hooked to a cart.

  When the preacher was out of sight, I had to sit down on a stump in the shade of a tree and have a real big laugh and brag on myself about cheating the preacher out of that big fine work mare. I felt then that my only problem was to find another one good enough to work with her, and in the meantime I would just have to hitch that big fat mare up beside a common mule.

  I lost my interest in the meetin’s, seems like, and it was three or four days before I had an occasion to work Bessie. I was cleaning out a corn crib to make room for some fresh corn, and I backed the wagon up to the crib by hand and loaded it with corn, then proceeded to harness Bessie up. I had to let out my harness and take the pad out from under the collar in order to get the harness big enough to fit Bessie. Then I harnessed a good common mule that I knew would pull, and hooked the two up to the wagon that was loaded with corn. Bessie was very nice and easy to hook up and was gentle to walk around. I put my hand on her hip as I stepped on the doubletree to get up into the wagon, and thought how lucky I was to have such a big, fine mare. I tightened my line and spoke to the team.

  The mule started to go—but the tone of my voice didn’t seem to impress Bessie, and she didn’t move a foot. I looked around to see if I had hitched her wrong or if something was bothering her—if the lines were too tight or something. Her lines seemed to be in order; so I shook the bits and spoke to them pretty plain to “Get up.” The little mule lunged at the load, but Bessie stood real still.

  It was almost about to dawn on me that Bessie might not work too good to a wagon. I reached out with the end of my line and tapped Bessie a firm, stinging lick on her nice fat rump. The only thing it did was cause her to chew her bit a little faster, but Bessie didn’t move. I finally proceeded to use a strong brand of language that Bessie may not have heard before, and I even resorted to a good heavy bullwhip to try to impress upon her the responsibilities of her new position in life. Well, I damn near wore out the whip. And I ran out of any fresh profanity, without repeating myself. And I decided that Bessie wasn’t going to pull that load of corn. I took Bessie out of the harness and got another mule, and moved the load of corn with the team of mules.

  It was late in the afternoon by now, so I saddled up a horse and rode off down to the country store to confide in my old friend a
bout the preacher’s mare, Bessie. I was sitting on a sack of salt drinking my second coke, and my old storekeeper friend was having a belly laugh that he was thoroughly enjoying at my expense. He told me that he thought I should have paid the $20 on the expense of the meetin’, anyway. The good preacher had been by the store and told him how well pleased he was with the road performance of the red roan mare.

  As I was about to leave the store, up drives the preacher. He had been brushing and currying the red roan mare and feeding her the brethren’s corn, one of the brethren had shod her, and she already looked a lot better. There was no one else in the store but the storekeeper and preacher, so I contested the preacher about that statement of his concerning hooking Bessie to that load of wood or that bale of cotton; then I said maybe she knew the difference between these and a load of corn, and maybe she just doesn’t like to pull corn.

  The preacher smiled and asked me just exactly what he had said. By this time I had had time to ponder it, and I remembered well what he had said. He had said he would have no “fear” in hooking Bessie to a load of green wood or a wagon loaded with a bale of cotton in a sandy field. He smiled, and in a very satisfied tone of voice quoted me Webster’s definition of the word “fear” which is, “apprehension of evil or danger, dread or anxiety.” And he told me that he had no apprehension of danger of Bessie trying to pull that load, and he had no dread of hooking her to that wagon as she would not kick or hurt herself, and he had no anxiety that she might break her harness or tear up the wagon trying to pull the load.

  As he turned to walk away he said: “Young man, you were also truthful about the red roan mare. She is everything that you said she was—and more, too.”

  The Gray Mules

  One winter I was feeding a bunch of steers on the Brazos River on a big old rough ranch—rough pasture and lots of canyons and draws. The river was winding, and it was a hard kind of country to get your feed out into the pasture to feed cattle. Of course, in those days we used wagons and teams for everything.