Horse Tradin'

by Ben K. Green

  We went back down into this flat below the trading post, and this time they wanted to run the race for a little bit more than a quarter of a mile; so we marked off a little longer track, which was sure a long quarter of a mile. But, like I said, the farther Ol’ Nothin’ went, the better he got.

  Wat did the starting, the Indians did the hollering, Ol’ Nothin’ did the running—and me and Ol’ Nothin’ won the money.

  This upset the Indians a right smart, and they said I ought to stay around a day or two until they could get another race horse that was farther back up in the Reservation. I told them I wasn’t in much hurry as long as I was winning horse races, and I would camp at the trading post ’til they showed up with a better race horse.

  What I didn’t know then was that they had already sent up the smoke signal for this other horse—in case they lost the race.

  In about three days they came in to match the big race. They brought a palomino mare that belonged to Chief Treeheart and was called something which meant the Daughter of the Sun. She was truly a beautiful mare, well kept, with every hair in place. She had a beautiful light mane and tail that had been plaited and unplaited by the squaws, giving the hair a wavy appearance.

  The Chief wanted to bet a great big turquoise bracelet against $50. This turquoise stone was as big around as a tin drinking cup and about as thick as your thumb—mounted in a huge silver band. I didn’t know whether it was worth $3 or $300, but we almost had to match the race to get any side bets; so I put up the $50 with Wat at the trading post, and the old Chief gave him the bracelet. Then Wat went to taking side bets, and he had about $150 to bet when he asked me if I wanted to take part of it. I told him I would take it all, and he looked pleased. I know now that he was working for the Indians and hadn’t bet anything himself.

  We led our horses back down into this meadow below the trading post. It was a nice, brisk, spring day, and we got our horses at the end of this line to start the race—which was to be the same distance that we had run the last race. The meadow where we were running our horses had been watered in the early spring by melted snow, and the grass was up tall and waving in the breeze. Green pines covered the side of the mountain. The peak of the mountain was covered with snow that it was holding up above the heat of the earth as a marker for the snows that would come that fall.

  I heard a peculiar noise, and when I looked up along the side of the mountain, the whole tribe of women and children was seating itself on the ground and perching on boulders to watch the horse race. These Indian women and children had blankets and dresses whose colors must have been rubbed off the rainbow.

  The old Chief wanted to stand on one side of the line, and Wat on the other, to be sure the horses got an even start. The Chief stood on the same side that my horse was on, and when Wat hollered “Start,” he whooped real loud and threw his hat under my horse. But this didn’t booger Ol’ Nothin’.

  The Daughter of the Sun was a good race mare, and at the end of the designated race we were nose-and-nose. Neither of us had won. A little argument started, and I thought there was no one at the end of the line who really knew; so I wasn’t trying to claim that I had won the race. But among the squaws on the side of the mountain was a white woman who lived with the Indians, and she had been standing even with the end of the line. I didn’t know this until a little black Indian kid ran down and whispered in the old Chief’s ear; then he raised up and said it was a tie. This worried me a little, because I knew he was on the starting line and wouldn’t have been able to tell if it was a tie. That was when Wat decided that it was appropriate for him to explain to me about this white woman on the finish line. What he neglected to tell me, and I learned later, was that this was a frame-up in order to get more money for a race to be run that afternoon.

  After a little grunting among the Indians, the Chief and I agreed to run the race over that same afternoon about two o’clock. This is not in keeping with present-day racing practice—to run a horse two races the same day—but it looked to me like it would be fair because they were going to run the same mare, just as I was going to run Ol’ Nothin’.

  The Indians lay around the trading post all day and made business real good for Wat. Their horses grazing in the meadow below the trading post made it look like they had gathered for a summer powwow. Nobody drew down his bet, but Wat had begun to act uneasy about the $150. He eased up to me and asked if I wanted to draw my money down—he might get the Indians to call off the race. I felt a little lonesome among that bunch of redskins; and Wat, the only other white man, I had decided was on their side. But I told him that I would leave my money up. As an afterthought, I added that I sure was glad that race wasn’t any longer because I didn’t think Ol’ Nothin’ could run more than that distance twice in one day.

  It was about eleven o’clock in the morning. I took Ol’ Nothin’ and eased back over to my camp, threw some more wood on my fire, and heated some water in a bucket to rub his legs down. Ol’ Nothin’ was ten years old. His legs were hard and sound, and I guess I was just trying to pamper him a little bit. He wasn’t used to having his legs rubbed down after a brush race. I fed him some oats out of a morral (nosebag) and while he was eating, I got to thinking he might enjoy a drink of strong coffee. It was an old trick in brush races to drench an old, seasoned race horse with about a quart of black coffee thirty or forty minutes before a race. It seemed like the dope in the coffee sure would perten one up, especially when he hadn’t been used to it.

  I walked back up to Wat’s trading post and told Wat I was fresh out of coffee, so for him to give me a pound. He handed me a yellow package of Arbuckle’s, which was too strong for most white people although most Indians liked it. I boiled me up a bucketful of that coffee and poured it in a whiskey bottle, then raised Ol’ Nothin’s head and drenched him with it. I was far enough off from the trading post and in a little draw, so I knew nobody would know that I gave Ol’ Nothin’ that coffee.

  This was about an hour before the time we had decided we would run the race. You could see Indians all up and down the meadow, standing and sitting down in the grass, and they were taking turns about keeping the Daughter of the Sun limbered up. They rubbed her with beautiful Indian blankets that today would be worth a fortune. Some little Indian boys would run up ever now and then and give her a bite of feed out of their hands. I never knew what kind of feed they were giving her.

  As the time drew near for the race, you could see the squaws and little children gathering on the side of the mountain and getting their grandstand seats. I put the bridle on Ol’ Nothin’. I had brushed him and cleaned him off good and fed and walked him a little bit. So I began to walk him around, and I led him up by the trading post.

  Old Wat came out and had a very confidential talk with me. He told me that the Indians wanted to put up another $50 and increase the length of the race about a hundred yards. He pointed to a red boulder in the side of the mountain that they wanted to use for a marker, letting the race run out to a line even with the boulder. I hemmed and hawed, rubbed Ol’ Nothin’ on the shoulder and slapped around on him, looked over his back and kinda kicked my boot-toe in the dirt a few minutes. Then I told Wat that I was running awful short of money, but that I believed I would put up that $50.

  He motioned back at some of them, and an old Indian walked up bringing the other $50. We gave our money to Wat, after agreeing that the boulder would be the line to end the race. I had to turn and lead my horse off in order to keep from showing that I was well pleased. They had took the bait that I had planted when I told old Wat that I was glad the race wasn’t any longer, that I didn’t think Ol’ Nothin’ could run more than that distance twice in one day! I knew Ol’ Nothin’ could run from then ’til sundown if he had to.

  We all got set for the race, and I told Wat that I wanted the Chief to sit on the other side and not throw his hat under my horse. All the Indians thought that was funny, and they had a great big laugh. The truth of the matter was, I didn’t care if he sat
in front of me; when the race started, Ol’ Nothin’ could have jumped clear of him—but I wanted to complain a little bit about something to make it seem like I was a real paleface.

  Old Wat dropped his hat and hollored: “Go!”

  The Daughter of the Sun was a beautiful mare, and the old Indian rode her like some more of her own hide. It was a nice race for a little piece, and then I decided I had better quit taking a chance. So I leaned way over and squalled into Ol’ Nothin’s ear. He must have gotten the message, because when we went past the line where the boulder was sticking out of the montain, the Daughter of the Sun was about even with the point where we ran the first race. I would say Ol’ Nothin’ daylighted her 150 feet.

  You never saw Indians disappear back into the woods like that bunch of squaws and kids as they went up the mountain. By the time I got back to the trading post, which was just across the valley, you couldn’t even see them. Half of the younger men walked off with their horses and with the Daughter of the Sun, and eight or ten real old, dried-up looking Indians were sitting on the porch of the trading post when I got there.

  I walked into the trading post, and Wat acted like he was awful busy wrapping up something and talking to an Indian squaw. He didn’t even notice me. I opened the lid of an old, homemake ice box and got a coke which I stood around and drank. And that was an awful quiet bunch of Indians sitting on that front porch with their backs toward me. I don’t know how Custer felt at his last stand, but I was beginning to think I knew. So far as I knew, there hadn’t been any Indians on the warpath in a good many years, but the way these were acting, it seemed like we were about to have an uprising over Ol’ Nothin’s outrunning the Daughter of the Sun.

  The Indian squaw finally walked off, and Wat couldn’t help but turn around and see me, so there was nothing he could do but start conversation. He reached down under the counter (he didn’t have a cash register) and pulled out my $250 and another $200 in various bills and silver and counted it out on the counter. He wasn’t saying anything; and the Indians, lined up with their backs to us on the front porch, weren’t saying anything either.

  Then I said: “Wat, where’s the Indian bracelet?”

  He began to change feet and look off. And I saw the Chief’s back straighten up some, on the front porch. Then Wat went to painfully trying to explain to me how the bracelet was a piece of tribal jewelry and that the Chief couldn’t give it up; that he and the rest of the Indians out there on the porch wanted to have a powwow about trading me a blanket for it.

  Well, I thought about it a few minutes, and I didn’t think that bracelet would fit me anyhow, though I might use a blanket. And the trade might make a difference in how long I got to stay, and what shape and how many horses I got out of the mountains with. So I cleared my throat and in a loud voice told Wat that I wouldn’t think of taking any of the Chief’s precious stones—that I would be more than glad to have the blanket instead and would cherish their friendship every time I put it on a horse.

  When I looked up that time, all the Indians had stood up, turned around, and started walking into the store. Indian fashion, they didn’t display very much surprise or gratitude. However, the old Chief said that for a paleface I was a good rider and a good horseman, and since I took the blanket I must be part Indian. The little Indian jockey was carrying a beautiful black and white handwoven Indian blanket—that has been on a horse or in a car for lo, these many years, and is folded and lying across the head of my bed in place of a pillow to this good day.

  I took my money and my blanket and Ol’ Nothin’ and went off down to my camp. Strange to say, none of the Indians had ever come close to where I was camped or paid any attention to Beauty, who was by far the best-looking horse of my two. I cooled Ol’ Nothin’ off a little and then stretched out on the ground, leaned back against a tree, and thought about what a nice trip I was having and how different this was from that double harness.

  In the late afternoon, the old Indian jockey and two young bucks walked up to about fifty yards from my camp. One of the young bucks made some kind of noise that made me notice them, so I asked them to come on down to the fire. I had a little of that black coffee left from what I had given Ol’ Nothin’, and I took the chance of letting the Indians drink some of it because I figured the races were all over. We sat and looked at each other a while. Then finally the young buck who did the talking said that old Indian jockey had many ponies and he wanted to own my race horse. We talked about the ponies, and they explained to me that they were over east of the mountain in a valley, that they were all young and most of them had been ridden “some.” It sounded like a good proposition, and I told them that when I broke camp the next day I would ride back that direction and look at the ponies—then we would talk trade.

  The valley they described was on a little narrow road that led out across the mountain range and down to a small town called White Tail, then over the mountains toward Hondo. However, I didn’t intend to go to Hondo after I got the ponies. I thought that I would bear back on an old ranch road that went by the Flying H and in toward Artesia.

  I broke camp the next morning about sunup, went back to the trading post, and got another supply of grub which I put on Ol’ Nothin’s pack saddle. As I came out of the trading post, there was one of the few white men that I had seen crossing the country. He was stopped to get some gasoline. Wat had one of those hand-grinding gasoline pumps. His gas business was of minor importance, though he did have a little for white people who rode in automobiles. When the fellow got out of the car, I recognized him as being a friend of mine from Lubbock, Texas. Wat filled his gasoline tank, and we had a great visit.

  We walked off from the car a little piece, and I whispered to him what I had in mind. Then we went back to within earshot of Wat, and I said: “That sure will be nice. I’ll get a paper sack here from the trading post and wrap it up for you.”

  When he started to pay Wat for his gas, I asked Wat to get me a paper sack that would hold about $400 worth of money. I had the money stuffed in my shirt pockets with the flaps buttoned down; so I took it out and put it in this paper sack, then folded the sack down to a small wad, tied a string around it, and handed it to my friend. I told him I sure would appreciate his mailing it back to my bank. Of course, that was for Wat’s information. My friend was going to keep the money until he heard from me. I wasn’t going to accuse Wat and those Indians of anything. I was just making arrangements to disappoint them, in case they had anything in mind.

  The old Indian jockey, who had many ponies, lived in a valley that was about a two-day ride. On the morning of the third day I topped out on a ridge and looked down in a narrow, rough kind of a little wooded canyon, with a trail leading down to something a little more than an Indian hogan. It was sort of a ’dobe, houselike affair with a porch on the front of it, built out of cottonwood poles with Spanish dagger tied in little bunches and laid over the top to form a roof. As I came into view of the porch, I saw the old jockey sit up on a little cot against the wall. As it turned out, the white squaw who was at the race belonged to the jockey, which was the reason that dwelling looked more like a house than a hogan.

  We visited a little while, and he said that he was ready to show me the ponies. I didn’t tie Ol’ Nothin’, or unpack him, or leave him—I just led him along with me. About four miles down the canyon, against a little stream, was a well-hidden little valley.

  The ponies were fat, good-sized for Indian horses, good solid colors, and showed more than a little breeding. The old Indian jockey started out by telling me that he would give me five ponies for the horse that outran Daughter of the Sun. I didn’t show much interest. I had counted them, and there were twenty-three in that valley. We got down off our horses and walked around among the ponies. They seemed to be real gentle. There were only two that had saddle marks to show that they had actually been used. But the others didn’t shy from us—didn’t booger or try to run off—and acted like they had been raised in a lot by a farmer, instead
of on an Indian Reservation. I had already decided that the old jockey was the top horse-Indian of the tribe, and I was giving him credit for these ponies all being so gentle.

  We spent about three hours, and he kept inching up a few more ponies until he finally got pretty mad and said he wouldn’t give more than fifteen ponies for any horse he ever saw, and that he didn’t like making talk with a paleface horse trader all day. I told him fifteen would be enough if I got the two that had the saddle marks. He agreed, and I unshucked the riggin’ off Ol’ Nothin’—using a bay horse with saddle marks for a pack horse. He stood still until I got the pack on him, and he led off pretty good when we started out. However, I decided to turn him loose and drive him with the rest of the ponies.

  I started out of the mountains, driving the ponies in front of me up the trail that I had come in on. They were the gentlest, slowest moving, young fat horses that I ever saw. You could ride up and tap one on the rump with a lariat rope, and he would hardly flinch.

  I made camp that night at a little set of corrals by a spring. They evidently belonged to some rancher who used them occasionally to pen livestock. I had about run out of oats for Beauty, but I had enough for that night.

  The next morning I saddled Beauty and went into the corral to catch the bay horse that I had used for a pack horse the day before. He was a little bit snorty and didn’t want me to walk up to him, so I had to hem him up in the corner to catch him finally. I thought this was just because I wasn’t an Indian and that he would get used to me in a few days. But when I started to put my packsaddle on him, he threw a walleyed fit, and the rest of the ponies crowded up in the back side of that corral snorting and acting like wild broncs. I had to tie this pack horse’s foot to his shoulder and put a twitch on his nose before I ever got my packsaddle on him. I sure did cinch that packsaddle tight, and then I wrapped him and that whole pack up with a big rope, which I tied with a diamond hitch. I had an idea that he might be going to buck with the pack, and I intended when he got through bucking for him to still have it on. Sure enough, when I let his foot to the ground he threw a fit, but it didn’t last long. There was no gate on this corral, just some long pole bars. I pulled them down and rode around the back side of the corral, easing my ponies out onto the trail and heading them east. I was getting back down into the lower country, and the road was getting plainer and easier to follow; I could see that I would come onto a fenced road in another two or three hours.