Horse Tradin' (16 page)

Of course, I knew enough right off to know he was kind of baiting me, to let me know I could get a bargain by buying her in the dead of winter. So I said: “Well, I don't know that she ain't worth that, so I couldn't give you any argument. But I wonder, just as a favor to a country boy, would you let me put my saddle on her and ride her?”

“Oh, Ben,” he said, “I'd be glad for you to ride this mare. I'd just be delighted. And you'd feel better in your own saddle, so go ahead and put your saddle on her.”

He went to helping me get her saddled. Then he looked down at my spurs and said: “I think you'd be better off without those spurs. She won't need them.”

I glanced up and saw the way he was looking at me, like I was going through military inspection before he would allow me to ride the Easter Lily. So I pulled my spurs off, wondering whether I was going to have to go get my britches pressed or get a shave and comb my hair before he'd think it wouldn't be too disgraceful to let me ride her. I never did like to get on a horse inside the barn, so I turned to lead her out the back door and he said: “Just ride her off down in that little pasture yonder.”

Well, the gate to the little pasture was open, and it was a nice spot that was used to exercise horses in, and I thought it would be all right to comply with the man's request. After all, it was his mare, and it was fixing to be my rare privilege to ride her. I stepped on the mare, and she stood perfectly still. I got my reins in hand and sort of shook myself a little bit and sat down real comfortable,
and she still hadn't moved. I reached over and stroked her on the neck and spoke to her, and she just started off in a nice straight walk with her head a little above the level and her ears standing out looking at the world, taking an interest in everything that was about her. By the time I got to the pasture gate, she'd eased into the nicest fox trot you ever felt under you. She moved beautifully, and she didn't jar you, shake her head, or pop her neck around, and she wasn't wringing her tail. Mr. Wise had told the truth: she did get you across the world without much effort on your part or, seemingly, on her part.

The little pasture probably had twenty-five acres in it. I rode her around the outside fence. She never crow-hopped with me or hit the ground crooked or made any kind of half-hammer motion. I brought her to the center of the pasture and figure-eighted her along in a little fox trot. Then I eased her up into a little more speed, and she very easily shifted into a sweet rack, and that mare could rack as fast as the average horse could run. I didn't want to get her too hot—after all, this was a guest ride I was making—so I reined her up a little. I thought: “Well, this will make her cross her legs and do the half hammer,” but sure enough, just with one stride and one motion, she dropped into that easy natural fox trot, touching the ground as light as a thief in the dark. I knew then that this was one of the good mares of all the horse kingdom. I hated to go back to the barn with her, but I rode in a walk back to the barn so she would cool off a little. I hadn't noticed Mr. Wise watching me at all. If he had been, he was watching through a crack in the barn. As I came into the barn, I stepped off the mare and he stepped out of his office.

He looked up at me, smiled, and said: “Well, young man, now you've been horseback!”

I said: “Yes, sir, and I believe all you've said about the mare is true. I suppose she's worth $500, but I don't have any way of knowing because I've never been on a mare like this before.”

He said: “I'd probably have more need for the horse you're riding, and more opportunities to sell him than I would this mare, between now and spring. If you're really interested in her and feel you can afford a mare of this kind, we might have a trade.”

I knew then that he'd already looked at my horse while I was gone, and had sneaked into his office just for a blind. I began to decide this Mr. Cush Wise was a horse trader. I decided that it was the dead of winter, he had a good many horses on feed, and I didn't know how much money he had in the bank. I thought: “Well now, I might own this gray mare before this session's over.”

I set out to tell him how good my horse was—how much substance he had, how much riding he could stand, what a good horse he was in a tight when you had to rope something or pull a bronc horse or cross a bridge or catch a wild mule in the pasture. “Well,” he said, “I'd hardly have any need for the horse for these things myself, but there are people in this country besides you who use horses, and I'd have some occasion to sell him, provided I could own him at a modest figure.”

I wasn't quite used to this word modest, in place of cheap, but I did savvy that they meant the same thing. So I asked him: “What do you think this modest amount would be?”

He answered: “Oh, I'd have to do some things to your
horse before I could sell him. He needs quite a bit of finishing up to knock off the rough edges, but I suppose I could allow you $125 for him if you chose to buy the Easter Lily.”

Well, my dun horse was a good horse and worth a little more money than that, but not a whole lot. I said I couldn't afford the mare at that price, but that I thought my horse was worth $200 and I'd give $300 difference if he wanted to trade.

He said not to be ridiculous, that the mare was worth several times more than he was asking for her to begin with. So then we started to wrangle, and it went on quite a long time. Finally I started to saddle my own horse, and I was about to put my foot in the stirrup when he said: “Well, now, Ben, don't rush off. Just because you're a nice young man and I want to do you a favor, I'm going to trade with you for the $300.”

It had been my idea for about thirty minutes that that's what he was finally going to do. I had just wondered how long he'd hold out. So I smiled and looked back through the barn where they were cleaning the mare off after the little ride I had made on her. I could hardly keep from jumping up and down. I said: “Well, Mr. Wise, that suits me if it does you.”

So I unsaddled my horse and took my bridle off him and turned him loose, and reached down into my pocket and shuffled and came up with some money, and paid Mr. Wise his $300 in twenty-dollar bills. He looked at it, smiled, and said: “Well, you're a man that carries your money with you.”

Rather than show my hand any, I said: “No, I'm a
man that
did
carry my money with me. You've got it now.”

He gave a nice sociable kind of laugh at that remark and called to his man to bring the Easter Lily up to the new, proud owner. When the man came leading the mare up, I could tell that he was well pleased that she had been sold, which was sort of a surprise to me. He handed me the halter rope, and I slipped the halter off, put my bridle on her, fastened the throat latch, and proceeded to saddle her. My little traveling roll was on the back of my saddle, and I thought it helped her looks a little to have a working man's rig on her.

Mr. Wise said: “Ben, you'll get home so quick on your new mare that the folks won't think you've been gone.”

We both laughed, and I waved good-bye to him and started to ride the mare out into the street. I had to ride across the street the livery stable was on and up another street about a block, before I turned on the road that led out of town. I got across the street; Easter Lily was moving nice. I was just thinking that I was about the luckiest man in the world when all of a sudden she snorted and squatted and turned back suddenly and nearly lost me. If I hadn't been riding a good saddle, I couldn't have stayed on. She grabbed the bits between her teeth, dashed across that paved street and right into the hall of the barn, and stopped. It all happened so fast I hadn't had time to figure it out. This mare had action, and could whirl completely around and face the other direction as quick as the winter wind could flip a leaf.

Mr. Wise looked terribly surprised. The barnman was
nowhere to be seen. Mr. Wise said: “Well, something must have bothered her. She's been feeling good, standing in the stall eating. Let me lead her back across the street for you.”

Well, that was sort of an insult to a cowboy. Nobody ever had to lead any horses for me, and I told him so. I said: “I haven't swapped for no leading stock—she's supposed to be a riding mare. So I'll just ride her back across the street.”

I reined her around and rode her back across the street, and she put on the same performance. This time she turned her ears back a little bit like she was mad, and she went around the side of the barn and into the back, right next to where her stall was. She was frothing at the mouth, and she'd grabbed those bits and I couldn't jerk them loose from her with both hands—and I was a pretty stout young cowboy. When she decided to go back, that mare had the hardest mouth I'd ever felt.

“Perhaps you ought to ride her around back there,” Mr. Wise said, “and get acquainted with her.”

So I reined her and went back down to the little pasture and she rode like a dream. No mad, no nothing, didn't do anything wrong, didn't take the bits. But I said to myself that I couldn't take that pasture home with me just to have a place to ride the Easter Lily.

I came back to the barn and Mr. Wise said: “She's probably over her spell now, Ben; just ride her on off.”

I thought this time I'd go around the side of the barn. About halfway up the side she threw a walleyed fit and turned back. I pulled on her, and she didn't stop. When she hit the hall of the barn, I stepped down off of her and unbuckled my spurs off my saddle and went to putting
them on; they were long, heavy spoke rowel spurs. The spokes were dull and wouldn't cut the mare, but I sure could make an impression on her with them. At least I was fixing to get her attention.

Mr. Wise said: “I just can't imagine what caused this mare to act so horribly. It's just not like her at all. I'm sorry she's doing this, and I think you're horseman enough to ride her, but I hate to see you put spurs on her.”

“Well, Mr. Cush Wise,” I said, “maybe you'd better look the other direction, because I'm damned sure fixing to put my spurs on.”

I was getting about half mad, and at that age it didn't hurt for me to get mad. I knew I could eat that mare, figuratively speaking; she couldn't throw me and she couldn't do anything to me that I couldn't stand. I stepped back on her, reined her out of the hall of the barn, and started around the corner. This time she decided to have her fit right next to the barn door. When she started to whirl back to the left, I caught her way up in the shoulder with the big spoke rowel spurs. You could tell it was quite a shock to her sensitive nature, and she wheeled the other direction. I caught her in the right shoulder, and that unnerved her beyond expression. She jumped forward, bawling real loud. Her breeding had robbed her of her natural instinct for being able to get rid of a man, and even though she was barn-spoiled beyond description she didn't know how to buck. I jabbed her down the side a time or two with the spurs. That got her mixed up enough so that she shuffled her gaits a time or two, clicked her forefeet with her hind feet; then she straightened out to a fox trot and headed for the little pasture. That wasn't going to suit me. I pulled her around to the right with one
rein, and she turned her neck, but not her body. I stood up in my right stirrup and slapped her in the jaw with my left leg, and that turned her around good. She started fox trotting back to the barn. When she got there and started to dive in, I caught her again and jerked her around. That made her lose her balance and she fell to her knees. She hadn't been trained to fall, and wasn't supposed to fall; this was accidental. I got ready to get off her in case she tried to roll with me. It wouldn't be a new experience; I'd met some of that kind, too.

For the last several minutes, Mr. Wise had been standing in the hall of the barn with his hat off, begging and squalling and beseeching. “Ben,” he said, “we could make some kind of a trade and I'd take the mare back before I'd see her ruined.”

I got the mare to stand a few minutes; she was shaking and trembling all over and blowing her nose pretty bad. She had her ears cocked back at me like she was trying to think of something else to do. I said to Mr. Wise: “What kind of a trade did you have in mind?”

“Well,” he said, “you can't ride her away from this barn—
no one else ever has
. The experience ought to be worth $100 to you.”

I told him he'd made a little mistake about who was fixing to get the experience, and it might not be worth $100 to her. But I was going to make more than $100 when I rode the Easter Lily away from that barn. Money wasn't too plentiful with me, but worse than that, my reputation was at stake. I'd been
took
by one of those smart military cavalry horsemen, and that wasn't setting too well with me. But before I threw too big a fit I said to Mr. Wise: “Well, maybe a little later up in the day,
after she gets over her mad spell, and I've had time to get better control of my spurs, I could ride her off. Would you mind if I just put her back into the stable with my saddle on her while I go uptown and rest? Maybe I'll come back around noon.”

“Oh,” he said, “that'll be fine, Ben, fine. You just put her in there now and we won't bother her, and she'll be all right. You're going to unsaddle her?”

“No,” I said, “I don't want to unsaddle her.”

“Anything you say,” he said, “but now, before you ruin the mare, why don't you admit you can't ride her and take your horse back; and after all, you should pay for your education.”

I just shook my head and put the mare in the barn, with the bits still in her mouth and the reins done up on the saddle horn. Then I moseyed out of the back of the barn and around the side and started back up toward town. I had sighted the stableman up in the loft looking out the end, watching the show. I wasn't out of good earshot when I heard him slide down out of the loft and him and Mr. Wise have a good laugh. He told Mr. Wise not to worry about the spur marks on the Easter Lily; he would brush and curry them off in just a few days. The hair would grow back, and I hadn't busted the hide on her.