Some More Horse Tradin'

by Ben K. Green

  We talked on about how the polo market had got bad since people had run out of spendin’ money. And when I said “spendin’ money,” he said, “What other kind of money is they?”

  We kinda laughed about that, and I told him that the government wasn’t buying any remount horses and that I had spent all winter abreakin’ a good bunch of horses that had slicked off in the spring—and they was shod—and I wasn’t ahavin’ any buyers. I had begun to hurt. He asked, “Are they as good as this horse you’re aridin’?”

  I said, “Yeah, I’ve got two more with me as good as him—and some more at the ranch.”

  Along about then I wasn’t to impressed with Will Rogers as a national figure. I thought of him as a good cowboy that had made his way into pictures, show business, and radio—and was a good polo player and a good fellow. After all, I lived in the brush and didn’t have a radio and didn’t hear him very often and didn’t see much about him except in a picture show or somethin’—but Will Rogers was highly regarded by all cowboys and horsemen; so after a few minutes of conversation it seemed like I had known him all my life. And the fact that he had had some horses I’d schooled made him have a good feelin’ toward me, I guess.

  About that time he brightened up and said, “You know, there ain’t but one place that these Texas horses might sell. They’re having a little flare of polo in the New England states, up around Boston and on the Eastern Seaboard. If you had the nerve to git that far from home, you might take a carload of horses up there and do pretty good with them. Outside of that, I don’t know of anyplace right now where good horses of this kind are in demand—that is, by anybody that’s got the money to pay for ’em.”

  I told Will I’d never been that far from home; I didn’t know if I could stand the expense with a load of cow horses. I said I guessed I could scuffle up the money, but supposin’ I didn’t sell ’em and started into one of them hard New England winters. It would be a bad place to make a winter camp, wouldn’t it?

  He laughed and said that was something to think about. And about that time Walt Cousins, one of the men who started the Cowboys’ Reunion, hollered at Will and waved him to come on. As Will left he said, “Ben, if you decide to ship up into that country and it looks like you ain’t gonna git out ’fore the snow flies, git me word. I’ll try to git yore horses out. I’d hate to lose a bunch of good Texas horses in one of them Yankee winters.”

  It was a big rodeo and he was a special guest, and about as close as I ever got to him again was when he would wave at me from somewhere—but that kind of an offer from Will Rogers was better than a contract with some men.

  When I got home I wrote a few letters to the Chambers of Commerce and the sheriffs of those little towns up in Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine. Didn’t write a very good letter, I guess—didn’t none of them answer me for a long time. Finally I got a letter from a place up in Vermont. The man said that they had lots of horse activity. Of course they had very fine New England horses, but if I should care to ship up there, they would be glad to have me. He had a fifty-acre meadow with a barn and some paddocks and a small cottage on it that he’d be glad to rent me while I was up there.

  Well, I knew what a meadow and a barn was. That “paddock” kinda throwed me. I had to figure on it awhile, and soon I remembered they called a corral a paddock. I decided I might just as well be up there with a bunch of horses as to stay at home where everybody had horses all around so I went to makin’ arrangements to ship my stock out on the train to Vermont.

  And it run back through my mind, too, that Will said if I didn’t do any good to get him word. That was the same as a ticket back home.

  I had a half-breed Apache Indian friend named Frank. He was a good horseman, a good trainer, a little younger than me, and didn’t mind hard work. He said he never had seen that country where the first Pilgrims went to taking the land away from his folks and he would kinda like to go with me. I made a trade with him, and we shipped out in a Palace stock car like you used to could rent from the American Express Company. The car was divided into stalls for your stock and feed, and it had a space for you to sleep and even do a little cookin’ if you was amind to. A Palace stock car was a real nice thing, and we put twenty horses in ours.

  We was nine days shippin’ from Texas to Vermont. The horses hadn’t drawn too much, but we went to workin’ them in this Vermont mountain meadow and tryin’ to get their muscles toned up and get the hair good on them. We spent five or six days brushin’ and curryin’ horses and bathin’ in this nice little jobbed-up-close-together house called a cottage. Nobody came around or showed any curiosity about what we was doin’. It seemed we had snuck in and nobody knew we was there—for the amount of visitors we had.

  I put a sign on the gate down by the road: POLO HORSES FOR SALE. That didn’t seem to excite anybody, either. We had seen people in town with riding clothes on—them round-topped, hard boots with flat heels and leather-lined knees on their britches—such a bunch of fancy horse people. There was even one old man with a derby hat. I wondered how he would have ever kept that thing on in the brush with a good workin’ horse. But none of these people seemed to pay us Texas cowboys any mind. Oh, you might see ’em kinda cut their eyes and look back at us when they passed. Of course, the druggist in town was pretty neighborly, and so was the man at the feed store—but we weren’t having anybody to come and see our horses.

  About the second Sunday morning we were there, a man drove up in a great long black automobile with big headlights stickin’ out of the front fenders. He was by himself, about sixty years old, and had on riding clothes—them fancy kind that looked like they was pressed and cleaned but never used. I was cleaning out the forefoot of a horse, and I just looked up and said howdy when he stepped out of his car. He spoke to me and when I dropped the horse’s foot, he took a glove off a nice, soft, pretty, smooth white hand and stuck it out and said, “I’m Charles Brent.”

  I said, “Howdy, Mr. Brent. I’m Ben Green. I hope you’d be interested in lookin’ at some of our horses. I’ll be glad to show ’em to you, and there’s not anybody ahead of you.” I kinda laughed when I said it.

  “I’m in show business in Boston. I was talking to Will Rogers on the phone and he told me you were up in this country and for me to look you up.”

  I said, “Well, I’m glad to hear from Will. What else did he say?”

  “He said you’d have a bunch of good horses that would be in good condition to play polo or do anything else you might want them to do. He said they would make nice light hunters for ladies, too. He also told me you could teach a horse to climb a stair, run an elevator, or write in Spanish—but he was afraid you didn’t know much about how to sell one. I thought I would come up here and buy before you learn how to sell a horse.”

  I said, “Well, Will might be atellin’ you the truth about me not knowing how to sell a horse. I’ve rode more of ’em than I’ve sold.” I was takin’ horses out and showin’ them to him and givin’ him a little talk on each one.

  He finally told Apache Frank to get his saddle out of the back of his long car—it was a Pierce-Arrow—and put it on one of these horses. He had picked out a nice blood bay horse with some white markings, sort of flashy and about fifteen hands high, one of the better horses in my load. He had a flat saddle, and there wasn’t much to it. You could have rolled it up and wadded it under your arm, but it sure was fine leather and it was well kept. We got his riggin’ on and held the horse steady. I thought we might be gonna have to get a block and tackle to help this big fat old man on; but he walked up by the side of this horse and just stepped up in that saddle like a kid. He took the reins in his left hand, rode the horse off in a walk, and in just a few minutes he was riding him in a figure eight, having him change leads just like he wanted him to. He was a real old-time horseman.

  He rode off out in the meadow and came back, stepped off the horse, and said, “I think I’ll buy this horse, but I’ll be back next Sunday to try him out again.” He added,
“The people in the East are going to want to try your horses; they are not going to come here to buy and sell and trade as you do in the West. They may be a little hard to separate from their money.”

  I said, “I guess you are a typical individual, maybe. You don’t want to buy one either, you want to try him out again next week.” But I said it nice.

  “Yes, that is right. I’m not a Yankee, however, I’m a Canadian. I moved to Boston after I was grown.”

  I said, “Well, Canada is farther away from Texas than Boston; so I guess that makes you worse instead of better.”

  He thought that was funny, and then he told me, “I don’t like that sign you have on your gate. I’m in show business, and I know something about signs. Take that thing down and put a big sign up there saying, TEXAS COW HORSES, GOOD FOR EVERYTHING—see if you don’t have more visitors than you are getting now.”

  I wasn’t doing very good; so I thought it might be a good suggestion. We visited for a little while, and I told him if he talked to Will anymore to tell him that this country was cool and green and pretty, that the people were cool, too, and that the horse business was damn poor.

  Next morning I went down to the drugstore and told my druggist friend I wanted to find a sign painter. He sent me to an old man in a little shop on the side street. Of course the old man spoke that New England lingo—not much humor and not too much conversation—but he found out what kind of sign I wanted. He said he would have to paint a board white about three times, then he would paint the letters on it, and it would be ready on Wednesday. He didn’t hesitate to tell me it would cost ten dollars.

  I told him I thought I could stand that, so just go ahead and get it fixed so it would attract attention and people would come to see my horses. Meantime, one or two people came to look at horses—and they were great lookers. They would walk around these horses, look in their mouths, pick up their feet, and feel them all over. They seemed to think they were going to get cheated—and I don’t believe it’s possible to cheat one of them Yankees. I had a whole lot of experience there, and they sure do turn loose of their money slow.

  I went back to the old man’s on Wednesday and, sure enough, the sign was ready. I gave him his ten dollars. I didn’t have any means of transportation except horseback, so I carried this sign under my arm out to where we nailed it up pretty high over the gate. It said: TEXAS COW HORSES, BROKE GENTLE TO DO ANYTHING YOU WANT TO DO HORSEBACK. The old man had drawn a few little cartoons around on it of Texas cowboys—or what he thought they looked like. I didn’t like them much, but I figured nobody else would know what Texas cowboys looked like and it wouldn’t make any difference. I was hoping the people could read, anyway, and would know what the sign said.

  Just a little after noon—me and Frank had beat up a bachelors’ dinner—up drove a station wagon plumb full of girls. The one adrivin’ stepped out on the ground—she had on these fancy riding clothes—and introduced herself. She said she had a summer camp and riding academy up on the other end of the meadow, about two or three miles from us. The other girls were her students. They had seen the sign POLO HORSES, but that hadn’t interested them too much. It seemed that nearly everybody had polo horses, but Texas cow horses were something they weren’t used to seeing.

  This was a real good-looking blue-eyed gal, not very big, with soft, dark brown hair and the blackest eyebrows and eyelashes you ever saw. To a cowboy from way out West—even though she was wearing the wrong kind of riding britches—she looked good. All the rest of these gals piled out of the station wagon, and they were a lively set of good-looking kids. They went to walking up and down the barn, talking, and asking about our horses. Apache Frank made a big hit with all of them right fast. He was a natural-born lady-killer without trying. I was pretty much on the timid side, and I was tending to business. I was hoping I had a buyer in that bunch of girls.

  This young lady that seemed to be the ramrod of the whole show, she was quite a horsewoman—you could tell right off. She took a fancy to a horse, and I led him out of the stall and showed him to her. The girls went to running their hands around over that horse and talking about how he hadn’t been “groomed.” I didn’t know for sure how much more rubbin’ that meant, but we thought we were taking pretty good care of them. The good-looking gal in charge kinda reprimanded these girls a little bit—but you could tell she had taught them just exactly what they were tellin’ us, that our horses hadn’t been “groomed.” I didn’t know if a Texas horse would stand for that much polish or not.

  We took some more horses out of the stalls, and we had some flat saddles that they grabbed and went to puttin’ on. They saddled up properly and then went to mountin’ that bunch of horses like so many flies. There weren’t any helpless females in that bunch. The teacher just watched and let them play around. Once in a while she would call out and correct one of them about the way she was holding the reins, or wasn’t sitting down in the saddle, or wasn’t holding her toes out, or something else that didn’t make any difference, it didn’t seem to me.

  Late that afternoon, this gal teacher said, she would be holding regular classes. They would just be delighted to have us come up and look at their horses and perhaps I could offer some suggestions in “equitation.” Well, that was something I hadn’t heard about, so I told her I didn’t expect I would know anything she hadn’t taught them already, but that we would come see their horses—what time would she suggest?

  She said, “We have two classes this afternoon, from four o’clock until dinner. We’d be glad to have you stay for dinner.”

  This gettin’ dinner at dark was another little riffle that West Texas cowboys wasn’t used to. I just wondered—up in that high mountain meadow country, in that tall green grass and cool breezes—maybe they did a lot of things different from us.

  Of course Apache Frank had his ear up, and he told the rest of the gals he would sure be there. With this, they all went to loading up in that station wagon and waving and hollering “We’ll be looking for you” and all that stuff. It seemed to us this Yankee country might be gonna take on a little better complexion.

  Of course Frank asked me right off, “That grooming business, what did they mean?” So after a while we got out two of the best horses we had and we groomed them some more before we rigged them out with Texas stock saddles. We weren’t gonna ride them flat saddles up there.

  We rode up the road about two and a half or three miles and, sure enough, here was this palatial kind of summer camp—nice bunk house, a big kitchen, a dining room, and something Frank called a parlor (we found out later they called it a rumpus-room). And they had some horses we weren’t quite used to. They were Eastern-bred horses and weren’t shaped like ours and didn’t look exactly like ours—and they were sure enough groomed; there wasn’t a hair out of place. Their saddles were set just right, and you could tell they had been putting that saddle soap on the bridle reins and the head stalls that were made out of English leather—stuff we weren’t used to. They talked about “tack” this and “tack” that. It took Frank and me a little while to catch on, but the Indian was sharper than I was. He figured out that all that “tack” stuff meant riggin’ something. We had to listen to that New England English awhile before we could carry on a real good conversation—and I wouldn’t say it was plumb good then, but at least we got it around to where they could understand us a little better.

  They rode these horses around in figure eights, circled them, and changed leads. This gal that I was by that time kinda snortin’ at, was agivin’ out the orders about pull-in-your-left-rein, stick-out-your-right-toe, and one thing and another. Sounded kinda silly to me, but she was sure enough gettin’ those gals to sit on those horses. This was all a new world to me in the horse business, and I was gettin’ an eyeful of it.

  The second class was jumpers. I tell you these girls could sure ride a jumper. They had those little old flat saddles and double reins. Those old ponies would clear those poles and hit the ground on the other side and
the gals, it looked like, just rode the breeze. I could tell right off that maybe they couldn’t ride a cow horse, but the kind they knew about they were doing a real good job on. Of course, I didn’t hesitate to tell this to this good-looking gal—the boss of the bunch. I was beginning to give her some sweet talk, and she wasn’t fightin’ me too much when I was braggin’ on her horses and braggin’ on her students.

  Well, after a while we went in to this dinner. The cook was an old woman with her hair drawed up tight in a knot on the back of her head, but she was nice and she said she was glad to have company. They had a big dinner. Of course they had it at suppertime, and it was a little hard for me not to say supper. Anyway, we got through that all right, and kinda late we said our good-byes and got on our horses and went back to camp. On the way home we walked along kinda slow, and I went to telling Frank that I believed this summer deal might be all right if we could just sell some horses, too.

  By Sunday that sign was astoppin’ everybody. They were coming to see Texas cow horses. They were feeling of them and talking about them; it was a little hard for me to understand that Yankee lingo, but I was catching on a little more all the time. They said some things about horses that I didn’t quite savvy, but they were sure strong on “trying” these horses. They would try them and try them and come back the next day and try them some more—and bring two or three more people with them to offer opinions about each horse. On Saturday of the week that I had put the sign up on Wednesday, I sold my first horse—for cash—and got $300 for him.

  Well, he was worth about $150 in Texas; I guess I had $50 more in him for expenses, so I was about to make a $100; and that would be the first money we’d seen since we got there.