Horse Tradin' (17 page)

As soon as I was out of sight, I quickened up my pace a little bit. I walked up to the lobby of the Crazy Hotel, where there was one of those built-in long-distance phone booths over to one side in a big mahogany cabinet. I went in and called Lester Lewis, a man I knew in Weatherford, where I lived, that had a truck. It was one of the little trucks that were all they had in those days, and it would
haul two horses. I didn't tell my friend all my troubles; I just told him I was afoot in Mineral Wells and wanted him to go to the wagonyard and get Beauty and bring her to me at Cush Wise's livery stable, and to borrow an extra saddle for me and bring it too. I said if he was here now, he'd already be late. He said he thought he could be with me in an hour and a half. While I waited, I walked up and down the back streets and tried to stay out of sight and out of conversation with anybody, because I was mad. A young cowboy isn't very good company for himself, much less anybody else, when he's mad.

When I saw my friend coming, I got in with him and rode back to the barn. He took his endgate out and backed up to a little ditch, and Beauty jumped out. She nickered to me, and I was glad to see her, too. She was always my friend and my standby, helping me out of whatever I happened to get into with bad horses or wild cattle. It was heaps better than sending for some of your folks, because they'd scold you if you got into some kind of trouble. All Beauty wanted was to help.

I saddled Beauty up with the rigging Lester had borrowed from a friend of mine at the wagonyard, and went in and took the breast collar off my saddle and put it on Beauty. Then I led the gray mare out into the opening. Mr. Wise was becoming perplexed. I guess that is a good word for a man of good social standing, prestige, and ability in horsemanship.

He said: “What are you going to do, Ben?”

I said: “I'm fixing to ride the Easter Lily.”

“No,” he said, “what are you going to do, Ben? Load the mare and haul her away?”

I said: “No, sir. I don't think this mare was bred to
haul and you didn't mention her loading qualities. I'm fixing to ride the mare. If she's barn-spoiled the way it seems she is, hauling her won't break her from it.”

“Now Ben,” he said, “before you do something foolish, it would be wise of you to reconsider the proposition I made you. You can have your horse back and the $200.”

I said: “It could be, but I don't think I could resell that experience, and I don't want to be out the expense. It might be worth something to you, Mr. Wise, to find out about the way cowboys break spoiled horses. Of course, I'm sure it ain't horsemanship, but it might be something you could use sometime, so you just watch and keep your damned mouth shut.”

By now I had Beauty rigged up and I'd put a halter on the Easter Lily underneath her bridle. I took a good silk manila lariat rope and put it around her neck. I tied it where it wouldn't choke her and ran it down through her halter, tying it to her halter ring so she would be pulling on her neck and her head at the same time. I double half-hitched this rope to Beauty's saddle horn, with just enough room to make her have to lead up about halfway on Beauty's side, so she would be able to get behind her and tromp my good mare's hind feet with her forefeet.

Mr. Wise asked if my friend who had brought the bay mare in the truck was going to ride her. I told Mr. Wise: “She's all the help I'll need, without a rider.”

By that time, something else had developed. The barnman wasn't in the loft, he was standing on the ground looking excited, and his mouth was open and his eyes were crossed a little bit. He was watching Mr. Wise, and Mr. Wise was watching me, and you could see a kind of sickish expression crossing both of their faces. The Easter
Lily showed no excitement, but you could see in her ears and her eyes the firm determination not to do what was right.

In the meantime, Mr. Wise had explained to me that the lady had ridden the mare only in the little pasture and she'd never been up and down the streets, and that she didn't like to leave the barn. I told him I was fixing to get her over that. Beauty had the saddle, blanket, and breast harness on and no bridle, and that looked a little odd to everybody concerned. I stepped on the Easter Lily after I had her tied hard and fast to Beauty and had taken Beauty's bridle off; she was standing perfectly motionless and right where I could reach over and pat Beauty on the hips and talk to her and she'd know what was going on. I'd snubbed no telling how many bronc horses, I'd drug mules, I'd done everything to Beauty and with her, and she wasn't the least bit excited; however, she was chewing a little bit and watching me closely and had one ear turned, and had her head turned enough to bring the whole picture into view on the eye on the left-hand side.

I spoke to Beauty and I spoke to the Easter Lily and we rode off beautifully; the Easter Lily rode on a loose halter rope until we crossed the road. When we crossed the road and started up the street she started to throw a fit, but she'd waited a little long for that fit, and this was the last one she was fixing to throw, and I thought she better get the full benefit of it. I didn't ever spur. I reached over and patted Beauty on the hindquarters and spoke to her, telling her to go on. She'd get a little closer to the ground and pull a little harder. The Easter Lily's hind feet were marking the gravel road where Beauty was dragging her, and she was moving her forefeet forward
one at a time, just fast enough to keep from falling. She'd begun to bawl a mournful, hard, mad, hateful bawl, but that didn't excite me nor Beauty. I reached over and spoke to Beauty again and spanked her on the hip. By this time she had such a grab on the Easter Lily, and had her scooting so bad when she was trying to pull back, that Beauty struck a little, hard, deep-pulling trot, and when she did she unnerved the Easter Lily to the point that she had to go to moving her hind legs as well as her front ones. Then I spoke to Beauty to pull back to a walk. The Easter Lily was walking with her feet in front and behind, very reluctantly, and was pulling hard on Beauty. Beauty was having to lean forward and way over to the right, since I'd snubbed the Easter Lily to the left.

Mr. Wise had gotten in his long automobile and had his barnman with him. He was coming up the street behind me. My truckman was out in front of me a little piece and had already decided that everything was going to be all right, but it seemed he wasn't going to run off and leave me until I was outside the city limits.

Mr. Wise drove up in front of me and jumped out of his car. “Ben,” he said, “I hate to see you abuse that mare. Let me give all your money back and come and get your horse.”

I said: “I don't have a horse. He's yours, and it's not my money, it's your money. And don't worry about me abusing this mare. It so happens I traded for her, and with my wagonyard background, I'm not thinking about backing out or trading back even, or any of those vulgar things which a man of your background might be inclined to suggest that I do.”

Anyway, by now he was having to trot to keep up
with me, because Beauty was moving pretty brisk and the Easter Lily had begun to weaken, and was just walking at a lean instead of pulling back so hard. He'd jump in his car and drive a little piece, and then he'd jump out of his car and trot a little piece, and then he'd jump back in his car and drive a little piece, and we were nearly out to the edge of the town. We got out of the city limits of Mineral Wells—at that time there was a red brick paving along the main highway out there, and I was off that paving and over in the ditch, and Beauty was going along good, having to pull a little on the Easter Lily, but not too much. My trucker friend had decided to drive on and leave me. Evidently he thought everything would be all right. Mr. Wise was still following me, still driving his car and jumping out and walking, and I wasn't stopping to talk to him. Beauty was as hard as iron and had the lungs a horse ought to have, a deep girth with a short back and powerful hindquarters, and good forelegs, and she could pull that mare from daylight to dark and not give plumb out. I knew she wasn't hurting and the Easter Lily was weakening, so I began to relax a little bit and enjoy part of the fun.

Mr. Wise finally drove up past me, stopped his car and jumped out again, and said: “Ben, would you take a profit on the mare,
sir?”

I said: “Thank you,
sir
. The only profit I'd take would be that summer price you was discussing, of $1,000.”

“Well,” he said, “if she was cured of being barn crazy, she'd be worth $1,000.”

I said: “If she ain't cured by the time today's over, she'll be cured by the time the week's over. Good-bye, Mr. Wise, don't bother me any more. I've got work to do.”

He didn't turn around, just stopped and sat in his car until I was over the hill and out of sight. I don't know whether he cried there or cried back at the barn, or how much remorse and grieving he went through, but I rode on toward Weatherford on the Easter Lily.

In a little while, the Easter Lily quit pulling very much, just occasionally, and she was traveling on a loose halter rope. Beauty was fox trotting along a little bit, and every once in a while she'd get a chance to stop and take a bite of grass. She didn't have any bits in her mouth, and I didn't care if she grazed a little along. We walked and poked along and got to Milsap. By now it was getting about 3:30 in the afternoon. I hadn't made very good time, but I was accomplishing a lot, reconstructing a saddle mare's ideas about what distance was and how to act on the road. I was bringing her to realize that life wasn't a constant round of good hay and good feed and brushing and currying and little short rides in the little pasture behind the stable.

Well, I rode into Milsap and stepped off the Easter Lily. I was afraid Beauty might drift around a little bit and graze or get into somebody's yard or something, so I put her bridle on her (it was tied on her saddle horn) and hitched her to the hitch rack. I untied the Easter Lily. It's not fair to your saddle horse to tie him to a hitch rack and leave another horse tied to the saddle, that might pull him and get him in a strain and cause the bits to hurt his mouth, or make him have to break his bridle rein or do something he knows better than to do. So I untied the Easter Lily from the saddle horn and tied her to a post separately. She had lather all over her. She was wringing wet with sweat from anger as much as from exertion. She
dropped over on three legs and breathed a long, hard breath of relief and just stood there.

I loafed up and down the streets a few minutes and went into a little eating place and ordered me a batch of steak and 'taters and all the trimmings. I got through and had a piece of mince pie sitting in front of me (this was before they found out there were more than four pieces in a pie) when I looked up, and there was Mr. Wise, out near where my horses were tied. I wasn't fixing to go off and leave that pie, so I picked it up and went to shoving it in my mouth and eating it and walking, and paid the woman as I started out the door.

Mr. Wise started to walk up to my mare, and I said: “Mr. Wise, don't bother my horses!”

He reached up and took his hat off and brushed his long, white, beautifully kept hair back, and he said: “Ben, I've mistreated you, and it hasn't been my custom in life to do a thing like that. You're a young man, and I can tell you've been greatly disillusioned. I feel I should make some amends for having traded you a barn-spoiled mare. That's the reason the woman couldn't take her back to Kentucky. She'd gotten barn crazy, and the little pasture was the only place anybody could ride her. I see now that she can be ridden elsewhere, and that you're very likely to break her of her bad habit.”

I said: “Yeah, could be she's seen the light, too; and you're fixing to lose a horse that's been making you a little money along. How many times you sold her to people who couldn't leave with her?”

He said: “That's beside the point.”

“Well, might be,” I said, “but this labor of love that
you've been engaged in—not for the money but for the sheer pleasure—selling the Easter Lily could be the way you've been helping pay the feed bills on them horses you stand around there with their manes sheared and their tails pulled, looking like a cross between a jackass and a bull because society thinks they ought to look different than a natural horse. For the sake of society you wouldn't mind messing up a good horse.”

“Oh,” he said, “those are things you don't understand. I'd be willing to take the mare back and pay you a reasonable price for the trouble you've been to; and of course, you'd take the horse back in the trade.”

I said: “Mr. Wise, that's a nice big old dun horse, and he looks good, and he's gentle. Society idiots and small children can ride him—and old men like you. He won't hurt you, I don't think. But he's not a good active horse. He's a little slow on the uptake and a little slow heading a yearling. He can do a lot of things it takes stout horses for. Could be—no better than you're getting along in the horse business—you're going to have to make a crop, and you ought to keep him. He'd work, I think, if you put a collar on him; and I don't want him back.”

This seemed to be some sort of a shock to him, and he said: “In that case, I'll pay the $500 that I priced the mare to you, and keep the horse.”

I said: “Well, that's nice of you, but I'm thinking about that summer price. You said she was worth about $1,000.”

He said: “I doubt there would be anybody with money enough to afford a thousand-dollar mare in this area, but there are places she might be worth that.”

I said: “Well, you can't tell. That might be my barn.”

“Oh,” he said, “I don't think you can ever get $1,000 for her.”

“I don't think so either,” I said, “but it's going to be fun to ride her after I get her over being barn crazy.”